by Amber Bardan
She leaned closer. “I want to know everything.”
I glanced at the men across the kitchen. Haithem moved in front of the stove. Avner whisked eggs. Two impossibly hot men, cooking us breakfast... The view was to die for—and I suddenly felt that I would.
That I’d die if anyone knew what happened between Avner and me.
I returned my gaze to Angelina. Her eyes were wide and inquisitive. Her chin planted on her palm, ready for every explicit detail as was always gleefully provided.
I’d told her everything I’d ever done from the time I gave my very first blow job. I’d given her graphic detail, and uninhibited descriptions. My exploits were our entertainment. She knew about my worst experiences and she knew about my best. She knew that the closest I’d ever come to screaming, before this, was the time I went home with a woman.
Except now I wanted to gather everything Avner and I had done close, and hold it tight and secret.
“We should set the table.” I stood up, and went to the dresser where the dinnerware was kept.
Angelina sidled up beside me, and opened the utensil drawer. “Was it bad? Is that it?”
I reached for the plate rack.
“Oh no, was he too rough?” She glanced behind us at the men. “I should’ve known he’d be all rough, and you’re not into that.”
I froze, and grabbed her wrist. Thankfully, whispering was easier than talking. “No.”
“No, he wasn’t too rough?”
“Yeah, he was rough.” I let her go.
She frowned, hard. Her dimples popped.
At first.
And I’d wanted it, asked for it. Enjoyed every kinky second of it. But my chest gave the most devastating squeeze at the memory of when it hadn’t been.
“I didn’t mind.”
I brushed hair back from my face, then collected plates and took them to the table. Angelina set the cutlery, watching me quietly, now only her expression prying.
Haithem served us omelets directly from the frying pan. Now that I knew he’d taken up cooking, for Christmas next year I’d give him an apron with plastic boobs. I could already picture him wearing it around. All I’d have to do was imply he was too uptight...
Those photos would be priceless.
Avner took the seat next to mine, and my breath caught—next Christmas there was every chance Avner would be there too.
I ate a bite of omelet and fanned my face, as though it were the eggs that were too hot—and not me.
“I’ll get you some juice,” Angelina said.
I shook my head, mouth full.
Haithem grabbed her arm. “I’ll get it.”
He kissed her cheek quickly, and went to the fridge.
I swallowed the eggs, and accepted the juice from Haithem. “Thanks.”
We shared breakfast exactly as we had before in Italy, but now my calves were restless. The men were polite enough to speak English, even though at times the subtext was so thick between them, they may as well have broken out in Arabic.
“Now Avner’s moved to Melbourne, will you two work together at the office?” I asked Haithem. Guardian Technologies’ headquarters occupied an entire city skyscraper. Not that Haithem had been there as much as he’d been when the energy cell first came out.
Haithem put his fork down, and the look he gave me let me know I’d get no more from him then I could Avner. “On occasion we will work together at the offices.”
These damn men were impossible.
I took a sip of orange juice. It hit the back of my throat like acid. I coughed, wiping my mouth with a napkin. “I think the juice has turned.”
Haithem lunged, catching the glass halfway to Angelina’s mouth as though it were a vial of poison. She blinked, hands opening. He took the juice away, muttering in Arabic as though he’d held the language in all morning.
Avner’s brow creased. He glanced at Angelina.
She began collecting plates. I rose to help, but Haithem took those as well.
“Sit,” he commanded.
Angelina exploded into giggles, then covered her mouth at Haithem’s scowl.
I stared at Angelina.
She shrugged, her face turning beet red.
Was this the anniversary of the first time they banged? I mean Haithem doted on Angelina, sure. He wasn’t a bring-me-a-sandwich kind of man, even if he could come across as primitive. But Angelina was the better cook. She fixed a mean snack. I’d had her omelets. They were good. She could do dishes. Haithem was the neat freak between the two of them, but they both pulled their weight, even if they did have cleaners half the time.
Had she given him something last night to cause this fawning?
I smiled. Angelina’s cheeks practically glowed. Yeah, that was it. She mightn’t divulge in so much detail, but I knew Haithem was a beast in bed. And that Angelina’s secret sauciness more than did me proud. I glanced at Avner. Since I was kind of dating now, maybe I’d make her tell me everything for once. If what she’d done scored this kind of points...
“My mum is giddy you’re coming tomorrow.” For some reason Angelina looked at Avner when she said this. “The only way she could be more excited is if you went to church with her first.”
Avner was coming to Sunday lunch?
“So please don’t do that, okay, or I’ll never hear the end of how I don’t. They’re just getting over that.”
But...but... Sunday lunch was for family. I’d earned my spot by knowing them forever. Haithem married into it.
Avner couldn’t possibly be there yet.
“Ever since she heard your dad was a missionary—”
I jerked forward, my elbow clattering on the table.
Avner’s chin twitched but he didn’t look at me. I’d be surprised if he couldn’t sense my ears pricking.
Angelina knew more about him than she’d said. His father was a freaking missionary?
