“Are you inviting me for another sleepover?”
Her mouth flattened, but she didn’t scowl. She seemed to be making a great effort not to. She inhaled, then the corners of her mouth turned ever so slightly upward. “Whatever furthers our purpose,” she said, with a kind of knowing that was almost…sultry.
Except this was Serena, so he was imagining things, surely. Still, it was clear something was off. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the difference. She was dressed casually enough. The pants she wore looked soft and gave little hint at shape. She was not covered to the chin, he supposed, instead wearing a tank top the color of the sky at dawn, a pearly kind of blue. It was formfitting, but hardly skimpy. Still, he could see the shape of her arms, the freckles that dotted her shoulders as if she spent considerable time in the sun, which didn’t seem true to the woman she was at all.
And now he knew that these details, like the long, lovely shape of her legs, would be lodged uncomfortably in his brain.
He tried to look at it as a positive. Being attracted to her might be a bit of an affront considering she had always been his enemy, but it would make seduction enjoyable. Still, there was an uncomfortable tug of war going on inside of him, like there was a complication threading through all of this. It wasn’t just business. It wasn’t just seduction. It was layers—who they were because of their fathers, what they’d built themselves into, all the strange ways she fascinated him.
He did not care forlayers. He preferred things to be…straightforward.
So he looked at the table between them, set for dinner. A bottle of wine in a bucket of ice, bruschetta displayed prettily on a colorful serving platter. It had every detail of a romantic, private dinner for two.
“I thought we should eat outside, then we can take a walk down to the beach. It’s private, but an intrepid photographer with an excellent zoom lens should be able to catch sight of us from there.”
“Smart.”
“Besides, being outdoors means the stench of rat doesn’t infect my dining room.” She offered that sweet smile meant to slice a man to ribbons.
Ah,therewas the Serena he expected. With a fiery orange sunset lighting her from behind, she looked a bit like a painting…
Vengeful Goddess at Sunset.
She only needed a bow and arrow or spear of some kind. Instead, she moved forward and lowered herself into a chair at the table. She lifted the bottle of wine and began to pour. When he did not immediately take a seat, she raised her gaze and an eyebrow at him.
He wasn’t sure what was causing him pause, so he moved forward and took the seat across from her.
“Have you seen the stories?” she asked.
“Yes. They have bought intoushook, line and sinker.”
Serena nodded, a wine glass in her hand as she gazed out at the water beyond the balcony. Her expression was thoughtful, and she did not sip from her glass. “I think we’ll want to move quickly. No long, drawn out courtships. We don’t want the excitement to ebb. Just one story after the next.”
He agreed with her, which shouldn’t frustrate him as much as it did. He should be happy when they agreed. It would no doubt be rare, even with a common goal. But he hated the idea of her congratulating herself for her good ideas when he had them as well.
So he said nothing—not agreement or disagreement—as they ate in strangely peaceful silence. Like people who’d known each other long enough not to need to fill in those spaces.
When dessert was served, darkness had fallen except for fairy lights hung expertly, illuminating the balcony in something that felt like candlelight.
Themillefogliewas delicious, the night lovely, the company…oddly comfortable. But realizing how thoroughly he’d enjoyed an essentially silent dinner bothered him on a cellular level.
He stood. “Shall we take that walk?” he offered.
She sighed heavily. “Yes, of course.” Reluctantly, she got to her feet. “I suppose we should talk about something.”
She sounded genuinely and amusingly disappointed that they might actually have to have a conversation.
“I don’t mind a silence now and again.”
She snorted. “Come, Luciano. You have built a life in which you never have to live in the silence of your own thoughts. It is much talked about how much time you spend at that club of yours.”
She was not completely wrong. Up until his father’s death, he had always sought to drown out the thoughts, the feelings by throwing himself headlong into his club, into the women there.
But something happened when his father died. He supposed it was a kind of natural understanding that he himself would not live forever. He too could do something stupid tomorrow and end up a mangled mess on a cliffside.
Luciano wanted to be something more than his father had ever allowed him to be. So, in an effort to reacquaint himself with Ascione and deal with the fallout of everything, he’d begun to insulate himself. Against his club, his old, loud friends. The women, the music, the booze.
Oh, he still went out. He could not let his reputation suffer completely. But he also spent a lot of time alone and in silence, rewriting the prophecy his father had left for him.
