Page 119 of Tempted By the Devil

Since we’ve been fighting, I haven’t so much as touched her, and being so close to her as she lets a heavy stream of water wash down her body feels like torture.

She finally senses my presence, her bright, dark eyes meeting mine. I recognize the spark that burns in them.

Come join me.

A hint of a grin passes over my face as I tug on my tie and start unbuttoning my shirt. I’m still in the suit I’d worn when diving in to save Portia. Though it’s mostly dry now, it’s wrinkled and ruined and will be taken out with the trash tomorrow. I have a thousand more just like it in my closet.

It takes me only a couple seconds to strip down and join her. She steps aside to make room for me.

In the past, I’ve hated this kind of thing. Any woman I dated understood I needed certain moments for privacy. They were not to intrude on me when I was in the shower or even stay long enough in my penthouse to take one.

I always made sure they arrived home safely, delivering them by personal driver, but my space never became their own.

Portia is different. I want her in my space. I want to be in hers.

There’s nothing that feels more intimate than moments like this. No one else I’d ever want to spend them with.

We take our time, bathing in companionable silence, trading little smiles and tender caresses. I stroke the soft curve of her shoulders as I help her rinse out the conditioner from her hair. My fingers massage her scalp, making her close her eyes and release a sigh of comfort.

The water is piping hot. Portia, like most women, loves it that way. Fortunately for her, it’s virtually impossible for the water temperature to drop in my penthouse. A luxury of installing one of the most expensive water heaters on the market.

We towel off once we’ve cooked ourselves long enough.

After becoming a regular guest at my home, Portia has her own drawers and section in my closet. She slips into a loose set of silky pajamas, the top and bottoms a blush pink trimmed with black piping. I put on my usual black pajama bottoms and nothing else.

The things I’ve requested from Mara have been delivered. Honey lemon tea and some traditional pastina soup.

“It should help you feel better,” I say. “I figured you would be hungry after… everything.”

We sit down at the accent chairs in my large room and dine on a bowl each. Portia seems to enjoy the soup, which is thick and soothing with small pieces of chopped chicken, cut up vegetables, sprinkles of parmesan, and some savory seasoning for flavor.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice hoarser than usual.

“No need to thank me,dolcezza. There is a whole pot in the kitchen. If you want more, Mara will bring some.”

“I didn’t mean the soup… though it’s delicious. I meant for tonight. You rescued me.”

“I will always be there when you need me. Never forget that,dolcezza.”

Her gaze lowers to the mug of warm tea in front of her. “Rafael, I owe you an apology.”

“You owe me nothing. All that matters is you’re okay.”

“No, I do. I said some terrible things. I blamed you for what happened to Jayla. I accused you of being affiliated with the mob,” she sighs, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry. That was low of me. You threw my sister an amazing birthday party, and all I could do was lash out at you.

“Sergio told me they’d been targeting me for a while. They knew about my investigation. Your boat blew up because of me. You were shot because of me. All of it was.”

Hearing the guilt in her voice only makesmefeel guilty.

Portia is internalizing what’s happened, blaming herself for everything, when she doesn’t have the full story. She doesn’t realize she was taken tonight because she’s my girlfriend. She almost lost her life because Sergio wanted to force me into an alliance.

Her entire investigation wasn’t for naught—she was extremely close to discovering the real truth. That the drug war escalating between the Belluccis and Tucos wasn’t slowing down soon, and I’m the culprit she’s been searching for all along.

If I were a good man, a decent man, I’d clear her conscience and tell her the truth.

But I’m not a good man. I’m Rafael Calderone.

Sono il diavolo travestito.

---