Sinful Infatuation

Sinful Infatuation: Chapter 3

“So, Jourdain is it?” Lorenzo started as the chefs walked in and began serving a delicious looking breakfast.

Jourdain nodded, looking Lorenzo over. He was tall; although not as tall as Matteo, with wavy brown hair, brown eyes and a mustache. Overall, he was a good-looking man, whose eyes were lit up in good humor. He seemed to be a man that laughed a lot and often.

A plate was placed in front of her, distracting her from her musings. “Eggs Florentine with salmon, honey-vanilla crème stuffed French toast, and meat quiche,” the chef announced. The smell emanating from her plate was tantalizing, beckoning her to partake in its rich flavors. She hungrily dug into her food. “How was your slumber last night, bella?” Lorenzo asked, his voice overpowering the silence in the room.

Jourdain cut a glare towards Matteo’s direction before glancing back at Lorenzo with a nonchalant shrug, “Rather unsatisfying actually.” Lorenzo looked like he wanted to laugh, noticing the tension between the two and their matching glares. Jourdain turned her attention back towards her food.

“So does that mean we can’t expect you to see you anytime soon?” Lorenzo asked as he popped the meat quiche into his mouth. “Definitely not. I have a life to get back to.” Lorenzo smirked, “And what kind of life would that be?”

“A life without Matteo, or Gianni as you call him, his little gang, and fancy Hampton mansion,” she paused for a moment before adding somewhat insincerely, “no offense.”

Lorenzo shook his head, “None taken. You’re feisty. I like that. But Gianni here is very persistent. Throughout all the years I’ve known him, he’s never given up what he wanted that easily.”

“As much as I’d like to go back and forth with you, I need to be on my way now. Matteo, lets go,” Jourdain said sternly. Matteo said nothing, just peered pointedly over his newspaper to her plate full of food, before returning his attention to the paper. Jourdain’s hand curled into a fist, her jaw locking with frustration. “What part of, ‘I have a fiancé to get home to,’ don’t you understand?”

Lorenzo whistled low under his breath. “And the plot thickens.” Jourdain cut a glare his way, to which he innocently stared back. “The agreement was that you would eat breakfast and then I would take you home.” She stood up quickly, her chair almost falling backward in her rush. “What am I? Five?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “You know what? Screw you. I’ll call a cab.”

A warm, firm hand tightly gripped her wrist. Turning around, Jourdain gasped slightly as her dark eyes met his stunning green ones, their bodies once again so close that she could feel the heat emanating from him. His strong smelling cologne lovingly caressed her senses, its attractive scent driving her mad. His free hand rose to her lips, pressing something against them. Her lips parted as she realized that he was forcibly feeding her quiche. “Chew,” he ordered softly, his deep voice rumbling in his broad chest. Jourdain absently followed his command, silently enjoying the meat pastry as Matteo continued to stare into her eyes. She was afraid to keep staring, but couldn’t look away. His warm breath fanned against her face as he leaned in, pressing his lips against her blushing cheeks in a show of uncharacteristic gentleness. Jourdain’s eyes fluttered closed, her long, dark lashes brushing against the tops of her cheeks, a low moan escaping her plump lips as he kissed a trail to her ear. Upon hearing the almost quiet sound, Matteo smiled against her ear. “Now, we leave.”

Tightening his hand on her wrist, he pulled Jourdain out of the kitchen towards the garage, ignoring the chefs who had stopped cooking to watch the display and a laughing Lorenzo.

****

Matteo sat behind the wheel of his blacked out Bugatti as they sped down the Long Island Expressway. From the corner of his eye, he could see Jourdain staring out the window as the scenery blurred past the luxury car. It took everything in him not to pull the car over and remind her exactly of what happened last night. Even in her uniform from last night, a humble white t-shirt and black pants, she was a pleasant sight to look at, her curvy shape deliciously on display for his greedy eyes.

“Dio è che mi fa impazzire,” he muttered to himself. “What was that?” she asked, glaring at him. He ignored her, choosing to pay attention to the road. She scoffed, “You’re just as obnoxious as this car.” She looked around with disgust, as if she were in a ’98 station wagon. Matteo raised a brow, “Why don’t you worry about the story you’re going to feed him?” “I’m not going to feed him a story. I’m going to tell him the truth. I was drugged, kidnapped, coerced into doing depraved acts and forced to eat meat quiche. Which was delicious by the way, compliments to the chef.”

“You’ll remember what happened last night soon enough. Clearly, you had too much to drink. Although, I’m surprised that you don’t seem to be suffering from much of a hangover.” Jourdain let out a un-lady like snort. “Hangover? Please. I’m a bartender. We don’t get hangovers.”

Before he could respond, his cell phone began to ring. The Bluetooth connection in his car automatically picked up the call as he answered it. The timid voice of Benny, one of his runners, came through the speakers in the car. Matteo was immediately alert, aware that Jourdain would try to listen to every word. “Uh, Gianni, I mean sir. There’s a problem.”

****

Jourdain cursed silently as Matteo responded in rapid fire Italian, leaving her absolutely clueless to what was going on. All she gathered from the timid voice of the speaker and Matteo’s angry, gruff responses was that something bad happened. In fact, she began to wonder just what Matteo did for a living. Whatever it was, it was clearly stressful, she thought, as she watched Matteo’s face redden and the veins of his neck bulge out. Jourdain listened closely, alarmed when Matteo ended the call, in English, with, “I’ll be there in twenty. Don’t fucking say anything to anybody until I get there.” “Yes, boss,” the caller said before hanging up.

Just before she could process what he said, Matteo began to get off at the nearest exit, an exit that was nowhere near the one she needed to get home. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Matteo. Where the hell are we going?” “I need to take care of something,” he muttered. “Matteo,” she started slowly, “I need to get home. This has gone on long enough.” “Essere tranquillo! (Be quiet!),” Matteo shouted, “You’ll get home when I’m done. You weren’t in a fucking rush to get home last night, so forgive me if I don’t understand the rush.” Jourdain stared at his profile, mouth open. She punched his arm repeatedly. “Fuck you, you prick! I swear to God, once you drop me off, I want nothing to do with you. You better not show your face at the club!”

“Tough luck, bella. I own the club. You’ll be seeing plenty of me.”

Well, damn.