“When did you arrive in Rome?”
“February . . . I’m not sure of the day.” I reach for the folder.
He closes his hand down on it. “The first of February,” he supplies. “Who are your parents?”
“Parents,” I repeat, the word knifing through my heart. “I don’t know.”
“Carrie and Michael Ward. Killed in a car accident a year ago. You inherited a sizable amount of money from them.”
“I don’t mean the fictional ones. I mean my parents. I think they’re dead, but what if they aren’t and they’re worried about me?”
His hand covers mine where it rests on the table, his touch vibrating through me. I stare at his hand, this man who is my self-appointed protector, and yet there is a wall between us I can’t climb. “Then we’ll find them,” he says, drawing my gaze to his. “You have my word, but your safety has to come first, as I’m sure they would want as well. I need you to be ready for Gallo.”
There is sincerity in his voice, and when I search his face, I find understanding that reaches beyond his claiming a role as my protector. The kind of understanding that runs deep into a person’s soul, carved out in heartache and pain. I reach up and cup his cheek, letting his whiskers rasp my fingertips. “What haven’t you told me?”
He curls my hand in his, and he considers me a moment, his expression unreadable. “We are not so unalike,” he begins, and I hang on these words, eager for any tidbit about this man I can garner.
“Your salads have arrived,” Marabella announces, stealing the moment.
Kayden’s expression flashes with what I think is relief, but I cannot be sure. He releases my hand, and I face forward as Marabella sets our plates in front of us. “There’s fresh pepper and Parmesan on top,” she explains. “Let me know if you want more.”
“Thank you, Marabella,” Kayden says, and I quickly chime in by adding, “Yes. Thank you. I don’t actually remember my last real meal.”
“No wonder you’re so skinny,” she chides. “But I like a challenge. Give me a week and I’ll put a few pounds on you.”
“Then I won’t fit all the clothes Kayden just bought me.” My eyes go wide. “Oh, you picked them out, right, Marabella?”
“I did. Did I do well?”
“Very much so. I love everything, especially that bubble bath.” The reminder of me naked and without my towel is out before I can stop it.
“It’s honeysuckle,” she says. “Such a sweet, wonderful scent. There’s perfume to go with it, too. Did you find it?”
“Oh, perfume. No, I didn’t, but it sounds wonderful. I can’t wait to try it.”
“You need familiar things, so
I’ll order you more to make sure you don’t run out,” she says, and the motherly way she’s behaving stirs a funny feeling in my chest. She motions to my food. “Eat, sweetie.” She glances between Kayden and me, and frowns. “You both need water. I’ll be right back.” She hurries away again, and my comment about my bath slides right back into the air, inspiring me to feign interest in my salad, when I’m really imagining the moment I lost my towel and his hands landed on my bare skin.
“Did the phone have as many bubbles on it as you did?” Kayden asks.
I glance at him, pleased to find the tension of minutes before gone, a hint of wicked amusement in his eyes. “I didn’t think you’d noticed,” I dare, because why not? I’ve been naked in front of him not once, but twice.
“You know I noticed.”
We stare at each other for a moment, my heart racing, and somehow I actually remember the original question. “I think I won that battle of the bubbles,” I admit, “but just barely. Speaking of which.” I dig the phone from my pocket and set it beside him. “Does it come with bubble coverage?”
He smiles, and it’s a stunning smile that I get the impression he doesn’t show often enough. At least not to me. “I don’t remember taking out bubble coverage,” he says, “but it doesn’t matter. I’ll get you another one tomorrow.”
Like he promised to get me another five-thousand-dollar purse. “You’re spending way too much money on me, Kayden. I need to pay my own way. Can I help you with one of your hunts or work in the store, or—”
His mood goes from playful to nonnegotiable and hard in a split second. “No. I have money to blow and you need to get well.”
“I am getting well,” I argue, not about to let him shut down the topic as he obviously intends. “But I want to do my part and you don’t have to get me another phone. I have no one to call.”
For a beat, maybe two, his jaw is set hard, his eyes harder, but then he surprises me. “What if I get separation anxiety and want to call you?”
I laugh, pleased his good humor has returned. “That’s what they make teddy bears for.”