I stared at Angelina, not wanting to even touch my gaze on Avner lest he stop her talking.
Maybe I heard wrong—she probably meant mercenary.
“Aid worker,” Avner said. “Not missionary.”
“Christian aid worker.” Angelina laughed. “You know she heard nothing after that first part.” She settled her gaze on me. “You might have competition as their favorite child.”
“Pfft,” I said. I would always be their favorite non-child, and Angelina’s relationship with her parents had more than improved. “You married a trillionaire. That’s almost as good as going to heaven.”
I poked my tongue at her. I’d been to church with her mum a bunch of times. She would sometimes pick me up on her way when we were still in high school. All I had to do was stay hush about all the fornication, and church was a great way to spend a morning. In those days my Sunday mornings were generally far worse spent.
“And now she can focus on achieving the same for you. Oh, wait—” Angelina flashed her full-dimpled grin at Avner. “I forgot, there’s only one other trillionaire.”
Oh damn.
Mrs. Morrison had been trying to “save” me since I was fourteen. She’d joked about me and Avner looking good together at the wedding. This was why he’d been invited. Sneaky. And once she knew we were already seeing each other...
“You may tell your mother I’m honored by the invitation,” Avner said smoothly and without hesitation.
I swiped the back of my hand across my forehead.
He wasn’t just in the friendship circle—he was in the family one. Angelina and the Morrisons were all I had. He’d infiltrated a sphere I’d never bring someone into.
If I fucked things up with Avner, I’d fuck up everything.
I wiped my top lip with a napkin. “Thanks for breakfast, babe, but I have to eat and run.”
&nbs
p; I stood and circled to Angelina and hugged her. Then I turned to Avner, who leaned back in his chair. His eyes glistened. His expression demanded.
“No forgetting to kiss me goodbye.”
I breathed in, then stepped up beside him, lay my hand on his shoulder and touched my mouth to his. His mouth moved only slightly under mine. My chest fluttered. His breath was hot on my lips, and I wanted to eat up all that heat.
I pulled away, and my breath caught. Oh, god. That smile—squinting eyes and smirking lips—could’ve impregnated me where I stood. Lucky for my IUD.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Emma.”
My heart seemed to throb outside my chest.
That settled it. None of this would be a problem. I simply wouldn’t be the one to mess up. I wouldn’t be the one to hurt him.
We’d take things slow. No pressure.
This could totally work.
* * *
A knock pounded in my dream. The worst, most horrible dream where insects ate the flesh in my throat. I tried to open my eyes but in this dream my eyelids were soldered closed.
The pain though, that’d never been so tangible.
An explosion cracked through my heavy blanket of sleepiness, and thankfully in real life my eyes could open. I bolted upright on the couch.
The front door splintered. Actually broke apart. Chipboard fell to the floor. Dust radiated through the air in a cloud.
Holy Fuck.
I clutched my chest. Someone was breaking in but I’d be dead before they could hurt me. My entire being ached and cardiac arrest was a true impending possibility.
A man pushed through the rubble. I hardly saw him, my head rushed in vertigo.
He came for me.
I held out my hands to ward him off.
He seized my fingers. I couldn’t breathe, it was like someone stepped on my chest.
“Emma, what is going on?” a voice commanded. “You don’t answer your phone or open your door?”
Avner came into blurry focus.
I tried to sit up straighter. “What are you doing here?” The words came cracked and muffled from my swollen throat.
“You didn’t show up for lunch at the Morrisons’.” Avner knelt in front of me. “We called a dozen times.”
I glanced around for my phone. I’d missed Sunday lunch? Was it really Sunday? The last thing I recalled was getting home from Angelina’s, feeling like hell, then taking a few painkillers for my throat, and some cold meds...then some cough syrup, because at some point in the night my lungs attempted to come out.
As if prompted by the memory, my chest spasmed. I coughed, reaching for tissues to hold over my mouth.
He tugged a handful free and pressed them into my grasp. Coughs racked my lungs to real burning agony.
He handed me a half-empty bottle of water from the coffee table. I gulped, and the coughs subsided. My stomach heaved. I swallowed, resisting the sickly feeling. There was no way I’d vomit in front of Avner.
A cool hand pressed to my forehead.
“You’re sick,” he snapped, the statement seeming more of an accusation.
I veered back from the touch, and brushed his hand aside. “I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.”
I flopped back, and gestured to my usually immaculate coffee table now littered with boxes, measuring cups and tissues. “I’m taking care of it.”
He picked up a box, then another, then another. “You took all of this?”
Bloody hell. He was giving me that look—the bossy, judgey, know-it-all man look. Well, he could get over it.
“I know chemistry better than you, buddy.” I had to give myself credit for how clear my voice sounded. “None of those medications contradict.”
“That doesn’t mean you should take everything you can get your hands on while you are alone, by yourself, where you’ve been lying around practically comatose.”
A surge of energy had my back straightening.
