Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
He sat beside me, quiet, lost in his thoughts as he ate. He wiped his mouth when he finished. “Delicious.”
I smiled, pleased he’d enjoyed my simple offering.
He tilted his head. “You’ve been using the pool.”
“I like to swim.”
“Would you like some things for the pool? Toys, a lounger to float on when you’re not doing laps?”
“You’ve been watching me?”
He smiled. “I peeked in. If I didn’t have to meet with my men, I would have jumped in and splashed around with you.”
My cheeks warmed in embarrassment. “I was enjoying it.”
“Good. I’ll have a few things brought over from the pool house.”
“Thank you.”
Nodding, he leaned forward, taking my hand. “You are feeling all right?”
“Better, yes.”
“You’ve been crying.”
“What?”
He traced under my eye. “When you cry, your eyes look gray. They reflect your emotions. Are you still frightened, Evie?”
I had cried again this morning while swimming. Every so often, a swell of relief hit me, mixing with the odd feeling of wellness. I hadn’t felt safe and content in so long that, at times, I wasn’t sure how to handle the thoughts. They seemed so foreign, given the man I was now married to and the life I was leading.
“No. I’m still finding my place, but I’m not frightened,” I said truthfully. “Everyone has been kind. Sometimes, I just feel overcome, and the tears start.”
He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. He stood and bent, weaving his fingers through my hair and tilting up my head. “Your place is with me now.” He pressed his mouth to mine. “I am happy you are here. More than I can express. Thank you for my lunch and the gift of your company.” He strode from the kitchen, leaving me blinking after him.
I was beginning to crave his touch. He was never there when I went to bed, but I felt him in the night. He would slide in behind me, pulling me to his chest. As soon as he was there, I drifted into a deep sleep, feeling strangely safe in the arms of a man I knew to be a murderer.
Except I was beginning to think there was much more to him.
The next day, Marcus informed me Matteo wanted to see me in his office. I entered, looked around, curious and nervous. It was a large room, with lots of chairs and a couple of sofas. A long table was at one end of the office. Wide windows had a film on them, so the room was dimmer than the rest of the house. I knew all the windows were bulletproof. Marcus had told me that when I had noticed the different types of glass during our tour.
“Sit,” Matteo instructed, not looking up from a pile of papers.
I sat, stomach churning. Had I done something? Gone somewhere I shouldn’t? Outside, if I ventured too far, Marcus would make a low noise in his throat, and I would step back closer to him. The high fence seemed to cause him the most displeasure.
“Did I–did I do something, Matteo?” I murmured, my throat dry. “I didn’t mean to.”
He looked up with a frown. “Not at all, Evie.” There was a knock at the door, and he looked behind me with a smile. “Ah, Mrs. Armstrong. Good timing.”
She came in smiling and slid a tray onto his desk. “You enjoy,” she said brightly and departed in her cheery, efficient manner.
Matteo indicated the tray. “I wanted to have lunch with you again. I thought we could eat in here, then talk a little.”
“Oh.”
He sat back, regarding me, his look indulgent. “What are you feeling guilty about, Evie? The rose you picked in the garden this morning? The splashing in the pool? The chocolate you snuck from the box last night? The croissant you didn’t eat at breakfast?”
I stared at him. I was shocked when he winked at me.
“I’m a busy man, but I watch you.”
“Why?”
“You mesmerize me.”
I didn’t know what to say.
He pushed a plate toward me. “It won’t be as good as yours, but have your sandwich. You aren’t eating enough, and I have plenty to worry about without adding your health to it.”
“I’m not eating enough?” I repeated.
“No. Mrs. Armstrong tells me you barely pick at your food. I noticed yesterday you ate half of your sandwich. She told me you hardly touched your pasta last night.” He met my gaze. “If I have to sit with you to make sure you eat, I will, Piccolina.”
I had no idea what piccolina meant, but the way it rolled off his tongue, it sounded affectionate.
So, I picked up my sandwich—because he asked me to.
What was happening to me?
One of his men walked in, a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Matteo—”
“Not now,” he barked.
“But—”
“Leave,” Matteo snapped.
I cringed at the sound of his voice, the tone reminding me of the night in the warehouse, but once the door shut behind me, he relaxed and asked me if I wanted more iced tea, his voice its usual patient tone.