“Come.” He let go and gestured toward a room. “Did you enjoy the flight here?” he asked me as we entered what I assumed to be a living room.
I hadn’t paid any attention to the journey until we landed. Then again, I’d seen nothing to indicate where I was going. “Yes, thank you,” I mumbled, my gaze wandering around the large room made bright by numerous windows that looked out onto green lawns and the sea beyond that. The ceiling was so high, I wondered how they changed the light bulbs to the beautiful crystal chandelier in the center.
“She seems shy,” Leo addressed my father.
He laughed. “She is when visiting strangers.”
I saw nothing funny about being locked up and then dragged into a trip that made no sense to me. What annoyed me more was that my father hardly resembled the mourning husband. Had my mother’s death meant so little to him?
“You can explore the house if you want while your father and I talk shop,” Leo offered with another smile I found neither warm nor friendly. It was like he was being forced to act sociable. “Just stay away from the west wing,” he added as they settled into cream plush sofas.
Firstly, I didn’t even know what direction I was walking in, how would I know which side of me sat the west wing. Still, I was curious why he’d warn me away. Shoving the thought to the back of my mind, I strolled through the marble-tiled passages. If I thought the living room was stunning, it had nothing on the rest of the house. The predominant color throughout, being varying shades of blue, blended well with the gold cornices and accessories. It was like stepping into a time-honored palace fit for royalty, something I loved reading about in historical romance novels. Now, if only the beautiful prince charming would appear, it would seal the deal.
Letting out a soft laugh at my thoughts, I continued my exploration. Although my awe soared, I found it strange that there were no people around. That notion quickly dissipated when I walked into a stone kitchen that looked big enough to feed an entire army.
“Ciao, signora,” a man dressed in a chef’s coat and white hat, greeted me with a warm smile. At least his was genuine.
“Ciao,” I replied, silently thanking my English teacher’s constant use of the Italian language during class which left me fascinated to learn the language.
Next to him, a pretty woman, who looked to be around my mother’s age or maybe a little older, offered me a small wave before returning her concentration to the dough she was kneading. I stood there for a while watching him instruct her when she made a mistake until he opened an oven door. Immediately, the kitchen filled with a mouthwatering aroma of homemade bread. The decadent mixture of yeast and cinnamon crept up my nostrils making my stomach grumble.
“Ti piacerebbe assaggiare?” he asked if I’d like to taste, as he set the oven tray he withdrew on a countertop, placed a bread roll on a plate, and held it out to me.
“Yes, please.” Licking my lips, I stepped closer, accepted the plate, and took a bite. “Wow,” I moaned, closing my eyes and savoring the taste. “This is so good.” Opening my eyes, I repeated the compliment, unsure if they understood English. “Questo è così buono.”
“Your Italian is good.” The chef laughed. “My name is Mario, and this is Miss Rosana.” His English was perfect. “Welcome to your home,signora.”
My home?Okay, maybe his English wasn’t that perfect. Laughing, I swallowed the bread in my mouth and asked. “Where am I?”
“Castello di Salvatore,” he replied, adding another tray of shaped dough to the oven.
“Castello di Salvatore,” I repeated, liking the sound of it. “Who is Salvatore?”
Rosana looked up. “Your husband, yes?”
Did she mean her husband? I didn’t want to embarrass her by correcting her. Yet I wondered why the mistress of the house looked like a kitchen maid, with the almost uniform look of her white blouse and black skirt protected by a red checkered apron.Maybe because he was teaching her to cook, idiot?Giving them a soft smile, I waved goodbye and left the kitchen while finishing the last bits of the bread. Who were these people? Why had my father brought me along to a business meeting?
I stopped at the bottom of the white marble staircase debating whether to explore the upstairs when the uncanny feeling of being watched settled over me. Turning my head in each of the four directions, I came up empty. Slowly, I climbed the stairs, loving the sweet scent of roses drifting through the air. “Castello di Salvatore,” I whispered, the name sounding more appealing by the second. The landing at the top opened into another smaller living room with cream sofas around a large brown rug. I bit my bottom lip unsure whether to go left or right.
The decision was taken out of my hand when two men, dressed in black suits, approached from my left. They stopped when they noticed me, looked at each other then back at me. Their hard expressions and the rifles in their hands gave me the idea that I was looking at the passage leading to the west wing. Whatever it housed, I wasn’t interested in finding out. Without a word, I headed in the opposite direction. When I passed the first two bedrooms I’d peeked inside, I paused to look out the floor-to-ceiling windows that spanned the passage on both sides before ending at two large white doors. The view of mountains and the sea was a spectacular sight and the sudden desire to sit there with a book and just stare became overwhelming until memories began to creep in.
Fleeting glimpses of Zayne overshadowed my euphoric descent into oblivion. His amber eyes filled with tenderness when he smiled. His pink lips soft against mine when he kissed me. His body warm against mine when he cuddled me. I could see it all, right down to the black flecks in those brown irises. All too quickly, my heart clenched, and my insides tightened at the thought of seeing him again.
“No!” Placing my palms flat against the glass, I let a heavy sigh deflate my memories, shoving them to the back of my mind. “He has no right to your brain space,” I scolded.
Still mesmerized, I reached the doors. My fingers on the brass doorknob, I hesitated. Unsure why when a masculine scent I couldn’t decipher, wafted through the air, obliterating the fragrance of roses and usurping my sense of smell. That uncanny feeling of being watched settled once more between my shoulder blades. Slowly, I rotated with the expectancy of coming face to face with the dreadedMichael Myers. The landing was empty. My eyes darted to the corners I could see as my stupid brain conjured images of dungeons and dark passages lurking beneath the exquisiteness around me.
“It’s too bright for the boogeyman, you idiot.” Grinning at my stupidity, I hurried back to my father. It was enough exploring for me. Like the curious intrigue that castles instilled in most people, the same could not be said for Castello di Salvatore. Despite the modernism of the building interior and its beauty, it set my nerves on edge and unable to get rid of that ominous niggle tickling my sixth sense, I wanted to get as far away as possible from this place.
When I arrived back at the living room, my father was rising and reaching for Leo’s outstretched hand. “Pleasure’s all mine,” he said to the other man.
“Are we ready to go?” I asked, forcing the anxiety out of my voice.
My father turned to look at me and something in his expression didn’t sit right with me. Call it a scale up on the sixth sense or plain mistrust for a man who hadn’t played much of a father role in my life, but it didn’t feel right.
He took a step toward me. “You’re not going home.”
A sudden chill filled my gut. “What do you mean?” I let the words on a slow exhale, keeping my unease at bay.
