Page 38 of My Favorite Kidnapper

The officer looked down at me, then smiled.

“Not kidnapped?”

“No. Here of my own free will.”

“Not angry now?”

“Um, no.”

He said something to Dante, who laughed and responded to the other man. The officer held out my passport, and I took it. They shook hands, and the officer turned to go.

“Last chance,” Dante breathed.

I said nothing. The officer returned to the building, and Dante led me to the car. He got in and pulled away from the building. He said nothing until we arrived and stopped in front of a small café.

“I need coffee and something sweet,” he said, glancing my way. “Coming, Little Bee? The lattes here are incredible.”

I followed him, silent, sitting at a table he indicated before going inside and returning with a tray. Some pastries and two steaming lattes were on it, and he slid the tray between us.

Nothing was said as we sipped and chewed. I looked around at the street that was getting busier as time went by. Shops opened, locals called to one another, and tourists began to filter in. Many people greeted Dante. He acknowledged them all with the tilt of his chin, standing to shake hands with a few men. But he didn’t speak until the tray was empty.

“What changed your mind?”

“You have people depending on you. I know what it’s like not to have that, and I didn’t want to take that away from them. Plus, I’m not sure Carolina would forgive me if I got her favorite uncle arrested. Even if he deserved it.”

“I’m her godfather.”

“That makes this even funnier. Kidnapped by a godfather. It sounds like a movie.”

“We could give it a happy ending.”

I met his eyes. “How?”

“You accept my offer. Stay. Bake me my cakes. Enjoy some freedom from the drudgery of your life as you know it now. Bask in the sun. Swim. Rest. Let me spoil you a little.”

“I won’t sleep with you.”

He tilted his head. “I told you that doesn’t come into play.”

“What do you get out of this? It’s just cake. You can’t tell me there aren’t a hundred different delicious cakes here you could eat.”

“They aren’t your cakes. I want a piece of art every day. I want to hear you sing in my kitchen and dance with me on the patio at night.”

“If I refuse?”

He rubbed his eyes. “Don’t.”

I finished my coffee.

“It’s beautiful here. You said so yourself. No worries or stress for a while. You can sleep, rest, bake. Enjoy the country. I’ll show you whatever you want to see. Does that sound like such a terrible way to spend a few weeks?”

I stood. “Can we go?”

He nodded, looking grim. He put some money on the table and took my elbow, escorting me to the car. We were silent on the drive to the villa, and I stared at the incredible views.

When we arrived, he opened my door and helped me out.

“You won’t let me go.”