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By lunchtime, the aroma of rosemary and garlic infuses the kitchen. I take the roast and baked potatoes from the oven just as Roman, Mateo, and Andrew return. Roman enters the kitchen first. He always looks powerful in jeans and leather, but in the formal suit paired with the button-down shirt, he looks even more powerful. It reminds me that his power lies as much in his physical strength as in his fortune.
He stills in the frame, taking me in as I put the cauliflower and cheese bake on the counter.
Andrew pushes past him. “It smells like Sunday in here.” He nudges Roman. “It reminds me of your mom’s weekend lunches.”
“Yeah,” Roman says, his jaw hardening at the remark as he gives me a curious look.
Mateo enters behind them. He inspects the spread on the island counter. “What’s going on?”
I brush a curl behind my ear. “I cooked.” Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.
Andrew walks closer, bends over the roast, and inhales deeply. “Now I’m starving.”
My gaze is trained on Roman. I did this for him. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“It depends,” he says, advancing slowly. “Did you poison the food?”
I stare up at his face. “Maybe.”
A smile plucks at his lips. “You’re funny, know that?”
My breath stutters when I inhale. “I remember you accusing me of that.”
“Why?” he asks again, pinning me with a stare.
The atmosphere turns uncomfortable. Mateo and Andrew are observing us quietly. It’s as if they’re waiting for a bomb to go off.
I blow out the air in my lungs slowly, gathering courage before saying, “I wanted to say thank you.”
His long lashes dip and lift as he studies my face. “For what?”
“Last night,” I say in a soft voice, ashamed to admit it.
A second ticks by. I hold his gaze, staring into the wide, rusty colored pools of his eyes. They’re amazingly void of flecks. The color is solid, a copperish brown illuminated from within. They almost look unreal, like precious Venetian glass. Not a single red vein spoils the white around his irises. Those windows that are supposed to give a glimpse of his soul are magnificent. Normally, they’re veiled, but now they’re stunningly expressive, carrying currents of emotion that run so deep they peel away my defenses. With a single look, he leaves me vulnerable and exposed. With nothing but his eyes, he carves me open and touches my soul.
He stares right back at me. Does he see secrets in my eyes, the truths I’ve been hiding from the world for so long I’ve forgotten most of them myself? I shouldn’t let him in, not past the lies, but we’re locked in a spell. I can’t look away if I wanted.
The tension stretches. Peace, war, my life, and if we’ll eat lunch balances on his reaction. All the power is in his hands.
Then he blinks, his eyelashes sweeping his cheeks as he says, “It smells good.”
My chest deflates as I let out another shaky breath. His response is about more than eating the food I prepared. It’s about acceptance. He’s worming his way inside me, aiming all his firepower at my defenses, and in return, he’s letting me see a part of him. This game is dangerous, much more dangerous than the one I’m playing. I’m acting for my life. He’s gambling with my feelings. If I let him, he’ll place all his bets on my heart, and Roman Malan doesn’t lose. I don’t need to know him intimately to sense this about him.
Already now, he’s reeling me in without a touch or a word, the energy between us charged.
“There’s lemon pie in the fridge for dessert,” I say in an effort to free myself from the dark magic he’s spinning around me. His masculinity is too potent, too paralyzing. It terrifies me.
“That sounds great,” Mateo says, surprising me with a strained smile. It’s not a carefree gesture, but he’s trying.
Even more uncomfortable, now, I nod. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
As I turn for the door, Roman catches my wrist.
“Grab a seat,” he says.
I throw a thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the scullery. “I want to scrub the pots before they dry and it becomes too difficult.”
He studies me with cunning intelligence. “You know about scrubbing pots, do you?”
Evie doesn’t. She’s not supposed to. I think quickly. “I’m a fast learner.”
His eyes darken as he no doubt twists the nuance of my words into something I didn’t mean. “Are you, now?”
“The food is getting cold,” I say, pulling from his hold.
Mateo and Andrew sit down at the opposite side of the counter. Roman pulls out a chair for me next to him. Andrew pours wine while Roman carves the roast.
When the men’s plates are loaded, Andrew shoves a forkful of lamb into his mouth. Humming his approval, he says, “Fuck, this is good.”
