"She's the daughter of Judge Harrington, you know," I add, seizing my chance. "Father would be delighted if you made that connection."
Enrico hesitates, torn between his duty to watch me and the opportunity to impress Father.
"Don't wait up," I say with a wink, slipping past him before he can protest.
I disappear down the hallway, my heart pounding with the thrill of rebellion and the promise of Alessandro's waiting arms.
Just as I’m about to reach the bathroom, Alessandro appears from the opposite direction.
"You came," I say.
"Did you think I wouldn't?" Alessandro's eyes darken as he approaches, and I step toward him instinctively, anticipating the press of his lips against mine.
Instead, he takes my hand, his touch igniting sparks along my skin. "Not here. Follow me."
Disappointment crashes through me, but I let him lead me as we slip past the ballroom.
"Where are we going?" I ask as we reach the hotel elevators.
Alessandro presses the button, his face unreadable. "Somewhere we won't be interrupted."
The doors slide open with a soft chime. He gestures me inside, following close behind. As we rise through the floors, I study his reflection in the polished doors. His jaw is tight, eyes forward. He stands at a distance despite the small space.
Does he feel nothing? The doubt creeps in. Perhaps I've misread everything.
His interest, the tension between us, the almost-kiss on the terrace.
Maybe this meeting is purely strategic, another business discussion about our arrangement.
The elevator slows, and Alessandro finally looks at me. "You're quiet."
"I'm wondering if I'm a fool," I admit.
His brow furrows in genuine perplexity. "Why?"
"Because I'm alone in an elevator with the man I'm supposed to marry in seven days, and I still don't know what you want.”
His expression softens. "Are you afraid, Isabella?"
"Yes.” Then I straighten my shoulders. "And no. I'm afraid of making a mistake. I'm not afraid of you."
Something shifts in his gaze. “A mistake by being alone with me or the marriage?”
“I have no choice in the marriage. If it’s a mistake, it’s one my father is making.”
“So, what mistake?”
I can’t tell him about all these new and wonderful emotions and sensations I feel when I’m around him. Not when he’s been clear that he doesn’t want a love match.
I shrug. “Nothing.”
The elevator stops and the doors open, but he doesn’t make a move to exit. Instead, he presses his hands against the wall, caging me in.
“Don’t you ever keep things from me. You want my respect, Isabella? You be honest. No bullshit.”
There’s a momentary flutter of fear until I see a mix of frustration and confusion in his eyes. It suggests that he’s as off-kilter from the unexpected spark that keeps arcing between us.
I find my courage. “My mistake might be in thinking this marriage might not be so bad, after all.”
