Stealing Hearts: A Romance Novella Page 4

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” I throw my arms around him, pulling him so close I can smell his expensive soap and tea tree hair gel. He buries his head into my shoulder and shudders for a moment before ripping himself away from me.

  He scrubs his hands over his face. “I’m fine. I am.”

  “You don’t have to be.” My gaze slides to the drink resting of the table, now drained. A distraction, he’d asked for. And I’d just led him right back to the thing he was trying to avoid. “Let me make you another.” I reach for his glass but he rests his palm on my forearm to stop me.

  “Actually, I think I need to lie down.” His eyes slide to the dirty dishes in front of us.

  I nod, my heart thumping as my mind supplies its own ideas, none of which I let myself linger on because I can’t. It’s wrong. I can’t think about his beautiful lips this way or how nice it would be to lie down with him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Every since our conversation yesterday, I can’t stop thinking about him. His words. His outlook on life. His smoldering eyes.

  His text message late last night: Hey, I just got a crazy idea. Don’t cook dinner tomorrow. I have a surprise for you instead.

  I’m giddy when I arrive at his house, practically bouncing up and down in anticipation of the surprise. Colby takes his calls and his meals in his office, and I know it’s for the best. But my eyes continue to fly toward his door, hoping, hoping, hoping. I need a deep breath to tamp down my excitement long enough to bring breakfast into his room and when I finally enter, it takes concerted effort to force myself to leave. Galina checks in but even her guard seems to have relaxed, her strict orders to glue her gaze to me minimized. I tie my hands and restrain myself from searching for the brooch. Not now. Not yet. Not when Colby might actually be starting to trust me.

  Even though he absolutely shouldn’t.

  I throw myself into meal prep for breakfast and lunch, lovingly admiring each plate and biting my lip against the hope that he’s impressed. Hell, I’m impressed with myself.

  “Stick around,” he tells me after I return to grab his dirty lunch dishes. Only a ring of handmade tomato soup remains in the bowl and a few sparse truffle butter grilled cheese crumbs dot the plate. When I first brought it in to him, Colby’s brows shout way up. I’ve been choosing the recipes for a few days now. “We’ll leave around four thirty.”

  I inch closer to him despite my brain’s protests. “I can make a dessert to kill time?”

  He waves his hand dismissively. “Nah. Just hang out by the pool or something. Galina can show you where a few unused bathing suits are from the last time my sister visited.”

  His words tangle in my chest. He trusts me to have free reign of his house. This is a con artist’s dream. Once you have their trust, it’s much easier to sneak behind their backs…or right under their nose.

  In the guesthouse, I do minor snooping, but I decide not to fuck him over just yet. If he catches me now, I’ll never get his trust back. I need to time my move right, when I know I won’t get caught. When he’s the most vulnerable.

  I prove myself to him by baking in the hot sun in full view of his office window. My languid muscles sink into the lounge chair, and for the first time in a really long time, I allow myself to do absolutely nothing except ignore the thrum of anticipation that beats in my veins. My mind supplies a thousand scenarios for what his surprise for me might be, and each one ends the way it absolutely shouldn’t: with his arms around me. I jump into the pool so the cold water can seep into my pores and knock some damn sense into me. I can’t be feeling like this around him.

  A quick shower does nothing to dissuade the thoughts either, and I tremble with something like nerves as I get dressed. If he has a surprise, I need to be ready, and the slinky black cocktail dress with lace trim I brought just in case is certainly ready. I swipe silver sparkles over my eyes and ruby blush along my cheeks, a reminder of why I’m here.

  At four thirty P.M., he comes out freshly showered and shaved. His sandy colored hair is perfectly coiffed with a trendy side part. He looks amazing in designer jeans that hug his thighs and a tailored button down. He clears his throat and I startle, looking away fast. I didn’t even realize I was staring.

  He raises a brow. “Ready?”

  My toes curl in anticipation, but I glance down at the floor. I’m not ready to spend more time with him. Not when his blue eyes make my knees wobble. “Sure,” I say. Casual. I need to keep casual. Keep this casual.

