Ignoring her, Henry set a covered platter between the plates, along with a bowl of Bibb lettuce tossed with vinaigrette, and the coup de grâce, Italian bread, a whole loaf, so hot from the oven that the knee-buckling aroma filled the room like smoke.
Maddie stopped bitching, her eyes nailed to the bread.
Then Adam lifted the lid from the platter, heaped with carbonara. “Rustic,” he said, “but Leonardo elevates peasant food to high art.”
She licked her lips. Took one step closer.
Then she stopped. Her eyes went to the window, then back to the table. Then the window once more. And she turned away.
Puzzled, Adam studied the twilit view. Nothing objectionable there. New York looked its best from this lofty height, silhouetted against the pastel sky.
He looked to Madeline again. She’d flopped on the sofa, stacked bare heels on the coffee table.
Well. Let her sulk. She wouldn’t hold out for long. He happened to know carbonara was her favorite meal, and she was defenseless against Italian bread. And while martinis were her cocktail of choice, she preferred a crisp Prosecco with her pasta.
He took a seat, let the serving fork clatter as he scooped pasta onto his plate. Then he sawed the bread noisily. Crunched a mouthful of crust.
She crossed her arms under her breasts, unwittingly propping them up for his viewing pleasure.
He poured another glass of Prosecco, let it fizz loudly. Sucked a sip . . . and her feet hit the floor.
“Enough with the chewing and slurping,” she snapped. “I know it’s delicious. Even I’ve heard of Leonardo.”
“You’re free to join me.”
“You’ve got it backwards. Eve gave the apple to Adam, not the other way around.”
“So you’re casting yourself as Eve in this drama?” He tsked. “Playing against type, don’t you think?”
She shot a death ray over her shoulder . . . just as he lifted his fork. A strand of pasta dangled from it, coated in cream.
Her gaze fixed on it.
He let the fork hover between them before sloooowly taking it into his mouth. His tongue wrapped around it, his lips came together, and—whoa—she looked hungry for more than just pasta.
Lust hit him like a fist in the gut. His balls drew up, his abs tightened reflexively.
And his pasta went down the wrong pipe.
He tried to cough. No air got through. He dropped his fork, lurching to his feet, clutching his throat. His hip hit the table, upending his glass. Spots flickered at the edge of his vision.
Then—oof!—a gob of pasta erupted from his throat, splatting on his plate. He leaned over the table, gasping gratefully.
“You okay?” Maddie’s arms encircled him, her small hands fisted over his solar plexus. “Need another one?”
“I’m fine,” he croaked, overstating the case. His throat burned. His eyes watered like faucets. “Thank you. I believe you saved my life.” After almost killing me with that eye-fuck.
“Yeah, well”—she released him—“it hasn’t exactly been my lucky day.”
Turning his head, he caught her rueful shrug. He let out a laugh. And as if he’d popped a cork on a bottle of bubbly, he kept laughing.
He couldn’t seem to stop.
It turned into a fit. Tears streaked his cheeks. A stitch in his side bent him over.
God, he hadn’t laughed like this in years, that gut-clenching, gasping hilarity that swung between pleasure and pain, self-perpetuating, irrepressible, one slippery step from hysteria.
Even as his side split, he knew it for a reaction to his near-death experience. But Maddie had triggered it. She went straight to his funny bone.
He managed to look up, saw that she was laughing too. At him instead of with him, for sure, but he’d never seen her laugh at all, certainly not a belly laugh like this, like a teenager in the grip of high school hilarity. Free, uninhibited.
And God help him, breathtakingly sexy.
MADDIE WIPED A tear from her cheek. LeCroix completely losing his shit was the funniest thing she’d ever seen in her life.
Too bad the tabloids weren’t around to catch it. His badass rep would be down the toilet, because the mighty Adam LeCroix laughing his ass off was not an intimidating sight.
When he was laughing, he didn’t seem dangerous at all. He seemed perfectly normal, and . . . well . . . nice.
