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She faces me, contemplating her answer before saying, “If anything…you make me feel the opposite.”

All the air in my lungs vanishes.

For a moment, I forget about the restaurant.

The music.

The people around us.

Everything.

Because there are very few things a man like me doesn’t know how to handle. I can kill a man with a single bullet from over one thousand yards away. I can hack into the government’s system on any given day. I can get blood out of white Egyptian thread sheets without leaving a single drop behind.

But a woman looking at me as though I’m her safe haven might be something I’m not quite sure how to handle.

However, for her… I’ll try.

My heart gives a hard, unfamiliar thud against my ribs.

“Charlotte—”

“Buonasera.” A young waiter appears beside us, drawing our attention away from each other. “My name is Pietro. I’ll be taking care of you this evening.” He offers me the bottle of red I requested with the cork still intact, while his other hand holds the corkscrew. “Signore Alarie, would you like me to pour?”

“No. I’ve got it.” He immediately passes me the bottle and corkscrew. Within seconds, I make quick work of the cork, setting it aside as a rich aroma immediately unfurls into the air with hints of dark berries, oak, and spices.

Several servers move around him, placing our first course before us. Toasted slices of bread piled high with fresh tomatoes and basil, along with mushrooms stuffed with cheese and herbs, still steaming from the oven.

Pietro steps back, dipping his chin. “I will return shortly with the second course.” He turns and walks away.

The low murmur of conversations drifts through the restaurant. Glasses clink somewhere in the distance. Soft music plays overhead. Laughter echoes.

But none of it reaches me.

Because the only thing I’m focused on is Charlotte, studying the food in front of her, her eyes sparkling with genuine delight.

“This looks delicious,” she notes, looking up at me with a smile.

The candlelight dances across her features, highlighting every exquisite detail. Gold flickers through strands of her hair. Shadows trace the elegant curve of her neck.

God, it should be a sin to look this beautiful.

I internally shake my head and reach for the serving spoon to put a piece of each item on her plate before my own. “The bruschetta is the best on the island.” I pick up a piece and bring it to my lips, biting down on the fresh tomatoes and savory balsamic. I almost groan in appreciation as the flavors slide across my tongue.

Across from me, Charlotte takes her own bite, and the second the flavors hit her tongue, a soft sound slips from her lips.

A moan.

One that shoots straight to my groin.

She freezes, realizing the sound she just made, her eyes widening. Color floods her cheeks before spilling down her throat and disappearing beneath the neckline of her dress. She quickly grabs her napkin and pats the corner of her lips. “Sorry,” she says, sounding completely mortified. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t.” The word comes out rougher than I intend, and she stills at once. I hold her gaze, reining in every ounce of control I can muster. “Never apologize for making a beautiful sound like that.”

Silence falls between us.

Not the kind that causes discomfort.

But the kind that sparks the air around us with something…dangerous.