He didn’t budge. Didn’t even flinch. But his shoulders seemed to relax. “It’s standard procedure. Now. Tell me about Silvio Russo.”
Since I was making this up as I went, it wouldn’t hurt to tell him how I really felt. “I met him through a mutual friend. He was charming and we had fun together. He was the life of the party. Did all the right things, said all the right words. It wasn’t until I’d been seeing him for several months that his true character came out.”
I shook my head. “He was into horses and goaded me into a wager I shouldn’t have taken.” I shrugged. “You should know by now that I’m a little competitive.”
He nodded, uncrossing his arms and leaning against the counter. More relaxed. “Let me guess. He covered your losses.”
“You got it. It was almost like he’d planned it, so he could be the hero and rescue me, you know? But it didn’t take long before he was holding it over my head. When I realized what was going on, I may have turned the tables.”
Quentin’s brows rose.
I grinned. “Yeah. He didn’t like getting a taste of his own medicine. Unfortunately, it didn’t end there. He started harassing me. Threatening me. I took out a restraining order, but it didn’t do much good. I knew the only way to stop him was to beat him at his own game.”
“So what did you do?”
“I followed him. Took photos of him in—compromising situations. I threatened to send them to his family if he didn’t leave me alone. For the last six months, I haven’t seen him, but maybe he’s been following me all along.”
“It looks like it.” He rubbed his forehead. “Julia. I have to be honest. Either you’re telling me the truth, or—it’s all an elaborate lie.” He stopped. Started again. "I need to know if I can trust you."
There it was.
The truth we'd been dancing around.
"You can't," I said.
His expression shuttered. "What?"
"You can't trust me. Not completely. Not yet." I set down my wine glass. "I've been here a week, Quentin. One week. Trust takes time. You said so yourself."
"That's different—"
"How? How is it different?" I stepped closer. "You want me to be trustworthy but you won't trust me. You want honesty but you're testing me. You invited me here for dinner but you're interrogating me instead."
"I'm not—"
"You are. And I get it. I do. You're careful. You have to be. In your business, in your world, trust is dangerous." My voice softened. "But if you can't trust me at all, even a little, then what am I doing here?"
Silence.
"I don't know," he said finally.
"Neither do I."
We stood there, close enough to touch, neither of us moving.
"I want to trust you," Quentin said quietly. "I'm just... I'm not sure I can."
"Then we have a problem."
"Yeah. We do."
The tension was suffocating. I should leave. Should grab my bags and walk out and call Carlo and tell him this whole thing was blown.
Instead, I reached for the groceries.
"I'm going to cook," I announced. "You're going to sit there and drink your wine and decide whether you want me to leave or stay. But I'm not going to stand here and defend myself when I haven't done anything wrong."
Except lie about your entire identity and infiltrate his company to investigate him for murder.
