Page 62 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
“We’re eating out.” A smile nips at his tone. “And stop making that face. It doesn’t suit you.”
I glance to my right, and of course, there’s a damn mirror.
“Fine.” I huff again, then I pull out the shortest, skimpiest, raciest dress I can see and walk back into the bedroom, locking the door behind me.
Ten minutes later, we’re standing in the elevator, and I can feel the anger rolling off him in waves. I allow myself a small, satisfied smile. After all, he did buy me these clothes. Did he expect me not to wear them?
The dress I selected is fuchsia-pink and reaches only a third of the way down my thighs. It’s meant to be worn with shorts, but since he only ordered bikini briefs—and small, lacy ones atthat—my bottom may very well be on display should I happen to drop something and, well, need to pick it up again.
The halter neckline shows off my shoulders, and the midriff is cut away, displaying my stomach, which is even flatter for having hardly eaten anything in the past forty-eight hours.
Come to think of it, I haven’t eaten a great deal since the engagement. I’m not trying to starve myself; I simply haven’t had an appetite since that fateful day.
The heels aren’t as high as I’d have liked, but at three inches, they’re still formidable. I was careful to choose a pair that gives good toe cleavage. And if the way Cristiano’s eyes keep dropping to them is proof they do the trick, I chose well.
He doesn’t utter a word when we reach the car. He just opens the door and averts his gaze while I slide into the low seat.
When he starts the engine, I glance sideways at his expression. He’s feigning indifference, but his jaw is tense, and if he grips the wheel any tighter, he’ll pull the whole thing off.
“Where are we going for breakfast?”
He keeps his eyes on the road and his words crisp. “Lucio’s.”
I swallow. Lucio’s is only the most popular restaurant in this neighborhood. Anyone who’s anyone dines there—not only for the amazing food but to beseen.
Does Cristiano want us to be seen?
“Is that the best idea considering you’re supposed to be keeping me out of sight?”
“I never said I was keeping you out of sight. I think ‘safe’ is the word you’re looking for. God, woman. You’re either immensely forgetful or you’re purposely trying to infuriate me.”
“Wow. Someone got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
“I didn’t sleep.”
My eyes dart back to the road. I want to interrogate that, but I’m worried about what I might uncover.
“I’m not sure ‘woman’ is an improvement on ‘Castellano,’” I say. “You know, you can use my given name. I even answer to it.”
He doesn’t reply. Not with words anyway. His knuckles on the other hand grow a paler shade of white as they threaten the steering wheel’s very existence.
“It’s an expensive restaurant to go to just for breakfast,” I point out.
“So?” He snorts, and I roll my eyes at how eventhatsounds sexy. “What does it matter anyway? It’s not like you eat anything.”
I turn my head away and resolve to order everything on the menu.
Cristiano parks right outside the restaurant—illegally, but I doubt anyone will challenge a member of the Di Santo family, whether they’re active in the mob or not. I don’t wait for him to open the door before I stretch out my bare legs, which I can tell bothers him. He huffs out a tight breath as I brush past and make my way to the entrance, my heels tapping soft clicks across the warm asphalt.
A male host greets us. He’s already flustered before we step inside. “Mr. Di Santo, your, um, table is ready. Please come this way.”
We’re taken through the middle of the restaurant, and I can feel the heat of heads swiveling to assess us. When they realize we’re not famous, some return to the more exciting prospect of a freshly made mimosa. Others linger on the impeccably dressed man walking behind me, his eyes on my dress, muttering about how he’s going to “send it back and get a fucking refund.”
We reach the table, listen to the list of specials as we sit, and then settle into an uncomfortable silence. Cristiano finally rests his eyes on me with an air of thinly veiled annoyance.
“Is everything okay?” I twirl a wavy hair around a finger and beam at him.
“Couldn’t you have chosen something more ... conservative to wear to breakfast?”
