Page 10
Stop staring, she told herself desperately. She was a lady. A debutante. A graduate of Switzerland’s finest finishing school. Ladies did not ogle their host’s backside.
Except apparently, she did.
Okay, so she hadn’t gone through the official presentation to society, like so many of the other students at her finishing school. No daughter of an Irish gang leader rated that kind of flourish. Instead, she’d been “presented” to her father’s associates and their spoiled daughters. A parody of gentility. Still, the food that day had been delicious, and she clung to that memory as one of the few happy memories from her life.
It startled her when Paulo turned, holding two crystal tumblers filled with amber whiskey. He hesitated, as if second-guessing himself. He noticed her expression, then glanced down at the liquid, then back at her. “There’s wine, if you’d prefer.”
Madelaine hurried forward, nearly tripping over her own feet in her eagerness. “No! This is perfect.” She accepted the glass, careful not to let her fingers brush his.
She took a cautious sip and… oh heaven. The smoky richness poured over her tongue, smooth and sweet with a faint bite of pepper. She closed her eyes, savoring it. “Absolutely perfect,” she sighed.
When she opened them, he was staring at her. Not the brusque glare she’d come to expect, but a flicker of surprise softening the hard edges of his expression.
“My father is Irish,” she blurted, then flushed. Of course he knew that. “He loved whiskey. As probably all Irishmen do.” She laughed at herself, tucking the glass closer as if it could shield her embarrassment. “It’s practically a rite of passage.”
“Not for you?” he asked quietly.
She chuckled and allowed him to guide her toward an armchair. She perched on the soft blue silk, every inch of her incredibly aware of him stretched out on the sofa across from her.
“Mine too,” she admitted with a grin. “Though my appreciation came from illicit bottles smuggled into our dorms. Girls whispering and giggling under the covers while we sipped the illegal scotch or whiskey, pretending to be worldly.”
“Dorms?” His brow furrowed. “You didn’t live at home?”
“No. My father shipped me off to boarding school when I was a child. Teachers, headmistresses, tutors, that’s who raised me. After that came finishing school.” She lifted her glass in a mock toast, the smile on her lips edged with bitterness. “So, aside from my potentially productive uterus, I’m completely useless.”
“That’s not true.” His words were rough, almost growled, and his jaw tightened as if her self-deprecation offended him.
She gave him a wry grin, but it was thinner now, masking the ache in her chest. “You think the world values which fork to use at dinner? Not really.”
“You speak several languages,” he pointed out.
“Of course,” she replied with a light laugh, but the sound was brittle. “I speak French and Italian fluently. A little Spanish too.”
“There,” he said with a nod. “You’re employable.”
Madelaine tilted her head, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“You could become a translator.”
The idea hit her so hard she froze, the thought spinning in her head. Then she laughed in surprise and delight. “You’re right. I’d never considered that.”
He shrugged, sipping his drink as if it were nothing. “You’re not useless, Madelaine.”
Her glass lowered slowly, her throat tightening. His words struck harder than she expected, catching her off guard. No one had ever said that to her before. Not her father. Not the teachers who treated her like a duty to be managed. Not even her friends, who had always assumed she was cushioned by privilege.
She smiled, soft and genuine, unaware of how it lit up her face, how it caught Paulo off guard, causing him to go still.
“That’s something,” she whispered, straightening in her chair. “You’re right. I could use my language skills. I could actually get a job.”
“Right.” His voice was rougher than before, and he cleared his throat. He tossed back the rest of his whiskey, set the glass down a little more firmly than he intended, and rose to his feet. “If you need anything… don’t hesitate to ask.”
She scrambled up too, grabbing his empty glass along with her own. In a rush of gratitude, she downed the last of her drink in a celebratory gulp. “Thank you. Really. You’ve given me hope.”
She turned to leave—but her foot caught the leg of the chair. “Oh no—!”
The glass slipped from her grasp, shattering on the polished floor.
“Don’t move!” Paulo barked, already kneeling down.
