Page 59 of Precious Hazard

“Define ‘best behavior.’ Should I just keep my mouth shut and look classy? Or would you like me to also fetch a ball when you throw it? You know, to show your important business associate what a well-trained wifey I am?”

“Very funny. Adriano Ruffo is from the upper echelon of Italian society, Tara. He’s also just become our main contact with the Boston Cosa Nostra on the joint construction project we’re working on.”

“Oh? Is he a prince or something? Should I curtsy when I meet him? Kiss his hand or—”

“You’re not kissing his anything!” Arturo snaps.

A noisy sizzle and pop sounds from the range, probably from the splash of oil or a bit of rendered fat hitting the burner. Despite knowing the likely cause, my eyes still dart to the stove, anxiously searching for the giant orange tendrils of an inferno reaching toward me. But there’s nothing there except the tiny blue flame.

“Damn wet tomatoes,” Arturo grumbles, focusing back on the pan. “And no, Adriano is not a prince. But his great-grandfather was a duke. Adriano owns one of the largesttransport companies in the US. We’re considering proposing an additional collaboration, centering on his fleet of trucks. Another tie between New York and Boston.”

“Fancy that! Is he married?”

“Why?”

“You really need to ask?” I tilt my coffee cup, trying to get the last few drops. “A duke. And a crazy rich one at that. It’s as if a hero from one of my novels has sprung to life. Hopefully, he’ll still be available a year from now, once I’m a happily divorced woman, that is.”

Bang!

I flinch.

“Adriano is a widower,” Arturo barks as he slams a cupboard door closed. “His wife died tragically only a few months ago. So, make sure you keep any such comments to yourself when you meet him. Do you understand, Tara?”

“Woof, woof.” I grin.

Hubby slashes me with an angry stare while plating the food. Then, he brings the dishes to the breakfast bar and forcefully sets them on the wooden surface between us. “Eat. Or would you like me to get you some kibble? Just let me know if you prefer a particular brand.”

I lean over the bartop, invading his space. “I’d rather eat dog chow than anything you’ve prepared, darling.”

“Well, in that case…” With a self-satisfied smirk lighting up his face, he takes the plate that was meant for me and transfers the scrumptious-looking fare onto his own.

The divine aroma invades my senses. Sautéed veggies. Grilled steak. Something spicy and sweet. Saliva pools inmy mouth, and every inhale is practically torture. My last decent meal was yesterday morning. And after that goddamned wedding, food was the last thing on my mind. I did wander downstairs around midnight and grab a banana from a bowl of fruit in the living room, but that was it.

“You sure you don’t want some?” Satan asks as he spears a piece of juicy steak and lifts the fork to his mouth. His movements are slow and deliberate. Taunting. He’s baiting me on purpose.

“I’m not hungry, DeVille, for anything you have to offer.” I slam my empty coffee cup on the breakfast bar and leave the asshole to his amazing meal, retreating on principle while my stomach churns in protest.

Chapter 13

“Hey, Greta?”

The housekeeper stops fluffing the throw pillows on the couch and glances at me over her shoulder. A muted rendition of a French chanson sounds from one of the earbuds dangling from the band around her neck. “Mrs. DeVille. Can I help you with something?”

“Um, yeah.” I clasp my hands behind my back. “I was wondering… would you be so kind as to make me lunch?”

She blinks at me in confusion. “Well, of course. What would you like to eat?”

“Anything home-cooked would be great. I’m not picky.” I give her a sheepish smile.

For the past two days, I’ve been living on bananas and cheese. I guess I could have ordered a delivery or asked Riggo to drive somewhere I could get a proper meal, but I didn’t want DeVille finding out about it and asking questions. The last thing I want is to have to explain to that dick that I’m scared shitless of the fire. Any kind of fire, really, but especially the sort associated with gas stoves. I don’t need him to think I’m a total basket case.

“I can make a simple pasta dish for you in no time. Or, would you like to have meat with it, too? It would take a bit longer to prepare, but—”

“Pasta sounds amazing. Thank you.”

I follow Greta into the kitchen, then perch in my favorite spot at the breakfast bar. Someone moved the bowl of fruit from the living room, leaving it on the counter right next to the coffee machine. As soon as that fact registers, I glance away from the bunch of fresh bananas. If I don’t see any in the next decade, it will be too soon.

“Oh. Mr. DeVille must have read your mind,” Greta chirps while peeking under the tinfoil covering a deep baking pan left on the stove. “Beef lasagna. And it’s still warm. I’ll plate some of this for you.”

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