Page 23 of Mercy in Betrayal

For some reason, it doesn’t bother me when he asks. I lift the handle on the steamer. “Limerick.”

“I’m glad you brought it over with you. It suits you.”

I set the two coffees down on Enzo’s side of the counter, then, with a shy smile, slide the window closed and lock it. After grabbing the cash box and picking up Clem’s leash from where it rests on the floor, I exit the cart and lock it behind me.

Enzo is waiting beside the steps with both coffees. He does a double-take when he sees Clem.

“Wow…that…is one helluva cat.”

“This is Clem. He’s my service animal, and he’ll pretty much ignore you, so you can ignore him if you like. I need to drop this off.” I gesture with the box.

“Okay, then. As long as he doesn’t bite and scratch, I’m good. Trade you.” He takes the cash box from my hand without waiting for a response, replaces it with my coffee, tucks it beneath his opposite arm, and then grabs my free hand with his. His grip is sure and firm and warm around my smaller fingers.

Once again, my cheeks turn hot as I remember my fantasy from the other night.

“What’s that look for?” He bends to peer at my face, and I bring the coffee up to hide my expression.

“What look?”

We walk the same path we walked a few nights earlier until we reach the office where I can drop the cash box and then, by tacit agreement, wander back out into the courtyard. The air is crisp and cool, and I shiver against a sudden wind that cuts through the buildings that tower over us, shading the area’s walls and corridors.

Enzo makes a noise in the back of his throat and drops my hand long enough to shrug out of his coat and wrap it tightly around my shoulders, bringing it around in the front beneath my chin. I look up at him from beneath my lashes, breathing in the heady scent of his cologne that surrounds me.

“That one,” he says. “That one, right there.”

I don’t know how to respond. “You smell good,” I manage, the words a squeak. A smile ghosts over his lips, and his fingers beneath my chin twitch, brushing the skin of my throat.

“Let’s go inside, get you out of this wind.”

Abruptly, he loosens his grip on the collar and picks up his coffee from where he had set it down, then takes my hand again. We start walking again, this time up a set of concrete steps and into one of the buildings where classes are held. It’s quiet, the halls echoing with our footsteps as we walk slowly along.

Clearing my throat, I reach desperately for a topic of conversation that will get my mind off this crazy attraction. “So. Do you attend classes here?” I pitch my voice low, not wanting to disturb anyone inside any of the classrooms that line the hallway.

He chuckles, the sound husky and amused. “Not anymore. I was a business major here, but I took a lot of my electives at Barnard. I have a friend who’s a professor in the International Affairs building—that’s why I’m here all the time.”

“Oh.” My gaze flits around the corridor as we stroll, and warmer now, I ease his coat down to rest over the crook of my arm. His thumb strokes the knuckle of my hand, and contentment swells within me.

I wonder if he enjoys it as much as I do, this little stolen moment in time. It feels like we’re in a bubble where it’s only us, and nothing else matters. There are no famiglia to worry about. No bodyguards to consider or retribution from enemies.

Just us.

“So, if you’ve graduated already, what do you do?” I ask.

He sips his coffee before responding. “I’m an investor in a lot of different things. Pharmaceuticals primarily.” He ducks his chin, his gaze glancing along the pale marble flooring. “I’ve been fortunate.”

That explains the car and driver. He’s wealthy.

We reach the end of the hallway, and after peering inside the little door window with a mischievous expression, Enzo opens the door to a room and gestures for me to enter.

It’s an empty classroom, smelling faintly of chalk dust and sweat. Clem moves ahead of me, sniffing curiously at the small folding desks that rise in rows like stadium seating. I release his leash so he can explore, jumping as the door closes behind us.

“I had a literature class here once,” he says, tilting his head to the side. He sets his coffee down on the large wooden instructor’s desk at the front of the room.

“Here?” I toss my own empty cup in the trash and gaze around the room. “This room?”

He points to a desk around midway. “I sat there.” His expression turns wry. “I almost bailed on it. It was one of the most embarrassing classes I was ever in.”

“What do you mean?”

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