Chapter 6
NATALIE
“You’re here for a tour of the house?”
Sergio Benedetti, looking like a giant in my tiny kitchen, shrugs a shoulder.
I am so freaking confused. Yesterday he stripped me naked and took dirty pictures of me to essentially blackmail me into keeping silent, and today, he’s here giving me a gift of a brand-new iPhone and he wants a tour of the house?
“I don’t believe you.”
“All right, a tour and coffee,” he says.
“Is this a joke to you?”
“I’m not much for joking.”
“What, you want more pictures?” I cock my head to the side, fold my arms across my chest. “Not enough material to jerk off to?”
He chuckles. “Plenty, actually.” He winks, his eyes are practically glowing, the look inside them telling me he means exactly what he said.
I clear my throat and look away, embarrassed.
He mistakes my silence for an invitation and next thing I know, he’s hanging his coat up beside all the others.
“You have a lot of coats,” he says, looking through the collection.
“They’re not mine. I’m house-sitting for friends of my parents while they spend the winter in Florida.”
“Ah. Makes sense. I didn’t imagine a university student could afford one of these houses.”
“What I can or can’t afford isn’t any of your business.”
He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Just an observation.”
“Are you really not going to go until I give you a tour?”
“And coffee.”
“Why?”
“I’m thirsty and I want to see the house.”
He can’t be serious. “That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“No strings?”
“No strings.”
A voice in my head tells me that’s not quite right.
That there are strings. That there will always be strings with him.
But I shove that voice aside. There’s something about Sergio Benedetti.
It’s not that I like him. I don’t. You can’t like someone after they do what he did to me.
I don’t know what it is, though. I don’t know why I’m not really scared he’ll hurt me, even though I know who he is.
He won’t. And there’s something else. Something about him that makes me want him to stay, as little sense as that makes.
I wonder if it has to do with before, with the robbery. When he was the hero, not the villain.
“I want the pictures back,” I say, knowing it’s a long shot.
He shakes his head. “Can’t do that.”
“You can’t ever share them. It’ll hurt my parents if they ever thought—”
“Keep your end of the bargain and you have my word no one will see them.” He picks up the phone. “Just a tour and a cup of coffee. No tricks. No hidden agenda.”
I need the phone. I can’t afford to buy a new one right now.
“Okay.”
He puts the phone on the table and slides it toward me.
“This is the kitchen.” I’ll keep it short.
I walk past him, my shoulder brushing against his arm when I do, feeling the solid mass of muscle.
It makes my belly flutter. Makes me remember the feel of his hand on my bare hip last night.
Makes me think of how he looked at me, and I swallow hard, feeling my face flush, grateful my back is to him.
“Come on, Pepper,” I say, although she’s not much of a guard dog when it comes to him from the way she’s nudging her head against his leg.
Pepper, the German Shepherd who came with the property, lopes toward me. She’s so old, she can barely see, but she’s usually good about barking at strangers.
“She’s quite the guard dog,” Sergio comments, probably aware why I called her.
“Her sense of smell must be off if she likes you.”
I catch his smile when I glance behind me.
“Living room,” I say, pointing out the obvious. I love this house, love the charm, the creaks and even the ghosts I imagine on dark nights, but it is small and Sergio makes it look that much smaller.
“This is great,” he says, touching the bookshelf, obviously appreciating the old wood and antiques. “How old is the house?”
I tell him, just talk to him like he’s not who he is. Like last night didn’t happen. It’s awkward, but I try to ignore it. It’ll be over soon. Coffee and a tour. He’ll be gone in fifteen minutes.
He follows me through the living room, and I point out the bathroom downstairs before climbing the narrow staircase up to the second floor. Pepper stays at the bottom of the stairs watching us.
“She’s too old to climb anymore,” I say.
He nods. “Low ceilings.” He has to duck his head.
“It’s got more space than you’d think,” I say, pointing out the two bedrooms. “This one’s mine.” I open the door to my messy room, walk in ahead of him and kick some clothes under the bed, close the dresser drawer that’s still open and turn to him. He’s checking out the fireplace.
“Can you use this?”
“I think so. I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to burn down the neighborhood. You could say I’m accident prone.” As if to demonstrate, I trip over a shoe on the floor.
