Page 8 of Cage of Thorns and Blood

The world holds its breath, and the clocks stop ticking as time freezes for a long beat.

I falter and halt. For a moment that could be an entire eternity of lifetimes, we simply look at one another.

I want to slap his face. I want to fall at his feet and rest my head in his lap while he soothes me. I want to straddle him and rake my fingers through his hair as he kisses me hard and deep.

I want to run.

I can’t do this.

His face freezes as if in concentration or puzzlement. Doesn’t he recognize me?

I try not to let that crush me. Instead, I mimic his expression, my brain coming back online with the original plan.

I glance around the rest of the room and then back to him. Cocking my head to one side, I let my gaze roam over his face, and my lips part. The fingers of my right hand reach out, and for some reason I gently brush over the linen tablecloth near his hand, the way I’ve been itching to.

Our fingers are so close, but they don’t touch.

“Matteo?” I ask.

“Well, well, well. Renata Andretti. How many years has it been?”

His voice is rich and deep. Much deeper than I remember from before.

I could tell him exactly how many years it has been. And how many months, weeks, even days. The time, day, date, and year of his betrayal is indelibly marked on my mind. Instead, I simply shrug and offer him a smile.

“I'm not sure; time flies.” I'm such a liar.

Growing up in my family, you learn to be a very good liar. People who tell the truth and don't play games don't get very far in the Andretti clan.

He looks around the restaurant. “Who are you dining with?” he asks. “Your husband?”

My smile widens as if I'm sharing good news. “Oh, no. We divorced some time ago. How about you? I hear you married one of the DeLuca girls. Are you meeting her?”

Of course, I know full well that he married one of them and which one. I also know that she passed away, so my question is quite cruel in a way. However, from everything I've heard about him since she died, I don't think there was a love match. From what people who saw him at the time reported back to Jilly, who told me, he barely seemed remotely concerned, never mind heartbroken.

“My wife passed away,” he says. His tone is clipped and business-like. His mouth narrows slightly into a straight line as his gaze flicks up and down my face, as if trying to read everything that I’m thinking. “Are you here with friends?” He changes the subject from his wife before I can offer my condolences.

I shake my head. “I'm alone, actually. My friend who was supposed to meet me had to cancel at the last minute, but I've heard that the food here is very good, so I decided to come anyway and keep the reservation. What about you? Are you meeting business colleagues or something?”

“No.” He shrugs. “I come here once a week, and just take the time out to have a bit of peace and quiet and eat a meal alone.”

“Can't you eat alone at your home?” I ask him, genuinely curious.

“Yes, of course, I can. I like the ambiance here. The food is excellent too. It's a bit of a treat, you know.” He shrugs again and gives me an easy, lazy grin.

I swear that if I didn't know better, I would believe that Matteo Mancini has been practicing that grin because it's way sexier than his smile used to be. And his smile used to be dynamite.

“If you are alone, why don't you join me?” he asks.

“Oh, no,” I say with a slight dip of my head, playing hard to get. “I would hate to ruin your meal with unwanted company.”

“Renata, I haven't seen you in years. It will be good to catch up. Come, join me.” The way that Matteo says this isn't a question, but more of an order.

There's a small, buried, little part of me that likes the way he issues that order. It makes me shiver down my spine. I've always liked a man who can take control. The problem I've had is that I possess a forceful personality, and finding a man who can take control of me has been an endless quest leaving me with nothing but disappointment.

“Of course,” I say with a smile. “I'll just grab my things and come join you. Thank you for the invitation.”

I return to my table and grab my jacket, which I have placed over the back of my chair, and also refill and grab my champagne glass. Then, on second thought, I pick up the bucket and carry it with me to his table, placing it between us as I take a seat. He glances at the bucket and then back at me.

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