“Skype and shower, oh, man!” He rose from the bed and started collecting his clothes. He paused at the foot of the bed and grimaced at the mess he had made on Sophia’s rug. I have to take care of this first.

He took a towel from the bathroom and wrapped it around his waist. He knocked on Sophia’s bathroom door and heard her talking and chuckling inside. Surely she joked about sharing showers with others.

She exclaimed Edward’s name and gave a sexy, throaty laugh. Immediately, jealousy and betrayal raised their ugly heads in his mind.

Davidoff! He’s an interesting man. Perhaps, Sophia- No, surely not.

No. She isn’t Heather.

Heather’s dead!

This is Sophia.

Sophia!

He shook his head and knocked again. The door opened to reveal a smiling, trusting Sophia.

Naked, very naked. Alistair cursed his scruples.

“Yes? Changed your mind?”

“No.” He glanced around searching for her iPhone. “Are you busy?”

“Busy?” she asked confused, examining his scowl. “No, not yet.”

“I need something to clean your rug. You know.”

She seized him by the arm, yanking him inside with force. He stumbled into the bathroom. “I don’t need a house cleaner. We can do that later. Don’t be chicken,” she laughed, “Get in the shower with me.”

Fuck. “Sophia,” he cleared his throat, “don’t tempt me.”

“Too late.” She turned the lock and took out the key, waving it away from him. “Oh, come on, it’s just water. Are you afraid of water?”

“I’m unable to resist.” He captured her in his arms and spoke on her lips, “It’s not the water that frightens me, Beauty. It’s the siren in it.”

“Um, a poet. I like it.” She gave him a peck on the lips, “All right.” She opened the door, sighing. “Enjoy your shower, alone,” she pivoted on herself, grinning wolfishly, “because next time I won’t allow it.”


9.27 p.m.

Sophia came out of the dressing room wearing a green-and-blue wrap dress, no shoes, and her hair piled up in a bun secured with a Japanese hair stick.

Alistair had already showered and was wearing his gray jeans.

She found him on his knees, a brush in his hand, cleaning her rug. His black hair, still damp from the shower, fell around his face and the muscles on his arms and back rose with his movements.

She coughed and had to turn not to laugh at the scene.

“What’s so funny?” He asked from the floor, stopping to stare at her.

“You.” She said with her back turned. “I never thought I would have a pagan god cleaning my rug.” She spun to watch him with an endearing look on her face, kneeling by him. “You don’t have to do this. By the way, where did you find the brush?”

“Of course I have to do this. I made the mess-”

“We made the mess together,” she interrupted him, with a kiss, “we clean it together, got it?” She took the brush from his hand and entered his bathroom. She left the brush on the double sink, washing her hands as he washed his.

“Come. I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten since lunch.” She waited for him to put his cardigan and loafers on. “You didn’t answer me; where did you find the brush?”

“I have superpowers,” he said, winking at her.

“I can believe that,” she grinned at him, enchanted. “Let’s see if your powers can help me with dinner.”

They walked hand in hand to the kitchen.

“So, what can I do?” Alistair asked, looking around.

“Do you remember where the cellar is?” she looked up from the refrigerator.

“Aye,” he nodded.

“You can choose a bottle of red wine for us.”

“Which one do you want?”

“Hmm, let’s see,” she thought while taking a box of Italian pasta from the cupboard, “do you prefer Italian or French?”

He laughed, “Both.”

“Great. Choose a French one for us, please. They’re on the left-hand side.”

A few minutes later, Alistair returned without the wine, a weird look on his face.

“You didn’t find anything you liked?” Sophia looked up from the board where she was cutting fresh artichoke hearts.

He shook his head, “No, that’s not it. I couldn’t. I think it’s better if you chose the wine.”

“All right,” Sophia finished the artichokes and wiped her hands on a towel. “Don’t touch anything.” She thought for a moment and stretched her hand, “Better, come with me. We’re going to choose the wine together.”

He backed away, “No, I would rather wait here.”

Sophia stared at him, “Alistair Connor.”

He smiled at the way she spoke his name, scolding him.

“What’s the matter? I want you to come with me,” she stated her will firmly and motioned with her hand. “Please,” the last word just a sweetened sauce to the command.

He sighed, took her hand in his, and walked beside her. Looking down at her cleavage and the way the dress hugged her curves, he murmured, “Beautiful dress.”

Naïvely, she answered, “Oh, I love Diane de Furstenberg’s dresses. They’re so elegant and comfortable.”

He chuckled, saying mockingly, “From my point of view, you can always wear them.”

She looked up, trying to discern why he said that, when she realized he had a predatory grin on his face.

Sophia stopped and turned to look at him, smiling, “You pervert.”

Pervert? I haven’t even started. He ran his hands from her collarbones to her hips and back again, ending on her breasts, “This dress complements your body.” He gripped her waist dragging her into his arms, “or should I say that your body complements the dress?” He kissed her. “You confound me.”

She laughed, squirming from his embrace, “I’m hungry, and I’m dying for a glass of wine.” Lifting the hem of her dress, she ran in the direction of the cellar.

He smiled and followed her, entering the dim cellar, nearly bumping into her. She frowned looking at a bottle in her hands.

He glanced down at it. “You don’t want to open that.”

“Why not?” She looked up from the 1982 Château Mouton-Rothschild to search his face.

“It’s unnecessary to open such an expensive-”

“Do you know the price of this bottle?” As he nodded, she put it back with the others and moved to another section, pulling out a 1934 Romanée Conti and peered at him with raised brows.