“You’re messy. That’s why you’re accident prone.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
He stands there watching me, and I see the shadow behind that light-hearted, entertained look on his face, in his eyes. He’s dark. At his core, no matter how he tries to mask it on the surface, there’s a darkness to him.
I shudder. Tell myself I have to remember this.
“I know you from somewhere,” he says. Does he remember that convenience store robbery?
“Is that the real reason you’re here?” I ask. I know he isn’t interested in a tour or coffee.
Before he can respond, I hear the buzzing of a cell phone announcing a message.
Sergio reaches into his pocket, reads the screen.
He types something back then returns his gaze to me.
His eyes, last night I’d thought they were black, but I see now they’re midnight blue with specks of gold in them.
Like stars. Like a clear night sky with stars.
I take a deep breath in. He’s so close I can smell his aftershave.
Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Do I?” he asks.
He’s studying me and my heart is racing.
I wonder if he can hear it. But then he’s reading another message.
He’s preoccupied. His phone buzzes a third time.
After reading that message, he mutters a curse under his breath.
Texts something. Pushes his suit jacket back to tuck his hand into his pants pocket.
That’s when I see something glint, shiny and black in its holster under his arm.
“Do you have a gun with you?”
He doesn’t reply, just narrows one eye, weighing how to answer my question perhaps. Or trying to steal my memory, to know why he feels a familiarity.
“Did you bring a gun into my house?” I ask again.
“It’s not your house, remember?”
“Did you?”
“Would it scare you if I said yes?”
“You put one to my head yesterday.”
“Before I realized you were…you.”
“You scared me,” I admit.
He pauses. Wrinkles form around his eyes for a moment as if this is a revelation to him. “Do I scare you now?”
I don’t have to think about it. I shake my head. “No.”
“Good. Besides, guns are more part of your life than you think.”
“What do you mean?”
His phone buzzes again. It’s irritating to have him read his messages while he’s talking to me. He types a quick reply before giving me his attention, but I can see he’s distracted.
“Second amendment, sweetheart. The world you live in is a violent one. You’re just blissfully unaware.”
“Maybe that’s true for you, but not for me. I don’t deal with guns or the mob.”
“You’d be surprised.” He steps back. “I have to go.”
“Oh.” I’m oddly disappointed when he gestures to the bedroom door.
“I’ll take a raincheck on the coffee though.”
My shoulder brushes against his hard chest when I walk past him and out the door.
I don’t look back as I descend the stairs, my heart still beating fast. In the kitchen, I look at the box containing the brand-new phone, wondering yet again how, twice in less than twenty-four hours, I find myself in a wholly surreal situation with Sergio Benedetti in the driver’s seat.
He opens the front door and a cold gust of wind blows in.
“You have good locks on these doors, Natalie?” he asks, twisting the doorknobs, testing the lock.
“That’s a strange question.”
He turns back to me. “You’re an attractive, young girl living alone in the city.”
“Woman. Not girl. And I can take care of myself.” His face tells me he believes otherwise, and I get that. Because last night didn’t exactly make my case.
“The locks?” he asks again, ignoring my comment.
“They’re fine.”
He walks out of the house but turns back like he’s about to say something. His phone rings this time and he steps out, but before answering, he mouths for me to lock the door.
My mind is still in a daze when I get to the coffee shop to meet Drew the next afternoon. I walk inside to find him waiting for me at our usual table. He makes a show of checking his watch and I do the same on my new phone.
“I’m barely seven minutes late,” I say, setting my purse down and pulling out a chair.
“Oh, nice,” he says, taking the phone from me and looking at it. “What happened to your old one?” He sets it down. The phone, a rose gold, came ready to go and had one phone number programmed in it. Sergio Benedetti’s.
No strings my ass.
“Long story,” I say, not wanting to lie.
Drew’s my best friend. I’ve known him since I was a kid and we even dated through senior year of high school.
But he was always more into boys than girls.
Him coming out to me was the same day we broke up and I just remember feeling so happy for him that he knew, really knew, and was deciding to no longer hide it.
He was supposed to go to the warehouse with me, but canceled at the last minute. I’m glad now that he wasn’t there.
“Rough night?” he asks.
“Is it obvious?” I wave to Mandy at the bar. I work here, and I pretty much never deviate from my double shot cappuccino, so she gives me a nod to let me know she’s already working on it.
“Only because I know you. You went to that warehouse, didn’t you? I told you to wait for me.”