The Italian by Lisa Marie Rice Read Free Book Online Page A

online once more.
    He was almost painfully aroused. He had to work not to hobble. At least he was so turned on it was lying against his stomach and not bobbling in front of him, tenting his trousers. They were linen, and besides apologizing for his manners he’d have had to apologize for being as uncontrolled as a teenage boy in front of the prettiest girl in school.
    Keep her eyes fixed on your face, cretino!
    “Come,” he said and put his hand on her back. He nearly sighed with delight. The dress was some silky jersey thing—no doubt his mother would have known the exact material—and he could easily feel the warmth of her skin through it, the sleek muscles beneath his hand.
    She glanced up at him with a smile and he was glad her gaze didn’t drift below his belt. He bent and dropped a soft kiss on her lips, manfully straightening up and not plunging back in again.
    But oh shit, it was a temptation.
    In a moment he had her seated next to him, both of them facing the garden, and had dropped a huge, thick linen napkin over his crotch. From now on he could only serve food he could reach without standing up. Luckily that included the wine.
    He poured then she joined him in a toast, their glasses clinking together with that light peal of the finest crystal. Another sound he hadn’t heard in years. He mainly ate at the police mensa —the mess hall. The food was surprisingly good but the cutlery was cheap steel, the dishes ugly supermarket earthenware and the glasses thick and unbreakable.
    Just one more sense coming back to life with this magical woman.
    Stefano drank, watching her. She sipped, put the glass down with a smile, and he smiled too.
    “Wow. That was like liquid sunshine.”
    He turned the bottle so she could see the hand-printed label. “Francesco’s private collection. They sell their wine, of course, but they keep about a thousand bottles a year for the extended family and the restaurant.”
    She tilted her head, studying his face. “He cares for you. He said so. You could eat here every day if you wanted to.”
    “Yes.” Stefano held the glass up by the stem. The wine gleamed ruby red in the candlelight, almost glowing. “His estate was under attack by a secondary clan of the local Mafia. He was being squeezed for protection. Then his nephew was kidnapped.”
    His mouth twisted as he remembered the long nights, the police poring over infrared aerial photographs of the desolate countryside. He’d spent four nights and four days going over deeds in the catasto, the land register, discovering a large, isolated property owned by a shell company that tracked back to Serra. He’d told the carabinieri , a night helicopter had captured the IR image of a boy-sized mammal in a shed, and they’d broken in to find the fourteen-year-old shackled to a wall.
    She was searching his face. “You rescued the nephew,” she said.
    Stefano laughed. “The carabinieri , the local police, rescued the nephew. Who’d lost fifteen pounds and still needs therapy after a year and a half, but is mercifully alive.”
    “Francesco feels you are responsible for rescuing him. He feels a huge sense of obligation to you. It was clear to me.”
    Stefano nodded. It was true, though the gratitude was misplaced. Hardly a week went by when Francesco didn’t call him up and beg him to come eat at Palazzo Ravizza.
    “I’m glad you rescued the nephew,” she said simply and drank again. She liked the wine, he could tell. It pleased him. “And I hope you catch this Serra monster.”
    He’d been taking another sip and it went the wrong way. He coughed. “I beg your pardon?”
    Those brilliant turquoise eyes slanted in his direction. “Stefano, I might not be an investigator but I know how to Google with the best of them. And I can read enough Italian to follow articles in La Repubblica and La Stampa. You’re after the top Mafioso in the country. You have quite a reputation. For bravery, most of all.”
    “Idiocy is more like