Page 29 of Tarnished Reign

“Books sounds like a virtuous thing to spend money on,” I say.

“What do you spend yours on?”

I can’t really answer guns and gadgets, so I shrug. “Eating nice food for sure. A personal trainer. My house.”

She frowns at the last thing I say but doesn’t comment. “Food like this? Eating out?”

“I like to eat out, yes. Or have good food at home. My stepdad is into grilling, and my mother is a great cook, but I confess I have a chef delivery service. I like places like this, though. Eating new things is good. Tasting menus are fun.”

“I like eating food like that too,” she says. “You know, picky bits.”

“Picky bits?” I repeat.

“That's what my mum used to call it.” She smiles sadly.

Her English accent is charming, and it suits her somewhat renaissance-like features.

“She used to make picky bits for tea sometimes. She put these little cocktail sticks out on the plates and pushed the olives on them and maybe squares of beetroot, along with pickles, little chunks of cheddar cheese; that kind of thing. It was our favorite meal.”

She looks down at her hands. “I miss her.”

It is said so quietly I almost don't hear it. In a way I wish I hadn't because I'm not sure what to say. I don't want to offer vague assurances because she lost her mother, and that's not an easy wound to recover from. I lost my father before I ever knew him, and it took years for me to get over it. Only when I learned what an absolute coward he was did I finally heal. Except the skin that healed over that scar was thick and vicious with anger. In a sense, it was a totally new scar of its own. Instead of a bleeding open wound full of sorrow, it was a puckered angry wound full of hate.

I suppose I still grieved him but in anger instead of sorrow.

“Well, let's raise a glass to your mother when we get the wine. We can dedicate this meal to her memory.”

I must have accidentally fallen on the right thing to say, because she glances up at me, and for the first time since I saw her on that bed with that disgusting dirty rag in her mouth, she offers me a genuine smile.

My heart skips a beat because that smile is the most breathtaking thing I've ever seen.

I clear my throat and beckon the server over. “We’ll have the tasting menu please. With the various wines. Can you bring us a sparkling wine to start?”

I'll only sip at each glass of wine and take a taste because I'm driving.

The sparkling wine is brought to the table, and it’s accompanied by a small bowl of salted almonds and another bowl of olives.

Adriana lifts the flute to her lips with a slender hand and takes a sip. Her eyes flutter closed as she smiles softly and swallows. “That's delicious.”

“To your mother, “I say.

“To Mum,” she replies, and her voice catches slightly.

She looks down again, and I let her escape this time because she clearly needs to regroup. She nibbles on an almond and then takes an olive into her mouth, chews on it, and then slowly pushes the stone out of her mouth and delicately drops it onto a plate.

I want to lick the salty olive taste from her lips. It's an overriding urge that I have to sit on hard. I clench my hands and look out the window for a moment to distract myself.

“So, what's the plan then?” Adriana finally speaks, but it's not small talk. She wants to make conversation about the situation.

I look at her and hope she can see the disappointment in my gaze. I've just driven her for miles for a sumptuous meal, and even though we need to talk about this, it would be nice to get to know something about her during this meal. About what makes her tick. What she likes. “Can't we just enjoy this lunch?”

“I don't even have a purse,” she says. “Do you know how weird that feels? I'm not even a real person anymore. I have no identification.”

“I'll buy you a purse if it makes you feel better,” I suggest.

“You don't get it,” she hisses, leaning across the table. “I don't have anything that a normal person would. I feel as if I've disappeared from the face of the earth. I have no phone. No money.”

“You don't need them.” I shrug. “Who would you call? Your stepmother? Your father? I'm sure that would go down well. I'm sure your alcoholic father wouldn't immediately tell your stepmother that you've called, and she wouldn't immediately call Ari who would put a tracer out to find out where you are.”

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