The woman tilts her head to the side, giving me another once-over, her eyes stopping on the tie I used as a belt.

“Rafael’s girl.” She nods. “Good match.”

“I’m not his—” I try to clarify but Irma has already turned her back to me and is taking something out of the oven.

Leaning over the kitchen island, I’m floored by the large pan of what looks like a thick-crust pizza in her hands. And, my God, it’s not even burned.

“I see you’re up.” Guido’s voice comes from behind me. He sounds almost friendly.

I reach for the plate with a big slice of pizza that Irma passes to me and turn around. “I see your staff are back.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, then meets my gaze. “I’m sorry for going off on you the other day. When it comes to my brother, I tend to get overly protective.”

“Rafael doesn’t strike me as someone who needs anyone’s protection.”

“Only when it comes to protecting him from himself,” Guido says, eyeing my tie-belt. “Finish the job you need to do here. As fast as you can.”

“Well, that’s the plan.”

“Plans change.” He looks up, meeting my gaze. “I hope this one doesn’t, or, I’m afraid, we’ll end up waist-deep in dead bodies.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Be careful. When my brother claims something as his, there’s no force on this earth that would make him let it go. Finish the job. Then, go home, Miss Petrova.”

I watch Guido’s back as he busies himself with the coffee machine, wondering what the hell he meant by his cryptic words. The clock on the wall shows a minute past ten. Stuffing the rest of my breakfast into my mouth, I leave the kitchen and rush across the entry hall where a couple of maids are mopping the floor.

A badass gunmetal gray Maserati SUV is parked outside the front doors, its black-tinted windows reflecting the morning sun. Leaning on the side of the vehicle, with his arms crossed over his chest, is my jailer himself. He’s wearing black dress pants and a vest, with a gray shirt underneath, all immaculately tailored to fit his large frame. The sleeves of his button-down are rolled to his elbows, revealing heavily inked forearms that are corded with muscles. His dark hair is slicked back, and only now do I notice that he has a small metallic hoop in his left ear.

“Good morning,” I murmur while feeling a blush creep up my cheeks. God, I can’t believe I actually voiced that thing about men making me scream last night.

Rafael cocks his head to the side, observing me. The sun is shining directly onto his face, allowing me to see every single imperfection. It’s plain as day that he must have been incredibly handsome before suffering whatever it was that happened to him. A car accident maybe? He still is, though. Gorgeous. Despite the scars. And then, there’s that dangerous vibe he has going for him that’s seriously alluring. It’s as if the very air around him is charged with unrestrained energy, warning me to stay away, but at the same time, beckoning me closer.

“I wondered where that tie was.”

My hands go to my waist, adjusting my “belt.”

“Second drawer on the left, with the rest of them. Um . . . I reorganized your walk-in.”

“I noticed. It took me ten minutes to find what I needed this morning. You sleep like a log, by the way.”

“You can’t just venture inside my bedroom,” I grumble, approaching the car.

“Your bedroom?”

“Fine. I’ll move my stuff to some other room.”

“No, you won’t,” he says, opening the passenger door.

I take the hand he offers me and step up into the SUV. “Why not?”

“My house, my rules.”

The door latches shut with a hollow thud.

Rafael’s steps are unhurried as he rounds the front of the massive vehicle and takes a seat behind the wheel. He reaches for the aviator sunglasses on the dashboard and puts them on.

“I hope breakfast today was to your liking.”

“Yup. Homemade pizza is every prisoner’s wet dream.”

“Good. If you want something in particular to eat, just tell Irma and she’ll prepare it.”

“You mean, I can choose?” I shift, leaning my back on the side window and drawing my legs up and under me on the seat cushion, mere inches from the gearshift. Despite my racing heart, I’m hoping the position makes it seem like I’m not a ball of twisted nerves. It also allows me a direct view of his profile.

“That’s how personal chefs usually work. You tell them what you want. They make it happen.”

“Maybe in your household.” I shrug. “At home, we usually have to pick from a selection of marginally burned, charred, and completely inedible. Our cook is actually a heavy machinery mechanic with zero finesse when it comes to kitchen appliances.”

“You can fire him.”

“Fire him? Igor taught me to tie my shoelaces and let me and Yulia braid satin ribbons into his beard when we were kids. He’s practically a family member.”

Rafael turns onto a wider road that meanders between the hill on the left and an olive orchard on the right. When he shifts the gear stick, his knuckles lightly brush my knee, sending a shockwave of tingles through my whole body. My mind instantly wanders to last night, to him carrying me from the garden. I might have been drunk, but I remember every detail of how it felt to be held by him. The low thrumming in every fiber of my being, from the top of my head to the ends of my toes. The awareness of each point of contact between our bodies. The feeling of wanting to be nowhere else but in his arms.

Why am I so attracted to this man? I shouldn’t be, all things considered. I should despise him, or, at least, be wary of his games.

Maybe it’s because he’s never been patronizing toward me. He actually listens to what I say and doesn’t just nod like a dummy while ogling me, hoping that pretending to listen will make it easier to drag me into his bed. Or maybe it’s because, with him, I don’t need to pretend to be something I’m not.

My entire life I’ve been surrounded by hard, dangerous men. They’re who I’m used to, and I can’t see myself making a connection with some nice, unassuming guy. I’ve tried. I’ve truly tried. None of the guys I ever dated made me feel an ounce of the thrill I do simply sitting in the same car as enigmatic Rafael De Santi.

“Can’t you find some other role for him, then?” he asks.

“Who?” I blink in confusion. What were we talking about?

“Your cook-mechanic.”

“Oh, yeah. Um . . . Igor really likes to cook. And bake, unfortunately,” I mumble. “It’s always Igor and my mom who make birthday cakes. You don’t want to know how those end up.”

“Why?”

“Because Igor is the one giving instructions. And my mom prepares the thing.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Igor doesn’t speak English. And my mom knows exactly ten words in Russian.”

“What a peculiar family.” He glances my way, his mouth arched in a teasing smirk which does funny things to my lady parts.