Chapter 16
PAIGE
The next afternoon, I walk through the doors of one of Milan’s most famous patisseries.
Karim arranged a driver to take me there.
I’m grateful for it, because as much as I enjoyed using Rafe’s Porsche when he specified I could only take the BMW, I don’t want to drive in central Milan again. Once was quite enough.
I’m wearing a short skirt and a silk blouse, two of the few purchases from that wild shopping spree I’ve decided to keep. I’m also in a pair of Mather & Wilde boat shoes.
If I’m to be photographed, I’m going to make damn sure I represent the company I’m trying so hard to protect.
Rafe is already in the bakery, but I haven’t kept him waiting. I’m bang on time today. Too many other people are involved for me to bother them with delays meant only to annoy one person.
The place is cute, with blue walls and fluffy clouds painted on the ceiling. There’s a giant counter with delicacies behind glass. Rafe stands at the far end of it.
I hate that my eyes are drawn to him.
His blue shirt looks immaculate tucked into a pair of navy pants. He’s clean-shaven today. I’ve only seen him with a five-o’clock shadow, and the change makes me blink a few times. At least his hair is still a thick mess.
Despite the change, he still looks hopelessly good. Like he’s cut from one of the magazines his luxury items are so often displayed in.
It feels like the room rearranges, just slightly, and he becomes the center. Maybe that’s how boxers feel when they enter the ring. That steady, constant awareness of their opponent.
“Hello.” I smile at him like I’ve missed him.
We’re not alone in here.
He turns to me. “Darling. You made it.”
“Of course.” I lean into his side, and he wraps an arm around my waist.
It’s not a tentative touch. It’s confident, like we do this all the time. Like we’re intimately aware of each other’s bodies. “Paige, you’ve met Wren, of course. And this is the photographer, Luca.”
“It’s lovely to meet you,” I say, and give a little wave to the tall photographer setting up his camera.
“You too,” he says in a thick Italian accent.
“Everything is prepared for us,” Rafe says. “Wren…?”
She nods, her red hair back in a tight bun today, and turns to someone else. There are at least eight people in here setting up our tasting. No other guests, though. They’ve closed for us.
Rafe leads me to a table with eight slices of cake arranged in a row. We take our seats behind it, and I spot several gleaming silver forks on a white napkin.
The photographer gets into position, and Wren takes a seat directly opposite us. Seems like she’s the one in charge of the situation.
“The first cake you’re trying is…” She looks at her clipboard. “The blackberry mousse.”
I look at Rafe. He’s resting a hand against the table, his legs stretched out.
The picture of polished relaxation. But I know he doesn’t do things like this.
Raphael Montclair is a deeply private man.
All of the Montclairs are. He’s given very few interviews, just like his father did, and he only talks about Maison Valmont and business. Never family.
“Ladies first,” he says.
I reach for a fork and slice through the dark-red cake. It cuts easily through the sponge, and it tastes delicious.
“Okay. This one is the winner,” I tell him.
His lips curve. “You can’t say that after just one cake.”
“But it’s fantastic. Try it.”
He reaches for a fork of his own, and I watch his jaw work as he chews. “It’s good,” he says. “I’ll admit.”
“The winner,” I say, my smile widening. We have an audience. It feels like I can hear them all breathe, standing around us, watching us. Wanting to see us interact. Click, click, click, the camera goes.
“No, we have to keep going,” he says, and his arm drapes around the back of my chair. “What’s the next one, Wren?”
“Excuse my pronunciation, sir, but it’s—”
But Rafe has already pushed his fork through the pale-yellow slice. “Zuger Kirschtorte,” he says. “Wow. Chef Chiara has done her research.”
“What did you call it?” I ask.
“It’s a Swiss cake,” he says, and takes a significantly larger bite than he did from the first one. I look at his expression and the trace of delight in his eyes.
I don’t want to see Rafe Montclair delighted.
And I don’t want to see pleasure on his face.
So I distract myself by taking a big bite myself. It’s nutty and cherry flavored at the same time, with soft sponge. “Oh. This is pretty good.”
“It’s a classic.” He looks over at the chef. She’s standing in the far back, behind assistants and the photographer, wearing a chef’s jacket. He calls out something in Italian and winks at her.
He winks at this legendary chef.
She beams. That’s the kind of influence he has. I know that, but seeing it now, and how everyone in his orbit wants to impress him…
“What do you think, darling?” His hand brushes my left shoulder. “Is that the winner?”
“We still have six more to go,” I remind him, “and we have to keep going.”
He reaches for the next one. “Ah, and the classic millefoglie.”
We try that one too. It’s delicious, all meringue and cream, and I lean in to whisper in his ear. The camera smatters again. “Enjoying yourself?” I ask.
He turns, his cheek brushing against mine. “Worst time of my life.”
“You didn’t answer my email yesterday.”
“I started to,” he says, “and didn’t finish.”
I reach up to brush a tendril of his hair back. It’s surprisingly soft, and in the distance, that sound again. Click, click, click. “Is that a common problem for you?”
