By the time he had finished, an hour had elapsed. An hour by which his subconscious had been trying to find a way to deal with her duplicity.
He decided he would carry on as if he hadn’t found out about her underhandedness. Losing control, losing his temper would mean he had already invested too much in their relationship, which was only a casual fling after all.
She glanced up when he entered the formal dining room. Sabrina had changed into a floral tank top and cut-off shorts. Her nose was pink from the sun and her face was bare of make-up. She had never looked more beautiful.
“I apologize. I forgot the time,” he said, sliding onto the seat across her.
“No worries. I kept myself busy.” She indicated the sketch pad and her pencil. She had been drawing a sketch of what looked like a bracelet. She didn’t look put out to be kept waiting, like other women would have.
Again, those things about her kept throwing him off. Her lack of artifice, her refusal to help her out with her business, her seeming inexperience in the bedroom…
She was playing with his head. The day after the wedding, she would be gone and he’d be free of her spell.
“Everything alright?”
“Yes. Just a last-minute thing that came up.”
“If you need more time-”
“It’s fine. Just an error of judgment on my part.” How innocent she looked.
“Oh. I hope it wasn’t anything major.”
“No,” he said firmly. “It’s of no consequence.”
He must have said it too firmly because she glanced at him strangely. The atmosphere had suddenly become tense. She broke the silence.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t bring anything fancy to wear.” Her smile was disarming as she tipped her head in the direction of the center of the table.
Fine crystal and bone china had been laid out to impress. Candles in silver candlesticks flickered in the dimmed lighting of the interior.
Antonia entered the dining room followed by a young man also dressed in the yacht’s official uniform. He pushed a trolley laden with dishes prepared by the yacht’s resident chef whom, Raphael, his oldest brother, had pirated from a well-known Milanese restaurant.
“We can manage on our own. Thank you,” he addressed Antonia when the gourmet dinner had been laid out on the table.
“Let us know when you would like the main course to be served,” Antonia murmured politely.
With a polite smile in their general direction, Antonia and her assistant left the room discreetly. Luca forced himself to adapt an air of lightheartedness he was far from feeling. He didn’t want her to suspect something was wrong. They talked about general things like Seirenada over their starter of salad greens and burrata, a fresh mozzarella.
“This is so good,” she murmured, taking a bite of the main course.
“It’s osso buco, a dish from the part of Italy where my family comes from. Chef Luigi has paired it with its usual combination of saffron risotto.” He liked the way she was enjoying her meal without worrying about the calorie count like some women he had gone out with. It made him uncomfortable diving into his steak while his date nibbled on a salad. He leaned forward and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “My mother’s version is out of this world, though. Molto delizioso! But don’t tell the chef I told you or he’ll walk out on us.”
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” she grinned, “unless your chef is a long-distance swimmer.”
That wrung an unexpected laugh from him as an unlikely vision of an angry, rotund Luigi diving off in a huff flashed before him. “My brother would toss me overboard himself if I lost his prize-winning chef. He wooed Luigi for months before he agreed to be the onboard chef.”
“He’s totally worth it.” She sighed with pleasure, and the sound went straight to his groin.
He shifted in his seat. He wanted to pull off the tablecloth, send the dishes flying and crashing, Luigi’s wrath be damned, and take her right then and there on the table. Instead he let his fingers curl tightly around the stem of the wineglass and took a sip of red wine to distract himself from the wild impulse.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to let her go after today. Not until this desire for her died a natural death. Even after knowing she had gone back on her word. That she still wanted Markos. She was still charming him, bewitching him. Fooling him.
“I don’t suppose you cook.”
It took him a few seconds to realize she had spoken.
“No. My father never allowed his sons in the kitchen. He was very traditional.”
“He believed the kitchen to be solely a woman’s domain?”
“He believed a woman’s place was at home, taking care of the family. He asked my mother to give up her career as a lawyer and raise his three children. In return, he abandoned her for a woman half his age because of a stupid midlife crisis. If there is justice in the world, I hope she is only with him because of his money.” He couldn’t help the trace of bitterness that laced his voice.