Page 18 of One Filthy Kiss

My grandmother was the bravest woman I ever met. She lost her parents in the Second World War; her mother was killed in an explosion during the Allied Invasion of Sicily, and her father was shot whilst trying to protect his little girl. She was adopted by neighbors and brought up on a farm where she learned to match the strength and skills of her adopted siblings. All boys. When she met my grandfather, she agreed to marry him on one condition, that he didn’t expect her to mop the floors after him, pick up his laundry, and cook his meals.

He didn’t.

They led the family together, although my grandmother never claimed her share of glory. She did it for love. When he was killed by a rival mafia leader she got her revenge silently, and in secret, and only then did she allow herself to grieve whilst encouraging her only child—my father—to continue her husband’s legacy.

My grandmother would’ve loved Meggie.

I can picture them strolling through the olive groves together. Deep in conversation. My grandmother sharing childhood stories, and Meggie trying to persuade her that at least some twenty-first-century advancements would make life a little easier.

“Where are we?” Meggie asks when we pull into the private basement lot beneath my hotel and casino resort.

I didn’t even realize that she was watching me.

“I live in the penthouse.” Man, that sounds lame when I’d wager that Meggie’s apartment would probably fit inside my bathroom. “You and Amber can take the guest room for the night, and we’ll fly back to LA in the morning.”

Darkness has seeped into the hazy blue of the day like spilt ink, but now that I’m home, I realize that I don’t want it to end. I would do it all over again, on repeat, likeGroundhog Day, if I could watch them both smiling the way they did today.

Her expression is unfathomable, but those green eyes… I could lose myself in them and not even be remotely tempted to find my way out.

I carry Amber into the private elevator, and her arms instinctively wrap around my neck. When we reach the penthouse, Meggie steps out of the elevator and freezes. Her eyes roam the vast open-plan living space, the brightly accented walls, the elegant potted palms, the understated couches arranged around the central glass column which also serves as an aquarium. It’s my way of bringing the outside in.

A reminder of the most beautiful island in the world.

Sicily.

“You live here?” She closes her eyes briefly then blinks the room into focus before turning wide green eyes my way.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell Meggie that I live here when I’m in New York, but I’ll get no satisfaction from trying to impress her with material possessions and multiple homes.

“Yes. Do you like it?”

She smiles. “Is that a trick question?”

“Please, make yourself at home.”

I follow her down the steps to the living area, and she rushes over to the wide glass floor-to-ceiling cylinder in the middle of the room. “Are the fish real?” She places her palms on the glass and a shoal of tiny neon fish instantly dart towards her. She jumps away and laughs at her own reaction.

“I’ll show you to the guest room.”

She tears her eyes away from the fish and follows me past the kitchen, where she eyes up the coordinated blue and ivory appliances, and along the wide hallway to the first guest room. I open the door wide and step aside for her to enter first.

Meggie stands just inside the doorway and allows her eyes to roam around the room.

One wall is painted turquoise like the Mediterranean Sea, while the others are white and rough-textured to remind me of my ancestral family home. The tops of the walls have been painted to resemble a layer of ochre roof tiles with hand-painted flowering vines trailing down to the floor. In the middle of the room is a four-poster bed with a turquoise satin comforter and vibrant gold and orange tasseled cushions. The furniture is white. The flooring is pale pine.

“This is stunning.” She looks at me shyly. “Can I touch the bed?”

I smile. “Be my guest.”

She enters the room, drags a fingertip across the comforter, and then throws herself backwards onto the bed, ruffling the covers with her arms and legs.

Propping herself up on her elbows, she sighs. “I’ve always wanted to do that. If this is the guest room, I don’t even want to know what your room is like.”

Her cheeks flush.

“I mean, that’s not how it sounded. I’d love to know what your room is like.” She sucks her bottom lip and grimaces. “Not that I want to sleep in your room.”

I laugh. I don’t laugh often enough, I realize, because my cheeks are aching from all the smiling that I’ve done today. Neither do I tell her that nothing would give me greater pleasure than her sleeping in my room.