Not that she believed he was actually either of those things. But she couldn’t pretend he wasn’t smokin’ hot. God, when he’d wrapped his lips around that carbonara, her panties had melted into a puddle.
Thank God he’d almost choked to death before she’d done something stupid, like let the lust that streaked through her body show up on her face.
Whatever. It was over now and he had himself in hand, looking down at her from his six-foot-two, making her feel like an ant.
She searched her repertoire for a snide remark, but all that laughter had released a crapload of endorphins. She’d lost the snarky mood. Hell, she felt almost charitable toward him.
He must have sensed her weakness, because he took full advantage, doing something she’d never ordinarily have allowed. Taking her hand, he held her eyes in his bluer-than-the-sea gaze, murmured in that deep, exotic voice, “Thank you, Madeline.”
And he kissed her.
On the knuckles. But . . . wow.
In a faraway corner of her mind, the voice of reason piped up. This is how he does it. This is how he gets those supermodels onto his yacht.
But apparently she was as susceptible as the bimbos, because instead of hitting the fire alarm, she froze like a deer in the headlights, letting his thumb skim her knuckles, rubbing his kiss into her skin, a fiery tattoo.
It was the limo all over again, only more so. Now his lips were involved, warm and seductive. His hair fell forward around his too-dangerous face, thick and glossy and dark as the devil’s. And his thumb was practically giving her an orgasm.
He lowered her hand, gave it a light squeeze, and let go. She looked down at her knuckles. They looked the same as before.
Huh.
He turned away, toward the table, and it was like a light had gone out. Or the sun had set.
Before she could process that feeling, he turned to her again, taking her arm and drawing her toward the sofa. She went along like a trauma victim.
Sitting her down, he put a glass in her hand. “Mine broke,” he said. “We’ll have to share.”
Whoa. Share a glass with him? She should probably object.
Before she could, he was back again, this time with the bottle and the platter of pasta. Sitting down beside her, he wound some strands around his fork and brought it to her mouth.
She pressed her lips together instinctively.
Then he smiled, damn him, and now that she’d felt those treacherous lips on her hand she couldn’t look away from them. She stared as he spoke.
“Madeline, it’s only pasta. What can it hurt?”
That was a very good question, and there was a very good answer hovering just out of sight.
Gently, he rubbed the warm carbonara along her bottom lip. She couldn’t stop herself. She opened up and let him in.
The pasta was fresh, made within the hour, the sauce light but substantial, the pancetta tissue-thin. It came together in a magical blend, everything carbonara should be, and more.
Sex on a plate.
It hit her tongue and her eyes rolled back. She hummed a long, blissful note.
Then she snatched the fork and swirled another bite. Adam wrapped his hand around hers and steered it his way.
“Hey! Get your own fork.”
“If you insist.” He made to stand, taking the platter with him.
“Whoa! Bring that back!”
He raised an eyebrow. She narrowed her eyes. Took a pull on the Prosecco. “Fine, we’ll share.”
He reached for the glass, finished it off, and poured another while she gobbled down two hasty bites.
“Mine,” he
said, eyeing the third. She fed it to him, keeping possession of the fork. “The bread’s likely still warm,” he mentioned.
Hissing impatiently, she hotfooted to the table, brought back the loaf. “I forgot the knife.”
“No matter,” he said, tearing off a hunk and passing it to her.
She moaned as she bit into it. The crust shattered, scattering crumbs across her T-shirt. She hunted them down with a wet fingertip, chased them with Prosecco.
He’d found her weaknesses, all of them, and she couldn’t be bothered to care.
“Pasta,” Adam murmured, and she twirled him a bite. As he took it with those lips, his eyes flicked up and caught her staring, swamping her in a sea of blue.
Dazzled, she held his gaze while he chewed. Time slowed. She balanced the fork in midair. She was drunk, but not on wine.
He took the glass from her other hand, brushing her fingers with his, drawing her eyes. She’d never noticed his hands before.
Now she was riveted.
