Chapter 13
Ihave to shout back, up the huge stairwell, and I hate how weak and pathetic it makes me sound. “I’m not a cleaner.”
“No,” the sarcasm in the boom of his voice rolls back like distant thunder. “You don’t look like you’d be up to the work.”
Alessio Fortuna is a smoldering hunk of sarcastic bully. Every massive inch as hot, and powerful, and from what I can see, as cruel as his reputation.
“So,” he sounds as though even his disinterest takes more effort than it’s worth, “are you here to sell us something? Or has my father been demanding more masseuses?”
Every syllable curls with scorn. “To be honest, you don’t look like you would be up to that line of work, either. Take a piece of advice. If I were you, if you have to choose between the two jobs, I’d grab the mop and bucket. The work would be less unpleasant. Probably less hazardous, too.” He sniffs. “You look a bit delicate for any of it though, quite honestly.”
Before I can respond, his words rumble down to me again. “You look too delicate to even be here. Are you sure this is where you’re supposed to be?”
So, I’m getting the hang of how this goes. The bored older son is trying to spook me. He wants some fun at my expense. I want to say that it’s not working. It would be a lie, though.
After he’s waited a few moments and I haven’t risen to the taunt, he sighs. Dropping the act like a stone, his voice is flat. Bored and chillingly lifeless.
“You’re the Benedetti scrap, then. The peace offering.”
His words sting and make me want to fidget and squirm. And, of course, I want to yell back up at him. My lips purse. But I’m still not going to take his bait.
Another male voice roars out from the third floor balcony. “What has the cat dragged in?”
A distinctive muscular and athletic silhouette moves with the stealth and poise of a big cat. Middle brother Bruno appears, leaning his elbows on the carved bannister a floor lower.
None of his pictures prepared me for the searing burn of the hot poker tips of his eyes, or the pointed dimple in his chin. And not for the cruel crackle of his laugh. I can’t see the family resemblance between these two. Must be one of those cases where one boy looks just like the mother and the other one favors the father.
“Head to toe in threads from the decade that fashion forgot. What are those things you have on, dear? Are they knock-off Levis and Doc Martens from an outlet mall?”
He’s trying to goad me, too. I know. I shouldn’t answer but before I can stop myself, I’m shouting back up, “FYI,These are Roberto Cavalli jeans and Thursday’s Explorers.” But I could be wearing Bottega Veneta printed leather jeans. You oafs wouldn’t know the difference. I’m pathetically proud of myself, managing not to say the last part out loud.
“Oh,” the echoes of Bruno’s crushing laugh bounce around the stairwell, “it hisses! I wonder if it bites.”
A cramp reminds me that my jaw is clenched tight. I have to keep reminding myself to relax. Stay calm. Keep your composure, girl.
Alessio drawls, “What? Do you think the Benedettis are hoping we might tame it?”
Bruno chuckles, “Do you want to try?”
“On a Benedetti reject?” Alessio’s slow blink is like a wet slap. “What are we, a charity consignment store?”
“Look, it’s brought a big sack. Do you think that’s just a bag of garbage, or those are its clothes?”
My nails dig into my palms. Alessio’s head shakes. “What would be the difference?”
“Maybe she’s here on approval — try before you buy.”
“I pity Carlo.”
“Is the poor man supposed to take it as a pet or something?”
Alessio’s arrogance lifts up a smooth notch. “I think he’s supposed to marry it.”
“Do real people marry wild animals off the street? Is that even legal?”
Bruno is still looking down from the balcony when the quick, hard snap of a pair of heels approaches from one of the shadowy corridors.
A tall, slim woman in librarian glasses marches toward me. Her red hair is gathered up in a teacher’s ballerina bun, with three nearly perfect curls hanging on one side.
A sleek, green, calf-length tailored skirt drapes beautifully over her long curves, as does her high-collar cream blouse.
She stops about fifteen feet away to look at me and shake her head.
Her eyes narrow. Her voice is like an executive secretary in an outer office. The one you know you’ll never get past. In a prim there-must-be-some-mistake voice, she says, “You’re the Benedetti girl?”
She looks me up and down again, scrutinizing. Probing. Interrogating me with her eyes.
Finally, she lifts a perfectly manicured eyebrow and makes the smallest of shrugs. “Well,” she draws breath, “You’d better follow me.”
I don’t move. “And you are?”
She’s already half turned when surprise lights up her face. “Excuse me?”
“I should follow you, because you are…” I leave the sentence hanging.
Her eyes harden. “Because I am going to show you to your room.” Then she relents and her posture relaxes. “Mrs. Jago. I am in charge of the household. Everybody here calls me ‘Jaggers’.”
“Then you may call me Luciana, Mrs. Jago.” Nobody calls me by my full name. Nobody but Mikey. I’m already overwhelmed by the house and positively threatened by the two boys I’ve met. No matter how tiny and weak my clenched insides feel, I’m not going to let this woman think she can bully me.
Momma told me once, ‘If a woman gets herself up and dresses that well for work, five’ll get you ten she’s giving it to the boss.’ Mrs. Jago is hard and arrogant. I’m starting to think that everybody here is. But I won’t be her victim.
Or theirs. I bunch my fist.
After I heft the stuffed duffel over my shoulder and lift the big sports bag that I packed, Mrs. Jago makes a move to help. “Here,” her lashes flutter, “let me.”
“No,” I tell her. “Lead on, please, Mrs. Jago.”
She sets off up the theatrical wide, sweeping staircase. I will not allow my face to show the tiniest pull of tension as I haul my baggage up to the top floor and follow after her through a warren of hallways to a tiny, garret-windowed room.
If this wasn’t built as a servant’s quarters, it could have been designed as a set for where the hopeless heroine is ravaged at midnight by the merciless vampire. In the nanosecond it takes me to look around the room, I think that would at least be a more interesting fate than what awaits me.
The door closes behind Mrs. Jago, and the muffled thump of her heels drums away down the carpeted corridor. I sit on the side of the bed and try to think of an escape plan. This can’t be my future. A tiny servant’s room, poked out of a high room in this dark gothic fantasy castle.
The door to my room flies open, sweeping across almost half the floor space.
An overwhelming masculine scent announces Alessio. His massive frame barely fits in the doorway. The shock of his eyes on mine makes me start to collapse and melt inside.
His voice rolls like dark, melted chocolate. “Dinner is… Oh, is this your room?”
He frowns as he looks around. “You can’t be comfortable in here.”
With his gaze holding me hard, he strides in, making the room feel like we’re in a doll’s house. He grabs both of my unopened bags. Lifts them like they weigh about as much as a couple of paperbacks.
As he strides out, he says, “Follow me,” an afterthought with a touch of impatience, like Keep up, as if I should have known what he was going to do.
Maybe I do.
So far, everything he does is slow and deliberate. Like a great emperor, like he has all the time in the world, and he owns it all. Everything is easy and unhurried. Everything except his walk. His walk is an act of war.
His rhythm is sinuous and solid, like an ocean current. He looks like his pace is slow and steady, but he’s too fast for me to keep up. Every five or six steps, I have to skip or jog behind him. His shoulders and his hips make a steady, arrogant dance that’s so steady, it’s like the world belongs to him.
Watching from behind leaves me breathless with a dry mouth and squirmy in my pants.