  When we step outside, a stretch limo idles in the driveway, its black exterior gleaming in the hot afternoon sun. I nearly trip on my heels in shock, though I guess I should have expected this. The guy did drop several mil on an old brooch.

  He pulls the door open for me.

  I raise my brow at him. “And here I would have thought you were chivalrous with just an Uber.”

  He rubs his palm against the back of his scalp. “Oh. Actually. This is my driver, Leo.”

  I blink at him. “You have a driver? But, you never go anywhere.”

  He shrugs. “Well, if I ever need to, I’ve got Leo.” He pats the roof of the limo and a tinny sound reverberates.

  I slide into the plush seats and relax against the luxury of it, outstretching my arms across the entire length of the long row. He laughs as he settles in against the seat in the back, facing forward. There’s a pang of regret swelling deep in my gut, and I try not to look longingly at the empty space beside him, a space that would perfectly fit my body.

  “I’d offer you champagne, but—” He leans in conspiratorially. “You’re going to want to be sober for this.”

  “Color me intrigued.”

  He bites his lip, hiding his adorable smirk, and oh God, I can’t look at him. My stomach does a little flip flop.

  The limo pulls up to the hottest restaurant in Miami, Osteria Romana, which boasts an exclusive eight-month waiting list and a menu designed by the most elite chef to hit the Miami market in a decade, Giorgio Buonarroti.

  I gasp. “Whoa. How many strings did you have to pull to get on the wait list?”

  Colby’s eyes sparkle in the sunlight. “I did you one better than the wait list.”

  He holds the door for me, and I have to squint against the dark ambiance smudging my vision after the bright sun. When my eyes finally adjust, I blink a few times. White-covered empty tables pepper the elegant room in perfectly spaced increments. A mahogany bar lines the back wall, giving the entire place a sophisticated atmosphere. Waiters stand in a long line, each one bowing in turn. No customers occupy any of the seats. It’s five P.M., still early, but not early enough for the place to be cleared out.

  A man in a chef’s coat rushes from the kitchen, holding out his hand in anticipation of shaking. “Ah, welcome, welcome!” he says in a thick Italian accent. A bushy beard coats his olive skin. He grips Colby’s hand with extra fervor, and then turns to me. “And you must be Liliana.” He brings my hand to his lips and plants a delicate kiss.

  My eyes fly to Colby, who stands there rigid beside me, and a bolt of something like guilt shoots through me.

  Two waiters hold out chef’s coats to each of us. I squint at Colby in confusion.

  “Put it on.” He shrugs his arms into his own coat. “We’re getting a private cooking lesson from Giorgio himself.”

  My mouth parts and a tiny little gasp escapes. “What? How?” Emotion piles in my throat, making it difficult to swallow. “I mean, I know how.” The answer to that question is simply dollar signs. “But why?” Why did he set this up for me?

  He combs his bangs out of his eyes with long, slender fingers. “I know it’s not a full education, but this will look great on your resumé.”

  “And I’ve promised to give you a personal recommendation to the culinary institute of your choosing,” Giorgio adds.

  My pupils swim as I study Colby, checking for some kind of catch. A hidden camera, waiting in the wings. An audience laughing at my expense. But it’s just the two of us,
in this empty room, standing within the nicest gesture anyone has ever done for me.

  Without thinking, I throw my arms around Colby. My fingers interlock around his neck and I bury my head in his shoulder, breathing in the musky cologne he must have applied before getting into the limo. My heart is so full that it almost feels like this dream is in my grasp. Even though being a chef was never my dream at all before I started this job. But it could be. In another life, this could be my everything.

  My whole body buzzes as we follow Chef Giorgio into the immaculate kitchen. The stainless steel counter tops and appliances give the place an industrial feel. Colby watches me like a proud Papa as I chop onions and carrots with perfect technique and vigor after following Giorgio’s clear instructions.

  “Watch out,” Giorgio says. “The girl has a way with a knife.”

  “That’s not all I have a way with,” I blurt before I can stop myself. Colby’s brows shoot way up at my insinuation and I have to look away to prevent him from seeing the blush creeping across my cheeks. God, I have to stop flirting. The tap tap tap of my knife hitting the cutting board covers the thump of my heart.

