“I know what you’re doing, Fausti. And for the record, I don’t like it.”
I sensed his smile and huffed.
“You. It depends on you, Scarlett. I have a great deal of patience, as long as the situation doesn’t pertain to my life.”
I went to turn, to look at him, but he kept me in place with his iron arms.
“The sun’s about to set.” He used his chin to point in the right direction. “Don’t miss it.”
“I was right about the suckers then. You used them in your quest for patience, with me.”
He sighed. “Dio aiutami.”God help me.“Give me one out of your purse.”
I would’ve jabbedhimin the ribs if he hadn’t been assaulted earlier.
“A temporary drug to an incurable disease, Scarlett. It worked. At the time.”
The sun seemed to set on his words, a new world presented to us in its absence. A dark blue stretched and stretched until the color dissolved into velvet black. Lines of light, one after another, caught cold fire and set Paris ablaze, twinkling below us like the sky above us.
The air had grown colder, holding a smoky tinge in its grasp—fireplaces were lit, sending the perfume drifting through chimneys.
“Too bad Maggie Beautiful isn’t here to see this.” The breath out of my mouth released in a cloud of smoke. Thoughts of Maggie Beautiful brought another to the forefront of my mind, one that I had been too swept up at the time to ask about. “Did Maggie Beautiful tell you about our game of secret or promise?”
“Your game.” He grinned.
“I thought so,” I said, unsure now. It never dawned on me that it could’ve been a shared game of hers.
I turned and this time he let me. He rested his hands behind my back, against the railing, so the cold wouldn’t even touch my clothes.
He threw his head back and laughed. No doubt at the lame look on my face. “When did she start asking you?”
“About the same time we started writing. She didn’t tell you?”
“She didn’t tell me, no. The letters, yeah, though she hides them. Just like a kid with a secret. She showed me the pictures you’d send. I’d have torn the house apart looking for them if she refused to show them to me.”
I nodded, picking at an imaginary piece of lint on his jacket.
“The game,” he continued. “That’s her way of extracting information she wants. When I’d come home from school, she’d always ask—secret or promise? She was a kid herself and didn’t know how to ask me how my day went. Just like she left Santa Claus coffee, orange juice, and a sandwich. She used to say that any man who had the stamina to deliver all those gifts deserved coffee. He needed the orange juice to keep him from catching cold. The sandwich was because men love sandwiches. She believed in him. I didn’t.”
“What’s wrong with believing?” I frowned at him. He smoothed out the creases, studying my face, lingering on my lips. “There are worse things in this world.”
“No doubt.” His voice sounded distracted. He moved in closer. “You didn’t send me any. Not one.”
“Pictures?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t want them to come back. Possibly postmarked with ‘Return to sender, I don’t want any of that here.’I—”
He kissed me, hard and long, thoroughly stealing my breath. My body tilted over the side of the railing, his secure hold not giving me pause to fear what lay on the opposite side. The kiss reverberated, sending hands in search of more and a leg to wrap around his in a need to bring us even closer.
Any hesitation he might have harbored before was lost—we were lost in and to each other.
On a roll of my eyes, reality caught me in its frigid grip. Mick and Violet were still standing next to us. As close as we were, they might have been worlds apart. Her face held a forlorn look. Dreaming of her Peter, I guessed, which was what she called Mitch—the lost boy. Mick’s stance seemed accepting, but his eyes held a desperation that made me hurt for him.
I knew that look all too well.
Brando turned my face toward his. “All those things, those things you had mentioned me doing with Janet that first night. Your list.”
