My stomach was tender for a while, but with time, the knot softened and the bruise faded to a yellow that was not noticeable unless one really looked. The tightness lingered, but I knew that I had been working harder than normal, and it was a product of more exercise.
After rehearsal, I asked Donato to arrange a plane for us to take to Siena. In one day Brando would be home, and in a rare turn of events, I had a couple of days off.
Sighing as I walked into the villa, I stopped to stroke Jet, who met me with a swaying tail and a purr that vibrated in her chest. While we were out of town, our neighbor Apollonia took care of her, since she wasn’t fond of some of the men who stuck around even when we didn’t. Sometimes I would take her with me, but most of the time, she enjoyed her hiding places in the villa.
Placing my tote bag on a chair in the kitchen, I offered Donato coffee.
“I can—” he went to protest, to make it for us, but I stopped him.
I smiled. “It feels good to be domestic again. Let me be.”
He smiled in return. It was a rare sight. He took a seat at the table, getting comfortable. Donato was a handsome man. He had that undeniable Fausti look about him, down to broad shoulders, slim waist, long legs, and thick muscles. Not to mention the angular shape of his face and a jaw that could cut through steel. Though he was usually hidden underneath a custom-made suit, it was obvious to anyone who looked at him that he was pure rogue. His hair was cut short, military style, and it seemed to embolden his features. His fierce eyes were a deep blue, so deep in color that in some lights, they looked black. His hair was raven dusted with silver specks.
Most of the men who protected me were related to Brando in some way. Donato, for instance, was his cousin. So I was usually able to find something that connected them. Fausti blood ran strong.
“How old are you, Donato?” I asked, removing cream from the fridge, setting it on the counter.
Jet moved in and out of my legs, making a ruckus. She wanted cream. I poured her a bowl and set it down.
“Guess.” A mischievous glint came to his almond-shaped eyes.
“No, no, no,” I said, and then inhaled. The perfume of coffee filled the kitchen with verve. “I refuse to play a game that I won’t win.”
His face went to ash when I said no, no, no.
“Did I say something to offend you?”
He shook his head. “I am not easily offended. It is just that you said that same thing, the night Nemours gave you the—” He cleared his throat.
“Oh,” I said.
He grinned at me, attempting to smooth over the moment, it seemed.
“So,” I said, ready to change the subject too. “Are you going to keep me in suspense? How oldareyou?”
“I am twenty-nine, Scarlett.”
“Twenty-nine,” I repeated dumbly. He had the grace of an older man, perhaps in his forties. But, I thought, considering his role in the family, he would have a lot of responsibility. Now that I really looked at him, his features belied his maturity.
“Can you guess how old I am?” I said, searching the kitchen for the tin of cookies we had.
I stopped when he started from my birth date, going on and on about my past, even my history with the ballet.
“Among other things, your arabesque penché is legendary,” he said, his mouth quirking up in a lopsided grin. “Perfect 180 degrees. It deserves an award.”
An arabesque penché is a pose that requires the dancer to stand in a leaning position, supported on one leg, while en pointe, the other leg extended as high as possible. It’s basically a split standing up. And Donato was right. The perfect ones were done at exactly 180 degrees.
“How did you know that?” I threw him a pear.
He caught it with one hand, taking a mighty bite. “I know all there is to know about my charges. In case there is something there to warn me. How they might try to slip away from me, or not tell me the truth, for instance.”
“I see,” I said, turning away from him. I threw my pear back and forth between my hands. I wouldn’t be having cookies, so a pear before coffee would have to do.
Ever since that night at the opera, Donato had been trying to weasel information out of me. He knew there was more to the story. I could tell it bothered him not to know.
I went to the cabinet, on the hunt for the cookies again, when I paused. Memory warned me that the cabinet was going to pound me on the head.
No, he fixed it for me.