  “Cooking,” Giorgio says with the kind of passion that makes everyone in the room clamp their mouths shut. “It’s science. It’s innate. It’s love.” He presses the tips of his fingers together and kisses them, then yanks them away from his mouth with the force of a baseball pitch.

  His words seep into me, burrowing into my soul. My veins dance and I watch with wide eyes as he makes a rue from butter and flour, then adds it to a pan where beef stock is reducing with red wine. Savory scents make my stomach gurgle. I hover over my own pan and stir with the same kind of gusto as Giorgio. When I glance over at Colby, the sight pulls at the core of me. He stares at his pot in utter concentration, his brow furrowing at the stubborn clumps that refuse to smooth out despite the urgent swirls of his spoon. I gently nudge him out of the way with my hip and work my stirring magic on his pot, using short but powerful strokes to whip the mixture into submission. He can only stare at me, mouth parted.

  I ace nearly every lesson Giorgio throws at me. Only a few days ago I could barely make eggs and now I’m making a decadent Italian meal people pay hundreds of dollars for. I beam with pride after Giorgio tastes my dish and gives me the greatest compliment I could have received: a kiss of his fingertips. When Colby and I finally sit down to eat our creations at a dimly lit table for two, it’s like an orgasm in my mouth. After each bite, I moan and gasp and wish it lasted longer.

  Colby laughs at my reaction. “I guess you’re enjoying yourself as much as I am.”

  I pause with my red wine glass tipped against my lips. His words thunder through me with the force of a lightning bolt. “You’re—you’re enjoying yourself?” Something in my chest tingles with this news.

  He sputters, back peddling. “I mean, yeah. Who wouldn’t have a great time being taught how to cook by one of the greatest chefs in the world?” He stalls by taking a swallow of his own wine. “And I learned a very valuable lesson today.” His eyes meet mine with a kind of intensity that makes me blush. “I made an excellent decision when I decided to hire a personal chef.”

  My stomach does a little flip. There’s a part of me that buzzes in excitement over his insinuation that the excellent decision is more about hiring me than a hiring a chef in general. His decision was excellent. For me. For the brooch.

  Giorgio finishes the meal with the most amazing chocolate panna cotta that nearly makes me melt in a puddle in my seat. He sends me out the door with an autographed cookbook and a million ideas to try for tomorrow’s meals.

  Exhaust fumes curl into the night air from Colby’s limo idling in front of the entrance. Darkness coats the backdrop, shrouding all the swaying palm trees in mystery. A fat moon hovers low in the sky, as if it’s sneaking up on us conspiratorially. Like a gentleman, he opens the back door for me, but I don’t want this night to end. Not now. Not yet. Instead, I brush right past him and circle to the driver’s door. I knock on the window with my knuckles, the staccato sound echoing in the night air.

  “What are you doing?” Colby shouts to me. Wind snatches his hair and blows the strands into his eyes.

  Leo, the driver, rolls down the window, and I lean forward, curling my fingers over the edge of the glass. I keep my voice low as I whisper the address of my thank you gift to Colby. Leo nods. I can’t keep the smug smile off my face when I finally join Colby inside the leather seats. This time we sit side by side, instead of on opposite rows, as if, like yesterday, we’re equals.

  “What did you tell him?” There’s a hint of curtness in his voice as he squints at me.

  “You had a surprise for me. Now it’s my turn to surprise you.”

  That shuts him up. He turns toward the window, watching streetlights whip by into streaks instead of circles.

  After a few minutes, the limo crunches over the gravel parking lot of the seediest bar in the Miami greater area. Girls in low cut tops and even shorter skirts stand in a long bouncer line, intermixed with guys wearing the uniform of all guys in bars: button down shirts, low slung jeans, and a fat wallet to pay for drinks. The neon lights blink on and off, showcasing the words Monkey Joe’s before hiding them from view. Bright street lamps flood harsh light that illuminates the building’s weaknesses: chipped bricks, faded graffiti that was too stubborn to rub off completely, and a stain too red to be anything else but blood.

