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I pointed at my feet. “And hobble my way out of here?” I asked.
He frowned. “You should keep off your feet.”
I nodded and slipped into bed with him while the sun blazed outside. “Try telling my bladder that,” I lied. I didn’t want him know about the tablets I’d seen. I lay on my back and stared up at the ceiling, all too conscious of his eyes on me. “You can go back to sleep now.”
He did just that the moment he’d secured his arms around me, his soft snores then reverberating in my ears before I closed my eyes and surrendered to the darkness enveloping me.
I woke to the doorbell ringing and to the realization I’d slept the day away with shadows already growing outside the bedroom window.
Valentino grunted as he sat, then looked down at me before pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “That would be your gown Marco has been working on.”
He stood and I forced my stare away from his masculine perfection before he shoved his arms into the sleeves of his bathrobe, then disappeared out of the room. I blinked at the empty doorway. “Gown?” I mumbled.
Ignoring my bandaged feet, I walked gingerly to the large walk-in closet, then pulled on a simple green and white cotton dress and a lacy thong. My feet were already healing and nowhere near as painful and sore thanks to my healing sleep.
I grinned. I’d be pounding my way out of here in no time.
Valentino was climbing the stairs with my gown concealed inside a garment cover when I entered the open lounge, dining and kitchen area. His eyes widened. “You should keep off your feet.”
I shrugged. “They’re a lot better.”
Draping the gown over the island counter, he pulled out a barstool. “Take a seat while I make us something to eat. I did promise you dinner out on the balcony.”
I nodded, and accepted the proffered seat. “You did.”
He pulled out chicken, bacon, onion and garlic, along with black pepper and a bag of fettucine. It wasn’t until he filled the kettle with water and flicked it on, then began dicing everything on his cutting board that I asked, “Are you making chicken and bacon carbonara?”
He nodded. “It’s quick and tasty.” He looked up at me. “You enjoy it too?”
I nodded. “I do.” I nodded to the fridge. “I’m happy to whisk the eggs, parmesan and cream together.
He stopped cutting as he arched a brow and focused on me. “You have cream in yours?”
“You don’t?”
“It’s not traditional,” he said, even as he pulled the eggs, cheese and cream from out of the fridge and placed them in front of me. “But I’m willing to destroy the dish a little if you like it that way.”
He bent to retrieve a bowl and a whisk from one of the island bench drawers, then placed them in front of me. I was too busy being shocked that he yielded to my personal preference.
It wasn’t until he began frying the meat, onion and garlic that my stomach compressed with hunger. I cracked the eggs and whisked them with a little cream. I was going to devour my share of dinner.
Adding boiled water from the jug into a large saucepan, he added some salt then the pasta before he retrieved my wet mix and added it into the fried chicken, bacon, onion and garlic. Turning the heat down and allowing the pasta to come back to a boil, he said, “Give me one minute to get dressed.”
I waited until he was gone before I eyed off the gown inside its garment cover. Though I’d never been one to dress up for a man, I suddenly wanted this man to appreciate my feminine form. I wanted to be wrapped up like a long-awaited present for him to unwrap.
I leaned forward, my arm outstretched to take a peek at the gown I’d be wearing, when Valentino stepped back into vision. I snatched my arm back. He was dressed in casual denim jeans and a soft dove-gray cashmere sweater. That he looked edible and all too powerful was a secondary thought to the realization he wasn’t expecting trouble tonight.
A tailored suit, the more expensive the better, was a mafia man’s uniform. It screamed luxury while commanding respect. That he carried a jacket that was meant for me made my heart soften just a little even before he wrapped it around my shoulders.
“The sea breezes get cool at night,” he said huskily.
Five minutes later he was draining the pasta and stirring in the meat and cream concoction, then ladling the carbonara into bowls before adding a little more parmesan on top.
Lending me his elbow, I hobbled with him out onto the balcony. The sun was just disappearing behind the ocean, the water reflecting the sky’s orange and red notes. “Beautiful,” I whispered.
“I agree,” he said, though his stare stayed on me as he pulled out a seat before I sank into it. “I’ll be right back,” he added.
A minute later he brought out our cutlery and two steaming bowls of carbonara, along with a pair of crystal flutes and a bottle of chilled champagne. After filling the flutes, he lifted his into the air to clink it against mine “Cin cin,” he said huskily.
