Part 17:

You talk too much. You said you run houses, Anita, so go run mine. Start with the kitchen. We’ve been hungry for hours. Isabella stood there cooking. Of all the things that could give her away, somehow this was the one she’d never planned for. Os was already heading for the water, talking over his shoulder as he went.

You asked why I’m keeping you around. Consider this your answer. A glance at his watch, not breaking stride. I want food when I come back. Half an hour. She called it after him before she could stop herself. There are sharks in these waters. I hope they’re really hungry. OS stopped at the doorway, glanced back once, and smiled. They can wait their turn.

Isabella stalked into the kitchen and yanked the refrigerator open. The kitchen wasn’t empty. That was almost worse. It was stocked like rich men thought people lived on alcohol, coffee, and things wrapped in gold foil. Wine. More wine. Beer. A bottle of tequila. Olives. A wedge of cheese, a few boxes of pasta, and dead center on the middle shelf, a birthday cake.

Gold letters across the top spelling out Isabella Conti, gluten-free, exactly as ordered. “What is this?” she muttered, staring at the shelves. “Who stocks a kitchen like this?” The door swung shut, and she leaned back against it. “So, which was more tragic?” She thought that she was about to cook for the men who dragged her here, or that she had no idea how.

A whole life spent running this household, and she’d never once cooked in it herself. Her eye went back to the pasta. That at least she could manage. Boil water, drop it in. Even she could do that much. Then her shoulders dropped. She couldn’t eat a bite of it, not gluten-free, and nothing in her stomach for almost a day.

Of course, the one thing she could make was the one thing she couldn’t touch. She filled a pot, set it on the burner to boil, and called out, “Tony.” He appeared in the doorway a moment later, “Miss Vela, you called?” She set her hand on her hip. “And what exactly am I supposed to cook with? Olives and tequila?” Tony looked at her like the question had no answer.

Isabella didn’t wait for one. Someone needs to go get food. Write this down. He pulled out his phone and she rattled it off. Tomatoes, fruit, peppers, meat, anything a person can actually eat, of course. He gave her a sour look on his way out, and she caught the words under his breath as he went, “Taking orders from the maid. Perfect.

” While the water heated, her thoughts slipped away from the kitchen. Anita, where are you? Did you make it to the marina? And you, Papa, what are you planning out there? bottle of water in hand, she drifted out into the living room. Beyond the wall of glass, the sea caught the light and threw it back, and there was OS.

Out at the edge of the rocks, she watched him dive, clean, dark, gone. The sea swallowed him whole. A long moment passed, then another. Her feet carried her closer to the glass before she decided to move, eyes raking the surface. Where was he? Where was he? He broke the surface, head back, water flying off his hair.

Then he was swimming, long and easy, like the sea belonged to him, and she couldn’t look away. Her tongue moved over her lips without her say so. “Where’d he even learn to swim like that?” she murmured. He swam a while before he made for the rocks and pulled himself up out of the water, his back to her, wet bronze across his shoulders, the long muscles of his back shifting as he reached up and dragged both hands through his hair, slicking it off his face.

Water ran down him in lines, and she lifted the bottle to her lips without thinking. The cold rim touched her. For one second she felt the water on him instead. She set it down. You think you’re irresistible, don’t you? Erosino. But the scent of him was still in her head somehow, soap and salt and skin. And for one weak second, it pulled her back a few hours to the dark, to his weight against her, the heat of him under her hands.

From the kitchen the pot rattled hard on the burner, and she jumped half out of her skin. Her eyes snapped back to the glass. OS had turned. He stood at the edge of the rocks, water running from his hair, one hand braced on the stone, his eyes fixed straight on her. caught her fingers tightened around the bottle. He tapped the watch on his wrist, slow and deliberate, and through the glass, his mouth shaped two silent words.

15 minutes. The plates were already out on the dining table. In the kitchen, Isabella was standing over the pot, glaring at the pasta like it had personally wronged her, and she grated the parmesan she’d found across the top of it. “Good enough. That would have to be it.” Aos passed the kitchen doorway without slowing. “Anita, time’s up.

” She was watching him as he went by. White linen shirt, linen trousers, everything loose and easy in the heat. Dressed like that, he didn’t look like a man who took houses apart. He looked like someone’s idea of a vacation. She carried the pasta out in one big bowl and set it in the middle of the table.

Both men were looking at it. Then Aeros raised his gaze to her slow. This is it. Isabella lifted one shoulder. That’s what there was. The two of them served themselves without much enthusiasm. OS turned his fork over in the bowl. Shouldn’t there at least be sauce on it? She was cutting a banana into neat pieces with a knife and fork, and she didn’t look up.

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