Page 21 of Dangerous King
It's her face, though, that holds me mesmerized. Last night, it had been pale with fear and smeared with dirt; now it's still on the paler side, but it radiates in a healthy glow.
My cock twitches.Seriously? What the hell? I've never had the hots for girls built like her—slight, soft, too young. Almost ten years younger than me. Too much of an age gap to be anything but inappropriate. And yet… here I am, already hard. There's something about her that won't let me look away. It's in the way she stands, like she's ready to run. The fire behind her eyes even when she's scared. It's not just her body—it's her fight. And fuck me, but I want to be the one to make her stop running.
"Here, sit next to me." Izzy pulls Cat down onto a chair. "Quit scowling, Enrico, and come in here before you ruin our appetite." She yells at me through the open balcony door. I notice that she's put makeup on to hide the bruises from last night. Guilt rushes through me for her being kidnapped on my watch. The guilt is the only thing that makes me step into the breakfast room when I should be dealing with Kingsley. That and curiosity about our new guest, I stare at the two of them. Izzy waves at me. I suppose it won't hurt to let Kinsley sweat for a little while longer and enjoy breakfast first. He's not going anywhere.
I nod at Silvano, who doesn't hesitate to grab a cup of coffee and assault it with so much creamer and sugar that it turns my stomach. He loves his sugar and creamer with a hint of coffee. But he doesn't eat breakfast, claims it'll make him fat. I refrain from calling him out on the sacrilege he's performing. We had that debate a few times already.
Anyway, I'm way too engrossed watching Cat as she slides onto a seat like a queen. Her posture is all straight and graceful, despite a small pinch to her lips betraying how uncomfortable she is in her new surroundings. I also notice how her eyes hungrily devour the food laid out on the table. Boiled eggs, scrambled eggs, eggs benedict, egg over medium, bacon, sausages, ham, pancakes, waffles—all courtesy of the American cuisine. For the Italians in us, there are pastries, croissants, rolls, biscotti, jams, and more.
"Help yourself," I invite, indicating the assortment of food.
She visibly swallows, daintily reaching for the serving fork for the bacon, and selects one piece. Curiously, I watch as she adds a spoonful of scrambled eggs, while Izzy has her plate already loaded with five different pastries, of which she'll eat a bite of each.
"Don't start," Izzy raises her fork at me. We had the same conversation a few times. The one where I point out the waste of food she obviously doesn't care about. "It's about variety." She points her fork at each pastry. "If I ate everything I want, I'd look like Aunt Pauline; instead, I satisfy my taste buds with a bite of each."
"Then why not eat this one today and that one tomorrow?" I poke each of the pastries on her plate with my finger.
"Ugh, gross, you touched my food. And you probably didn't wash your hands after you petted those god-awful mutts of yours." She complains.
I snatch one of the pastries off her plate, knowing she won't eat them now anyway. She grabs a new plate and picks different pastries this time. "I told you, the key to this," she moves her hands up and down her slim body, and I roll my eyes, "is variety."
I would have preferred a piece of toast loaded with smoked salmon and a couple of spoonsful of caviar, but the pastry tastes pretty good too. I'm too busy watching Cat to pay attention to what I'm eating. She watches our exchange with wide eyes and a hint of fear. She looks like a little mouse cornered by two fat cats. Very much in contradiction to the spine she showed last night. It took a lot of courage to do what she did. I was already on my way to save Izzy, but she might not have gone as unscathed as she did if Cat hadn't interfered. Something I'll never forget, and I'll do what I can to make it up to her.
The fork Cat uses to pick up the smallest piece of scrambled eggs imaginable is trembling. Either she is scared to death of us, which I don't believe after her brave act of saving Izzy, or she's shaking from hunger. Which makes what she has put on her plate and the small bite she is about to eat an act of willpower I haven't seen often in another person.
I also notice her longing glances toward thebombolone alla cremas, one of Paola's—our cook's—specialties. On a whim, with the help of a pair of serving spoons, and after careful selection, I pick the best-looking one and place it on her plate. Watching her eyes grow even wider, she looks from the pastry to me as if she thinks I'm testing her. My brows furrow from my dark thoughts about her life with the Giordanos. For emphasis, I say, "Eat."
Tentatively, she uses her fork and knife to cut a tiny piece off. Even more tentatively, she brings it to her lips. All the time, her eyes are on me, questioning, wary. Anger churns my stomach, not at her, but at Giovanni. What did those bastards do to her? I nod at her encouragingly. Suddenly, it's very important for me to see her eat.
Her full, bow-shaped lips open, and I barely suppress a moan as my dick instantly hardens. Fuck! This hard-on came out of nowhere. But it's not unjustified, I think ruefully, as I watch her eyes close and her lips turn up. A slight moan escapes her as she bites down, pushing me to the brink of my willpower not to pull her over the table and fuck her. What the fuck is this waif doing to me?
"Good?" Izzy asks, her focus thankfully on Cat. A bump of a knee against mine, though, announces that my state hasn't gone unnoticed with Silvano. I refuse to look at him. I can already see his smirk in my mind.
"Madre di Dio, sooo good," Cat says, still with her eyes closed. "I haven't had bombolone alla cremain years." Her eyes open, and she looks straight at me. "Thank you."
Is she seriously thanking me for a piece of fucking pastry?
Irritated at what that means, I crumble my napkin and throw it on my plate, pulling my chair back. "Ladies." I manage a short bow. "I would like to speak to you later when you're done eating." I look at Cat.
"Oh, hold on," Izzy stops me. "I'm taking Cat shopping. She has nothing of her own."
"I need to speak to her first, then you can go shop your heart out. Here." I hand her my credit card.
"Take four guards," I order. Usually, one would suffice, but with the events of last night, I'd rather play this carefully. Roberto, Giovanni's son, is still out there, most likely hellbent on revenge. And let's not forget Donna Margarita, Giovanni's mother, who is also a force to be reckoned with. It's rumored that it's she, not her late husband or her son, who runs the Giordano family. The thought of the Giordanos coming after Izzy a second time infuriates me, but I can't lock my sister in a cage, no matter how gilded. Then my eyes roam back to Cat. "Take six."
For some reason, the thought of her getting taken or hurt doesn't sit well with me either. I tell myself it's because she saved Izzy, but I already sense that there is more to it than that. Silvano is getting up as well, preparing to follow me out, when I hear the sound of another chair pulling back. I look over to see Cat, wringing the napkin in her hands. She asks in a trembling voice, "About my parents?"
Shit, yeah, I should have told her, so she didn't have to worry senselessly. "They've been taken to safety and will be here within a couple of days."
She sinks back into her chair, somehow making even that deflated movement seem graceful as fuck.
"Thank you." Her voice is barely audible.
"Don't worry. I care about the people under my roof. And their families." I assure her. My phone rings, and I take a deep inhale when I see Edoardo's name flash across the screen. I'd known it was only a matter of time before I would have to deal with our Don. Looks like my time has run out.
His words ring in my ears while I watch him leave. It has been a long time since I felt taken care of and protected. I only catch a glimpse of it now and then when I talk to my family on the phone. Not that they can protect me, but at least I feel loved and cared for. My weekly conversations with them have always given me the strength to carry on, to not succumb to fear. They've kept me from turning into the mouse Roberto accused me of being. Those calls have kept me sane, kept me fighting. Given me the reason I needed to go on another day, and then another.
"Oh, before I forget," Enrico stops, pulls out his phone, and hands it to Izzy. An astounded hiss escapes her when she stares at it.
