At the brink of release, I bit down on my hand to stifle every sound. Hot spurts shot out, splattering the curtain, as I gasped, my body trembling, my gaze still locked on her sexy figure.
I steadied my breathing and fixed my clothes.
Then Elena suddenly froze, slipping on her pajamas. She whipped her head toward the balcony. She'd sensed something.
Her expression turned alert. "Who's there?"
She approached the curtain slowly, cautiously.
A second before she could pull it back, I vaulted over the railing. I hung like a ghost from the edge by my fingertips, my body pressed flat against the outer wall. It was the third floor—a fall wouldn't kill me, but it would blow my cover.
Elena yanked the curtain open and saw an empty balcony. The night wind tousled her hair.
She frowned, standing there for a few seconds, checking the corners. She found nothing. Shaking her head, she rubbed her temples—maybe thinking she was just being paranoid. She went back inside and clicked the balcony door locked.
My fingers held steady in the wall cracks, my body clinging like a gecko, breath even, muscles relaxed.
The bedroom light went out. I waited a few minutes, certain she was asleep, then silently flipped back down onto the balcony.
I stared deeply toward the bedroom one last time, then vanished into the Tuscan night just as I'd arrived.
Elena. I've got you now. You're not escaping me again.
Chapter Thirteen
Igor
White dahlias. Again.
I stared at the fresh bouquet of white dahlias on my office desk—the third time this week. Every morning when I pushed open the studio door, they appeared like ghosts, dewdrops still clinging to the petals, fresh as if they'd just been plucked from a garden.
"Oh my God, Elena!" Anna burst in with her coffee, shrieking with excitement at the sight of the flowers. "Again! This mystery admirer is so romantic!"
"This isn't romantic. It's creepy." I frowned, examining the bouquet. Still no card, no signature, nothing. Just sitting there in silent declaration.
"Creepy? Come on, these are white dahlias—your favorite flowers, right?" Anna set down her coffee and leaned in to smell them. "This shows he's put thought into learning what you like."
My frown deepened. Yes, I loved white dahlias because they were unique. But I rarely mentioned this to anyone. In Italy, maybe only Anna and Marco knew. This wasn't some common preference—not roses, not lilies, but dahlias. Who would know?
"Look, every single bloom is perfect." Anna touched the petals gently. "Whoever's sending these has real taste."
"Taste?" I laughed coldly. "Breaking into someone's studio is tasteful?"
"Maybe he has a key?" Anna winked. "Or... maybe he's someone you forgot? Someone you once gave hope to?"
I didn't answer because I couldn't think of anyone.
"Could it be Marco?" Anna kept speculating. "He pursued you for so long. Maybe he's trying this mysterious approach to get your attention again? You know how men love playing mysterious."
"Marco's not like that." I shook my head, moving the bouquet to the windowsill. "If Marco sent flowers, he'd deliver them himself."
"Then it's a new admirer!" Anna laughed, radiating the kind of romantic fantasy only young people possessed. "Elena, you're so charming. First, there's Marco—now you've got a mystery man. Maybe it's a client who saw you working so intently and got captivated."
"Anna, don't you think this is strange?" My voice came out tighter than expected. "Someone entered my studio without my knowledge and knows my favorite flowers."
Anna's excitement suddenly stopped. She looked at the flowers, then at me, her smile slowly fading. "When you put it that way... it is kind of scary. I mean, how did he get in? The door was definitely locked."
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself.
