Page 12 of Stolen Bride for the Don

Watching my piccolo uccello enjoying herself in the silk sheets of my bed was certainly satisfying. I will be there next time, I promise myself.

I blink twice to snap back to reality. “She didn’t eat the meal I dropped for her this morning?” I ask Crew even though I already know the answer. He gives me a knowing glare. I lean forward on my desk, raising a hand to rub my temples tiredly.

“You may leave,” I dismiss Crew. As soon as he’s gone, I go to the first floor study, which is my private office. Only Crew has unspoken permission to go there. I close the door behind me and make my way to my chair. I turn on the two monitors placed side by side and patiently wait for them to boot up.

Once it’s on, I pull up the footage from my bedroom. Andrea is lying on her back on the floor, her legs and arms moving like she’s making a snow angel. Her way of trying to take her mind off her hunger and boredom? Above her head, on the bedside table, is a thick stack of several books she’s attempted to read.

I mindlessly twist the rings on my fingers as I watch her small frame once again donning my clothes: a big shirt and gym shorts this time. The sight has me feeling possessive. I can’t say I don’t enjoy it, knowing my scent is all over her, mingling with hers. The room I had prepared for her is stocked with clothes in her size, but since she took a shower yesterday and helped herself to my wardrobe, I’ve been reluctant to share that information. I like this much better: my woman, in my room, wearing my clothes.

Andrea suddenly jumps to her feet and approaches the armchair in the room like you would an injured animal. I frown and lean forward. She’s eyeing the food I had placed on the ottoman while she was sleeping this morning. She studies it for a moment and mumbles something clearly at war with herself over whether or not to eat. Then she turns her back to it, moves to the other side of the bed, and lies on the floor. From her new position, she’s unable to see the food: temptation removed, I guess.

She must be starving; yet she keeps denying herself. Her stubbornness is impressive. But fuck, she needs to eat something soon, or she might faint again like she did in her car. My mind is made up. I turn off the monitors and walk out of my study. I go to the kitchen where I find the cook, Walker, a phenomenal chef who came to me four years ago when he couldn’t secure a job after a stint in prison. I gave him a chance and have had no regrets since.

Right now, he’s huddled with the housekeeper, Diane; they’re whispering something…about me. They haven’t seen me yet as they have their backs turned, so I keep quiet and creep into the room.

“You talk to him, Diane. He needs to let that poor girl go. I’ve never seen him like this before,” he comments.

“Me? No way. I vote that we recruit Crew. He’s the only one who can get away with standing up to the beast.”

“Maybe I can talk to him? I need to meet this beast we’re talking about,” I say, brushing off being referred to as a beast…it’s certainly not the first time.

“And what do you think you’re,” Walter trails off as he twists around and sees me. He goes pale. “Ma-massimo.” Diane jumps off the stool and scurries away, the little coward.

“I believe your partner just ditched the scene of the crime. What do you have to say for yourself?” I cross my arms over my chest.

“It’s just sad, you know? That poor girl hasn’t eaten since she got here two nights ago and I–”

“And whose fault is that?”

“What?”

“You’ve been making meals for her, which she refuses to eat. If the little fool wants to starve to death, then she can be my guest,” I say nonchalantly, studying him closely.

He opens his mouth and closes it several times. “I-I understand,” he finally admits.

“Make me some French toast and fried eggs, and some of those fruit slices you’ve been adding to Andrea’s food,” I order him.

A hopeful light comes into his eyes. “For my lady?”

“Your lady?” I raise a brow, and he nods as he gets to work. I sit on a stool and watch him cook. If I’m going to pull off this marriage with Andrea, maybe it’s for the best that Walker and Diane seem to like her–or at least sympathize with her situation.

“The meal is for Andrea, my fiancée,” I add gruffly. Walker spins to face me.

“Y–your fiancée? You’re getting married?”

I give him a short nod and at first his face lights up with a smile, which quickly changes to a frown as his gaze moves up to the second floor. I see the question in his eyes, but he’s wise enough not to voice it.

“I guess congratulations are in order,” he murmurs then continues to prepare the meal. I reply to a few of my emails as I wait for him to finish. When he’s done, I notice that he also placed a glass of something pink– a smoothie?– next to a bottled water, and he added an extra dish that I didn’t ask for.

“What’s this?” I ask, nodding at the small round…pie?

“Blueberry chiffon mini pie,” he explains. “I had some leftover from last night.”

I watch him for a few moments; he shuffles on his feet, unsure of himself. I give him a nod of approval and make my way upstairs. My chest tightens with anticipation. I finally get to have eyes on her and not through a screen.

I place my thumb pad on the panel above the door handle when I get to my bedroom. I enter the room, cautiously remembering how she came at me swinging punches two nights ago; she simply glances up from the book she’s been reading on the bed. She gives the tray in my hand an interested stare, but she shakes her head and goes back to her book.

I chuckle as I carry the tray of food to her. “So, you’ve been fasting in protest? How’s that working for you?” I sweep the books on the bedside table to the floor to make space for the food tray.

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