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She stood there for a moment, unsure how to react. Because she believed him. She just didn’t know why he cared who she slept with. “I don’t understand you,” she admitted softly, feeling unaccountably exposed.
Roman lost his stiffness, his shoulders relaxing. “I know you don’t,” he responded just as quietly. He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, brushing his knuckles against her injured cheek. “But one day you will. And when that day comes, I’ll be here. Now, come on,” he continued before she could speak. “Let me see to that bruise.”
She was feeling so mixed up that she followed him into the kitchen before she even noticed. “Wait. I’m a doctor. I know how to treat a bruise, Roman.”
“Then why haven’t you?” he asked archly, rifling through Luca’s freezer.
“Because...” It was the best she could do. Her last shift was catching up to her, and her head was throbbing. She needed five aspirins and her bed in the worst way.
“Despite what you may think, because isn’t an excuse. Sit down,” Roman ordered.
Angela stood where she was, glaring at him. She hated being ordered around.
Roman sighed and shook his head. “Angelo, you really are a hard-ass, you know?”
Angela sighed as well, rubbing her temple. “I know I am,” she admitted. “I can’t seem to help it.”
“Well, luckily for you, I happen to like buns of steel,” he teased, winking at her.
Angela laughed. She knew he had a good sense of humor, but she rarely allowed herself to enjoy it. “Good to know,” she told him with a smile.
This time, when he gestured her over to one of the seats at the table in the attached dining room, she moved with no further arguments. “I can do this myself,” she said, only to flinch when the pack of frozen peas met her sore flesh.
“Chiedo scusa,” Roman murmured. He kept the cold peas steady against her cheek, easing up on the pressure a little.
Angela did her best to relax, her tenseness easing as the ice did its job and began to numb her skin. She noticed the way his eyes kept flicking to her face to judge her comfort levels, and her brain relaxed enough to admit, “I really love it when you speak Italian.”
Roman looked surprised. “You do?”
Angela nodded, sternly telling herself not to blush.
“I’m glad. I was raised speaking Italian and Sicilian—which are two very different languages,” he informed her. “Never make the mistake of calling them the same.”
Angela laughed a little. “I swear I won’t.” Roman pulled up a chair and sat down in front of her, his knees brushing hers as he continued to cup her face gently. “You’re really good at this.”
“I’ve treated my fair share of shiners,” he said. Then he paused as if debating whether to continue. Finally, he disclosed, “My mother.”
The pain in those two simple words hit close to home. She realized that no matter what kind of man he was now, he had once been a little boy who had clearly loved his mother. “I’m sorry.”
“I am too,” Roman murmured.
“Is that why you killed your father?” The question was out before she could stop herself. When he just stared at her silently, she forged ahead. “I knew who you were—and what your reputation was—when you told me your name the very first time we met. I’m a surgical physician of the biggest hospital in the city. I see things. I hear things.”
“I’m sure you do,” he agreed easily. “But that’s a dangerous question to ask.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” she told him. She said it quietly but genuinely.
“I know,” Roman responded. “You never have been. Not even when I held a gun to your head. Why is that?” he asked, tilting his head.
Angela licked her suddenly dry lips, noting the way Roman’s eyes tracked the movement. “I don’t know,” she murmured.
“Hmm...” He lowered the now-warm pack of peas. “I know.”
“You think so?” she questioned, commanding herself to sit back.
Roman leaned forward into her personal space, picking up her hand and kissing her knuckles gallantly. “Shall I tell you why, my sweet Angel?”
She managed a shaky nod, her pulse going wild.
