Page 41 of Fortress of the King

We pass by too fast to see any more.

She leads me through a set of double doors and into a vast, commercial-looking kitchen with shiny metal appliances and a huge marble wrap-around countertop.

I open my mouth and then close it again as I see Angelo, Mafia King himself, standing at the stove. To say I’m shocked is an understatement. There’s an open bottle of red wine and a half-empty glass to his left, and some kind of metal contraption – that looks suspiciously like a pasta maker – to the right.

Angelo is cooking dinner?Well, I’ll be damned.

I turn to the woman staring at me, I realize she’s asking me something and I didn’t even hear a word of it.

I see her lips twitch, but she doesn’t smile. “Your coat, miss,” she repeats, motioning to my wool parka.

I smile, unloop my belt and slide it off my shoulders. She takes it and leaves without another word.

I can feel Angelo staring at me. I turn to look at him and his eyes follow down my body and slowly trail back up again. I hope he likes what he sees, because I’m not getting any better than this.

“Good evening, Rayne,” he says, his voice dark and sultry. “You look beautiful.”

I smile at him. “Good evening, Angelo, this is a surprise. You have a lovely home.” I glance around the vast space appreciatively.

His eyes gleam mischievously, and I can’t help but like the fact he hasn’t shaved. I also think about how bristly that would feel between my….

“The jewelry looks fetching on you.” He glances from my earrings down to my neck. I wore them, of course – just like he told me – and judging by the way he’s looking at me, I think I’ve hit the spot.

“Thank you, Angelo, you really didn’t have to –”

He cuts me off. “I wanted to, they were clearly made for you. Would you like a glass of wine?”

I detest red. “I’d love one, thank you.”

He pours a glass and I admire him for a moment.

He’s wearing charcoal pants and a white shirt, loose at the nape and the sleeves rolled up. He’s the ultimate bad boy.

A slight shiver goes through me at being alone with him, in his house.

He hands me the glass.

“You never told me you’re a chef,” I muse, taking a sip, trying not to spit it back out.

He watches me, a smirk playing on his lips. “There’s probably a lot of things about me that may surprise you,” he says. Our eyes lock, and he tilts his head to the side. “Being a chef probably isn’t one of them.”

I nod to the contraption on the bench. “You’re making pasta from scratch?”

“My Nona taught me when I was a boy. She was the best cook in the family. Everything was in her head, she never had a recipe book, so you had to watch very closely.”

It’s the first time he’s mentioned anyone in his family besides his brothers.

“What are you making us?” I ask. “It smells delicious.”

“Traditional carbonara, I didn’t hold back on the gravy, it’s the best part.”

I watch as he pads barefoot to the stove and dips a large wooden spoon into the pot and has a taste. Then he brings the spoon over to me. “Taste test?”

He smirks as I part my lips, and he holds the spoon to my mouth, my eyes flick to his as I take a small mouthful. “Delicious,” I say, as my tongue dips out to lick my lips, and before I can blink, he leans over and kisses me, his mouth open as I gasp in surprise, it’s quick and full of promise. My core pulses with a need I didn’t know existed.

Why does this dangerous man bring out such a reaction each and every time?

“It certainly is,” he muses, pulling back as he moves back to the stove and turns the pan down to a simmer. His bristly facial hair is so damn sexy…

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