His eyes narrow. “Only when I’m not… motivated.”
“I gave you a full evening of peace.” I lean back and reach for a taste of the next cake. We can’t keep talking like this. Not where people might hear that it’s not sweet whispered nothings.
“You’ll like that one,” he says, and his voice is at a normal volume again. “Tarte au citron. It’ll be tart. Almost bitter.”
My fingers tighten around the fork. “Aw, that’s your favorite!”
He doesn’t say anything as he takes his own bite. It is tart, in a delicious, cheek-pinching kind of way, and I have to stop myself from going back for seconds. We have several left.
“This is great,” Wren calls out. “Can we get a few where the two of you are looking at each other? We’re doing really well on the cake part. Let’s get some of you two interacting.”
“Interacting,” I repeat, and turn to Rafe with a wide smile. “We’re good at that.”
A few of the people around us chuckle. He puts his fork down and turns to face me entirely. His gaze is warm, and just like so much of his charm, it’s entirely fake.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey.” He reaches over to brush a tendril of my hair back. The rough pads of his fingers briefly trace over my cheek and then my ear as he notches it.
“How are we ever going to choose?” I ask him.
“I have no idea,” he says. “We could play a game for it.”
“We’re good at games.”
“We are,” he says, and there’s a world of meaning in those words. His eyes are a deep forest green, and his hand is still playing with a lock of my hair.
“I really like chocolate,” I say.
He lifts an eyebrow. “I know. You always carry it in your bag.”
He noticed that? How? I narrow my eyes at him, and his lip curves. The dimple flashes again. Somehow I know that’s a real smile, because he likes my annoyance.
Screw interacting.
I pull the next cake closer to us. It’s chocolate, with a thick buttercream the color of Nutella. “You like chocolate too,” I say.
“Being Swiss, it’s a must,” he says.
I dip my finger into the buttercream and hold it out for him to taste.
He stares at my finger with narrowed eyes. No, they say. Stop it.
“This is perfect!” Wren calls. “Just a few more.”
“Taste it,” I say.
He won’t do it. I can see it in his eyes, filled with hatred for me and my antics. Rafe Montclair doesn’t do public displays of affection. I bet the cake will taste almost as good as knowing I’m driving him insane right now. His gaze dips down to my finger.
But then he leans forward. His lips part, like he’s about to do exactly what I’m offering him.
He’s the one calling my bluff.
I watch in horrified shock as he closes his lips around the tip of my finger and sucks it clean in a warm slide of his mouth. Heat rushes through my body and makes my stomach tighten.
His deep-green eyes are locked on mine, and there’s triumph in them. No doubt he sees just how surprised I am by his follow-through.
He releases my finger and takes my hand in his, the one he just licked, intertwining our fingers on the white tablecloth. “You have to stop playing with your food,” he says warmly.
But the fingers that keep my hand locked against the table are rigid.
He hates this.
Hates it.
That brings me back to the present and away from his warm mouth and the look in his eyes.
I’m delusional for reacting to that. It’s been too long since I had sex, that’s all.
I should try one of the vibrators I bought with his card.
I did it to piss him off, sure, but if I can get off as well, that’s a win.
A few good orgasms, that’s all I need.
And keeping my fingers out of his mouth.
On the last cake, a passion fruit mousse, he cuts a slice and holds up the piece to me. Like he’s going to feed me right back.
I look at the piece on the fork, and he lifts an eyebrow. Well? The camera keeps snapping. I open my mouth, and he feeds me the piece with such a focused expression that it makes me squirmy. That must be what he looks like when he’s having sex. The full intensity of his focus on one single goal.
I close my eyes and moan at the taste.
I might hate him, but I don’t hate these cakes. This place has earned every morsel of its fame. “That one’s my favorite,” I tell him, and find that he’s still watching me intently. “Can we buy more of that cake just to bring home tonight?”
His jaw works. “Anything you want, darling.”
The photographer lowers his camera and talks with Wren about the images. I look back down at the half-eaten slices of cake on the table. Rafe shifts closer.
Our thighs touch. Our hips touch.
I hate that I’m aware of that, too. Of every inch where we’re rooted together. “That,” he says in a low voice, “was the longest thirty minutes of my life.”
“It made me want to die,” I whisper. “Will you reply to my email later?”
“I’m busy later.” His voice is close to my ear, like he’s murmuring sweet nothings. “I’m testing wines with my wife, and if I’m getting drunk with her, I need to be fully present.”
“I don’t want you laying off any of my staff.”
“I’ve heard you, and I’ll look into it,” he says. “Which cake do you want?”
“You care what I want?”
“We have to make a decision and thank the chef.” He leans forward and touches his lips to my ear. “Choose your favorite and I’ll choose mine. We’ll do separate layers on the wedding cake.”
“That won’t look very cohesive.”
“I don’t fucking care.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard him swear. This must have gotten to him more than he’s letting on, and it sends a thrill through me. “Then I want the chocolate,” I say.
“And I’ll do the Swiss.”
“Good,” I say.
“Great,” he says.