“I’m fine.” She forced a smile to her lips. “I’m actually hungry, and it smells like you have some serious competition in the kitchen.”
As she headed down the narrow corridor with Lysander behind her, she heard him mutter something under his breath. But when she glanced back at him, his features were unreadable. A moment later, she entered the bright and homey kitchen. Cleo was the first to notice their arrival and she arched her eyebrow at them.
“All hail the conquering heroes,” her friend said with a laugh as they entered the spacious kitchen and adjoining dining area. “We were beginning to think we’d have to send out a search and rescue team. Run into trouble?”
“Nothing we couldn’t handle.” She forced a note of bravado into her voice to ward off any unwanted inquiries. “We just had a lot of pictures to take.”
“You look pale,
bella
.” Luciano Pasquale stared at her from across the wide expanse of counter where he was dishing out servings of cannelloni from two large casserole dishes. “Are you feeling all right?”
Her radar kicked in again as Lysander stiffened beside her. His tension was a clear sign he was still on duty as her protector. She suppressed a sigh. If only his behavior was because he cared about her. Ignoring the silent guardian at her side, she smiled at Luciano.
“Honestly? I’m weak with hunger,” she said. “It smells wonderful. Who’s the cook? And don’t say Cleo, because I know better.”
Maria Atellus, plate in one hand, pointed with the other toward Pasquale. “Luciano made it because Cleo bet him that he couldn’t beat the Le
gatus’s
cannelloni recipe.”
Angelo Atellus lifted up a large bowl of salad over his wife’s head and carried it through the wide French doors that opened out onto a large, glass-enclosed patio. Over his shoulder, he ordered his wife to bring him a plate of food and proceeded to set the silver bowl on the large table sitting under a wooden trellis covered with grape vines. From where Phae stood at the counter, she could see Atia talking with Marco, the Primus
Pilus.
“Angelo, where’s the olive oil and vinegar?” Violetta shouted over Cleo, who was chastising Luciano for having dripped sauce onto the counter.
Pasquale didn’t bother to respond to her friend’s exasperated comments. Instead, he gestured for her to grab a plate. “Come on, Phae, take a plate, and let me introduce you to my heavenly cooking.”
“Ego’s not a problem for you, is it, Luciano,” she said with a laugh.
“Never, c
arissima
. Nor do I let it stand in my way when I see something I want.”
There was a playfulness about his arrogance that made him charming as opposed to annoying. Laughing, she reached for a plate, but Lysander beat her to the stack of yellow plates with a grapevine design encircling the edges. A plate in each hand, he stretched out over the counter and silently waited for Luciano to fill the dishes. The look on Pasquale’s face went from jovial flirting to one of careful appraisal.
Lysander’s tension showed in the way the scarred tissue covering his cheek was drawn tight over the bone. The black patch covering his missing eye only emphasized the menacing bearing reflected in his stance. She couldn’t see his eye from where she was standing, but she was certain it would be the icy green color it always turned when he was trying to intimidate someone.
Startled by his action, she stiffened slightly as Cleo raised her eyebrows and tilted her head toward Phaedra.
Christus
, the woman was going to grill her the first chance she got.
Ignoring her friend’s speculative look, she accepted the plate of food Lysander handed her and headed out to the terrace.
What in Jupiter’s name had that been about—protection. Lysander was thinking Luciano’s attentions might make her feel threatened. She suppressed a sigh. The last thing she wanted was a Sicari bodyguard, especially if he wasn’t in love with her. As she crossed the threshold out onto the patio, Atia motioned toward her.
“Come sit beside me, Phaedra.”
Muscles knotting with tension, she slowly obeyed the command. Atia had called Lysander earlier, and his conversation with the Prim
a Consul
had been mostly one-sided. But from the few words she’d overheard, she knew the conversation had been about her. It convinced her that Lysander had texted the Sicari leader about her attack.
Atia wouldn’t mention the incident in front of anyone else, but she wasn’t so sure the woman wouldn’t find some pretext to drag the two of them away on some urgent matter of business to discuss what had happened. All she wanted at the moment was to eat and have a couple of glasses of wine in hopes of distancing herself from the entire affair.
