Page 37 of Captive Mafia Wife

“Fredrick, you really don’t have to spoil me,” I say, loving the attention. After Callum’s betrayal, I’m licking my wounds. A little thoughtfulness goes a long way in recovering my former confidence.

“Smoked salmon, caviar, and liver paté. French delicacies.”

“Oh.” I smooth a false brightness to my tone. “Lovely!”

What I could use this morning is a deep-fried Mars bar.

Still, I behave, following him to a table by the water. It is nice to know someone cares. The river sparkles under thesun, and the little town stretching out on the other side of the water is pristine and quaint.

The table is filled with fresh coffee and sweets.

“Wait a minute, you tricky trickster. These are what Fiona calls my Freya foods.” Mini powered doughnuts. Raspberry ruffle bars. Tea cakes.

“I’ve told you, I want you to be comfortable here. Anything your little Freya heart desires, say the word, and you shall have it.” He gestures at the table. “Please, dive in.”

“If you insist.” I pick up a ruffle bar and take a delicate bite. The delicious taste confirms what I suspected. “I’d know this Raspberry Ruffle anywhere. This is Cheffie’s recipe!”

He nods. “I didn’t want you homesick, so I asked Cheffie to send some of your favorites along with your wardrobe.

“That was very thoughtful of you.” My heart does this weird fluttering thing. He reached out to Cheffie just for me? Feeling I owe him thanks, I stretch up, landing a chaste kiss on his cheek. His intoxicating masculine scent has me pulling back quickly. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. Truly.” He reaches over, picking up a frosty glass. “Your favorite flavor of fruit smoothie with added protein powder for your health.”

He hands me the glass, and I accept, taking a deep drink. “Delicious. Thank you. You’ve thought of everything.”

He dines on the fresh fruit and cheese platter while I sample every dessert, thinking it would be rude not to after all the thought he’s put into our picnic.

I hold out my glass. “Smoothie?”I offer.

“No thanks. The French prefer to chew our food.”

Conversation flows between us. Witty banter is a must for me, and I have to admit, the man delivers. The weather is unseasonably warm, and under the shining sun and the river's sparkle, I almost feel I’m dining on the French Riviera with a man I much like.

Strange how after all our filthy sexcapades and the electric sexual tension between us, we can transition to having a pleasant day out.

I’m almost enjoying myself when he ruins the mood with, “The wedding. Have you given it more thought?”

I pop a grape into my mouth, enjoying the burst of flavor. “Not a chance. I don’t have a plan. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, how I’ll sort out this mess I’ve made, but I will.” I give him a pointed look. “And I won't need a husband to accomplish the task. I’m no weak woman.”

“Quite the opposite,” he says, admiring my face in the sun. “Which is why you’d make the perfect mafia wife.”

“One day. Perhaps. If I meet the right man,” I admit.

He looks around; seeing no other men to choose from, he points to himself, saying, “Moi?”

I almost laugh. “No-wa,”I rhyme with moi,“and no way.” I shake my head, the silk ribbon from my hat brushing over my back. “There’s too much…tension…between us.”

“But you like the fight as much as you like the chase, ma chérie.” He slips a hand along my face, cupping my cheek in that lovely way that only he’s ever done. He pulls me in for a kiss.

And I let him.

The kiss has sparkle and magic and lingers on my lips. His taste is clean and manly, and I now know firsthand why they call it French kissing. He’s a god at it. He holds my face as he kisses me, then lets me go.

Too soon.

I pull away, flushed and bothered. Shaken, I stand, smoothing my pants. “Shall we continue our tour?” I leave the pavilion, getting a few meters head start to cool off.

“Wrong direction.”

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