Page 45

“Because it’s the best. And I expect the best.”

She picks up her glass, holds my gaze, then takes a long, slow mouthful.

The wine stains her lips a shade darker, and she licks the corner of her mouth when she sets the glass down.

"Satisfied?" she asks.

No.

I am far from satisfied. Her lips look luscious when they’re wet with wine, and my shirt slipping off one shoulder makes me want to rip the rest of it off her and devour the naked skin beneath it with my mouth and tongue until she’s begging me for more.

Which absolutely wasn’t on my bingo card tonight.

The look on her face is a dark, seductive challenge. She’s daring me. She thinks she has the upper hand, and she might be right.

So I am going to take it from her. Because I’ll be damned if those I fucking dare you eyes are going to win.

Holding her smug gaze, I pick up the glass, slowly turn it to where her lips touched the rim, then slide my lips over the same place and watch her as I drink.

The wine is good. It’s thick and tastes like grapes and berries with dark notes of oak and chocolate.

And I down it all in three large swallows.

Her gaze drops to my throat as I swallow the wine, and her lips part. I set the empty glass on the counter, and when I lick my lips, her eyes track the movement, and I see the flutter of her pulse in her neck.

So, my little captive isn’t as immune to me as she thinks.

“Now, I’m satisfied.” I lean forward into her personal space. “What about you, wife? Are you satisfied?”

She clears her throat, but not before I hear a slight inhale of air through those plush lips. A gasp. Because I’m close. Too close. And she likes it.

She pats my chest. “See, nobody's poisoned. Now sit at the table, and I'll bring the food."

I move to the dining table. The one that seats twelve and has never been used for a meal. She's set two places at one end, close together, and laid out plates, silverware, and napkins. She even found candles somewhere.

"Sit down," she says, giving me orders in my own home. "It's almost ready."

I sit down.

Christ.

She brings the baking dish to the table and sets it down.

"Cannelloni alla Meadows," she announces. "Enjoy."

She serves me first. The cannelloni slides out of the dish and slops onto my plate in a soupy mess. It looks like the cannelloni gave up halfway through the baking process and decided to become soup.

She serves herself and sits across from me.

"Dig in," she says.

I take a bite, and it is without question the worst cannelloni I have ever eaten.

The ricotta filling has the texture of wallpaper paste, and the entire thing tastes of nothing.

Across from me, Sunny takes her first bite, and I watch her face for her reaction.

Her chewing slows. Her eyes go slightly distant, and I see the exact moment the lack of flavor hits her taste buds.