Page 33 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

“Are you sure it wasn’t intentional?” His gravelly, deep whisper rolls over me as his warm breath feathers the shell of my ear.

He sounds like sin personified, like the devil he is.

Tempting me into his villainous lair, to do dark, lustful deeds that I should, but I’m not sure I would, regret.

“If you want to broaden the articles covered in our prenup, gattina , all you have to do is ask.”

“Keep dreaming, Satan.” Channeling as much strength as I can, I yank my arms out of his hold and shove his chest, pushing him off me. The instant I’m free, I scramble off the bed. “I’d rather screw a toaster.”

Sweeping my hair over my shoulder, I turn on my heel and swiftly flee back to my room. And I make sure to send the door sliding hard against its twin as I shut it. Anticipating a loud bang, I’m a bit disappointed when it connects with a soft thud. Damn modern conveniences!

“What a jerk,” I mumble as I cross my room and then head downstairs in search of some food.

Most days, I don’t eat breakfast, but today, there’s a gaping hole in my stomach that demands to be filled. It has nothing to do with hunger, though. I’m a stress eater, and getting unexpectedly turned on by my husband requires gastronomic intervention. Stat.

As soon as the thought of food enters my mind, a loud rumbling erupts from my gut.

Despite my level of dread going through the roof yesterday as the wedding drew closer, I couldn’t stomach a thing.

Associating with Arturo DeVille seems to have turned even my own quirks against me.

I shudder to think what other new hell actually living with him will bring.

Whatever it might be, it will have to wait until I can get some decent grub.

Something tells me I’m going to need to keep up my strength.

There’s no one in the kitchen, so I decide to help myself, going straight to the fridge.

It’s one of those enormous French door refrigerators, promising an assortment of tasty and comforting things within its chilly interior.

Is there a chance that some of the leftovers from our banquet were sent over?

My mouth is already watering as I imagine the truffle bruschetta Sienna mentioned.

It sounded divine. Or maybe there’s cake.

Surely someone delivered at least a few slices of our wedding cake!

Eager, I pull the fridge door open and feel my enthusiasm drop like a lead balloon.

Tomatoes. Cucumbers. Bell peppers. Zucchini.

A bunch of chives, dill, parsley, and a ton of other rabbit food.

I move things about, hoping to find something other than salad ingredients to pick on.

Nope. A carton of eggs. Lots of meat, but it’s all raw, stacked neatly in plastic packaging.

Some white button mushrooms, as well as another container of weird-looking purple things.

And cheese. A big wheel of pale-yellow cheese.

There are also several packages of different types of grated cheese and a container of five other varieties cut into small cubes.

Holy shit! The slide-out tray looks like a dairy farm threw up in there.

“Eggs it is, I guess.”

I grab three eggs and a piece of hard cheese out of the fridge, setting them on the counter.

Just a few steps away and directly across from the breakfast bar is a double oven and a multi-burner stove.

The massive appliance is set under a sleek stainless steel range hood.

I bet a professional chef would be jealous of this kitchen.

I’m reaching into the side cabinet to get a frying pan when my eyes fall on the cooktop surface.

Gas burners.

My throat gets tight, closing up.

Chills break out and run through my body.

With my eyes glued to the stove, I slowly back away. Every shaky step backward is preceded by a rapid exhale of breath. I keep retreating until I bump into a wall.

“You’re making us breakfast?” the wall whispers in that deep, gravelly voice right next to my ear.

I shriek, nearly jumping out of my skin.

“The fuck, DeVille? Want me to have a heart attack?”

“Didn’t figure you for being so skittish.”

I huff and quickly slip by him, pretending to be super busy starting the coffee maker.

“What about our breakfast?” Arturo nods toward the eggs and cheese I left on the counter.

“It’s not our breakfast. It was meant to be mine, but I changed my mind. Do you have deli meat or something I can use to make a sandwich?”

“I try to avoid processed food. There’s some ribeye you can grill.”

My gaze jumps to the burners again. “Nope. Don’t really feel like cooking.”

“Do you want me to grill the steak for you?”

“And give you a chance to poison me, get rid of me altogether? Not happening.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugs nonchalantly.

Once my coffee is brewed, I carry it to the breakfast bar and perch on the stool on the far side.

The location allows me a full view of the kitchen, including an unimpeded line of sight to Arturo, who’s rummaging in the fridge and pulling a bunch of ingredients out.

