Lucien considers me over the rim of his own. “I know versions of him.”
I take a sip. It’s excellent. Of course, it is. “I only know one version of him,” I say lightly, not looking at Lucien. “How do you know him?” What I really want to say is,tell me all the versions you know.
Lucien smiles. It’s charming and flirtatious. “Through work.”
“What kind?”
“The kind where asking too many questions gets people hurt.” His smile doesn’t falter, but there’s a warning in his eyes.
I blink. Despite his earlier assurance that I am safe, I feel very unsafe at the moment, but try to hide it. “That’s not evasive at all.”
He chuckles. “You asked. I answered. Just not in a way that satisfies you.” Great, another man who’s mastered the art of deflection.
I lean back in my chair. “You don’t strike me as the type who avoids satisfaction.” I smile coyly, hoping a little flirting might give me the answers I want.
Lucien’s gaze sharpens, just a fraction. “Careful.”
“With what?”
“With learning too quickly,” he says pleasantly. “It ruins the experience.”
I decide to try another angle. “You’re French.”
“Yes.”
“But you run a land trust in San Isidro.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not hiding in Europe while this country catches fire.”
“No.”
“Could you maybe give me an answer that has more than one word.” Some of my frustration leaks into my voice.
Lucien studies me for a moment. “My mother was born here,” he says finally. “This land belonged to her family long before anyone learned how to monetize it. In San Isidro, heritage is past through the mother’s line.”
“That’s very progressive. So you stayed.”
“I returned,” he corrects. “There is a difference.” Something flashes in his eyes. It looks like sorrow, but it’s gone before I can figure it out precisely.
“And where did you live before that?”
Lucien swirls his wine. “I worked in several countries. Including your USA.”
“With?”
“This and that. Various international contract work.”
I laugh softly. “You’re very good at not answering questions. Just like Julian.”
“And you,” he counters, placing his hand on my arm as he leans toward me, “are very good at pretending you don’t already know, or at least suspect, the answers to the questions you’re asking.”
Before I can respond, footsteps sound behind me. I don’t have to turn to know it’s Julian.
The air shifts. It tightens like the jungle presses from the sidelines. The insect churring seems louder in my ears.
“I see dinner has started without me,” he says coolly, glaring at Lucien’s hand on my arm.
