Page 63 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
I tip my head lightly to one side and bat my lashes. “What can I say? I assumed since you picked it out, it was okay to wear it.”
He regards me with a lethal glare. “It’s an evening dress, not a breakfast dress.”
I smile sweetly. “I’ve had breakfast in less conservative dresses than this.”
I’ve never been this bold with anyone, but for some reason, I feel safe with Cristiano. Perhaps knowing he almost kissed me last night bought me some insurance against him betraying my words and my behavior to his brother.
He swallows and unashamedly coasts his gaze over my bare shoulders, down my collarbone, to my breasts. I feel my nipples harden until they’re standing to attention under his stare.
A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth before he slowly drags his gaze back to mine.
“Any word from Savero?” I ask, masking a shiver as it coasts down my spine.
Just like that, his eyes darken, and he shakes his head once. “Not since last night. He’s safe though.”
I swallow and look across the other tables—anywhere but at him. “Where will I go when he returns?”
After a long pause, I glance at him to see his teeth grinding together.
“You’ll go to the main house—the Di Santo residence. That’s where you’ll be living.”
“Yes,afterthe wedding. I want to go home until then. I want to be with my family.”
“It’s not possible.” His reply is laced with boredom. “I’ve already explained. You’re not safe at your father’s. To be frank, neither is the rest of your family. I’ve already drawn up plans to install new surveillance tech at the house and to reinforce the perimeter. Now your father has formed an official alliance with Savero, you all have a price on your head.” He sits back in his chair, still regarding me with measured indifference. “Youhave the highest price of them all.”
I shiver again, feeling the cold, conditioned air touching my shoulders.
He summarizes for good measure. “You’ll be safest at the house, so that’s where you’ll be.”
A waiter appears at the table and looks at Cristiano expectantly. I know we’re living in contemporary times, but doesn’t the waiter usually ask for the woman’s order first?
Then I understand. He expects Cristiano to order for me.
Over my dead body.
I clear my throat, drawing the gazes of both men to me, and sit tall.
“I will have the porcini omelet.” I give the waiter my most sugary smile.
“Um ...” He glances nervously at Cristiano, whose head hasn’t moved but casts a suspicious glance at me out of the corner of his eye. “Would you like that with or without Périgord truffle?”
“With,” I say brightly.
The waiter scribbles something with a trembling hand and then turns his body back toward Cristiano.
I clear my throat. “I would also like the fruit cup—no pineapple—and a turmeric shot to start, a small bowl of coconut yogurt, with granola on the side ... and can you bring a small jug of maple syrup? Actually, no. I hear you do a sensational blueberry compote. I’ll take that instead. And ...”
Cristiano’s gaze is narrowed. He knows exactly what I’m playing at. I smile like I just hit the jackpot.
“. . . an espresso.”
The waiter’s gaze flits between me and my breakfast partner as if he’s experiencing a panic attack, while Cristiano and I embark on an all-out staring contest.
“And for you, sir?”
Cristiano keeps his glare fixed on me while he hands his menu back to the waiter. “I’ll just take the eggs Benedict.”
“Thank you. I’ll be right back with some water.” The waiter scurries away as if he’s just been electrocuted.