Obeying the Prim
a Consul’s
command, she sat next to the woman, while Lysander sat on the opposite side. She released a soft noise of aggravation. It was like someone had placed her in protective custody. The rest of the team settled into their chairs as a bottle of dark red Lambrusco made its way around the table. She poured a healthy portion into her glass, ignoring the arched look Atia sent her way.
The look irritated her. First a bodyguard, now a mother hen. She knew how much she could drink before her healing ability was diminished. A second later, she took a bite of the cannelloni on her plate. The flavor of the dish burst over her tongue in a delightful symphony of Cavallo cheese, spinach, pasta, and a tomato-based marinade. She immediately turned her head toward Lysander as she saw him take a bite of the dish.
Surprise swept across his face, before a calculating look hardened his saturnine features.
In a controlled, measured movement, he carefully laid his fork down, and his long fingers reached out to lightly stroke the stem of his wineglass. It was obvious he’d realized that Luciano was a threat to his culinary reputation.
Known for his stoic mannerism, the few times Lysander displayed any emotion was in the kitchen, and he guarded his cooking laurels jealously. He loved to cook, but now there was a new face in town when it came to skills in the kitchen. And the man was definitely not happy about it. Those who didn’t know him would assume he was relaxed, but she knew different.
He was plotting Luciano’s demise in the kitchen. She could see it in the hard look of his green eye and the tension in his body. The man wouldn’t give up his title without a hard fight. He’d use every skill he’d learned in that cooking school in Tuscany. Across the table, Cleo’s expression was one of pained contemplation. Clearly, her friend was in a major dilemma. She’d touted Lysander’s skill, and here was a dish that equaled if not surpassed her friend’s ability. Luciano turned his head and grinned at Cleo.
“Well,
bella
, how is it?”
“It’s delicious,” Cleo said in a cautious voice. Her gaze shifted to Lysander, who met Cleo’s gaze with calm acceptance.
“It’s more than that, Cleo, and you know it. It’s exceptional,” Lysander said quietly. He lifted his glass of wine toward Luciano. “Well done.
Salute.”
Everyone around the table acknowledged the toast with enthusiasm and a chorus of compliments. Phaedra tilted her head toward Lysander.
“So what dish are you going to fix to show him up?” she murmured.
“I’m not.” He turned his head toward her and met her gaze.
“Oh, please,” she said as she eyed him with disbelief. “You were plotting something the minute you took a bite of that cannelloni.”
He lifted his wineglass to his mouth and took a drink. When he returned it to the table, he shifted in his seat and turned toward her. One elbow on the table, he draped his other arm over the back of her chair. He was close enough to touch, and the male scent of him flooded her senses until her blood ran sluggish through her veins. Deus, she wanted to kiss him. Touch him—make him cry out her name with need. She swallowed hard as his eye narrowed at her.
“It amazes me that you think you can read my mind so well, but you can’t read Pasquale’s intentions.” The unexpected observation made her frown.
“What are you talking about?”
“The man wants you.”
There was a hard edge to his words, but not even that really registered as she struggled to understand why he would even notice such a thing. As she stared at him in amazement, his gaze grew shuttered. With a shake of her head, she rolled her eyes at him.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said with a sniff of disgust. “You just don’t want to admit the man can match your skill in the kitchen.”
“And you hate being wrong.” He nodded in the direction of the other man. “He’s had his eyes on you for the last few minutes, wondering whether there’s anything between us.” Her heart slammed into her chest at the way Lysander’s mouth thinned with what appeared to be anger. Was he upset that Luciano was flirting with her? She reached for her wineglass and took a long draught of the fruity Lambrusco. What in Jupiter’s name was she thinking? The man hadn’t changed overnight.
But it was impossible not to notice something
had
changed between them. She didn’t know whether the incident with the rogue Sicari had something to do with his change in demeanor or whether she was simply looking at him differently. She frowned. Even if there was a small shift in the tension between them, she needed to remember the callous way he’d ended their relationship before it had even really begun.