“I am not comatose—but I am sick.” My lips pursed, more coughs tickled my chest. I reached for the cough syrup. It’d been at least eight hours since I’d had some. Probably. “And I don’t feel like company.”
“Too bad.”
I glared at him. His face had that smackable stubborn set to it. So this is what you get when you agree to an as yet unlabeled relationship?
I fumbled with the bottle.
He took it, but not to open. “Have you even been to a doctor?”
“It’s just a virus.”
He shook his head, and put the box out of reach. “No more, you’re coming with me.”
“Not gonna ha—” My chest exploded in coughs. This time I couldn’t hold back the gag, and grabbed the just-in-case bucket. Thankfully, there was nothing in my stomach to come up. I lay back on the couch and shut my eyes. “Go away. Leave me alone.”
He sighed, and brushed the hair off my face. “Your front door is broken. I can’t leave you here.”
His voice was soft now, intimate, and much harder to resist.
I opened my eyes and looked past him to the rubble he’d created. Damn overprotective men. But he was right, I couldn’t stay here. “Fine.”
He reached for me, but I rolled myself to sitting. “I’ll walk, thanks.”
He shook his head again. “Where are your shoes?”
“In my closet,” I answered automatically.
He got up, heading toward the hallway, which contained my bedroom and the tiny laundry.
“Wait, you can’t go in there, it’s my private space.” Even if all my private space consisted of was a neatly made double bed and a side table which contained nothing more exciting than an e-reader and moisturizer. I’d never let a boy inside there.
His steps didn’t even slow down, the prick.
I wrapped my favorite throw from the couch around my shoulders and called out, “Don’t forget my toothbrush and handbag.”
Avner
She swatted me like a fly, though there was nothing she could do to make me buzz off.
“Why are you impossible to take care of?” I set the soup on the bedside table and sat beside her hip.
She draped an arm across her wicked blue eyes, and groaned.
The sound made my stomach uneasy. Such a damned impossible woman. By the time Emilio arrived, she’d been so ill he’d had to administer antibiotic injections.
“Eat some for strength.” I leaned closer, and resisted the urge to wiggle my finger in the exposed hollow of her armpit and make her pay for driving me mad. “It’s my nonna’s recipe.”
“Your nonna?” She peaked out from under her arm, her eyes shiny and slightly unfocused. “Bet you didn’t know my mum was Italian?”
“Really?” I allowed curiosity to bleed into my answer. She’d said she had no family. I knew the truth, but now at least she told me. I nudged her arm all the way onto the pillow.
“Her parents stopped talking to her when she got herself pregnant with me at seventeen.” She made the statement so matter-of-factly and so freely with her guarded tongue, if I were kinder I’d have stopped her there.
I didn’t stop her.
“I’m half Italian, and can hardly speak a word of it.” Her fingers curled into her upturned palm. “I have a nonna. I don’t know her, but the one time I met her she said I didn’t look like one of them.” Her gaze sharpened, almost shrewdly.
Had I imagined she was delirious?
I held my questions.
“You have the last name, you speak it perfectly, but you don’t look Italian either.” There was an insinuation to her words that if she were well would be harder to fend off.
Except, if she were well she’d never had said so. It wouldn’t be polite.
I leaned over
and stared into her glistening eyes. “What do I look like?”
She sighed. “You look like something, Mr. Malfacini.”
I smiled at the butchered, Australian way she said my name—and it was my name. Even if I wasn’t Italian by birth.
“Eat some soup.” I collected the bowl. “Or when you’re better, you will be in more trouble than you were before.”
Her cheeks went from fevered flush to deep pink. Dirty girl. She bit her lip. It was no small victory to witness that temptation. She remembered, even sorry and sickly, being bent over my table. Having my hand on her ass, threatening punishment.
She wanted to be mine. All that remained was having her realize she already was.
“You think you’re so mysterious, don’t you?” She nestled into the pillow. “But I’m on to you.”
“Are you?” I suppressed my smirk.
She watched me through heavy lashes. “Yeah, I’m gonna figure out your secrets.”
Lucky for her she was still half delirious, because if she had the ability to do as threatened, I’d never let her out of this room.
I leaned closer, right over her. “What if I simply tell you.”
Her lashes fluttered. “You wouldn’t.”
“You want to know?” I scanned her eyes.
“Yeah.” Her breath fanned hot on my chin.
I bent to her ear, and whispered, “I’m magic.”
Her palm slammed into my chest, and she pushed me back. “I’ll tell you what you’re not—funny.”
A laugh rolled through me. Perhaps not yet. I reached beside her face. “Then what’s that behind your ear?”
“Seriously?” Her eyes flickered upward.
I produced a coin in front of her.
“Honestly, my expectations were so much higher.” She coughed.
How did someone so unwell muster such sass?
This time my laugh was deeper. “Fine, you try it then.”
“I will.” She raised a fist to her mouth and coughed. “Give me the coin.”
I leaned back. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—” She froze, then stared at her own fist clutched in front of her face. “No...” She opened her fingers slowly, then stared at her palm. “How the fuck did you do that?”
