I stop yanking at Verga’s wrinkles and look across the street.
“I think your dog has more to answer for than I do! He violated my ass and then mounted me in a shrouded wood.”
James chuckles and whistles the Beast back over. Are we reenacting the Jack Nicholson–Greg Kinnear scene fromAs Good as It Getswhen the dog has to choose?
“I carry bacon in my pocket,” I lie, heading back up the road.
“Are you quoting Jack Nicholson?”
I ignore him, pretending to be unimpressed by his movie trivia.
“Can I ask you something?” I muse. I hear the snap snap snap of his camera and I look over to find it aimed at me. Again.
“No.”
I push on unfazed. “You really should get permission to do that.” I point at the lens. “And how old are you? Thirty? Thirty-three?”
“Can I have permission to photograph you? And thirty-four—”
“Yes, but nothing kinky.” He chuckles. “Ooof. You’re getting up in years. So I happened upon something in Franco’s wine dungeon and I’m wondering—” I pause and look up to my left—and bam—there he is in all his rugged Italian glory. I’ve veered to his side of the road. “Oh, hey there.”
He shakes his head, a few long dark waves fall to his forehead, but I can see he’s gnawing on his cheek. I’m amusing him. Amuse-bouche.
“So anyway, I was wondering about a painting down there in the sex dungeon, and you being the art boss, I thought you might know something about the artist who—”
“Annette Barrett’s painting?” he asks.
I trip on air. Hearing him say my mother’s name makes my mind spin. Or the ninth glass of Vernaccia is making my mind spin. I nod, unable to make words. Then look away as he searches my face.
“She’s a bit of a local legend. An artist who studied here for a year and discovered her muse in these walls. Maybe even fell in love, according to the rumor mill—” He pauses and puts a hand on my arm. “Are you alright?”
I must have frozen. The lanterns that line the villa’s drive light half his face as he looks down at me. There’s aPhantom of the Operathing going on with the shadow. And I’m Team Phantom all theway. I refrain from humming “Music of the Night” and watch two tiny lines appear above the bump on the bridge of his nose. His concern shakes me. I push onto my toes and run my finger over the bump, noticing his pupils widen at my touch. His eyes are so dark and unanswerable, like the girl’s were in that photograph. His photograph.
“How did this happen?” I ask, my voice like sandpaper. I need that pitcher of water.
His other hand circles my wrist as I pull my hand away from his face.
“Calcio—soccer.” He swallows, and I watch his Adam’s apple dip down and up, the muscles around it clenching with the effort. But still he stares down at me.
I knew it. A soccer break. I smile and tip closer to him, so close that I could brush my lips to his if a strong wind chose to blow. Or a strong dog chose to walk by.
He breathes my name and the heat from the night air creeps under my blouse, down over my navel, pooling deep in my belly. I want to hear it again, but he uses my wrist to keep me still as he steps back.
“You’ve been drinking,” he says.
“I’ve been drinking,” I confirm.
“You need sleep.”
“I need sleep.” I sound like I’m being Dracula-ed. Am I being Dracula-ed?
His thumb circles the soft skin on my wrist and the pooling warmth down below becomes a painful pressure. What the fuck am I doing? I pull my hand away, but I can still feel his touch.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he whispers, his eyes never leaving mine.
Brain. Words. Tongue. Go! “Sure thing, boss.”
He gives Verga a look and purses his lips to whistle, but then thinks better of it and turns to disappear onto the porch and through the front door of the villa.
