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“I thought about it once, a long time ago,” I admit, ignoring the sting it puts in my heart.
Riley’s smiling to herself now, and as she disappears inside the house, I move my attention back to Gioele.
“And now?” he asks.
“I’m not as naïve as I was back then.” I leave him to make his own judgment on that comment and head toward the shower room.
When I get out of the shower a little while later, Gio has left, so I get dressed and return to my office to make some calls.
I come to an abrupt halt when I reach my office door and notice something waiting for me on the floor. Crouching down, I lift up the delicate red rose that’s been left in front of my door, and when I raise it to my nose, I inhale the same sweet scent that Riley had. I appreciate how the petals are so delicate and fragile. It would be so easy to crush them in my palm and destroy them. But instead, I softly brush my thumb over their velvet texture and decide that some beauties should be preserved.
Opening the door to my office, I take Riley’s gift with me and place it on my desk. I can hardly punish the girl for giving me a gift, especially since it’s such a rarity for me to receive one.
As I stare at the rose in my hand, I find it ironic that the last thing I was gifted was her. My brother rarely shows kindness toward me or anyone else, for that matter. Maybe he knew how testing she’d be for me and liked the idea of me suffering. He’s always been a fan of wicked games.
Attempting to punish Riley seems to feel much more like a punishment for myself. I’ve broken many women over the years, so why is this one so challenging?
The answer to that question might be because I don’t want to break her at all, but I push the thought to the back of my mind. It’s stupid.
Just like the thought that keeps suggesting she could be the one to break me.
I’m just getting out of the shower when I hear my bedroom door knock. Quickly grabbing a towel to wrap it around myself, I’m expecting either Sylvia or Ricardo to let themselves in.
A louder, sharper tap follows. Making me wonder if it’s a different guard. Whoever it is, seems to have the courtesy of waiting for an invitation, so I hurry from the bathroom to pull it open, still dripping wet.
I almost gasp when I find Rafe standing on the other side. His arms folded, and his index finger brushing over that thick bottom lip of his.
“Good afternoon, Riley,” he says politely, his raspy Italian accent making my stomach somersault.
Either he’s here to thank me for the gift I left for him by his office door, or he’s going to punish me for helping myself to something from his garden. I’m struggling to read the expression on his face.
“Your dinner will be served downstairs this evening with me.” His eyes scan over my wet, barely covered body, and it makes the tiny droplets of water trailing my skin suddenly slice into me like glass.
I hate the way my body reacts to him.
“Is that an order or an invitation?” I ask, ensuring that the towel I’m wearing is secure where I’ve tucked it around my chest and holding it firm.
“On this occasion, it’s an invitation.” His tone suggests that’s a privilege.
Arrogant bastard.
“If you don’t wish to eat with me, I will have Sylvia bring you something up.” He rests his shoulder against the door frame and crosses his feet, his attention falling entirely below eye level now.
“I’ll be there,” I answer far too quickly, and that causes him amusement because the hint of a smirk finds his lips, and it looks really good on him.
“Then I shall see you later.” Rafe nudges himself away from the door frame, rubbing his lips together as he scrutinizes my body one last time.
* * *
I make my way down the stairs at 7pm sharp, although I’ve been sitting ready for ages in my room. It’s not like I’ve had to waste time worrying about what I should wear to this dinner.
Moving barefoot through the hall, I notice the absence of Ricardo, and I wonder if I should knock when I’m standing in front of the dining room door. Deciding it’s the polite thing to do, I tap my knuckles against the wood and wait for a response. After a few seconds of waiting in silence, I push the door open to peek inside.
The dining room is empty, and the table’s not been set. Maybe this is another one of Rafe’s cruel taunts. If it is, have I really let myself get so excited about sharing a meal with him that I’d allow myself to feel betrayed by it?
I turn and march toward the kitchen, looking for Sylvia, and my feet draw to a halt when I open the kitchen door. Instead of finding Sylvia, I find him.
The kitchen is much more homely than I expected. Sylvia tells me that she caters for everyone, including the guards, so I was expecting something more industrial. The fact she does it from such a warm, cozy space takes me a little by surprise. Not nearly as much as the shock of seeing Rafe standing over the stove, though. Tonight he’s dressed in jeans, and the black t-shirt he’s wearing emphasizes every perfect muscle of his upper body as he casually stirs the pan.
