“Mmm.” Brielle tried on her dreamiest look. “I only remember his lips in a dream.”
Elie’s brows came together. “Is that so? In a dream?”
“I hovered above us and watched him. He appeared a little distracted. Not fully focused the way you are when your lips are on mine,” she clarified.
Brielle decided she might have gone a little too far in teasing him when he got a wholly wicked smirk on his face. Elie was the master of evil planning. He had more ways to tease her sexually than she could ever conceive of. At least he didn’t have any of his toys with him. That would have been horrible in a room filled with Ferraros she didn’t know very well. It also would have been secretly thrilling if she believed she could have gotten away with it without anyone suspecting—which she doubted. The Ferraros were too perceptive.
It didn’t take much for her to be aroused. She’d been too long without Elie. Now she was thinking about sex. Wondering what he was going to do. Or say. He would do something and he’d make her wait. Her heart accelerated. He always made her feel alive. When she was nervous, he turned her entire focus on him.
“Elie, be serious, does Dario actually run a lavender farm?”
He grinned at her, sweeping his arm around her waist and heading through the great room toward the sound of laughter. Clearly, he knew exactly where he was going. “Yes, he does. I think he really runs it himself, too. He wouldn’t admit it, if you came right out and asked, he’d probably give you his ‘fuck you’ look, or his ‘shut up or you’re dead’ look, but Val believes he runs it himself. He has a manager, but he oversees it. Dario doesn’t let much out of his hands.”
Brielle didn’t have time to admire the elegant features of Stefano and Francesca’s home. The large dining area opened straight into the kitchen so it was one huge room. She recognized Taviano at the stove stirring what appeared to be spaghetti sauce in a commercial-size pot, while Emmanuelle was chopping vegetables at the center island. Both whirled around as Elie and Brielle entered.
“Oh, good, Brielle,” Emmanuelle greeted her. “Francesca and Stefano had to step out for a few minutes. She forgot the baby had a checkup. They’ll be right back, but the dinner is not going to be ready in time. She was going to whip up some dessert, which is not the forte of either of us. Nicoletta is having some kind of meeting with buyers or sellers for Lucia’s Treasures and will be late, so no help there.”
Elie looked outraged. He caught Brielle’s elbow. “Are you seriously suggesting my wife, who, let me remind you, was shot six times less than two weeks ago, should help with the cooking the first time she comes to dinner?”
“Well . . .” Taviano paused for a moment. “Yeah. She’s family. Brielle, you’re tough, right? What’s a few bullets? You can whip up one of your desserts Elie’s always bragging about while you’re sitting down, can’t you? Elie can hand you anything you need. If we don’t have it up here, they’ll have it downstairs in the kitchens.” He grinned at Elie, entirely unrepentant.
Brielle laughed, feeling much better. If she was busy, not just sitting around trying to think up things to say, she wouldn’t chatter like an idiot. “As a matter of fact, Taviano, I’m very tough. A few bullets won’t stop me from making a dessert. Let me look in the fridge and freezer and see what you have.”
Taviano looked like his oldest brother, Stefano. He had the same black hair that seemed artfully messy and the same blue eyes. His nose was straight, his jaw strong and covered in the signature Ferraro persistent darker shadow that helped, despite his sensual mouth, to make him look tough, confident and a bit arrogant.
“She’s tough because I gave her the air right out of my lungs,” Dario stated from where he was lounging against the wall.
Emme flung a knife at him. It lodged beside his left ear, the tip buried deep in the wall. Dario sighed and yanked it free. “You’ll be the one over here mudding and painting, you little monster. Val, keep your woman under control.”
“No woman is tough because you breathed your nasty air into her lungs,” Emmanuelle declared.
“Actually,” Brielle said sweetly as she scrubbed her hands. “Dario’s breath smelled just like lavender. I think that’s what brought me back. I was hovering above my body watching everything happening and then this lavender scent began calling to me. It was impossible to ignore. You know how lavender is, Emme. One feels so calm around lavender.”
“You could use more lavender in your life, Emme. You’re always wound up so tight,” Elie said. “We should find out where to order some for you.”
“It’s really good for you.” Brielle studied the contents of the fridge and then the freezer. “I can make little fresh peach or apricot soufflés if everyone likes them.”
“That sounds delicious,” Emmanuelle said. “Is it a lot of work? I’ll lend you a hand when I finish chopping all the veggies—which Val or Dario could be doing for me, so I could help you.” She looked up to glare at the two men.
“Lavender is supposed to be calming, Emme,” Elie continued. “Dario, if your breath smells like lavender, maybe you should go breathe on the dragon and see if that calms her down. You have to get up close and personal so she gets the full effect of your sweet breath.”
“I have a gun, Elie,” Dario announced.
“Tell me what you need, Brielle, and I’ll get it for you,” Elie offered. “You can sit on the high-backed stool up by the counter.”
“I’ll need to be able to move around,” she protested and then stopped at the look on his face. He’d brought her against his better judgment. She was in the kitchen working rather than in a bed. Cooperating with him might work in her favor. She gave him a smile. “Thanks, honey.” She rattled off a quick list of everything she’d need.
Elie was fast and efficient, keeping out of Taviano and Emmanuelle’s way as he maneuvered through the kitchen, getting all the ingredients and the necessary mixing bowls and utensils. Brielle loved watching him move. He had a panther-like quality to him, silent, muscles moving beneath his shirt. He was wearing casual clothes, but the tee stretching over his chest was a dark charcoal with thin, gray stripes. Somehow, his choice of clothing emphasized the predatory quality to his movements.
Emmanuelle looked up from where she was chopping vegetables with swift efficiency. “Seriously, Brielle, do you actually remember Dario and Raimondo doing CPR on you? How could you when your heart had stopped?”
Elie sighed. “Could we just not talk about this? Walking into my house and seeing my wife on that table with the surgeon up to his elbows in blood was the worst experience of my life.” He fixed a stern eye on Brielle. “We aren’t repeating it. Ever.”
Taviano laughed. “Lay down the law, brother. I hear you loud and clear. Does your woman? My experience with women—which comes mostly from growing up with my sister, I’ll admit—is they don’t hear a thing we say to them.”
“Or if they do hear,” Dario corrected him, “they ignore you because they don’t have to deal with the consequences of their actions.” He didn’t look up from his phone. “Or they believe their actions have no consequences.”
Emmanuelle threw another knife at him. This one stuck very close to his shoulder—so close, it just missed his immaculate dark blue shirt.