Page 132 of Ricardo

He groans, a low, primal sound that I feel in every part of me.

A knock on the door makes us both freeze.

My heart pounds against my ribs.

For a wild second, I wonder if it's Mario or Dante or—

“Signore Ricardo.”

Marisa’s voice is muffled but clear.

Ricardo lets out a slow breath. He pulls back enough to look at me, a wry, frustrated expression on his face.

“Sì, Marisa,” he calls out, his voice tight.

“I brought breakfast for Signorina O’Brien,” she says.

My face burns.

Ricardo’s expression turns to one of deep, smug satisfaction.

“Una momento," he says.

“She knows,” I whisper.

“Of course, she knows,” he says, just as quietly. “She's a grown woman, Julia. And not brain dead, at that." He gives me a look.

The logic is there, but it doesn't stop the heat from spreading down my neck and chest.

“Right,” I say.

He leans down and kisses me, quick and hard.

“Stay here,” he says, pulling away. “I will be right back.”

He gets out of bed, and I get an eyeful of him.

A very good eyeful.

My mouth goes dry.

Broad shoulders. Narrow waist. Powerful legs. And an ass that should be illegal. He moves so fluidly and gracefully, it's mesmerizing.

He grabs a pair of silk pajama pants from a chair and pulls them on, and I am a little disappointed to see him covered up.

Then, he opens the door just enough to speak to Marisa, blocking her view of the bed.

He speaks to her in Italian, then he closes the door and walks back with a tray in hand.

“We have breakfast,” he says.

“So I see."

He sets the tray on the bed, and I see it's filled with pastries, fruit, a small carafe of coffee, toast. Something warm under a covered dish. A single rose in a slim vase.

My throat goes tight.

“You did this,” I say.