Page 32 of Captive Rival: Armani
“Come on. At least try it,” he says. “I’ve been eating it and I’m fine.”
Not taking my eyes off his, heart thudding in my chest, I slowly lean forward and open my mouth. He gently slides the fork between my lips, watching as I deliberately chew and then swallow.
“Well?”
The sauce is incredibly layered; rich with wine, marrow, and garlic; the meat so soft it practically melts in my mouth. There’s the slightest hint of cinnamon. And the tang of…something sour. My fear.
“It’s good,” I admit.
“Better than good,” he insists. “Here, now the risotto.”
Again, he leans over to feed me from his own plate, off of his own silverware.
“Senza paralleli,” I say, but there’s no joy in it.
Before he can feed me another bite, Esme reappears with the cart, two domed dishes on it.
“Have we finished?” she asks perkily.
Armani looks over at me. My plates are still full. His aren’t.
“We have,” I answer.
Esme sashays over and sets the domed dishes on an empty chair. Then she takes her time bussing our table, picking up the plates and glasses and silverware and setting them a bit too loudly on the cart for me to think it’s an accident. Brat. Once the table is cleared and we have fresh napkins and utensils, she sets the domed dishes in front of us and lifts the domes.
“Dessert. Torta caprese,” she says, and then wryly adds, “Buon appetito.”
“What is this, exactly?” I ask, my irritation coloring my voice.
“Ehm…flourless chocolate cake,” she says, sounding taken aback. “Made with almonds.”
With that, she picks up a cloth napkin, shakes it open, and leans over to place it on Armani’s lap, giving him yet another front-row view of her plump cleavage.
Nope.
Grabbing her arm, I rise from my chair. “Enough! You’re dismissed!”
She jumps back, eyes wide.
“Puoi andare!” I add, in case she didn’t catch my meaning.You may go.
Esme looks at Armani as if he’s supposed to intervene, but to my absolute shock, he nods that she should get lost. With a huff, she stomps off, her heelsclickety-clackingaway.
Armani signals Paolo who rushes over, and orders that he personally remove her from the yacht. And the island. So glad I don’t have to see this bitch again.
I sit back down and notice my husband looking at me with interest…and a lot of heat.
“You’re learning Italian,” he says. “Stai imparando a parlare Italiano.”
“Working on it.”
He inclines his head. “Impressive.”
Ha. Like his compliment means anything to me. You know what a good compliment is? Not murdering someone.
I grab my fork and stab a bite of cake onto it, then hold it out to Armani with my brow raised in a challenge. Smirking, he leans forward and wraps his mouth around my fork, then slides back with the bite in his mouth. He didn’t hesitate for a second, so I guess my torta isn’t poisoned.
What is the game here?
