Ache For You

49

There’s a pause, then Matteo’s voice comes over the line. “I see you’ve been to Japan.”

Of course he would know how they answer the phones in Japan. He’s probably got a castle over there, too, the prick. “I’m sorry, Matteo isn’t available at the moment. He’s busy being a horrible human being. If you want to catch him when he’s not being a massive asshole, you’ll have to call back when pigs fly and hell has frozen over.”

“You should try the chair next to the fireplace. It’s a more appropriate size for you.”

I look around suspiciously but don’t spot him lurking in any doorways. “Where are you?”

“In the security room. Looking at you on a video screen.”

I glance at the ceiling. Sure enough, there are two security cameras affixed on opposite ends of the room. I flip them both off and hang up the phone.

It rings again almost immediately. I look up at the ceiling and shake my head. After a moment, the phone falls silent. Good. He got the hint. I turn my attention to the platter of meats and cheeses. It looks fantastic. There are some dried fruits, too, and nuts, and some of that really yummy—

The phone starts to ring again.

I realize this could go on for quite a while. I’m starving, so I give in and pick up. “What?”

In a low, heartfelt voice, he says, “I hate seeing you unhappy.”

“Are you bipolar? Is that the root issue here?”

“No. I’m telling you the truth—I hate seeing you unhappy.”

“You can repeat that until the cows come home, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re perfectly willing to be the source of my unhappiness. One of the sources, anyway.”

I hear him exhale. In a lighter tone, he says, “Where do you think that saying originated?”

Confused, I make a face. “What?”

“Until the cows come home.”

I sigh heavily, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Being around you is enough to drive anyone insane, you know that?”

His voice gets quiet again. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Seriously?” I grip the receiver so hard it could crack. “Stop it, then!”

“I can’t.”

I hang up, then take the receiver off the hook so he can’t call back. In a few minutes, the nice lady returns with an open bottle of wine and a glass already filled. She sets the bottle on the coffee table next to the platter of food and hands me the glass.

“Ecco.”

“Thank you. Um, grazie.”

She folds her hands over her apron, tilts her head, and examines me. Then she launches into a long and impassioned speech—about what I have no idea, because it’s all in Italian.

At the end of it she sighs. Then, in English, she says, “But he’s worth it.”

She pats me on the shoulder, then turns around and leaves.

I guzzle the glass of wine and pour myself another.

I remember nothing else until I wake up with a pounding headache and a mouth that tastes like a homeless person took a dump in it.

Lifting my head sends spikes of pain shooting through the back of my skull. I crack open an eye and look around the room. Where am I? And how did I get here?

Cavernous yet cozy, the room is fit for a king. The ceiling is dark wood, crossed by thick beams. A circular iron chandelier hangs in the middle. The stone walls are warmed by colorful tapestries and framed landscapes in oils. Scattered over the floor are half a dozen thick tasseled area rugs. The furniture is also dark wood, heavy and masculine, and the fireplace is so big you could burn an SUV in it.

The massive four-poster bed I’m lying in is carved with elaborate scenes from a fox hunt. I find that vaguely disturbing.

Slightly more disturbing is the sight of Matteo asleep in a chair beside the bed.

He’s sitting up, fully dressed, including his shoes. He’s loosened his tie, but that’s the only evidence he tried to get comfortable. His head is tilted back, exposing the strong line of his throat, and his hair is a little mussed, as if he were running his hands through it.

On the bedside table sits a glass of water and two aspirin.

As if he sensed me looking at him, his eyes flutter open. He turns his head and looks at me. His face is sleepy and soft, and his gaze is warm and hazy.

So this is what you look like when you wake up.

When he smiles, my heart hurts even more than my head.

His voice thick with sleep, he asks, “How do you feel?”

“Like s**t. What happened?”

He stands, stretches his neck, then picks up the aspirin and holds them out to me. “You drank an entire bottle of wine in under thirty minutes, then passed out. Take these.”

I allow him to tip the aspirin into my open palm. Then he hands me the glass of water. “Drink.”

I pop the aspirin into my mouth and swallow some of the water, then hold the glass out for him to take. He shakes his head.

“Bossy,” I grumble, and gulp a few more swallows of water.

When I hold out the glass this time, he takes it from my hand. He finishes what’s left in it, sets it on the bedside table, and removes his suit jacket. He drapes it over the chair he was sitting in, unfastens his cuff links, and rolls up his sleeves.

Why do I find that so damn sexy?

Angry with both of us, I roll over onto my other side and burrow under the covers.

In a moment the mattress dips. Then I get his strong hands on my shoulders, kneading my aching muscles. It feels so good I groan.