“Would you mind if we—” He cocked his head to the side, studying me again. “Take a picture with me. You made such an impression. Your dance, I am referring to.”
“If you’ll stay for dinner.”
Shit, did I just invite him to dinner? Yes, I did. I needed…answers.
He smiled full on and it made my palms slick with sweat. So familiar, though his seemed to come much easier.
“No even trade.”
He left me underneath the trees to grab his camera. I stood there staring after him like a simpleton. I didn’t even have anything to feed the man! Wait, I think we had some cheese and some pears left. But did I really want him to eat in the kitchen, or in the dining room, before Brando?
“Listen,” I said, directing him to one of the two terraces when he returned. “Do you mind eating outside? The weather is lovely, and it would be nice to enjoy it.”
He nodded, a serious look on his face. “What are we having?”
I couldn’t hold in the laugh. “Your pears and your cheese—what’s left of them.”
“You are very beautiful when you blush,” he said, the same tone my husband used almost giving me goosebumps. “Do not worry,bella, I have come to save the day. I have chicken, pasta, and some olives in my car. I was saving these to eat on the way home.”
“Perfect,” I said.
He met me in the kitchen a few minutes later, and, using the pottery that I had bought from the seller in Pienza, we plated everything. We took our seats on the back terrace, and while we ate, I studied him.
It was impossible not to. The same prominent features, the same bone structure, the same mouth, even the same laugh. I studied his fingers; those were the same too. His body. He wasallmuscle, the same as my husband, and around the same height, over six feet tall.
My bodytensed, almost confused for a split second—so, so similar. Everything else in me said NO. The blood in my veins didn’t heat or excite, no connection but the blatant resemblance.
“Rocco,” I said, “tell me about yourself.”
He finished chewing his food and took a sip, just a sip, of the Chianti he brought along. “I am an attorney in Florence. I spend my time between there and Maranello. Have you heard of it,bella?”
“I have.”
He nodded, wiping his mouth. “I come from a line of racers.”
Ah ha!“Like who?” I tilted my head, leaning on my arm, digging my fingers deep into the thickness of my hair, taking a sip out of my own glass. Like I needed it. It was all overflow at this point.
“My father is Lucious Fausti. You have heard of him?”
I kept my face straight, my features blank. Then I blinked. “I heard the name…somewhere before.”
“Sì. He is…ah, good.”
“You? Do you race?”
“A volte,” he laughed, real husky.Sometimes.“I take care of the family affairs. Mostly.”
Our eyes met and held.
“Do you like what you see,bella?” He asked softly. Though the question was not truly there.
“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “I mean, you are attractive, but you remind me of someone.”
“Ah. Mistaken identity.” He pinched my cheek, but in a much softer way than Rosaria would have. His fingers were soft, smooth, no calluses. “Do I please you?”
I knewthattone. It made me feel giddy and dirty at the same time. This manwasn’tmy husband though, even if he could have passed for his twin with a true Italian accent. But it all made sense. They were brothers.Oh God, the realization hit me with a force that could’ve knocked me to the ground with a feather.Brothers!
He leaned in closer, and I moved my head back. My curious nature, at times, took me down dangerous paths. This was one of them.
