Page 35 of Darkest Kiss

I remember that my mother would drive to the one specific deli that carried olive oil imported from the part of Italy my grandmother was from. I lean forward and inhale the scent. Not quite the same, not made with Umbrian olive oil. Rich, complex, ending with a bitter note.

But still. I pull the plate closer, looking up at him.

"How do you know how to make this?" My voice comes out breathy.

Rian leans back against the opposite counter and crosses his arms. "It's not complicated. Oranges, olives, oil."

"That's not what I asked." I push a slice around the plate. "This is my mother's recipe. People don't just make it. My grandmother taught her, she taught me. It's not in cookbooks." I look up at him. "And this morning you handed me a cornetto and an espresso. Which is also exactly what I'd eat if I were home and not, you know, kidnapped."

Rian has the audacity to look a little sheepish. He rubs the back of his neck. “I told you; I notice things.”

I lean down, taking a huge whiff of the salad. He might move through the kitchen like some kind of Frankenstein’s monster, but the oranges and cracked pepper waft up to my nose and make me salivate. “This is more than just noticing.”

He throws up his hands. “I’ve seen you buy the ingredients, okay?" He shrugs one shoulder. "You threw your grocery receipts away, which told me more or less what you like to eat. It took a little sleuthing online. I just figured if you’re stuck here, you should at least eat what you like. I learned to make a few things. There are videos online for everything."

I stare at him. Rian delivers devastating information like this, in the flattest possible tone. As though he hasn't just told me he reverse-engineered my dead mother's recipes from my grocery receipts.

"That's insane," I tell him. “And it’s wrong.”

“Wrong like morally wrong?” He goes still.

“Probably, yes. But I’m actually talking about the recipe.” I slide him a smile.

“Yeah?” His eyes light up. “How so?”

"The olive oil. You used something grassy. My grandmother's was from Umbria, almost peppery. It catches at the back of your throat." I push a slice of orange through the dressing. "The deli on Court Street still carries it. Bottom shelf, a label nobody can read." I hear myself doing it, handing my dead mother's grocery list to my kidnapper. "You'd have to ask for it by name."

Rian pulls a pen out of nowhere and writes it down.

“What, you’re making notes?”

His gaze flicks to me. “For next time.”

I snort. "You know, most people would learn someone's coffee order. A normal stalker. You went and learned my family's food." I set my fork down because my hand isn't entirely steady. "Why would you take this much interest in what I like to eat?"

He's quiet for a second. When he speaks, the dryness has dropped out of his voice. Which is worse, because the earnest version of him is the one I have no defenses against.

"You're the first woman who's ever been interesting to me," he says. "In thirty-one years, I’ve never desired a woman’s company. So I've spent the last four months learning how to make you happy. That's the whole answer. I know… I know it's not a normal one."

I don't know what to do with that. He’s a gorgeous man begging for my attention. And I’m not immune to him.

He’s six plus feet of ripped, raw man. The only man outside my family that I’ve been around for any length of time, really.

The problem is that he's saying these words in a penthouse I'm not allowed to leave, after he paid actual money for me at an auction. The two parts of him refuse to sit next to each other politely in my head.

"I'd be flattered," I say carefully, "if you weren't keeping me here against my will."

Something flickers over his face. Hurt, maybe? I’m not sure that he’s capable of it.

"I didn't mean it like that," I blurt out. “Oh, god damn it.”

I'm annoyed at myself, because why am I softening it? He did kidnap me. A good salad doesn't change the math. Even this salad, so fragrant and fresh.

"You meant it exactly like that." He pushes off the counter. "And you're right. So let me prove something. You’re not just serving a sentence to amuse me. I'm a useful tool. Give me the chance and I'll show you."

"How?"

He tips his head, considering me. "What do you want? Right now. I’ll do anything you want that won’t hurt you."