Julia #3
Dario nods.
I remove the signed original, check it one more time because I cannot help myself, then place it in the envelope Marisa brings. She hands me a towel at the same time.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You are welcome.”
Ricardo seals the envelope after I slide the document inside. Then he hands it to Dario.
“Be careful,” he says.
“I will.”
Dario leaves.
And just like that, the task is gone.
The signed consent is out of my hands.
Mario will get it.
The only thing there is to focus on is the fact that I am standing in Ricardo Conti’s study while a storm beats against the windows.
I rub the towel over my hair.
Ricardo watches me for half a second, then looks toward Marisa. “Coffee?”
“Already started,” she says.
“Thank you.”
She gives him one last assessing look, then leaves the room.
The silence after her departure feels different from the silence in the car.
I fold the towel in my hands. “She seems fond of you.”
“You noticed that when she was scolding me, huh?” he asks dryly.
“It was… affectionate scolding.”
He looks mildly surprised. “You understood that much?”
“The tone was obvious, but I understood well enough,” I explain. “My Italian is rusty, not dead.”
“Good to know.”
I narrow my eyes. “Were you planning to take advantage of my rusty Italian?”
“No.” He steps closer to the desk, picking up the towel Marisa left for him. “But now I know to be more careful.”
“That sounds awfully suspicious.”
“Simply being cautious,” he says.
He dries his hair roughly, and the movement pulls at his shirt, which is clinging to his body. His very fascinating and… sexy body.
I look at the shelves. Immediately.
Books. I am fascinated by books. Books have spines and titles and no damp white cotton clinging to them.
A picture on the shelf catches my eye. It's a picture of Ricardo and Dante. Ricardo is younger, his hair darker, his hand on Dante’s shoulder. Dante is laughing at something outside the frame. Ricardo is not smiling, but there is a warmth in his face that makes my heart do a helpless slow roll.
The storm flashes white at the window. A second later, thunder rolls over the house, closer this time. I flinch less than before, but I still flinch.
Ricardo notices.
“Come,” he says. “The sitting room is warmer.”
He does not touch me this time.
He just waits until I move.
The sitting room we passed earlier is even warmer now that I am not rushing past it. Lamps glow on either side of the sofa. Rain trails down the windows in thick lines. A low table holds a few books, a ceramic bowl, a remote, a stack of coasters. Nothing about it looks arranged for guests.
This setting does not look any safer than the study.
Marisa appears with a tray almost immediately: coffee, cups, cream, sugar, small almond cookies on a plate. She sets it down with a look toward me.
“You are cold,” she says.
“I’m fine.”
She looks at Ricardo as if he has done something foolish.
“I’ll get a blanket,” he says.
“I don’t need—”
She gives me the same look, and I stop.
Because I am cold.
The only protection I have against the cold is my blazer, which is damp.
“Fine,” I say. “A blanket would be nice.”
Marisa looks pleased.
Ricardo crosses to a cabinet, takes out a folded throw, and brings it to me. Dark gray, soft, probably absurdly expensive. He does not drape it over me. He hands it to me and lets me do it myself.
I slip off my blazer and wrap the blanket around my shoulders and sit on the edge of the sofa.
Ricardo looks at Marisa and says, “Non avrò bisogno di altro stasera, Marisa. Vai pure.”
I understand enough to know he is dismissing her for the evening.
Marisa’s gaze moves from him to me, then back again. “Sei sicuro?”
“Sì.”
My fingers tighten around the blanket.
Ricardo adds, “Se serve qualcosa, ti chiamo.”
“Va bene,” she says, smoothing one hand over the edge of her cardigan. Then she turns to me in English. “Miss O’Brien, it was lovely to meet you.”
“And you,” I say, though my voice is not quite as steady as I want it to be.
Marisa gives me a small, knowing nod that makes my cheeks heat, then leaves us alone.
“You're not sending her out there in this, are you?” I ask, alarmed.
“No,” Ricardo says. “Marisa has her own suite on the property.”
“Oh.” My grip loosens slightly on the blanket.
“I would not do that.”
“No,” I say, heat moving into my face for a different reason now. “Of course you wouldn’t.”
His mouth curves faintly as he pours coffee into two cups. “You were ready to be offended on her behalf.”
I let out a bit of an embarrassed laugh. “I guess I should have done better.”
“I quite like it,” he says simply.
The slowly moving heat bursts into my face at his words.
He brings one cup to me, along with the sugar and cream.
I take the cup from him carefully and try not to think of the fact that we're alone now.
Technically, Marissa is still here on the property, and I'm sure there are other people, but unlike the private dining at the club, we're alone.
Ricardo sits on the couch next to me, and I realize that this is going to be a lot harder than I thought.