Delgano: A Dark Contemporary Interracial Romance

“Good, because I’m in the mood for,” he tapped a finger, “white rice, feijoada, pastel—with guava paste and cheese—and pão de queijo. I’ve had a shitty day. It makes sense I should eat what I want.”

She mimicked him, tapping a finger as she went. “So, that’s Brazilian white rice, a Brazilian stew made with black beans, beef, and pork, a fried guava and cheese pastry, and cheese buns?”

“Cheese bread.”

She nodded again, slower. “Okay. Then it’s good that I prepped some of the cheese bread before you came in the event you arrived hungry.”

A few discreet wisps of dark hair peeked near her temple, and her honey-brown skin outlined coppery eyes far too sultry for the innocent persona she presented. Along with the chef’s coat, she wore a floor-length patterned skirt and rubber shoes. Through the holes in the front of the shoes, he spotted colorful socks, which meant she was likely at the house before sunrise and after sunset—unless she had blood vessels the same size as a newborn’s.

After all, they were in Morocco.

“Sir, if you would like me to get started?—”

“I would like you to get started,” he said.

She walked off.

He looked around, taking in the layout. They were keeping him on one side of the house, but seeing as how the pool split the entire thing down the middle, the other half was likely a mirror image. Why they didn’t want him there, however, was something he’d deal with when an empty stomach didn’t hamper his ability to think clearly.

“There are snipers on the roof and perched all around the grounds,” a deep voice warned from behind him. “Eagle eye snipers with orders to shoot on sight.”

Of course.

“Mr. Delgano?” The chef returned, holding up a platter. “The cheese bread is ready, sir. How would you like me to serve you?”

He tilted his head toward the floor. “On your knees.”

She remained standing.

“Isn’t it your job to follow orders?” he asked. “I gave you an order, Chef Taghia.”

“My job is to cook for you. I don’t see how I could assist you on my knees.”

“To ensure that you understand our power dynamic.”

“If you’re that sure of yourself, why do you need a demonstration?”

A smile crept onto his face.

While reading people wasn’t necessarily his expertise, a blank sheet of unlined kraft paper was more expressive than this woman’s eyes.

“You’re hard to read,” he said, reaching for a roll of bread. “I suppose that’s intentional? It makes it more of a challenge to manipulate you?”

She shrugged. “Or it could be another reason.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m not a book…sir.”

Somehow, she’d gotten him to smile twice. The red-haired she-devil needed to spend time with this woman to learn how to communicate in ways that wouldn’t get her throat slit.

“Please, don’t call me ‘sir.’”

She handed him the platter, turned, and headed for the stove. “Dinner will be ready soon. Try not to fill yourself up on bread.”

“I’m a big boy with a healthy appetite.”

“Flirting already, Mr. Delgano?”