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He lifts his hand to silence me as Cat protests, “I’m not going to play house with him.”
“You absolutely will.” Gio then begins speaking in Italian so I discreetly check my phone for the translation.
Every woman would murder seven men to be in your shoes. You, bella, must pretend you’re married to the American.
“This isn’t one of the romance novels you steal from your wife to get your rocks off,” she replies in English. “I’m not going to pretend to be married to him.”
He replies in Italian and I check my app.
At least he’s attractive. You’ll make beautiful babies. Good luck, Catarina.
He turns on his heel and walks away, leaving me speechless.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
CATARINA
Good luck? Really Gio?
I roll my eyes despite Giovanni being right that Richard isn’t terrible to look at. The deep pools of his blue eyes are captivating, so much that they draw the attention away from his tall and muscular frame. And I’m a sucker for a beard—who doesn’t like a cushion on their seat—but he’s American and completely aloof to everything that is currently going on.
He would never understand our world.
Attractive or not, this is a stupid fucking idea. Apparently the prize for ruining my entire plan is that he now gets to follow me everywhere, just so he can stay alive.
“Voglio farmi scopare. Come dovrebbe accadere—”my mumbling rant is immediately cut short when I notice Richard’s eyes rapidly darting between me and his phone with every word that passes over my lips. Swiping the phone from his hand, I look at the screen.
I want to have sex.
How is that supposed to happen?
“But, I didn’t meanwithyou, so don’t getanyideas,” I huff quietly. “You’re cute and all, but I don’t fuck vanilla flavored cinnamon rolls.Capisce?”
“Understood,” he responds with a small smirk, apparently understanding that one without the app.
“And stop fucking eavesdropping.” I shove the phone into his chest with a scowl on my face. “Your app is shit anyway. The correct translation is ‘I want to get fucked.’”
His hand slides over mine to retrieve his phone, and his touch tingles across my skin like the prickle of electricity. The obscure, yet enticing, feeling startles me and I tear my hand from his chest.
“Come on.” I grab his wrist and pull him from the room. I lead him down the hall to a guest suite. Releasing his arm, I venture into the adjoining bath and begin rummaging under the sink for the first aid kit. Finding it, I shout, “Take off your shirt.”
He looks to bed and back to me with a confused expression. “I thought you said?”
“I said your shirt, not your pants.” I show the first aid kit to him. He proceeds to undo the buttons of his shirt, revealing his well-toned chest and eventually his equally defined abs.
What the hell else is he hiding under his clothes?
Slipping my fingers under the fabric, to help him pull the blood-dampened sleeve from his wound, they graze over his warm skin. Our gazes meet, and my heart begins to thump in my chest as my fingers dance over his shoulder and down his bloodied arm.
“Fuck!I’ve really been shot! Do I need to go to the hospital?”
“Relax tough guy.” I can’t help but chuckle as I clean the blood from his arm. “It’s just a flesh wound. A couple of stitches and you’ll be good as new.”
“Stitches?” He arches a questioning brow. “You know how to do that?”
“I’m used to doing them on myself.” I pause as I finish cleaning up his wound to thread the needle. “And this is going to hurt a lot less. At least for me.”
“Wha—”
