She’s not even trying to cover herself. Standing there half-naked, shoulders back, chin high, looking like she wants to claw my eyes out.
She takes a step forward, fire in her eyes. “What do you want, Lombardi? Here to rip the rest of the dress off me too?”
Yes. I would love nothing more. Instead I say, voice flat, “I brought you clothes.”
I gesture toward the bed with my chin. Clean leggings, soft sweaters, underwear, toiletries, everything she refused from the maid. She glances at the pile, then back at me, that defiant glare still burning bright.
I should leave. I don’t. I stay right where I am, drinking in the sight of Eleonora Caruso standing in my house in nothing but lace and bruises, still refusing to bend even an inch.
And the worst part is… I like it. I like it way too much.
She folds her arms across her chest, deliberately pushing her breasts higher, chin tilted up in pure defiance. The move is so bold, so fucking provocative, that for a second I forget how to breathe. This woman is trying to kill me.
“Okay,” she says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “What are you waiting for? A thank you?”
“You’re welcome.”
Her mouth opens, ready to retort, but I cut her off. “I’ve been told you haven’t eaten anything all day.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“It’s time for dinner,” I say, ignoring her. “Clean up and come downstairs.”
She lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Are you also deaf as well as delusional? Because I just said?—”
“You have ten minutes,” I interrupt, already turning toward the door. “Don’t make me come back up here and drag you down myself.”
She’s still talking, angry words chasing me out of the room as I walk away. God, she talks. Constantly. If this deal doesn’t wrap up soon, she’s going to drive me out of my fucking mind.
I head into my bedroom, shrug off my jacket, and toss it over the chair. Through the adjoining door that connects our rooms, I can hear her moving around loudly, drawers slamming, muttered curses. Why did I choose the room right next to mine like a goddamn masochist?
I move to the adjoining door and pause, listening. Her voice is muffled but unmistakable angry, venomous, every other word clearly aimed at me. I can’t make out the exact insults, but I don’t need to. The tone says enough.
A slow smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it. I shake my head and head downstairs.
The dining room is lit low and warm. Lea, my housekeeper, has gone all out as usual. The long table is covered with a full spread: roasted vegetables, fresh bread, seared steak, risotto, wine already breathing in a decanter.
I pour myself a glass of rich Barolo and take a slow sip, sitting at the head of the table.
Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. She still hasn’t appeared. I pull out my phone and call Daniel. “Bring her downstairs,” I say the second he answers. “Now.”
I hang up and take another sip of wine, staring at the empty doorway. Eleonora Caruso is testing every limit I have.
Daniel appears in the doorway of the dining room, looking mildly uncomfortable. “She refuses to come down, Boss. Says she’s not leaving the room.”
I swear under my breath and shove my chair back, standing so fast the wine in my glass sloshes. “Fucking stubborn?—”
I take the stairs two at a time and don’t bother knocking. I barge straight into her room.
Eleonora is sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, now wearing the clothes I sent up, tight black leggings that hug every curve of her thighs and ass, and a soft heather-gray sweater that clings to her tits in a way that should be illegal. Her dark hair is damp from shower, falling loose around her shoulders. She looks far too good for someone who’s supposed to be my prisoner.
“You really need to learn manners,” she says, arching a brow.
“I asked you to come downstairs for dinner.”
She shrugs, completely unbothered. “And I don’t take orders from you.”
“You haven’t eaten all day. You need to eat.”