  Colby tilts his head at me, swallowing hard. “And we’re here because…?”

  “Because we’re going to have fun.” I kick open the door, which seems appropriate in a place like this. “You told me it’s been way too long since you went out. And in my opinion, there’s nothing better than a dive bar with loud music and a bunch of strangers with the same goal: to have a damn good time.” I grab his hand before he can answer and tug him out of the car.

  He wobbles on the pebbles that shift and slide beneath his feet before getting his bearings, but he doesn’t protest as I lead him toward the back of the line.

  He reaches for his wallet. “I’m sure I could persuade the bouncer to let—”

  “Nope.” I plant my feet at the back of the line. “We’re doing this old school tonight.”

  He rakes his hand through his hair. “Okay.”

  It takes twenty minutes to get to the front and the entire time, Colby looks more and more skeptical, darting his head around, checking to make sure the limo hasn’t abandoned us even though Leo was the one who choice this place upon my direction to find us a bar we could let loose at. When it’s finally our turn, I can’t tell if the breath Colby sucks in is out of relief or trepidation. The bouncer demands five-dollar co-pays.

  “Sorry, what? Did you say fifty?” Colby opens his wallet.

  “Nah, man. Five. Each,” the bouncer says in an annoyed way, as if Colby may not have enough to fork over ten big ones.

  Colby hands over a ten-dollar bill reluctantly, as if he still doesn’t trust that the price of admission to this place is the same as a latte or two at Starbucks. I push him inside before he can question the bouncer again.

  The place swells with heat and bodies packed tightly together. Most of the light stems from the back lit bar counter and the liquor glowing blue on the shelves. The heavy bass of a Rihanna song hits me right in the gut, each pump of the guitar becoming a part of my body. People slam into us with no regard for personal space. Not in a place like this.

  Colby clutches onto my hand tightly.

  I rise on tiptoes and pull his ear to my lips. “Drink?”

  “God yes.”

  We weave through the crowd, and Colby follows my lead as I push to make a path as if I’m sweeping away low branches on a forest hike. When we reach the bar, he leans far forward toward the bartender. “Hennessy on the rocks with—”

  I press my fingers to his lips. “We’re in a dive bar. Tonight we drink like the locals.” I jut my chin toward the watered down well drinks in every girl’s hand. “Two le
mon drop shots and two Long Island Iced Teas,” I tell the bartender.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “These drinks have the most bang for your buck when you’re broke. A shot of straight vodka, followed by a well drink made with four different liquors. Nothing better.”

  “Other than a bottle of six hundred dollar wine like we had at dinner tonight.”

  I nearly choke on my tongue at that news, but ignore it when the bartender slides two small glasses filled with clear liquid and two lemons wobbling on a napkin. I lift my glass. “To a night to remember.”

  He taps his glass against mine. “I already can’t forget.”

  The liquid stings as it slides down my throat. I fight against squeezing my eyes and puckering my mouth, instead reaching for the lemon and biting down to let the citrus wash away the sharp taste of the alcohol. When the iced teas arrive, I suck down a few gulps for extra measure. Colby pays for our drinks and leaves a tip that makes the bartender’s eyes bug out at his generosity.

  He swivels toward me. “You’re amazing, you know.”

  I sputter at this random comment, trying hard not to blush. “I mean, obviously. But what in particular amazes you?”

  He steps toward me, standing so close, his breath blows my hair dancing around my shoulders. “Tonight. How much you’ve improved in only a short time. How happy you were cooking.”

  “I was also happy with the eating part.” I bring my straw to my lips and glance up at him beneath my eyelashes, sipping in a seductive way. “You were happy too, I noticed.”

  He squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a breath. “And that’s what amazes me too. Despite everything going on with my mom”—His chin quivers—”You managed to do exactly what I needed.”

  The song changes to the new one from Lady Gaga. Our gazes swim, locked on each other.

  “I know what else you need.” I suck down my iced tea and throw my hands in the air. Colby does the same, then steps toward me as I wiggle my hips to the beats of the song. He makes no move to dance.