“Enjoy your rooms.” He gives me the absolute barest of glances before turning to the door. “Your clothes are in the closet and the en suite is fully stocked. Feel free to decorate however you like.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me alone in what I’ve just realized ismybedroom, not his. Sinking back onto the bed, my body still trembles from his touch, still burns from the power of our mutual release. I stare up at the white ceiling, mind racing.
My sister said I could have him eating out of the palm of my hand. Just warm his bed, let him underestimate me, and he’d let me do whatever I want.
A harsh laugh bubbles from my throat. I can’t believe I thought I could control Dante Bellanti with my body. The thought is a fucking joke now.
I’m in way over my head.
10
Frankie
Morning comes,and I’m surprised to realize I slept soundly after Dante left me alone.
Sitting up in the massive bed, I shield my eyes from the brilliant sunlight streaming in through the windows and give myself a few seconds to adjust. My body aches all over, but the insides of my thighs are the worst. I’m sure if I looked in a mirror, I’d find bruises from the hard, demanding way Dante took me. I flush just thinking about it. It’s still hard to believe that this is reality.My new reality.
I’m a Bellanti now.
Which means that today, I’ll get an inside look at Bellanti Vineyards—one of the most successful wineries in all of California, if not the world.
The place must run like a well-oiled machine to have achieved such success. I want to know every operational detail, see every step of the process. They might be raking in the profits, but even so, I know there has to be room for improvement. I’ll assess the winery’s strengths and weaknesses initially, then determine how to restructure operations and maximize efficiency. I learned plenty about those things in Tuscany, and I’m dying to put my new knowledge to use. Even if it is for the benefit of the Bellantis, the idea flat out thrills me.
Granted, I haven’t been officially welcomed into the business.Yet. I need to learn the lay of the land first, so to speak, then show how I can be of value. But I’m confident I’ll work my way into a position promptly. No way am I sitting on my hands all day, wishing away the time when I can be actively working.
At least this sham of a marriage will allow me to pursue my passion.
I slide onto the floor. The marble is cool beneath my soles and a shiver of exhilaration goes through me. I never sleep late. My internal clock chimes shortly after sunrise every day unless I’m sick or exhausted from stretching myself too thin. Considering the long day I had, thanks to the wedding and the reception (and the even longer night, leaving me with just a few hours’ sleep), Ishouldbe exhausted. But I’m not. I feel invigorated.
After showering in my extremely luxurious new en suite, I blow out my hair before twisting it into a professional bun at the nape of my neck. A few loose strands hang around my face, and I leave them to soften my appearance. I don’t want to seem uptight or intimidating to any new-to-me people I’ll meet today.
I give my mostly empty walk-in closet careful consideration, then dress in a smart gray suit. The jacket hugs my waist and has a feminine curve to the lapels, but the suit is completely office appropriate. I pair it with a white blouse and simple black heels. No jewelry save for my wedding band, and just enough makeup to give me some color. Assessing myself in the closet’s floor-length mirror, I tame my excitement as my stomach rumbles. It’s been quite a long time since I’ve eaten.
Unfortunately, I hardly know the layout of this massive building. Hell, I could probably get lost inside my bedroom suite if I actually wandered around it. The scent of coffee is easy to follow, though, and I make my way down the hall and into the room it’s coming from. Two men in white aprons go wide-eyed as I stride in. I quickly realize I’ve entered the kitchen. Everything is stainless steel and commercial grade, and while the quick peek I take says it’s impressive, the look on the chef’s face says I’m not supposed to be here.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I turn to leave.
“Madam,” he says, his words slightly French-accented, “if you would take a seat in the dining room, I’ll be glad to prepare your order.”
I arch my brows. “My order?”
The chef nods. He’s an older man with a tuft of silver and black hair curling from beneath his white chef’s hat. “Yes, Mrs. Bellanti. What would you like?”
A slow grin spreads across my face. No more microwavable egg sandwiches for me! I don’t know why I was surprised—of course the Bellantis can afford a personal chef.
He must see the impressed and slightly greedy gleam in my eye, because he looks amused now. “Anything you can imagine. I enjoy a challenge,” he teases. “Something en flambé, perhaps? Paella? Macarons? Consommé?”
“I’d love a Tuscan omelet,” I tell him. “I really miss the food I had when I was in Italy.”
“Beautiful. Sun dried tomatoes, olives, artichoke hearts, prosciutto?”
“Yes, yes, yes, and yes. All of it.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle as if he’s enjoying this.“Mozzarella, pecorino, asiago?”
“All the cheeses, yes, a thousand times yes,” I say, trying not to drool. “And toast—the crustiest rustic bread you have, browned until it’s crispy.”
“It will be…most crisp,” he says seriously.
