Page 31

"The trick is to add some of the pasta water to the sauce," she explains, moving with practiced efficiency. "It helps bind it."
I stand back, giving her space as she combines the ingredients in the pan. The eggs transform into a silky coating that clings to the pasta. No recipe, no measurements—just instinct and memory.
She serves the carbonara with a flourish, a small smile playing at her lips. She looks genuinely pleased, almost happy. The expression transforms her face entirely.
"Do you want something to drink?" I ask.
Her eyes flick up to mine. "Just water is fine. I’ve still got a lot of work to do."
I can't help the slight twist of my lips. "We don't actually have a choice. But I had to ask."
A small laugh escapes her—the first I've heard. It's brief, barely there.
"Of course." She shakes her head slightly. "Why would the kidnapper's kitchen have a wine selection?"
"There's whiskey," I offer, surprising myself again. "Macallan 25."
"Water is fine," she repeats.
I fill two glasses from the refrigerator dispenser. We sit across from each other.
She takes a bite, closing her eyes briefly as she tastes it. Her look of pleasure sends hurricane twists through my chest. I force myself to look down, focusing on my own plate.
The pasta is perfect—rich and creamy without being heavy. Nothing like the disaster I'd created for breakfast.
"It's good," I say, the understatement hanging between us.
Melania looks up, her fork paused midway to her mouth. "Good? That's all you have to say?" She arches an eyebrow. "This is perfection on a plate, Alessio."
I shrug, fighting the urge to smile. "OK. It's... very good?"
She rolls her eyes and takes another bite. This time, she closes her eyes and makes a sound—a soft moan of pleasure that travels straight through me, igniting something primal.
Fuck.
I reach for my water glass, draining half of it in one long swallow. My throat suddenly feels like sandpaper.
"Do you always do that?" I ask, my voice rougher than intended.
"Do what?" She looks genuinely confused.
"Make those lascivious noises. When you eat."
Her cheeks flush pink, the color spreading down her neck. She sets her fork down carefully.
"I... I usually eat alone," she admits, not meeting my eyes. "Since I got back from London. I forget sometimes that someone might hear me." She glances up, embarrassment clear on her face. "I'm sorry."
I shouldn't find her embarrassment endearing. I shouldn't find anything about her endearing.
"No need to apologize," I say, with a husk. "It's actually the best noise I've heard in a while."
Now her eyes snap to mine, widening and sparking. For a moment, neither of us moves. The air between us feels charged and this time I can’t blame the fridge.
She stares at me, lips parted slightly, before dropping her gaze back to her plate. Without another word she returns to her food, but the flush remains on her cheeks.
I will my attention to my own plate once more, but my mind keeps replaying that sound. I've heard women moan before—staged performances designed to stroke my ego. This was different. Unguarded. Real.
And far more dangerous because of it.