Page 11 of My Favorite Kidnapper

“Uncle Dante?” Carolina’s face was confused and shocked. Her confusion gave way to distress.

“Oh my God, what happened? Are Mom and Dad okay?”

I held up my hand, silencing her. “They’re fine.”

“How did you find me?”

“I gave you your honeymoon as a gift. I know where you are. I made the arrangements for the video call.”

I didn’t tell her that my initial plan had been to fly there to get the information I needed, but I decided it would take too long. Instead, I called the manager and arranged it.

Easily done when you owned the resort.

“What is so urgent, then?”

“I need the name of the lady who made your cake. And her contact information.”

She frowned, looking exactly the way Amanda did when she was displeased with Paolo. I had seen that look often.

“And what could possibly be so urgent you need that contact info immediately? I’m only gone two weeks.”

“I am hosting an event and need something spectacular. The cake I saw fits that bill. But I need to make sure she can do it in the time frame required, and I have to make a decision by Tuesday.”

She pursed her lips, studying me. I was an expert liar. In my business, I had to be. I met her gaze calmly, my expression open, with no signs of nerves.

“I understand her name is Brianna,” I prompted. “But your parents were unable to recall a last name. There was a sign on the side of the van she drove, but I admit I didn’t take much note of it.”

Because I was too busy kissing her and stealing her cupcakes.

I kept that part to myself.

“Are you the old guy she said bothered her?”

I winced at the words “old guy” and “bother.” I preferred mature and charming. I would have to remind my little bee of that.

“I was admiring her work. She thought I was interfering.”

Carolina snorted. “You—interfere? As if that ever happened.”

“I can cancel the rest of your honeymoon, Pumpkin,” I reminded her.

She grimaced. “Okay, just teasing. Brianna Michaels. She works at the Piece of Cake on Grating Street. She does her own stuff on the side.”

“Phone number,” I demanded, shocked to see my hand was shaking as I wrote down the information.

“It’s in my cell phone, which I don’t have with me, and I can’t remember it.”

“It’s fine. I’ll visit her at work.”

“Do it quietly. The battle-ax she works for gives her a hard time. Although she charges her enough.”

“Charges her?” I questioned.

“Bri uses the bakery’s ovens and freezers to store the cakes she makes. And borrows the van for delivery. MaryJo charges her—way too much, in my opinion. It’s hard for Bri to get ahead.”

“I’ll make sure she is well paid.”

“Okay. I’d appreciate that.”