Page 98 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
I should’ve let Matteo murder him and bury him in the backyard. Things would be so much simpler if all I had to deal with was a guilty conscience.
Assuming I’d have a guilty conscience over Brad’s demise, which is far from a given.
When the taxi drops me off at seven o’clock, Matteo’s black sports car is already in the driveway.
“Great,” I say under my breath. “Why don’t you just move in? We’ll all be one big happy, backstabbing family.”
I slam the taxi door with more force than necessary, then stomp into the house, trailing steam from my ears. This whole situation feels as if it’s spiraling out of control, like I’m in a bad soap opera. Next I’ll find out I have an evil twin I never knew who wants to lay claim to Il Sogno and my father’s business.
At this point, I’d be tempted to say Have at it! and wash my hands of the whole mess.
When I walk into the dining room, Matteo and the marchesa are sitting next to each other, deep in conversation, their heads bent together and their voices low and urgent, as if they’re plotting a government coup. They break apart when they see me. Matteo leans back in his chair, a sly gleam in his eyes, and his mother begins feeding morsels of food from her plate to Beans, who’s sitting in her booster chair glaring at me with the burning heat of a thousand suns.
I prop a hand on my hip and glare back, including the other two overbred creatures at the table. “Don’t let me interrupt whatever pernicious scheme you’re hatching.”
Matteo grins. “Pernicious? Have you been reading the dictionary?”
I smile back, but it could peel the paint from the walls. “Yes. There are so many interesting words that start with the letter P. Pushy. Peacock. Pecker. Pompous. I could go on.”
With laughter in his eyes, Matteo retorts, “Pact. Pattern. Paper.”
Leave it to him to work our damn agreement into the conversation. When I glance meaningfully at the knife beside his plate, he chuckles. “Bad day, stepsister dearest? You seem tense.”
He’s teasing me, the jerk. Why is he in such high spirits? “Ex-stepsister.”
He says airily, “Yes, that’s right. I know there’s been some confusion over the fine print.”
When the ghost of a smile lifts the marchesa’s mouth, I consider replacing all her shampoo with hair remover. Without another word to either of them, I walk out and head straight to my bedroom. Cornelia’s napping in the middle of my bed on her back with her legs stretched out, looking like she’s been shot.
&n
bsp; “Dog!”
She jerks, rolls over, and sits up. When she spots me, she barks and starts to wriggle in excitement like a puppy, pawing the bedcovers.
I point at the bed I made her from blankets in the corner. She stops wriggling, puts her ears down, looks at the blankets, then back at me. Then she flops onto her belly and sets her giant head on her paws, giving me big moon eyes, trying her best to look utterly pathetic.
“Cornelia,” says Matteo from behind me. “Go.”
He doesn’t have to ask twice. She slinks off the bed with her tail between her legs and curls up into a big black ball on the blankets, hiding her eyes under a paw.
“It’s not eight o’clock yet.” I toss my handbag onto the dresser and turn around to look at him. He’s leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets, smiling like he’s on vacation.
Ignoring my comment, he says, “I love you in that dress. You look like a movie star.” His eyes take a stroll around my figure, lingering on my breasts and legs before wandering back up to my face. He murmurs, “The color matches your eyes.”
Trying valiantly to ignore the words I love you hanging in the air like a lit stick of dynamite, I run my hands nervously down the cinched waist of the dress. “It’s one of my father’s. A certain tiny satanic ball of fur shredded most of my clothes. I think the taxi driver on my way into work thought I was homeless.”
“I should’ve warned you about Beans. She has an oral fixation.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I say sourly. “Go back to your dinner.”
“Did you eat yet?”
At the exact same time I say “Yes,” my stomach lets out a loud, alarming groan that sounds like I’m hosting an alien life-form in my bowels.
Matteo smirks, shaking his head. “I’ll be back.”
He turns and leaves. I’m relieved because I think I’m getting a while to get myself together before he returns demanding kisses, but he’s back in five minutes, holding a plate piled with food.
