Page 25 of Stolen Bride for the Don

“Is he going to be there?” As long as Hudson won’t be there, I see no harm in socializing. And who knows, maybe Diane, and whoever else I run into might have their phone lying around, so I can send a text to check in with Dad. The longer I stay here, the more worried I get. They’ve definitely found out that I’m no longer in town.

It’s been five days now, I think, or has it been six? It’s hard to keep track when time seems to drag. From the knowing look in Diane’s eyes, I can see that I don’t have to explain the he I’m asking about.

“No ma’am, Massimo left early to deal with an emergency at work.”

I have to swallow my tongue to stop myself from asking if the emergency at work involves something illegal, but, of course, it does. He’s a freaking mafia boss! I think it’s safe to assume that all his businesses are illegal.

“Good,” I answer, getting up from the floor. I dust my ass as I follow Diane out of the room, even though the floor is squeaky clean.

Despite the heat of the day, it grows cool at night; but the marble floor is warm against my bare feet as we walk the familiar path down the hallway to the wide winding staircase that leads down to the foyer where I first met Maximus. I spare a minute wondering just how much Hudson spends on heating. Whatever. People like him, with houses like this, don’t trouble themselves with things as trivial as utility bills.

“This way,” Diane says and gestures to a heavy door to her left. She murmurs a soft Italian command to Maximus, who’s been quietly following us. He whines pitifully, pushing his head against her hip. She repeats her command, go outside, and he does.

“You didn’t have to send him off on my account,” I tell her, thinking she’s worried about me.

“He’s a guard dog. I have already over-indulged him by letting him stay inside for so long and this late,” she explains.

I watch, a little sad as Maximus pushes the slightly ajar door with his head and disappears behind it. I bite my tongue as she opens the door that leads to a large dining ballroom akin to a cabaret.

“Wow,” I murmur, slowing my stride to take in the airy room. The curtains are firmly drawn right now, but I can imagine just how magnificent it is during the day with sunlight streaming in. Right now, it looks like something out of a fairytale with a silver-laden chandelier dropping from the high ceiling.

A large empty spot I assume is the dance floor. Tucked in a corner is a red baby grand piano. Circling the room are high back dining chairs with dining tables in arrangements of twos, threes, and six.

“Charming, isn’t it?” Diane asks with a proud smile.

“Do you throw parties often?” I ask and gesture for her to continue walking.

“Not really. The room only gets used when all the men come to see Massimo, and I would hardly call that a party.” She opens a door that blends in with the wallpaper. I didn’t notice it until we’re standing right in front of it.

“What would you call it then?” I ask as we walk through the door into what would be my dream kitchen if I cooked. With the size of the rooms and the house itself, I was expecting a gigantic industrial grade kitchen, but that’s not what this is at all. Sure it’s big, but somehow despite the size, it seems cozy.

The same black and white theme of the house has been used here, and I inwardly roll my eyes. The sprawling island that separates the countertops and the cooking area from the rest of the kitchen has been fashioned from white marble that gleams under the soft lighting of gold wall lamps. The countertops are black refurbished wood that complements in with the black smart fridge and six burner oven. My eyes immediately locate a black coffee machine placed against the wall next to an electric kettle. Yes.

A door swings open from across the kitchen; a shaggy haired man walks in with a few items in his hands. He pauses when he sees me, his eyes going wide in surprise.

“Wait, you’re the cook–” I stammer as I try to remember his name. Hudson definitely mentioned it yesterday, “Walker!” I say triumphantly.

“Chef,” he corrects testily as he dumps the containers on the empty countertop.

“Of course, and a wonderful chef from what I’ve seen,” I indulge him to see his cheeks glow pink at the compliment; he dips his head in thanks.

I frown as I assess him. He looks young-ish…around 25, 26 maybe? The hairstyle might make him look younger than his age, though. And his eyes…in this lighting, the color seems to change from brown to green to gold. Aha, they are hazel.

“Where did you learn to cook?” I flash him a warm smile. “I’ve relished every single meal you’ve sent up.” Maybe a little too much, I think, and pat my stomach. I’m not inclined to enjoy such indulgent food on a regular basis. I’m more of a coffee until four pm and then salads and fruit until I close the bar at midnight kind of girl.

He nods sagely, but I can see that the compliment smoothed the feathers I had ruffled.

“Everything I know, I learned in prison, ma’am. And every meal I make is a masterpiece.” I see that he’s humble too. “Nice to meet you, my lady. I’m Walker Parker.” He stretches his hand out as he walks toward me.

I pause momentarily, wondering if he’s pulling my leg. Walker Parker?

“Don’t even ask. My parents obviously hated me,” he grumbles as he comes to a stop in front of me.

“Nice to meet you, Walker. I’m Andrea.” I omit my last name. His eyes search mine, obviously not missing the omission, but he shakes my hand without hesitation.

“You’re here for dinner? I’ll bring it to the dining room. Diane,” he orders and nods at her.

“Actually.” I raise a hand. “If you don’t mind, can I just eat here?” I move to the island and pull out one of the stools. “I’ve been eating alone in my room for days. I could use some company.”

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