For the first time since I’ve met him, he smiles at me. A real, full-blown tilt of the mouth. How can that tiny movement take him from sexy to undeniably devastating?
Suddenly, the car feels too hot. I wrap my palm around the side of my neck and squirm in my seat.
“Take your time,” he says. “Like I said to you at the rehearsal dinner, I want you to be comfortable. And I think in time, you’ll find that my rules aren’t as restrictive as you think.”
That is my cue to argue with him, but I can’t seem to get my thoughts straight right now. I wrap my arms around myself and turn to face the window. I need to stop looking at him.
We get to Rafaele’s house just before dinner. Sabina greets us, shooting me a hateful glare when Rafaele isn’t looking, and then corrals us into the dining room where a feast awaits.
I’m not that hungry after the drawn-out brunch, but I try a few things anyway since the cook went out of his way to make a bunch of vegetarian dishes.
His name is Luca, and he’s around fifty years old. I like him immediately. He introduces himself with a warm smile and apologizes for preparing me steak at the rehearsal dinner even after I tell him it’s all right.
“As soon as they told me you don’t eat meat, I went online and bought a few new cookbooks,” he says. “You will have to give me your feedback so that I can prepare things you like.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it,” I say.
He dips his head. “Enjoy your meal, Signora Messero.”
I freeze at the name. It’s going to take a while to get used to being called that.
When I truly can’t eat another bite, Rafaele stands up and gestures for me to follow him. We take the stairs to a room on the second floor, a few doors down from the guest bedroom where I was locked up until yesterday.
I peek inside. “What’s this?” I suspect I know the answer.
“Our bedroom.”
The room is twice the size of the guest bedroom. It’s decorated in cool blue tones and contains a big bed, a sitting area by the window, and a fireplace. Masculine, but not obnoxiously male. I slip my shoes off and curl my bare toes against the plush carpet. “I want to sleep in the other room. The one I stayed in earlier.”
Rafaele throws his jacket over the back of a chair. “What’s wrong with this one? Do you not like the decor?”
I give him a pointed look. “Yes, there’s this awful talking robot that grates on my nerves.”
His eyes spark. “He’s a permanent feature, so you better get used to it.”
I’m not planning to get used to shit. I also have no intention of letting him touch me. Does he think I’ll soften up to him because he didn’t hurt me last night?
I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not sleeping with you.”
He takes off his tie and places it on top of his jacket. “We’re married, so we’re going to share a bedroom. If you don’t want to sleep in the same bed as me, you can sleep on the floor.”
The floor? Even with the nice carpet, that option doesn’t seem particularly inviting.
I glance around. There’s an ottoman by the window, not exactly large, but big enough for me to fit. I walk over to the bed, snatch a pillow and the duvet, and carry them to the ottoman. “I’ll sleep here.”
“Suit yourself,” he says calmly as he begins to unbutton his shirt. “I’m going to go shower.”
I watch him disappear behind one of the doors. He’s playing it very cool today. If I want to get on his nerves, I’m going to have to figure out exactly what makes him angry.
While he’s in the shower, I explore the rest of the room.
There’s a huge walk-in closet with freestanding cabinetry in the center and two armchairs. On one side of the closet are Rafaele’s clothes, and the other side is sparsely filled with what I realize are some of my clothes from home. He must have asked Mamma to pack me a bag at some point, and of course she packed my least favorite outfits.
I wander back into the bedroom. I find a black credit card with my new name on it on one of the nightstands.
Cleo Messero.
God, this is so weird.
I run my thumb over the raised letters. I’ll have to put this thing to use soon to buy clothes I actually want to wear.
The bathroom door swings open.
I turn in time to see Rafaele come out in a pair of black boxer briefs, his hair tousled and wet. A choked sound escapes the back of my throat at the sight of all that tattooed skin.
Holy shit.
He’s covered in ink from his collarbone down to the waistband of his boxers.