Page 51 of Disarming Caine

“What’s this?” she hollered from the bedroom.

“My date!” I took the pasta off the burner and poured it into the colander. The plan had been to wait for her to come back, but I could hardly bear it and followed her.

“I can’t wear this!” She stood in front of the tall mirror beside the door, holding her new floor-length dress against her work clothes. Cranberry-red, made of a silk jersey that would hug every subtle curve of her delicious body. It was a halter top with a plunging neckline, gathered at the waist, and a full skirt slit to mid-thigh. The shoe box on the bed remained untouched.

Folding my arms, I leaned against the door frame. “Sofia picked it out. She was sure it would fit you.”

“Stop smirking at me!” Her eyes were wider than when she had first seen me, stuck on the neckline, which would fall to her navel. “It doesn’t leave anything to the imagination!”

“Trust me, bella, my imagination is far more active than that. Put it on.” I winked at her—which was met with a feigned scowl—and headed back to the kitchen. “The food will be on the table in five minutes.”

As I began plating, she yelled from the bedroom again. “Antonio, I’m five-foot-nine! I can’t wear three-inch stiletto heels! I’ll be a giant!”

The heels clicked against the hall floor, and she appeared. I froze in place, hands covering my heart. She was awe-inspiring. “My date has finally arrived.”

She rolled her eyes as she approached me. “Tell me you didn’t buy me a dress and shoes for one dinner.”

“Would you believe me if I said they were secondhand?”

She shook her head, stopping before she entered the kitchen.

I rounded the counter to scoop up her hand and kissed it gently. “We have tickets for the New Year’s Eve Ball at the Convention Center.”

A sparkle appeared behind her tired, pretending-to-be-irritated eyes, and she scanned the space I'd made in the room. “Dancing?”

“Sì, there will be dancing.” Still holding her hand, I spun her slowly, and she finally smiled at me when she had made it all the way. “I thought you may want some practice in the shoes after dinner.”

She pulled close to me, eyes almost level with mine, and slid her hand to the back of my neck. “You did not just set all this up for dance practice.”

“Always so suspicious.” I kissed her cheek and separated from her, returning to plating. “Go sit.”

“It smells divine.” As she crossed to the table, the dress swirled around her, accentuating every movement. Her long stride, playful sway of her hips, tall and confident posture. “Where did you order it from?”

I sucked in an exaggerated breath to feign offence. “I made it!”

She cocked a doubtful eyebrow as she settled into the chair.

“From scratch!” I finished my work and stripped off the apron, hanging it on the wall with the others.

“You never said you could cook.”

“The morning we went to Russo’s together…” I fixed my cuffs, did up the links, and buttoned my shirt. “You told me of the family you boarded with the summer you studied in Italia and how much you adore authentic Italian cuisine.”

“Did I?”

I frowned at her as I shrugged the tuxedo jacket on and tied my bow tie. “I’ve been planning this meal since that day.”

“Have not.” She sat sideways in her chair, legs crossed, leaning against the back and watching as I picked up the plates. She hadn’t looked at the glasses yet.

I approached the long, dark wood table, set formally with rows of cutlery and placed my pasta bowl first. I’d chosen the white plates with silver etching, matching the napkins, which were folded like swans. Lifting hers by the beak, I snapped it, and draped it across her lap as she squared to the table.

“Il primo, handmade tortellini with porcini mushrooms in truffle sauce.” I placed the dish in front of her, kissing her neck before straightening, taking in her citrusy scent, which mingled with the aromas of the meal perfectly.

She turned her face toward mine, but I escaped before she could kiss me. Her brows knit together, so I ran my thumb across one, encouraging her to relax. The candlelight flickered across her face, and she smiled. “You’re serious?”

“Of course, amore.” I picked up the open bottle and poured her first glass. “And Chianti.”

She ran her fingers over the cutlery as I poured my wine and sat. There it was, the staring and blinking. The not knowing how to respond, afraid of the feelings overwhelming her. Her jaw flexed, eyes on the food. “Looks like a lot of work.”

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