“Glad you’re okay and we can move on from this.” She stood up, brushing her pants. “I’m going to go find me some lunch.”
With that parting shot, she walked away, head high.
Chiara’s dismissal of our ‘situation’ was shockingly short-lived.
The next morning I was watching a French chef make chocolate pastries (mesmerizing, by the way) when Tennyson called.
“You’ve been holding out on me, Jack. What the hell?!”
Not quite the greeting I had anticipated.
“Good morning to you, too?” It came out as a question.
“What have you been up to with my sister?”
Uhm, aside from driving each other insane and stealing a kiss?
Probably not the best thing to say.
I went with, “Why do you ask?”
A beat.
“Have you turned on the news this morning?”
Uh . . . no. But I would now. Barking a voice command, I changed the channel. An image flared across the screen, burning into my brain.
Chiara and I wrapped around each other. I had a hand pressed into the small of her back, lifting her up to meet my lips. She was on tiptoe, hand tangled in my hair, spine arched to reach me.
Three more images popped up, showing a stuttering succession of motion.
It was romantically dramatic. Damn but we looked good together. Not the reaction Tennyson was going for, I guessed.
A woman’s voice droned in the background.
“. . . these shocking new images showing Jack Knight-Snow caught in a moment with a woman. Sources close to Mr. Knight-Snow have identified the woman as twenty-nine-year-old Chiara D’Angelo of Florence. D’Angelo Enterprises have been instrumental in handling the sale of the Knight-Snow horde. It appears that Ms. D’Angelo’s interest in Mr. Knight-Snow is decidedly more than just business, given these photos showing the two of them in an intimate embrace at Mr. Knight-Snow’s Tuscan villa south of Florence.”
The screen cut to two television commentators laughing at their desk. Both oozed Hollywood—the older man botoxed to the hilt and the younger woman bleached blond, tan and flawless.
“Isn’t this the same Chiara D’Angelo who said she found Jack Knight-Snow sexy, Candy?”
“It’s exactly the same person, Tom. Of course, I speak for women everywhere when I say, none of us blame her.”
“And what about those clothes, Candy? Mr. Knight-Snow’s fashion sense has already been noted in that previous image of him.”
“I know, Tom. The internet has flipped over them. Everyone is wondering if Jack Knight-Snow regularly dresses like his long ago British namesake. I chatted earlier with a wardrobe designer for several BBC costume dramas. The designer couldn’t get over how authentic Knight-Snow’s clothing looked.”
“C’mon, though. What grown man dresses up like Mr. Darcy in this day and age? It’s gotta be just a little mental, don’t you think, Candy?”
“Mental or not, sign me up. Jack Knight-Snow is the hottest thing on the internet right now. This is only going to increase the demand for more information about the reclusive treasure-hunter.”
Tennyson stayed silent on the phone line. As he was on bluetooth speaker phone, he clearly heard everything. I muted the television.
“Sooooooo . . . ,” Tennyson drawled, “I obviously am not going to call you out and go all pistols at dawn but seriously? How did you manage to look so solid in the photos? And why was anyone close enough to you guys to take the photos? And, more to the point, why are you kissing my sister?”
Right.
This was definitely a moment which would benefit from a solid three fingers of scotch.
