Naked Love(2)

I went from a lowly massage therapist, barely scraping by each month, to managing L.A.’s newest boutique spa that Anthony funded just for me, his angel. We’ve traveled the world together via private jet, luxury cars, and fancy yachts. Marriage is next. He’s hinted to it so many times, especially when I’ve suggested moving in together. His parents are devout Catholics, and he wants to please them by “doing things the right way.” I can wait.

“Anthony, why aren’t you answering your phone? It’s almost eight, and I’ve had the worst day of my life. I need you to send a car for me. I can’t drive.” I sniffle. “Sw-Swarley ruined my hand!” A sob breaks from my chest because I’m in pain, my sister is gone, Anthony won’t answer his phone, and I may never give another massage again.

Swarley cocks his head at me. Maybe it’s an apology. I can’t forgive him. Not yet. At the moment, he’s nothing more than another selfish male in my life, reacting on impulse with no consideration for my feelings.

Except Anthony. He cares.

It took many failed relationships, cheating asshats, and broken hearts to finally find a man who really cares about me. I think it’s because he’s older and more mature. He comes from a strong family. And I’m young, beautiful, and fertile—his words, not mine. Although, I didn’t argue with him.

We’re going to have three kids, a Teacup Poodle that doesn’t need to be walked on a leash, a tummy tuck and boob job after our last child, and I’m going to be the center of my family’s world.

After an hour with no callback and no driver buzzing my door, I kick Swarley out to the sharks again, but he comes back unscathed. I dump some food into his bowl just before heading out to catch an Uber. Maybe my neighbor, Ronnie, will let him out later if I offer a free—No … Son of a biscuit! I can’t offer a chair massage. Swarley robbed every bit of bartering power I have.

A half hour later, I arrive at Anthony’s sprawling estate—the castle where one day I will be his queen. The driver pulls forward so I can enter the code to open the security gate. I wonder if I will ever stop having these pinch-me moments that this is my life. Swarley’s run-in with the cat probably ruined my chances of ever giving someone a good massage again. I will miss some of my favorite clients, but taking care of the day-to-day tasks around here will be a full-time job.

“Anthony?” My voice echoes across the cathedral ceiling as I shut the front door. The grand marble entry gives way to an even grander split staircase.

“Miss Montgomery.” Kim, Anthony’s full-time cook, greets me in the foyer, curling a strand of shoulder-length black hair behind her ear. I envy her perfectly straight hair, flawless Asian skin, and shy demeanor.

Her presence calms me. I hope when I move in here, Anthony keeps her here to cook for our family.

She frowns as her gaze affixes to my wrapped hand hugged to my chest. “Oh, dear …”

“My sister’s dog chased a cat on our walk. He didn’t seem to care that the leash was wrapped around my hand. Supposedly, it’s not broken, but I wonder if they read the X-ray wrong. It’s the worst pain imaginable.”

Kim grimaces. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. Me too. Where’s Anthony? I tried calling him.”

“He’s in his office.”

“Thanks.” I take a few steps toward his office and turn back to Kim. “You’re here late.”

“Mr. Bianchi requested I make some meals and freeze them since I will be on vacation next week.”

“Oh. Lovely. Where are you going?”

Kim’s expression morphs into something between nervous and scared. “Um …”

I shake my head. “Sorry. It’s none of my business. I hope you have a nice trip. We’ll probably eat out most of the time.” I gesture to my hand. “Clearly I won’t be doing any cooking.”

A constipated smile settles onto Kim’s face as her head dips into a cautious nod.

I knock twice on Anthony’s office door.

“Come in.”

I ease open the solid cherry door.

“There’s my angel.” Anthony shuts his laptop and leans back in his leather chair behind the presidential-looking desk.

He’s twenty years my senior, but at forty-nine he’s the sexiest silver fox I’ve ever seen. Okay, maybe the second sexiest silver fox I’ve ever seen. I once dated a guy in his early fifties who looked like the Pretty Woman version of Richard Gere—but with straight teeth and more muscle definition. He died unexpectedly during a routine procedure to repair a hernia. I wasn’t in his will. Apparently, three months of deep-throating isn’t enough to get as much as a pair of diamond and white gold cufflinks. Lesson learned.

Anthony has an odd-shaped nose, like a three-year-old’s first attempt at molding putty, and it’s a bit too big for his face. He tastes of thick, molten whisky and the clashing flavor of spicy, full-bodied, hand-rolled Cuban cigars. I used to be more of a minty mouthwash kind of girl, but I’ve grown accustomed to his particular taste. Money.

Anthony Bianchi Jr. tastes like money, and he treats me like a queen.

I’ve tried the sweet nice-guy route—the jock, the teacher, the aspiring actor, the musician. I’ve tried the bad-boy route—the tattoo artist, the wannabe rock star, the guy who always carried a gun but couldn’t tell me why. They are all cheaters with no direction and clueless when it comes to knowing how to treat a woman.