“That’s one word for her.”
“You have another?”
“That’s not what I meant.” He took the lid off the tomatoes and sloshed in some white wine and a sprinkle of salt, then turned to Maddie. “She’s a contradiction, in some ways. It’s only since Gianfelice died that I’ve seen that.”
“What do you mean?”
Good question. He was voicing an opinion he hadn’t owned to himself yet. “She’s incredibly strong and fiercely independent, but she deferred to Gianfelice in all things. Even when it cost her greatly, she allowed him to make their decisions. I wonder at that, given what I know of her now.”
Maddie was very still. He couldn’t help but notice the way her body had stiffened, her expression shifting from one of idle interest to one of…what? It was impossible to say. “I suppose relationships are hard to read from the outside.”
Her words were stiff, they didn’t invite any further inquiry.
“They were happy,” he clarified, feeling a little uneasy at the confidences he’d shared, given the fact he didn’t make a habit of discussing his family with anyone, generally.
“But you think she muted herself for him?”
“Yes.”
Maddie nodded slowly. “That happens, doesn’t it?”
Did it? Nico shifted his shoulders. “I have very limited experience in relationships.” And the one time he’d actually ope
ned himself up to one, he’d learned what a foolish idea that had been.
“Really?”
“Mmmm. Too busy with world domination.” He wiggled his brows, making light of it rather than going into the sordid, sad truth, and she laughed softly – he was glad to see it, glad to see the little lines of tension around her eyes ease.
“Do you have any stock?”
“Um, I think there’s some in the freezer? The landlady keeps dropping things off. I think she’s trying to fatten me up.”
He pulled the freezer open and discovered the stock she’d mentioned. It was a large block. “I’m going to need another pot,” he teased, turning around and deliberately taking his time reaching for a saucepan from the top of cupboard.
She was unashamedly ogling him so he dumped the stock as quickly as he could, put the heat on the stove and then delivered a challenging glance to her as he stripped his shirt. “It was a little wet,” he offered with mock apology.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Are you?”
“Nope.” She grinned. “Not even a little bit.”
His laugh was a husky sound. Their eyes met and he felt it – a promise passed between them, a simmering, sensual heat that would be answered, and soon.
He rushed the melting of the stock, and when it was only halfway done, added it to the tomatoes – trying not to think of what Yaya would say about such an ill-advised corner-cutting – then turned the heat on the tomatoes right down.
“That’s going to take around a half hour to simmer and soften.”
“Thirty minutes?” She lifted her brows and pushed off the bench, coming towards him. “Goodness. What should we do while we wait?”
“Do you have any board games? Monopoly?” He prompted, reaching for her shirt and pushing it over her head. Madre di Dio, she wasn’t wearing a bra. How had he failed to notice that before now?
“Scrabble’s more my thing.”
“I’m not surprised.” He pulled her towards him so her breasts flattened against his chest, her softness to his hair-roughened hardness. “How about twister?”
“No board, but I think we could get inventive.”