He’d brutally said she’d been nothing more than a one-night stand to him. His cruel words had inflicted wounds that even a year later were still raw. Ironically, it had been at that moment she’d realized she was in love with him. The realization had only heightened the pain of his rejection, and her natural reaction had been to taunt him at every opportunity. He’d never retaliated—not once, and she’d always been too afraid to ask why. Afraid because loving him the way she did, she didn’t want to know just how indifferent he was to her. Instead, it was easier to taunt him in an attempt to hurt him as much as she was hurting.
But she was tired of being angry. Tired of trying to get a reaction from him when she knew, deep down, nothing she did or said was going to change the way things were between them. Lysander looked at her again and arched his eyebrow at her. Praying her expression hadn’t revealed her feelings, she slowly turned her head in response to Lysander’s silent command.
The moment she did so, she saw Luciano watching them with a narrowed gaze. As her gaze met his, he lifted his wineglass in her direction and sent her a mischievous smile. The man’s flirtatious manner was impossible to resist, and she smiled back. The minute she did so, she sensed a change in Lysander. The tension in him went up a notch.
She stiffened as the whisper of an unseen hand cradled the back of her neck in a possessive touch. It was gone so fast, she wasn’t sure whether it had been real or imaginary. Had Lysander caressed her? Her heart slammed into her chest in a frantic beat at the thought. She peeked a glance in his direction. Although his arm still rested on the back of her chair, he was in the process of taking a drink of wine.
If she didn’t know better, she could swear he was struggling hard to maintain that stoic calm of his. No, she was reading more into his behavior than there was. But if he’d not touched her, then—she shivered as an icy chill slid down her back. Was it possible the rogue Sicari had found her? No. She wouldn’t even go there. It was crazy to think the
bastardo
was within reach of her.
The Order owned almost the entire city block surrounding the safe house, and despite its aged appearance, the complex was well fortified. The security equipment in place was the best money could buy. From steel doors at the main entrances, to iron defenses at every window and balcony, the house was almost impenetrable. She looked back at Luciano, and saw him watching her intently.
Had he been the one to touch her? Deus, she wasn’t even sure someone had touched her. She bit her lip. The fact that she was even obsessing about it showed how edgy her encounter with that rogue son of a bitch had made her. She resented it. And she hated herself for letting the incident affect her at all. Beside her, Atia laughed. Startled, she looked at the Prim
a Consul
, who waved her hand at Angelo seated opposite her.
“I can assure you, Atellus, I think I’d rather come back as a rock in the next life than explore the catacombs with you.”
“But they’re fascinating, Madame
Consul
.” Angelo laughed as he leaned forward and wagged his finger at Atia. “Why, for all you know, the bones of the person you were in a past life might be at rest there.”
“Impossible. Sicari never bury their dead. We leave this earth in a purifying blaze of fire.” Atia sniffed her disdain before grinning at the man opposite her. “All my past lives have all been as a Sicari. I feel it in my bones. You, Angelo Atellus, are a historian who doesn’t appreciate the romantic aspects of history. Dried up bones are
not
romantic.”
“Not so, il
mia signora
. I think history can be quite romantic, even tragically so. For example, I find the story of Maximus and Cassiopeia m
ost
compelling. Here was a man who’d just lost most of his men in the Battle of Milvian Bridge. He’s in retreat from Constantine I when he learns his wife is still in Rome, about to be handed over to fanatical followers of the Church.” Angelo’s expression was one of pensive sadness as he met Atia’s gaze across the table. He made a noise that was a mix of amazement and disbelief.
“I can’t imagine what Maximus must have been thinking, feeling, as he raced back to Rome only to arrive too late to save Cassiopeia. The man must have had nerves of steel to make his dagger hit its mark as the mob was burning his wife alive.” Atellus reached for his wife’s hand and sent her a loving glance. “I would gladly give my life for Maria, but I do not know that I would have had as steady a hand as Maximus must have.”
Listening to the conversation, Phaedra remembered her dreams and felt like kicking herself. Her dreams were nothing more than a memory from a story she’d heard since childhood. Well, maybe not a story, but at least bits and pieces of the legend. She’d simply made the first Sicari Lord look like Lysander in her dreams. She was an idiot. Atia’s shoulder brushed hers as the Prim
a Consul
leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table. A contemplative look on her face, the older woman folded her hands and formed a steeple with her forefingers.
