Page 51 of My Favorite Kidnapper

He frowned as he tasted the sauce simmering on the stove. “Little Bee, I have two villas, condos in London, Naples, and Toronto. Do you really think I employ full-time housekeepers in all of them? This is my primary residence, and even here, Gia works only part time. She and her husband, Mario, look after the villa and the grounds and hire the right people to maintain it.”

“I see.”

“Gia often cooks me breakfast, but I am perfectly capable of cooking for myself. My mother taught me when I was younger.” He added some pepper into the sauce. “I fend for myself a great deal of the time.”

“Ah. So all the containers of sauce in the freezer that Gia showed me…” I trailed off.

He narrowed his eyes. “You saw that, did you?”

I laughed. “Yes. But Gia told me you cook as well.”

“I prefer to grill, but I was hungry and pasta is fast.” He dropped some noodles into the boiling water. “Three minutes, dinner will be ready. You like shrimp, right?”

“Love it.”

“Okay. I thought we’d eat on the patio. It was supposed to rain but looks as if it passed us. We’ll eat there.”

“What can I do?”

“Take the wine and salad outside. I’ll bring the pasta.”

“No garlic bread?”

He shook his head. “That is such an Americanized thing. I have some focaccia Gia made earlier if you want.”

“Please.”

I carried the tray outside, setting it on the table. The sky was dull, but it was still pleasant. Roomba lay on the warm stone, looking content. I bent and rubbed her tummy. She opened one eye and rolled over, ignoring me. Typical. I returned inside and got the focaccia from Dante, and he followed me with the steaming bowls. I sat down, eyeing the shrimp and fettuccine with admiration. It smelled divine.

“Lemon cream and white wine sauce,” Dante offered. “One of Gia’s specialties. I love it with the shrimp and some fresh cheese on top.”

I took a bite, unable to hold in my groan. It was incredible. Dante’s hand froze as he poured the wine, and he shook his head slightly as if to clear it, then he finished filling the glasses and began to eat. We were mostly quiet as we chewed, although I complimented him on the food. He finished first, sitting back and sipping his wine.

“What you said in the car earlier, about why Winters hates you.”

“It’s a long story. Another time.” His tone brooked no argument. I was burning with curiosity, but I knew not to push it. I tried his favorite subject.

“Is there anything you like aside from cakes?” I asked.

“I love all sweets. Cakes are my favorite, but I like pies. Cookies.”

“What kinds of cookies?” I wiped my mouth. “I don’t see you as a chocolate chip kind of guy.”

“They’re fine. But I like peanut butter. My favorite is a kind my mom used to make when I was little. I haven’t had them for a long time.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t remember the name. They were really simple. Just a good cookie. Soft and chewy. They had cinnamon on them.”

“Snickerdoodles?”

“Yes!” he exclaimed, smacking the table. “I used to eat them by the handful with milk. My mom kept raw dough in the freezer to bake all the time when I was young.”

“Ah. So you were crazy for desserts even then?” I kept a straight face. “They had ovens in the old days? Did those exist in prehistoric times?”

He narrowed his eyes. “You think you’re funny?”

“Yes.”