Chapter 5 #3
She poked my chest. “These are Louboutins.”
I didn’t dignify her words with a response.
She huffed, but she couldn’t hide the way she softened in my hold, curling up against my chest, lips brushing against the bare skin of my neck. I groaned. This little siren was tailor-made for me.
The part of my head not thinking with my cock sounded a blaring alarm at how easy I was being lured in and how little I cared.
“Should I be concerned I’m being kidnapped?”
“Luckily your kidnapper is most concerned about getting you fed.”
“Mmm, what do you plan to feed me?”
Her words dripped with innuendo and I huffed while my hand squeezed her ass. “So sassy.” I gently set her down on the sidewalk, but kept her pinned to my body. “We’re here.”
A broad smile lit up her face when she spotted our destination—a tiny hole-in-the-wall pizza place I’d discovered a decade ago when I first came to Paris.
Back then, I had no money. I’d flown around the world on a private jet, worn luxury suits and watches, entertained clients in high-end hotels and business rooms, but it was all a mask concealing the truth—that I lived like a fucking rat in the sewer.
I had stumbled upon Bella Vita one night, my stomach consumed with hunger.
I’d had enough cash on me for one slice.
They’d given me a whole pizza and we’d talked late into the night. I returned every time I was in town.
“This looks amazing.” Emma beamed and the tightness in my chest—anxiety that she would see this place as beneath her—vanished.
I opened the door, and she grabbed my hand before she walked through.
My fingers flexed around hers as I followed her inside.
The scent of mozzarella and tomato hung in the air.
Worn out booths with red plastic seats and scratched wooden tables lined the walls.
A pair of gray-haired women occupied one, a pizza and bottle of wine between them, but it was otherwise empty.
Emma met my gaze over her shoulder with a grin. “This is exactly what I need after being served a sixteen-course meal where each course consisted of a spoonful of a weird jelly-like substance.”
Rich people ate the weirdest fucking things.
“Declan!” Martina emerged from the swinging kitchen door. Her hair—now completely gray—was tied up in a bun. She wiped her hands on her cherry red apron before pulling me into a hug. I forced myself to relax at her touch, and she kept the hug brief for my benefit.
“Who is this beauty you’ve brought with you?”
Fuck. She was going to turn this into a whole thing, and so was…
“Tony! Vieni qui! Declan brought a girl to meet us.”
For the love of…
Emma laughed, and the sound did something strange to my chest. I rubbed my sternum.
Tony emerged from the kitchen. “Eh? What is this shouting about?” He caught sight of Emma, and his scowl transformed into a charming smile.
“Who is this beautiful signorina?” He put his hands on her upper arms and kissed her cheeks.
“I am Antonio Bianchi. Welcome to our restaurant, where only the prettiest ladies in Paris eat.”
“Oh,” Emma said, brow furrowing. “Should I leave then?”
There was a beat of silence before she giggled, and Martina and Tony started laughing.
“No, no. You are the most beautiful in the entire city,” he said. “Now this one…” He gave me a dismissive wave and bah.
“Aww, that’s too bad, Declan. I guess I’ll catch up with you later after I finish my pizza,” Emma said, batting her eyelashes.
I scowled, but there was no bite behind it as I tugged her into my side.
“I like her,” Martina said. “I’m Tina Bianchi.”
“It’s nice to meet you both. I’m Emma Sinclair and if your food is half as good as it smells, I know I’m in for one of the best meals of my life.”
Tony puffed his chest and held out his arm to escort her to what he announced was “their best booth.” Instead of giving us menus, they stood beside our table, arguing in Italian about what they should make us.
Emma looked delighted, taking the chaos in stride.
Once Martina and Tony headed back to the kitchen to continue their bickering about what dishes to bring us, I cocked my head.
“You speak Italian.”
“Hmm?” she asked as she shifted in the booth.
I’d picked up a decent amount of Italian through the years, but the moment I found out my sister had been married off to the Italian Don in New York, I’d committed myself to becoming fluent.
Tony dropped off two glasses of wine and a basket of bread, but my sharp gaze never left her face. I didn’t like wine, but I took a sip to put her more at ease. “You understood what they were saying.”
She beamed. “You’re observant. My grandma was from Italy. I took classes in school so I could communicate with her better.” After a drink, she continued. “She’s gone now and I barely practice, so don’t ask me to say anything, but I can understand some of what they’re saying.”
Her explanation was perfectly logical. Normal. So why did her words taste like lies on my tongue?
Tony started yelling about something back in the kitchen, and Emma shook her head, a warm smile still curving her lips. “Are they always like this?”
“Usually worse. They’re on their best behavior for you.” I nudged the bread towards her and she took a piece.
“How long have you been coming here?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Ten years, I think. Every time I come to Paris.”
“I love that. Is that how you learned Italian? Do you speak any other languages?”
Suspicion pricked at my insides. Why was she asking so many questions?