Their elegance disguised their size, broad, long-fingered like an artist’s but, curiously, not soft at all. Lightly callused, in fact, with faint scars crisscrossing the knuckles, visibly white against his tanned skin.
A cut on his palm caught her eye. Without thinking she took the glass from his hand, opened his fingers for a closer look.
“Did you do this today? On that rusty Honda?” Her thumb slid over it. He didn’t flinch, though it must have been tender. She angled it to the light. “It’s deep. You need a tetanus shot.”
“I had one last week.” He pushed up the sleeve of his thin cashmere sweater to show her a healing gash on his forearm.
She forgot about the carbonara, captivated by sinewy muscle, more defined than any businessman had a right to. “How did it happen?”
“Rock climbing. Missed my footing, and had a bad moment before I recovered it.”
She traced a finger along the scab. “You could’ve died.”
“Disappointed?”
She shrugged. “Hope springs eternal.”
He laughed, and she laughed along with him. It felt good. Easy and comfortable.
Her conscience pricked. She should be hating him, not flirting with him. But diabolically, he’d snuck past her defenses. First by playing the hero with John Doe, then by practically choking to death, giving her a turn to play hero. And instead of getting embarrassed and defensive like most guys, he’d gone giggly instead.
She honestly couldn’t remember when she’d laughed so hard.
As if that wasn’t enough, he’d blown her away with one stupid kiss on the hand, like he was some kind of knight and she was some kind of lady, two things that couldn’t be further from the truth.
But damn it, it got to her. Now she’d gone gaga over his stupid lips and eyes and, God help her, his hands. It was all she could do not to kiss his palm and make it better.
Worst of all, they were swapping spit on a fork like they were lovers or something.
And it didn’t feel awful. Her skin wasn’t crawling.
To be perfectly honest—
Her phone burst out in the “Stray Cat Strut.” Parker’s ringtone. Leaving the fork on the platter, she headed to the bedroom, dug her phone from her bag.
“Hey, Park. How’s John Doe?”
“On his feet, sniffing every nook and cranny.”
“No way.”
“Way. Once he was hydrated, I couldn’t keep him down. Want to come see him?”
She frowned. “I can’t.”
“Working?”
“Sort of.” It was too complicated to explain. “When can he leave?”
“Tomorrow, but he’ll still need to take it easy.” He paused. “Is that guy really going to take him? Because as far as I’m concerned, you brought John Doe in. If you don’t want me to release him, I won’t.”
She hesitated, but what could she do? “Adam’ll see he’s taken care of.”
“You don’t sound enthused.”
“I’m not. He’s an ass and I doubt he’s got an affectionate bone in his body.” His way-too-sexy body. “But he’ll find a good home for John.”
“What the hell, Mads? If the guy’s an ass, what’re you doing with him?”
“Trust me, I’m not doing anything with him. It’s strictly a work thing.” And I need to keep it that way.
“Oh.” Relieved. “So, brunch on Sunday before we walk the dogs?”
“Sounds good.” It was only Wednesday. Surely she’d be home by Sunday.
Going back to the parlor, she found Adam at the window, hands in his pockets, gazing out at the Manhattan night. All remnants of dinner had been removed, and the air of intimacy had gone the way of the dirty dishes.
She refused to be disappointed.
“John Doe’s on his feet. He can leave tomorrow.”
“I see.” Adam’s voice had a cynical edge. “So your hero works miracles too.”
Her back went up. “Parker’s awesome. He’s a gifted vet, and he’s selfless too. I’m sure that’s not a quality you appreciate, but I do.”
He turned his head, raked her with those penetrating eyes. “So why haven’t you married him?”
“What?”
“He’s in love with you, and you’re fond of him as well.”
“Parker’s not in love with me.”
“Parker’s unquestionably in love with you.”
“You’re nuts. And anyway, I’m not marrying him, or anybody else.” Catching herself before she got any more personal, she turned it back on him. “Besides, what do you know about love? Or marriage, for that matter. You can’t even keep a girlfriend.”
His brows arched insultingly. “And you know this how? From reading the tabloids?”