He’s dressed in pressed black pants and a dove-gray shirt with the top two buttons undone.

His ever-present gold cross hangs around his neck.

Each time he moves and the sunlight streaming through the window falls on the jewelry, I flash back to Arturo’s bedroom. His bed, more specifically.

I mean DeVille’s. Satan’s bedroom. Not Arturo’s !

Sipping my coffee, I feign complete disinterest in what he’s doing while secretly watching him.

He moves around the kitchen with effortless precision.

His every action is methodical, and the expression on his face shows deep concentration.

The steak is already sizzling on the side grill.

The bell peppers are sliced into strips, and the zucchini is cut up into small cubes before he throws everything into the pan.

Next, he grabs a slim, dark bottle of cooking oil and pours a little splash on the veggies.

As he sets the oil aside, a flash of blue flame surges from the burner. My coffee cup nearly slips out of my hand. I grit my teeth and look away, forcing myself to remain seated. Breathing deeply to calm my heart rate.

“I’m having dinner with a business associate on Tuesday,” he says as he tosses in cherry tomatoes and then stirs the food, seasoning it at the same time.

Whatever spices he’s using are blending with the aroma of grilled beef and sautéed veggies, and the kitchen smells divine.

“He’s coming down from Boston. Unfortunately, due to some personal obligations, he couldn’t make it to our wedding. ”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“You’ll be accompanying me. And, you’ll be on your best behavior. Understood?”

“Define ‘best behavior.’ Should I just keep my mouth shut and look classy? Or would you like me to also fetch a ball when you throw it? You know, to show your important business associate what a well-trained wifey I am?”

“Very funny. Adriano Ruffo is from the upper echelon of Italian society, Tara. He’s also just become our main contact with the Boston Cosa Nostra on the joint construction project we’re working on.”

“Oh? Is he a prince or something? Should I curtsy when I meet him? Kiss his hand or—”

“You’re not kissing his anything!” Arturo snaps.

A noisy sizzle and pop sounds from the range, probably from the splash of oil or a bit of rendered fat hitting the burner.

Despite knowing the likely cause, my eyes still dart to the stove, anxiously searching for the giant orange tendrils of an inferno reaching toward me.

But there’s nothing there except the tiny blue flame.

“Damn wet tomatoes,” Arturo grumbles, focusing back on the pan.

“And no, Adriano is not a prince. But his great-grandfather was a duke. Adriano owns one of the largest transport companies in the US. We’re considering proposing an additional collaboration, centering on his fleet of trucks.

Another tie between New York and Boston. ”

“Fancy that! Is he married?”

“Why?”

“You really need to ask?” I tilt my coffee cup, trying to get the last few drops. “A duke. And a crazy rich one at that. It’s as if a hero from one of my novels has sprung to life. Hopefully, he’ll still be available a year from now, once I’m a happily divorced woman, that is.”

Bang!

I flinch.

“Adriano is a widower,” Arturo barks as he slams a cupboard door closed. “His wife died tragically only a few months ago. So, make sure you keep any such comments to yourself when you meet him. Do you understand, Tara?”

“Woof, woof.” I grin.

Hubby slashes me with an angry stare while plating the food. Then, he brings the dishes to the breakfast bar and forcefully sets them on the wooden surface between us. “Eat. Or would you like me to get you some kibble? Just let me know if you prefer a particular brand.”

I lean over the bartop, invading his space. “I’d rather eat dog chow than anything you’ve prepared, darling.”

“Well, in that case…” With a self-satisfied smirk lighting up his face, he takes the plate that was meant for me and transfers the scrumptious-looking fare onto his own.

The divine aroma invades my senses. Sautéed veggies.

Grilled steak. Something spicy and sweet.

Saliva pools in my mouth, and every inhale is practically torture.

My last decent meal was yesterday morning.

And after that goddamned wedding, food was the last thing on my mind.

I did wander downstairs around midnight and grab a banana from a bowl of fruit in the living room, but that was it.

“You sure you don’t want some?” Satan asks as he spears a piece of juicy steak and lifts the fork to his mouth. His movements are slow and deliberate. Taunting. He’s baiting me on purpose.

“I’m not hungry, DeVille, for anything you have to offer.” I slam my empty coffee cup on the breakfast bar and leave the asshole to his amazing meal, retreating on principle while my stomach churns in protest.