“I’ve gotten decent at French. I’m here pretty frequently for business meetings.” In reality, I had a particular gift for languages and accents. I spoke eight languages fluently and could carry on basic conversations in an additional four.
“I hope I get the chance to come back here,” Emma said, eyes sparkling. “It’s my first time visiting Paris and it’s been pretty magical so far.”
I leaned in over the table, and she mirrored my movements. “Where is home for you?”
She ran her fingertip across the back of my hand. “Toronto. Have you been to Canada?”
I shook my head. “I mostly just travel between Dublin and Paris.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to Ireland. It looks beautiful.”
Tony and Martina came over with two trays filled with plates and we both sat back in our seats to make room on the table.
“Signora, I am honored to offer you the best Italian food of your life. Starting with bruschetta with fresh market tomatoes and melon wrapped in prosciutto followed by Tina’s cacio e pepe and my famous Pizza Margherita.”
“Oh, so yours is famous and mine is just cacio e pepe?” Martina pursed her lips as she stared at her husband.
“No, no, amore. Your pasta is already so famous it needs no introduction.”
Tina scoffed, waving off her husband’s words, but it was obvious she was pleased.
“It all looks amazing,” Emma said, eyes wide as she took in all the food.
“Mangia! Enjoy!” Tony clasped his hand on my shoulder before the eccentric couple headed to the kitchen.
“Oops, we need silverware. I’ll grab some.
” She got up and crossed the room to a side table.
My eyes stayed fixed on her ass. I wanted to take her back to my penthouse, strip her down, and sink my teeth into her ass cheeks, but I needed to be smart about this.
I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Aleksei, telling him to look into Emma Sinclair from Toronto.
It would be easy enough to verify her story.
When she returned, she placed the silverware and napkins on the table, glancing at me with a smile as she loaded up her plate.
“This looks amazing.” She ate without hesitation, making little humming sounds when she took a bite of something she particularly liked.
I watched her, mesmerized. Maybe she was an assassin. How else could she be alone in a strange city, sitting with a man she didn’t know, perfectly at ease while eating her late-night dinner? She was utterly unself-conscious in a way I’d only seen in some of the world’s most dangerous killers.
She wiggled in her seat as she took a huge bite of prosciutto and melon. “Questo è delizioso!” she shouted across the restaurant, giving Martina and Tony a thumbs up.
She turned back to me and furrowed her brow. “Why aren’t you eating?”
I shook my head and filled my plate, eating with the methodicalness of someone who had gone hungry too many nights.
Three older couples entered the restaurant, shouting loud greetings and demands to turn on the music. Tony shouted back in rapid Italian before turning on the ancient radio in the corner. A loud song edged in static blasted through the speakers, and the new guests cheered.
“I see why you keep coming back here,” Emma said as she sat back with a groan, hands on her stomach. She looked around the room, eyes bright. “Tony was right. This was by far the best food I’ve had in Paris.”
“Might I suggest Italy for your next destination?” I said dryly.
She tapped her lip thoughtfully then gave me a wink. “Hmm, you might be onto something.”
I recognized the next song that played as “Bella Ciao.” Emma clearly knew it as well because she started singing along. More people spilled into the restaurant, cheering when Tony and Tina started dancing.
Emma grabbed my hand. “Dance with me.”
“Again?”
“Yes, again. Unless you’re too sleepy? I hear you get tired more easily as you age.”
Oh, this brat. At thirty-five, I wasn’t exactly looking at retirement homes.
I stood and pulled her up from the table. She stumbled against my chest, laughing.
My hand brushed her ass. “You’ll pay for that later.”
She looked utterly unconcerned as she dragged me to the circle of boisterous restaurant guests.
They quickly pushed us into the center and cheered loudly when Emma spun me in a circle.
She danced around me, hair flying with each spin, cheeks rosy.
Eventually, another couple moved into the center and we moved to the edge of the circle.
Emma nudged me and mouthed thank you. She radiated happiness while she clapped and sang.
My phone vibrated and I quickly pulled it out of my pocket.
Aleksei
Preliminary scan revealed nothing suspicious besides a shit ton of parking tickets
Wouldn’t recommend letting her park your car
Picket fence upbringing in Toronto
Only child. Father is a hedge fund manager, mom died of cancer 6 years ago
Decent grades in school. No college, took some online Italian classes.
Flew to Paris one week ago. Doesn’t have a job. Lives off trust fund.
The tension in my chest eased as I read through the flurry of messages, each one proof that Emma wasn’t lying. Was it possible her confidence simply came from living an easy, sheltered life?
When the song ended, the small group cheered and started shouting out their orders for Tony. Martina hugged Emma, winking at me over her shoulder before the two women broke apart.
“Everything okay?” Emma asked when she bounded back to my side.
I grunted. “Yeah. Just some work updates.”
She crinkled her nose. “Work this late? Eww.”
I shook my head, but as I slipped my phone back in my pocket, my anxieties eased. I would still keep her at arm’s length, careful not to let anything slip, but this was just one night. I was going to make sure it was a fucking memorable one.