“It’s alright,” I said.
“So you think you can do better?”
“I can actually.” I pointed my fork at him. “I took cooking lessons when I was in high school. I used to make dinner all the time before—”
It had been nine years since the accident, but at the mention of my parent’s death, that same sick feeling welled in my stomach. He noticed my mood change and a crease appeared on his forehead.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Just got distracted. How about I cook dinner next Sunday? Then you’ll see.”
He nodded as he filled a plate and took a seat opposite me. I was having trouble focusing on my food while he was sitting there, half naked with his sweatpants hanging off his hips and the outline of his dick visible. It annoyed me that he looked so good. He had no right to look better than all of the men I’d gone to college with put together. I released an involuntary sigh and sat back in my chair.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully. “You should probably shouldn’t sit like that in my t-shirt when you’re with anyone else other than me.”
I looked down and realized that when I’d crossed my legs, it had exposed the space between my thighs. A hot rush of blood moved up my throat to my head and I clamped my legs shut and glared at him. My heart thumped against my ribs and heat blossomed deep in my hips.
“You could have told me sooner,” I snapped.
His pale eyes glittered and he leaned in. “And ruin the view? You’ve got a fucking beautiful pussy, Sienna.”
I scowled at him and ate the rest of my pancakes in silence, too confused to speak. It did annoy me that he’d let me expose myself without bothering to bring it up, but another part of me, the rebellious part of me that couldn’t keep my eyes off him, was pleased. He’d looked at me, even if it was just a tiny glimpse, and he’d liked what he found.
He leaned back in his chair and reached for a book on the other end of the counter and flipped it open. I studied him. I hadn’t taken him for a reader—surely he, the leader of a mafia organization, had people to terrorize or product to sell instead of reading a book.
I ducked my head to look at the cover. “You’re reading a book about…Buddhism?” I said, even more surprised.
“It’s interesting,” he said shortly, not taking his eyes off the page.
“Are you a Buddhist?”
“No.”
“What are you then?”
He glanced up. “Byzantine Catholic.”
“Do you practice?” The thought of him in church seemed absurd.
“Also no.”
“Me neither,” I said, hopping down from the stool to take my plate to the sink. “I mean, I’m not Byzantine, I was raised Roman Catholic but it never really stuck. Lucien sent me to a Catholic academy for the last two years of high school and it wasn’t half bad, but I did get in trouble a lot.”
He set aside the book, apparently having given up trying to read in peace. “Really? Why is that?”
“You know, the usual. Missing class, running off. There was a lake a few miles from the school and in the summer I used to climb out the window with my sleeping bag and spend the night out there. Apparently that was frowned upon.”
He studied me with a faint smile around his mouth and then he shook his head. “You’re an interesting woman.”
“What about you?” I asked. “I’ve been telling you all these things about myself, but you haven’t been volunteering much. How did you grow up?”
He stood up, clearly signaling that the conversation was over. “Very quickly,” he said. “Now, I need to go get ready. I have a meeting with Leonid later and I have to get some work done first.”
Deciding I needed to entertain myself with something relaxing, I cleaned up the kitchen and found the ingredients to make an apple pie. There was a radio in the corner of the room where Brenda listened to her praise music and I turned it on, flipping through until I found a classic rock station. Strains of David Bowie’sYoung Americansfilled the kitchen as I turned on the oven and began peeling apples.
Leonid walked in after a few minutes and stood staring at me. He didn’t speak a lot of English so it was hard to carry on a conversation with him, but I could tell by his face that he was caught off guard by the scene in the kitchen. I stopped pounding the dough out onto the counter and looked at him for a long moment. He shook his head slightly and disappeared up the stairs.
He probably thought I was a crazy American.