Her cheeks heated up, but she fired back. “So you’ve got a girlfriend stashed on an island? Or maybe a wife?” She didn’t want to care about the answer, but she did.
His lips curved in a smile that had drained of all warmth. “Why would an ass without an affectionate bone in his body need a girlfriend, not to mention a wife?”
The last of her endorphins fled the scene. What could she say? He was quoting her own words, and she’d meant them when she said them. Or maybe it was habit that brought them trippingly to her tongue. Either way, they damned her.
She lashed out anyway, defensive, resentful. “Adding eavesdropping to your rap sheet?”
He dropped his gaze, so the light went out of the room again. Quietly, he said, “Who’s the ass now, Madeline?”
She stared after him, tongue-tied, as he walked out and left her.
Henry passed him in the doorway, continued into the room, and set a tray on the table.
Cheesecake, her favorite. One slice, two forks. And two steaming cappuccinos.
Damn him.
ADAM NEEDED TO work off his mad before he did something stupid. Something stupid like go back for more. More insults, more frustration. More Maddie.
Striding into his suite, he flicked the door shut behind him, kept moving into his walk-in closet, shedding his trousers, ripping off his sweater, rifling his drawers as he churned over her hurtful words.
Especially hurtful because he feared they were true.
Could he feel affection? Or had his childhood stunted that emotion too?
He thought about it as he yanked a T-shirt over his head, punched his arms through the sleeves. His parents hadn’t known what affection was. They fought like alley cats, flinging barbs and crockery, and even fists. Once, after his mother caught his father with the mistress of whatever manor they were squatting on, Adam had to pull them apart, but not before she’d torn off his father’s ear.
The old man used to joke that he started painting like Van Gogh after that, and in fact, he’d swung to a darker palette. But even with a missing ear, his dark good looks and brooding mien were irresistible to women of all ages and intellect, and he exploited it, fucking them without scruple until he tired of their adulation.
And yet his continuous ch
eating never drove Adam’s mother away, though it frequently drove her into other men’s arms. Which inflamed his jealousy, as she meant it to do, and the cycle began anew.
So yes, his parents had strong emotions, jealousy foremost among them. But love and affection were in short supply, and whatever positive emotions they did possess, they channeled into their work.
Geniuses, both of them. But as role models, they sucked.
Adam hoped to do better in his own relationships. The precious few he considered true friends, he held close. In fact, most of them worked for him. Henry, Fredo. A handful of others he’d met along the way. Men who’d fought beside him, literally, when he’d landed in a new place and had to make his own way.
Adults were cruel, children crueler, and Adam was always the odd man out. The townies found him too cultured; the upper crust too common. He fit in nowhere, which made him vulnerable. He couldn’t count the times he’d been kicked black and blue by the local bullies, his parents too self-absorbed to notice when he came home with a black eye or worse.
Here and there, though, someone had taken his part. And while he’d long since left the enemies of his youth to their inconsequential lives, he’d sought out those who’d stood with him. Like Fredo, who butted into a losing battle in a Florence park at midnight. And Henry, who had Adam’s back in a Liverpool alley.
So, yes, he told himself as he threw open the door to his gym, yes, as he racked two hundred pounds on the bench press. He felt affection, even love, for Fredo and Henry. And for the others too. Men and women from back when he was nobody.
Well, he wasn’t nobody anymore, and he’d built an empire to prove it. Just try me now, his billions sneered with a shake of the fist. Just fucking try me now.
Few did, he thought, as he benched his body weight. Those who dared it—like Hawthorne—didn’t come at him with a knife or a sap, but crept up through the boardroom, deadlier than any back-alley brawler.
Even so, it paid to stay in shape. Who knew when some competitor’s tactics might change?
Or when another masterpiece might need liberating from unclean hands.
Which brought him back around to Madeline. She was the only person, past or present, to tackle him head-on. No sneaking through dark alleys, no sleight of hand. In his mind she occupied a category all her own.
The Wedding Vow Page 5