Page 21 of SINS & Temptation

I should be ready to storm off and leave, but I can’t. There’s an unsettling allure in watching him when he doesn’t know I’m here. It’s like observing a magnificent, wild lion on safari, lazily surveying his domain.

I take a seat on a bench and stare like a stalker as he lights a cigar and makes several more calls.

An hour into it, a stunningly dressed woman approaches, clearly asking if the seat next to him is taken.

He presses the phone to his chest and says something to her that, judging by the look on her face, is both offensive and threatening.

Sheesh.

She bolts without a second glance, and he continues his call as if nothing happened.

With a sharp crack in the air, Enzo snaps his fingers, summoning the waiter. He hustles over, pad and pen at the ready. Enzo scribbles something quick and sharp, tossing the pen back like it’s an afterthought. It’s probably the bill.

A sleek black car glides to a halt at the curb, its timing impeccable. Enzo rises, smooth and purposeful, and strides towards the car, where the driver already holds the back door open.

It’s then that for the briefest moment, his gaze locks onto mine.

Butterflies erupt in my gut, chaotic and relentless. The longer he stands there, the more my heart stutters, sending waves of heat crashing up my neck and cheeks, trapping me in my own skin—motionless, breathless.

Then, as if it was all in my head, he slips into the car without a moment’s hesitation. The door shuts and the driver returns behind the wheel. When the car disappears around the corner, just like that, he’s gone.

Why does this sting? Did I crave his attention? Is that why I’m still planted here?

“Scusi,” a voice interrupts my spiraling thoughts.

I glance up to see the waiter from the restaurant, handing me a small sheet of paper along with a menu.

The note reads:

Let the nice man know what you’d like for dinner.

See you tonight.

Chapter Eleven

KENNEDY

“What’s going on?” Enzo’s voice trails off, perplexed. It isn’t the blustery boom I expected, not even the slightest bit irritated.

Just utterly dumbfounded.

Since I saw him this afternoon, he’s somehow managed to clean himself up, transforming from something the cat dragged in to devastatingly claw-worthy.

His dark hair, now slicked back, accentuates the sharp angles of his face. And the unshaven mess from earlier is gone, replaced by neatly trimmed stubble that frames his chiseled jaw.

The rumpled blue shirt has been traded up for a crisp, tailored cream one that hugs his broad shoulders and tapers down to his sculpted waist.

My eyes linger a little too long, drinking in the sight of the top two buttons undone, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of tan skin and muscles that are pure torture to look away from.

The golden hue of his eyes is sharper now, framed by thick brows and dark lashes that make him even more devastating. His scent—a heady mix of rich boy cologne and expensive cigars—fills the air, sending my pulse racing like a snare drum at a Queen B concert.

There are two dozen velvety red roses clutched in his hands that I try to ignore.

“I’m cooking,” I declare with an authority that would be laughable if it weren’t so pitiful. The most I’ve ever managed in the kitchen is an egg, and even that was a disaster. Charred rubber, anyone?

But here I am, with a pot of boiling water and a chaotic scene on the counter. Tomatoes, garlic, and onions are roughly chopped, their juices mingling into a sticky mess that’s spreading like a crime scene. A jar of homemade sauce, the market vendor’s pride and joy, has already been knocked over twice now. And meat.

A lot of meat.

---