“Posso aiutarti?” he asks Bes, tone biting.
Bes’s eyes narrow slightly, lips thinning into a line. “No, non puoi.”
Sensing that this conversation isn’t going well despite not being able to fully comprehend it, I attempt to step away from the man, feeling a little foolish for getting so carried away. “Grazie for the dance, signore.”
He yanks me back and I crash into his chest. I push against him but the one arm holding me to him doesn’t give an inch. Lord knows I’ve dealt with handsy men before, but his grip is too strong.
Bes strides up to his other side, fists clenched. “Non vuoi incrociarmi.”
The young man must see something in Bes’s expression because he lets me go. I stumble into Bes, who wraps an arm around me, gentler than the other man’s but still tight enough that I know he won’t let me go.
Throwing up a hand up in the air, the young man swears “Fottuti americani” before storming off.
My eyes flick up to meet Bes’s. The anger in his dark eyes and flared nostrils has yet to disappear.
“Why?” he grinds out, refusing to look at me.
Taking a step back, I cross my arms over my chest. “I wanted to see what I could find out on my own. Just because you won’ttell me what I want to know, doesn’t mean I can’t attempt to pry it from other sources.”
Someone shoulders him in the back, and he stumbles toward me, leaving little room between us once again. “It’s not that I won’t tell you, it’s—”
“That you can’t,” I cut him off. “Right.”
After a moment, his expression softens and he offers me his hand. “We should at least pretend to enjoy ourselves while we wait.”
I smile gently. “Oh,Iplan to have a grand old time.”
Already looking for another partner, I turn from him—when his warm hand grasps my arm and spins me around, drawing me into him. My other hand lands flat on his chest, my entire body pressing flush against his. Gasping, I tip my head back to look him in the eye, finding determination in his expression as he peers down at me.
He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t tell me I’m being a fool, or that I was an idiot for trying to find out information on my own.
Instead, he slides his fingers up the arm he grabbed before taking my hand in his. He keeps his left arm close to his side, still favoring it. I suppose he hasn’t needed much use of it, but I’d nearly forgotten about the bullet wound altogether.
Just then, the band transitions into a song I recognize:It Don’t Mean a Thing. The crowd erupts in fervorous excitement when the piano slides into the melody, electrifying the room as thetssfrom one of the cymbals on the drum set follows. The bandleader, Ugo, flips around to face his audience, snapping his fingers and closing his eyes as he sings the first verse.
On cue, Bes places his bad arm around my waist, giving me no chance to catch my breath. His hand flexes, as if he can’t help it, his thumb inching up along my ribcage. His eyes warm while capturing mine wholly. My entire body stalls for a moment, then lights itself on fire. I can barely breathe.
When the bandleader starts to scat, the instruments follow suit into wonderfully-calculated madness. The temperature in the room rises, and the dancers around us descend into fervent euphoria. Shuffling in pairs across the floor, they swing out their legs and arms, women’s glittering dresses shimmering in the firelight. It only makes me want to join them all the more. To forget that I imagined Ingrid earlier, and recapture what it’s like to be carefree, even if only for this one moment.
Right as I think this, Bes spins me out and back into him. A laugh escapes my throat and I throw my head back.
On the way down, our gazes catch, and though he continues to move with the rhythm of the music, his attention holds me captive. The thought of pressing my body flush to his—of kissing his full lips with mine—unexpectedly and dangerously crosses my mind. As much as he angers me at times, I want him. More than I’ve ever wanted anyone
Bes shifts into me, his one hand curling tighter around my waist, his attentive gaze sliding to my lips—
The music quiets, leaving only the tss of the cymbal and allowing the saxophone to take center-stage.The solo.
Bes recognizes it too; he pulls back. I swallow hard, disappointment quickly dousing the growing heat inside me.
My gaze flicks over to the booth where we left Cec: a woman has already approached him. A strappy red sparkling dress hugs her curved frame and brushes the floor, complementing her gold-sparkling heels.
Her voluminous russet locks, however, hide her face from us. Sliding into the spot I occupied only moments ago, she leans into Cec, whispering in his ear. A seriousness has overtaken his expression as he concentrates intently on whatever intelligence this strange woman—who I can only assume to be The Maestro—passes on to him.
The music crescendos when the other instruments rejoin. More of Ugo’s nonsensical scatting follows soon after. I glance up at Bes, seeing he’s watching the exchange as well. I’m not sure how long we have until the woman finishes speaking with Cec, but this is the first time I’ve seen Bes actually loosen up. As much as I’ve told myself to be another person, that I’m running out of time to obtain my own information, I don’t want to waste this moment. Not when it’s the last one we might be afforded for God knows how long.
I reach up and brush the side of his face with my fingertips, forcing him to look at me. His cheek is warm and sprinkled lightly with stubble, his eyes widening in surprise when they meet mine.
Standing on my tiptoes, I speak into his ear, my chest grazing his; he sucks in a shallow breath through his nose. “I hope to God you know the Charleston.”
