Chapter Six
W hen Giancarlo returned the next day, they fell into an unspoken truce. She didn't speak of her feelings, he didn't ask her to leave. Every second was precious...because neither of them knew how long it would last.
Sarica couldn't help but notice how thoroughly she still had him wrapped around her finger. She would absently mention something she craved, and it would be handed to her on a silver platter, literally. He would notice her shiver, and she didn't have to say a word after that. He would pull her into his arms and warm her up in the way only he could do so. Maybe one day he would figure out that she was not as sensitive to the cold as she used to?
But the thing that gave Sarica the most hope was how he kept finding excuses to touch her—-which was the exact opposite of the old Giancarlo, who had taken pains not to even be alone in the same room with her for years.
From the moment he entered their room, he would be holding and touching her in some way. Not a second would pass that they were not in contact. If she were to read a book, he wanted her to do so while curled up on his lap. If he caught her yawning, he would insist that she sleep in his arms and nowhere else. He insisted on bathing her and drying her hair. Dressing and feeding her. He insisted on doing everything for her and with her.
Everything could've been perfect.
She just had to remember not to look in his eyes.
Because in his gaze was the truth.
Giancarlo still had not changed his mind about her needing to leave, and why that was, she still had no idea.
Since it was pretty obvious that he loved her, could it be that her love was what he questioned? She wished she could ask him, but she also knew one wrong word would be more than enough to have him send her packing.
Patience, Sarica.
She never had much of it even as a kid, but it was never too late to learn.
Right?
God would let her know about His perfect timing. But until then, there was one last thing that she did want...
Giancarlo stared at her in disbelief. "You want a photo of me bare-chested? What for?"
The afternoon sun caught the silver in his hair, making him look like some kind of modern-day fairy tale prince. If princes wore thousand-dollar suits and carried concealed weapons, that is.
"Are you going to let me take a photo of you or not?"
"You must at least tell me why—"
"Because I'll be the only person in this world to—" Sarica's gaze narrowed at the flash of guilt that crossed his handsome face. "Are you telling me I'm wrong? Is there already someone else who has a photo of you... barechested ?"
Oh, the very idea had Sarica gnashing her teeth, and more so when Giancarlo only continued to stare at her.
"Are you jealous ?"
Dear God, I wish I could ask You to cover Your ears and pretend that you don't hear me. Because right now, I really, really want to ask Giancarlo if he's dumb.
"Of course I'm jealous," Sarica burst out. "I know you don't want to hear this, but too bad for you, I'm going to say it right now. I! Love! You! So of course I'm going to be fucking —-"
"STOP CURSING."
"I wish I could," Sarica said sweetly, "but since the day you went missing, I swore that I'll only stop swearing once you come back to me." She crossed her arms over her chest and stared up at him challengingly. " Have you come back to me, Giancarlo?"
The tension between them crackled like lightning about to strike. His gaze dropped to her lips, and for a moment she thought he might—
The sharp trill of his phone shattered the moment.
"I have to take this one, dolcezza . I'm sorry." Giancarlo was already backing away, his expression a mix of relief and regret.
Sarica stared at him in frustration. "But we—-"
"This would only take a few minutes. I'll be right back."
Giancarlo was gone before she could answer him, and contrary to his promise of a few minutes, half an hour had already passed with no sign of his return.
Aaaargh .
Sarica wished she still had it in her to drop an F-bomb, but she didn't really want to.
I'm sorry, God.
She had known even then that the promise she had made was pointless and stupid. But at that time, she herself had been made stupid by grief and despair, and falling back on her old bad habits was all she could think of.
Since rebelling in her younger years had been her way of grabbing Giancarlo's attention, she had decided to start swearing in hopes that a still-missing Giancarlo would hear of it and he'd be so incensed that he'd come right back to scold her.
Ugh.
God might as well take back her brains if she were to ever act that stupid again. And besides, even if Giancarlo didn't want to admit it just yet—-
They both knew he was hers.
Always was.
Always would be.
But—-
Sarica struggled against the urge to seethe in jealousy.
Was there really someone else who had Giancarlo's one and only bare-chested photo?
The thought nagged at Sarica as afternoon bled into evening with no sign of his return. She paced the luxurious prison, remembering how careful he'd been with his answers, how guilt had flashed across his face at her assumption.
Hmm .
There was only one way to get him back to the room, and Sarica put her plan into motion first thing the next morning.
"I'm sorry," she told the attendant who regularly brought her breakfast, making sure her voice carried to the others hovering nearby. "But I'm going on a hunger strike."
The effect was immediate. The staff started to panic, speaking rapidly among themselves in Arabic, and thank God for Dauphin's insistence on language training, which allowed Sarica to catch fragments of their conversation.
The master will kill us...
But we're not supposed to disturb him...
What about his wife?
Sarica's knees buckled, and she grabbed the back of a chair just in time to keep herself from crashing.
His wife?
Surely they could not be talking about her Giancarlo.
Right?
The room suddenly felt too small, the air too thin, and Sarica could feel her face lose color as memories assaulted her heart.
Was this why he wanted her to leave?
Was this why he had tried to keep his distance?
Was this why he did not want to hear her speak about her feelings?