Page 13 of Hired By The Forbidden Italian
On a subconscious level, Niccolo acknowledged that that had been ingrained into the fabric of his life for a very long time. He had seen how his parents had lived their lives—dependent and in the service of those higher up the pecking order—and it was a life he had chosen to reject.
For Niccolo, that rejection meant rising and rising fast to a place where he was dependent on no one, a place where no one could ever call the shots and expect him to follow. He would never be a follower. The collapse of his marriage had taught him that the path he had chosen was just not compatible with the demands of any relationship that required exhaustive emotional input. Everything had imploded quickly with Caroline, all done and dusted in under four years, but had it stretched out for longer, would it have been any more successful? No.
Yet no one had ever pointed that out to him quite so bluntly. He was disconcerted to find himself suddenly and thankfully very briefly questioning that firmly held belief, the lodestar which had guided his life.
‘Food.’ He cut short the conversation and stood up. ‘I can order something in.’
‘I...’ Was this going to be a habit? Sophie wondered. She was acutely conscious of the very personal information she had shared, even though the information had already been in his domain. She had embellished the bare bones, had released so many feelings, and something was telling her now that that kind of release was utterly inappropriate, given their situation.
It wasn’t simply the fact that she was being paid by him to do a job. It was because he was a man who put money and what it could buy, including people, over and above everything else.
He might be a good listener, but it would be a mistake to be lulled into thinking that she could vent to him about what she had gone through. She couldn’t. In fact, when she thought about that, about another intimate conversation, she felt a shiver of apprehension.
‘You’ve been here a handful of minutes,’ Niccolo said briskly. ‘I don’t expect you to scuttle up to your bedroom, hungry and disoriented because I don’t want company. You needn’t fear that you’ll be compelled to dine with me whenever I’m here. In fact, my hours are so unpredictable that that would be impossible anyway.’
‘Good.’ Sophie smiled.
‘Interesting response,’ Niccolo said wryly. ‘Are you usually this forthright? No, scratch that. I think I’ve already reached the conclusion that you are. Dinner? What do you want?’
‘I don’t mind. Thank you.’
‘In which case,’ Niccolo drawled, ‘I’ll see what’s available here and wing it.’
He spun round and walked towards the fridge and peered inside.
Sophie wanted to drag her eyes away from him but she couldn’t. The way he moved, fluid and economic, was arresting. She could almostseethe flex of powerful muscles under the T-shirt and the faded jeans.
How on earth could she have actually poured her heart and soul out to him? The ease with which she had opened up baffled and scared her because she had been so determined never to trust a man again. At least not until she was strong enough to deal with it.
‘You...er...cook?’ she asked politely, breaking the silence and watching as he took stuff out of the fridge.
As with the rest of the impressive house, everything in the kitchen seemed to be beyond expensive, from the metal and granite table where she was seated, to the pale, oversized tiles on the floor and the dull brushed chrome of the appliances. It was a marvel of grey and white that was both functional and aesthetically beautiful at the same time.
Niccolo turned to look at her for a few seconds.
It was a relief to have put some physical distance between them.
Back to business. He had laid his cards on the table, told her what his background checks had uncovered, and she had been open with him. No, he hadn’t expected the conversation to be quite so emotional, although he should have predicted it, but he had risen to the occasion and she had quickly regained her self-control.
She clearly had no interest in shared meals and that suited him fine, even if itwasa first for him.
She could be a distraction. Something about her got under his skin and he was very happy to take whatever steps were necessary to avoid dealing with that unexpected occurrence.
He would want to communicate with her often about Annalise, but he could easily do so in the relative formality of his home office.
Looking at her now, he caught himself thinking, once again, how very unusual her eyes were, then he snapped out of it and said with a self-deprecating shrug, ‘I’m Italian. I grew up with my father at the stove. I used to stand on a chair, watching him make pasta.’
‘That sounds wonderful.’
‘I don’t have time to do very much cooking these days.’ Niccolo wasn’t looking at her. He was chopping tomatoes, smelling the herbs he had extracted from the fridge and thinking how long it had been since he had lifted a hand in the kitchen. And when it came to women...
Home-cooked meals at the kitchen table definitely weren’t on the agenda.
He was always upfront about his lack of interest in anything remotely permanent, but just in case the message wasn’t relayed in sufficiently loud and clear tones he made it a priority to give no encouragement.
His home was his space where he spent time with his family. He had a penthouse apartment in Mayfair, and that was where he spent time with whatever woman he happened to be seeing.
Hot nights and no sleepovers.
