“Italian food?” I asked.
“How did you guess?” He went back to his cooking, and I watched him from the doorway.
“I have my ways,” I responded jokingly.
He laughed and uncorked a bottle of red wine on the kitchen counter and poured himself a glass.
“What other mysteries can you share?” I asked.
He gave it a moment of thought. “I grew up in a very small town in Italy. Moved to the States for college.”
“What did you study?” I asked.
“International Relations.”
“So how did you meet my dad?”
“Mr. Dane recruited me. But it wasn’t for my IR knowledge; it was for my political connections—my family is fairly…well known. It didn’t hurt that I have a passion for technology and am an expert marksman.”
“Military training?” I asked.
“My grandfather was big on hunting. He took me to shoot game every summer.”
I cringed. That did not sound appealing, but I wasn’t about to complain about the being handy with a gun thing.
“Of course,” he added, “I’ve had much more training now.”
He dumped a bag of dry pasta into a pot of boiling water, and I watched his back as he stirred. The way his insanely broad shoulders moved and stretched under his T-shirt and the way his back tapered down into a tight waist caught my eye. I couldn’t help but admire his perfect male form.
“Are you staring at my ass again?” he asked.
Oh God. How embarrassing.
I cleared my throat. “How did you know?”
“I can see your reflection in my glass right there.” He nodded toward his wine on the counter.
“Ah. Well…”
He turned with a stern look on his face. “Dakota, I need to be clear with you. I’m not having sex with you.”
I blinked. Was he for real? It wasn’t like I had been coming on to him. And if he thought I had been, why did he insist on addressing it with such an “in your face” approach? He’d said almost the exact same thing back when he’d been my high school “boyfriend,” and it was just as weird then as it was now. What was his deal?
Maybe he wants to clear the air. After all, you woke up this morning with your hand wrapped around his penis and you have sexual fantasies about him almost every night.
Damn it. Could he tell I was sexually attracted to him? If yes, did he understand that it was despite my better judgment? I was only human and, whether I liked it or not, the man was, in fact, the most gorgeous male I’d ever seen. That didn’t mean that I liked his personality or wanted to throw myself at him. I was smarter than lust.
“It’s normal,” he said, “to develop feelings for someone who protects you in a dangerous situation.”
“I looked at your ass,” I barked. “I did not ask you to sleep with me.”
“I realize that, but you might. We’re going to be here for a week, and I don’t want you to misinterpret my intentions. I’m here to protect you. Not get you into bed. This is work. Nothing else.”
“You know what? I think you’re the one who sounds worried. What? Afraid you’ll throw yourself at me in a moment of weakness?” I asked, half-serious, half not.
His gaze was frigid. “I know how to handle myself on the job.”
Job. Job. Yes, that was an excellent reminder of why I should shoo away any lustful thoughts from my mind. I was nothing but an assignment he’d move on from once this was over.
“Well,” I said in a suggestive tone just to mess with him, letting my eyes roam over his body, “I’ll be the judge of how well you handle yourself.”
“Dakota, I’m serious. There can’t be any of that between us.”
“Oh my God. I was kidding. I’m surprised that your giant ego actually fits inside that head. How did you manage to squeeze it all in?” I snagged the bottle off the counter.
“Where are you going with that?”
“Outside,” I answered, marching to the front porch.
“You’re underage.”
I held up my middle finger, but I’d already turned the corner so he couldn’t see.
“I saw that!” he said.
Damn it! The guy was like a goddamned spider with eyes stuck all over his giant fat head!
“I can see your reflection in the windshield of the truck,” he added.
Of course, it was parked out front.
I dusted off the rocking chair on the porch and took a sip from the bottle. It was actually quite nice. I’d never tried red wine, but the sweetness mixed with a tart aftertaste was perrrty yummy.
The screen door creaked and Paolo appeared with two glasses.
“I sense you are new to drinking wine. It tastes better with one of these.”
“Har, har.” I took the glass and filled it halfway.
He leaned against the rail, directly in front of me. “I am sorry about my bluntness. You must think I am a heartless asshole.” It was funny how his Italian accent sounded so thick now. Was this the real Paolo?