Page 3 of Caught By the Kingpin
Marco has his face turned as though regarding the cakes, but is watching from the side of his eye as I walk back to him.
“They all look perfect,” he says, but he is looking right at me, not the cakes. “I don’t normally have a sweet tooth, but I’m tempted beyond belief by your… cake.”
Pleasure skitters down my spine from the expression of unfettered desire on his face. Oh god why does he have to be a mob boss? Why can’t he be a cupcake aficionado I meet when I’m set up in my new life?
“Don’t choose that one.” I point at one of the cakes I slathered in gold. “It’s so pretty, but the decoration doesn’t taste of anything. The plain-looking ones are better.” There’s no inflection in my phrase, and I’ve made the same comment many times, so no one listening would suspect. But does Marco understand what I mean?
His gaze lingers on my lips and my heart races.
“I agree. The overlooked ones are the sweetest.”
But still, he’s not looking at the cupcakes. He won’t have noticed the cake I’m indicating is thegoldone. The cake signifying wealth. The ones that are just a sheen of gold on top, but aren’t as valuable as they seem.
I move to his side.
“You can’t trust him,” I whisper, the words tumbling out.
“Did you make these?” he says loud enough for my father to hear, then adds under his breath, “Are you in danger? Do you need help?”
From a kingpin? Because that worked out so well for my mother. Marco is gorgeous, yes, but I can’t allow that to fool me.
“I made them all myself.” I reply at normal volume, shaking my head, then add, “He owes money to Westminster.”
The kingpin raises one eyebrow and the corner of his mouth hitches up. “That’s quite a talent you have.”
Yes, it is actually. No one takes any notice of me so they continue talking about confidential matters while I clear up their breakfast or serve afternoon tea. And for him to smirk? Pah.
“They shot the kneecaps from my father’s second-in-command,” I hiss.
“Uncivilised pigs.” He adjusts his cuffs. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
We’re talking in undertones, and it’s a given that we’re friends. I don’t know why. But he trusts me and I trust him.
Because he saw you, a little voice pipes up.He noticed you when you’re invisible to everyone else.
“If you ever decide to sell these cupcakes, let me know. I’d be happy to help.” As he looks at me, heat flares over my skin, stealing my breath.
“Anytime,” he adds, and it feels like a promise.
I nod and Marco finally casts a cursory glance over the cupcakes.
“This one ismine.” He takes the simplest of the cupcakes; the one I would have chosen. White butter icing with a slice of strawberry on top. Elegant. He strips back the paper and bites.
A raw sound of enjoyment and appreciation comes from him as he chews. I stare unabashedly at his dark and bristly jawline. I wonder what it would feel like beneath my fingertips. He swallows and oh gosh, his throat. It’s so strong and firm and I fight the urge to rub my thighs together. I’m flushed and more aware of the space between my legs than I ever have been before in my twenty years of life.
I glance across at my father, who is just finishing his cake, brushing crumbs from his chin.
Marco finishes his mouthful and pins me with that pale blue gaze again. “Delicious, cara. Thank you.”
Cara. A sweet Italian endearment in his husky voice.
It probably means nothing. Just gratitude for having warned him off working with the Kensington mafia.
But the next batch of icing I make I’ll be adding tiny drops of blue until I recreate the colour. The blue of his eyes.
“Don’t stop baking,” he murmurs as he walks away, back to my father. “I’ll be back to claimeverything.”
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