Page 28 of Under Arthur’s Protection

But they could be half a mile away and not have left the house.

Good point.

I got up and checked the door, pulling it open a fraction to listen for my shadows. The only noise was clanging, like metal pots being moved around.

My options were simple: Close the door and pretend I was going to sleep, or sneak downstairs and find out what people did at this hour in cottages this big.

I chose the latter.

The stairs creaked under my bare feet, and the heavenly scent of roasting garlic hit me halfway down. It pulled me forward, past a sitting room and a living room, down a short corridor toward a light at the back of the house.

The kitchen opened through a wide archway, and I stopped before I reached it.

Arthur stood at a triple stove. Above it was a brass fume hood that belonged in a restaurant. The kitchen was massive, with stone floors, marble counters, and a gargantuan island with its own cooktop.

He’d changed since the car. He wore a light gray T-shirt, dark joggers, and beige slippers. On the counter beside him sat a tin and a jar, a loaf of crusty bread, and a cutting board with sliced tomatoes on it.

I inched closer, staying tucked around the corner where he couldn’t see me.

He tore off a piece of bread, dipped it into whatever was in the pan in front of him, and put it in his mouth. His eyes closed. His whole body stilled—shoulders dropping, head tipping back a fraction—and for a few seconds, he was somewhere I couldn’t follow. Tasting something he’d made, alone in a kitchen at one in the morning, the pleasure of it written across his whole body.

This was the Arthur from the restaurant, telling me about the winery and recommending dishes that would pair well. Part of me had assumed the recommendations came from money—of course someone that wealthy had eaten his way around the world. But the way he stood there, quietly savoring every bite, revealed the simple truth: This man was a foodie.

But more than that, he was intelligent. Sharp. My heart beat faster. Arthur was a leader. He was the kind of man silly young women fawned over, when they should have been keeping their wits about them.

A tiny voice in my head whispered, ‘Like Lionel?’

I leaned against the archway, unable to take my eyes off him. The silly young woman inside of me updated the Arthur from my dream last night with this one. He wouldn’t have laid me back on the bed right away. No, he would have taken his time. He would have savored me like he was savoring that bread.

Heat flared in my chest, and I shifted back an inch to be sure I was hidden.

But the floorboard beneath my foot squeaked.

His eyes opened.

Snapped to me.

Shit.

He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, still chewing. His brows knit together. “Is everything all right?”

One second, he was completely lost in a moment. The next, all of his attention was on me and whether I was okay. In my hotel room, he’d taken charge the second he entered. He’d insisted on my protection detail to keep me safe. On the jet, he’d spent thirty minutes on protocol.

“I couldn’t sleep.” I came around the corner into the kitchen, trying to look like I hadn’t been ogling him. “What are you making?”

“Puttanesca.” He tore off another piece of bread, dipped it, and held it out to me.

I took it, popping it into my mouth as he returned to cutting tomatoes. The sauce was warm, deeply garlicky, with a richness underneath that didn’t match anything I saw on the counter. “What’s in this?”

“Anchovies,” he said, as if it should have been obvious. “They add depth.”

“You know…” I covered my mouth and finished chewing. “I thought I didn’t like anchovies.”

“You’ve never had them prepared properly.” He nodded toward the stools at the island. “Have a seat.”

I rounded the island and slid onto one of the leather-topped stools at the breakfast bar.

Arthur killed the far burner and carried the pot and pan over to the island’s cooktop, where he faced me. He turned on the burner, stirred a few times, then retrieved his ingredients.