He shook his head, his emotions swinging from astonishment to aggravation, a twinge of uneasiness in the background.

She slipped it back and seized another bottle.

He frowned, “Sophia, please. Don’t be a child.”

“You don’t like the 1978 Montrachet Domaine de la Romanée Conti?” She put it back and moved again dragging out a 1945 Château Mouton-Rothschild this time, “How about this one?” She flung the bottle in the air, carelessly, catching it with one hand.

“Sophia, stop.”

“No?” She turned and glowered at him, her honey eyes blazing. Her trembling hand held the expensive bottle. “I don’t understand what’s happening here. I asked you to choose a bottle for us from the ones I have. You came back empty-handed. I select one and you say I cannot open it because it’s too expensive? Too expensive?” Breathless, she said, “I can’t open a bottle that costs ten thousand pounds for you to drink? Or a fifty thousand one?” She swallowed and narrowed her eyes. “Why? Would you rather I crashed it on the floor?”

“Christ, Sophia.” His anger flared, “Control yourself.”

“Yes, my lord. I apologize, sire.” She bowed, seriously. “But you drank from my body, didn’t you? Is this” she motioned to the bottle, “more valuable?” Her hand holding the bottle lifted an inch higher. “I don’t think so.”

“Stop!” He ordered nearly shouting, his voice reverberated on the rocky walls. He understood her rage. “Stop,” he lowered his voice to an even and commanding tone. “I didn’t mean to insult you,” he breathed deep and continued in a low, silky voice. He stepped forward slowly, as if she were a scared and hurt little animal that any sudden movement would frighten, “Nothing compares to your taste, Sophia. Not even one of your most expensive wines.” He moved in front of her and lifted his hands slowly. He caressed her face with his knuckles, “Choose. I will drink with pleasure whatever you desire.”

She leaned on his body, her forehead resting on his chest. “Sorry, I overreacted.”

“You do have a temper, don’t you?” He laughed when she punched him in the arm, after putting the 1945 Mouton-Rothschild in its place.

“Try me.” She reached for the bottle she had chosen first, leaving the cellar.

Back in the kitchen, she put the bottle on the island. She put an opener and a crystal-and-silver decanter next to the bottle. “Here, help me or I won’t feed you.”

“Are you threatening me?” He snatched her to him and his arms circled her in a tight hug. He spoke so near her lips, she could feel him breathing. “Feed me or I will not pleasure you again. Your decision.” His beautiful green eyes held an inscrutable expression.

“That’s your problem,” she dismissed his warning, not at all afraid of the big man looming over her. “You lose on both counts.” She kissed him, “You’ll starve,” kissing him again, “for food,” another kiss, “and for me.”

He eased his stance and embraced her as she playfully kissed him, dismissing her ultimatum. “Witch.” Giving her butt a loud and heavy swat. She yelped. Aye, Beauty. First lesson. He grinned at her and turned to open the bottle. “Why do you have so many expensive bottles of wine in your cellar?”

“Because.”

“Sophia.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. That’s not an answer,” she restated his words and searched in her cupboard for the pot she needed. She filled it with water and put it on the stove. “I love wine, those are considered the best. I bought them.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Isn’t that enough?”

He poured just a bit of wine for each of them and let the rest breathe in the decanter. “Indeed. A good answer. I missed the foot stomping on the floor.” His lips curled up slightly and he handed the crystal glass to her. “A toast,” he prompted, “to you, the most beautiful and intelligent woman I’ve ever met.”

“To you, an intriguing man, and to us,” she replied and drank the wine. To us, an uncertainty.

“To us, may we together create a new path in life.” He hardened just imagining the things he would teach her.

“To… A new beginning,” she smiled at him. Then she remembered, “The foot stomping?”

“Yes. Just like children do.”

She looked at him, bewildered. “What?”

“You know, children stomp their feet when-” He laughed, lowering, as she hurled the dishcloth at him. Hmm. And now, Alistair Connor?

The doorbell rang, saving her from his counterattack.

“Are you expecting someone?” he frowned.

“Yes. I’ll be right back.” Sophia went to the back door. “Don’t move.”

Fuck. I’ve never been ordered around before. He rolled his broad and muscular shoulders and his neck. Relax, Alistair Connor. She’s worth it. He could hear her moving around the back of the house and speaking with someone.

“Who was it?” he asked when Sophia returned to the kitchen with a mischievous grin and a white plastic bag in her hand.

She didn’t answer and demanded, “Close your eyes.”

“Who was it, Sophia?”

“Never mind. Close your eyes. Please,” she asked again, approaching him with a sexy and mischievous expression on her face.

“I don’t know if I should,” he teased, but closed his eyes. He heard the sound of plastic rustling and felt as her long soft fingers held up his hand and, turning it over, put a small box on his palm.

“Open your eyes,” Sophia softly said, still holding his hand. On it was a pack of condoms.

“How…” He shook his head, bewildered.

“I have my ways. Come on, let’s eat before this pasta becomes mushy.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him to the table.

She added the chopped items, put the pasta in, and stirred again. After a few minutes, she picked up a bowl and put everything inside.

Sophia went to the table with the steaming bowl, served the pasta for them, and sat in front of him. “There’s some Grana Padano Riserva, if you want.”

He put some of the cheese on his pasta and handed her the bowl. She looked anxiously at him while he tried the pasta.

“Mmm,” he closed his eyes, savoring it. “This is very good.”

“So, you approve of me as a cook?”

He flashed a grin at her, “You’re approved, period.” He picked up her hand and kissed it. “Where did you learn how to cook?”