Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
And then it happened once more, his fingers grazing over my skin, and I went rigid.
Crap.
He was either too hot or I was too sensitive. Either way, it made the thin fabric of my dress feel like it wasn’t there at all.
He slung the tote bag over his shoulder.
Oh.
It made a rather incongruous sight, with my Too-Many-Books-So-Little-Time tote bag ruining his all-Italian macho image.
My lips twitched, and he grimaced, muttering something in Italian.
“What did you say?” I asked uncertainly.
“I look ridiculous, do I not?”
“N-no.” But I had a harder time keeping a straight face.
He let out a mocking sigh. “All I need is a cup of tea, and I could be the poster boy for your festival, si?”
This time, I couldn’t help it, my laughter spilling out as I pictured Marcus Ravelli with a bookish tote bag on his shoulder and a dainty English cup balancing on his tiny finger.
When I was sufficiently in control, I mumbled, “Sorry.”
“Va bene.”
I lifted my gaze to his, intending to apologize more sincerely, but the words were forgotten when I saw him staring at me.
Oh.
I looked away and stared hard at the ground, trying not to fidget at his scrutiny. I reminded myself that I at least looked more presentable now, having swapped yesterday’s PJs for a short-sleeved shirtdress. And you took a shower, I added silently to myself. There was that, too.
So...
Unable to bear the way he kept staring, I finally looked back at him.
His dark eyes gleamed. I know I’m making you nervous, that gaze of his told me, and I like it.
I gulped. Danger. He was definitely the personification of danger.
His lips curved in a sinfully beautiful smile. “You look beautiful today, bambina.”
Riiiiiight.
In my experience, only three types of people told me I looked beautiful.
One: family and friends who meant it because love made them blind.
Two: people who worked for or worked with my family because necessity made them blind.
Three: men who pretended they were blind because they wanted to marry me for money.
But Marcus didn’t fall in any of those categories, and so his words left me stumped.
“Not really,” I said finally, “but thanks.”
“Do you always receive compliments so graciously?”
Heat rose to my cheeks at his mocking tone, and I answered reluctantly, “No.”
“Ah. So it is only me then?”
“Jaak did say I could treat you like my family.” I tried not to sound too defensive but failed.
“Is that so?” he drawled. “Are you then saying...” His voice lowered into the most sensual purr. “You see me as family?”
Oh. The words took me by surprise, and my lips parted without any words coming out.
Did I see him as family?
The short answer was – no.
I didn’t see him as family because to see him as family was to have no right to be attracted to him—-
And I didn’t want that.
And Marcus Ravelli knew it.
His lips curved in a smirk as he waited for me to answer, and I wished I could say I found his smirk annoying, but I couldn’t. It just looked beguiling, and it made me want to throw my hands up in despair.
An arrogant Italian boor was smirking at me, and I found it beguiling?
“Well, bambina?” Marcus stepped closer. “Do you think of me as family?” He started leaning towards me, his head lowering, and—-
I couldn’t bear it. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” And then I was walking away as fast as I could.
I heard him laugh, and I walked even faster.
Of course I didn’t think of him as family, and the blasted man knew that.
So why did he even ask?
Actually, why had he come looking for me in the first place?
When he reached my side, I said very politely, “Please leave me alone.”
And to which he replied just as politely, “No.”
I stumbled to a stop. “Why?”
“I’m not sure.”
Three
He wasn’t sure? What did that even mean?
I gazed at him with a mixture of frustration and something else, something that shouldn’t even exist inside of me. If I were in a fanciful mood, I could probably think that we had everything required for a romantic scene.
The setting was ideal, with warm sunlight peeking through the gaps of space between the trees that towered over us. There was even music in the air, with birds chirping in the distance, and the leaves faintly rustling on the ground every time a breeze made them dance.
And most importantly of all, there was a boy, and there was a girl.
It was a perfect setup for a love story, really – only if the boy wasn’t Marcus Ravelli and the girl wasn’t Anneke de Konigh.
I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling cold despite the summer heat. “What do you want from me?”
The words seemed to startle him, and I didn’t get that either.
“It’s not supposed to be like this, bambina.”
“What’s it?” I was even more frustrated now.