My heart lurches. What the hell?
“Can I freshen your drinks?” she purrs. “Dinner will be out shortly.”
She’s looking at Armani of course, not me. I don’t even have a drink besides the sparkling water. But I do have a few questions about why exactly she’s here.
Armani slides his glass toward her. She makes a big show out of bending over the table with the whiskey bottle to give him a generous refill, her low neckline just this side of a wardrobe malfunction.
“You know what? I’d love some wine, actually,” I tell her, mock sweetly. “Just bring out the whole bottle. A red would be great.”
She gives me a half glance and rolls her eyes before sliding Armani’s glass back to him.
“I will see what is available.Solo un attimo.”
She says this with such confidence and importance, as if we’ll be anxiously awaiting her return. Once she’s left, I stare daggers at my husband. “You said your guests were gone.”
“I said themenwere gone. Though actually, the other women have also left. Just not Esme.”
“And why is that?”
He shrugs. “She needed a place to stay until her ride gets here. I said she had to work for it.”
“Oh, I’ll bet you did,” I say icily.
“Be nice.”
His order sours my gut.
When Esme returns, it’s with a rolling service cart piled high with food. She begins setting plates and bowls in front of Armani and me, and I recognize everything from my visit to the kitchen earlier: osso buco in a gorgeous red sauce with fresh parsley and lemon zest on top; the risotto Milanese, a buttery golden yellow; the grapefruit salad Chef Idris had mentioned; steaming hot bread with a dish of olive oil and green herbs; and last but not least, the extra special gnocchi I had requested for Armani.
I say nothing, but I’m on high alert. Why is she serving us? Where is Chef Idris; where is Luca? How do I know that Esme didn’t tamper with the food after Idris plated it? Especially given her comment earlier about there not being much security around here. For all I know, she and my husband are working together to eliminate me.
Once we’ve been served our meals, Esme goes back to the cart and then brings a glass of red wine over to me. She goes to set it in front of me, but I wave her away.
“I said to bring the whole bottle. I wanted to open it myself.”
She frowns, her eyes briefly darting to Armani. “But the bottle was already open.”
She’s right. Of course the bottle was already open. I’m the one who opened it.
All the better reason not to trust it, I think to myself. It could be drugged, poisoned…
“Take it back to the kitchen.”
“Why?” she asks plaintively. “The chef said this was the wine for tonight. The Elite Reserve?”
“Take it away. I changed my mind,” I say dismissively.
She lets out an audible huff of annoyance and storms away with the wineglass and the cart, leaving me with my husband and a table full of heavenly, aromatic, mouthwatering gourmet food.
Food that I have no intention of eating.
Armani digs in, seemingly ignorant of my suspicions. I push my food around my plate a little, sip my water, and watch the moonlight ripple on the waves. I don’t take a single bite, not even of the bread. Maybe the end Armani is ripping chunks from is safe, but maybe there’s poison inside the loaf. How am I supposed to know? Meanwhile my stomach is growling and my feet are silently screaming from my barefoot hike, but all I can do is sit here and listen to my husband’s carefree goddamn chewing.
Tension grows in the space between us. I feel it like an impending storm hanging low over my head, my thoughts a dark cloud.
“I overheard what that man said to you the other night,” I finally murmur, as leadingly as I can.
Then I wait to see if he’ll react. He doesn’t. He just keeps eating.
