Page 27 of Sinful Beauty

“You know, this wasn’t what I was envisioning, but this is nice.”

“Well, you might want to hold on to opinions until we get inside.”

The staircase is narrow, and we climb for what feels like forever, ascending four floors.

“You landed the penthouse?”

She snorts. “I landed the attic. My landlord has had this place in his family for three generations. When his parents died, he converted it to apartments. He lives with his family on the first two levels, his aunt lives in a converted apartment on the third level, and then he rents the attic for extra income.”

“Entrepreneurial of him.”

She opens the door, and I get my first glimpse of the real Lucia.

As one would expect in an old attic space, the ceilings are low and heavy, exposed wooden support beams protrude. Small windows tucked strategically into eaves provide light. The space is technically one room, but there’s a kitchen area in one alcove, a low bed that appears to double as a sofa, and a curtain provides privacy to an alcove with a tub, sink and toilet.

My mother wouldn’t stay one night here, and yet Lucia has remained here for seven years. The walls are whitewashed stucco, but color warms the space. The worn mismatched throw pillows on the bed include every color of the rainbow, and the throw over the mattress has a concoction of fabric swatches as if she sewed it together herself. A metal stand with wheels is off to one corner, and an array of monochrome office clothes hang from the contraption. A shelving unit overflows with folded garments. Stacked shoes line one wall.

And to the side of her bed, the one wall that doesn’t have a shelving unit or hanging rack placed in front of it is a mirage of photographs of smiling people.

“Your family?”

The refrigerator door closes and sets a covered dish on the counter. “Friends and family.”

I join her in the kitchen area. She doesn’t have a kitchen table, but the counter that divides part of the kitchen alcove is raised in one section, and two green vinyl stools sit beneath it. I pull one out and sit, watching as she stirs a brown concoction before setting it in a counter top microwave.

“Have you got much family here?”

“No.” I actually know this answer, but I ask in the hopes she’ll open up. She presses buttons and the vintage appliance emits a low hum. “Not many friends, either. My bestie hit her limit and returned to the states last month.”

“Limit?”

“Her company has a policy that she can only live abroad in one country for seven years.”

“Ah.” I recall from her file she’s here on a Visa program. Lumina has extended her visa multiple times, a testament to her work. “And where are you in the citizenship process?”

I can only assume she wants to stay here. Although, based on these accommodations, I’m unsure why.

“I have EU citizenship. I haven’t applied for Swiss and it hasn’t been a problem.” She pauses, and it feels like she’s got more to say.

The microwave beeps. A powerful aroma fills the space and hunger stirs. The door closes, and she presses a hip against the counter. She reaches behind her head and I’m taken in by the way the fabric stretches tight. Her hair spills down, still caught in braids, but no longer held back. One by one, her fingers release her woven strands. It’s a metamorphosis of sorts.

“What about you? What’s your story? Did you need to move home because you overstayed your visa in Great Britain?”

“I have dual citizenship.” As an Interpol officer, I don’t concern myself with Visa issues. But as I look around her tiny flat, and consider her post, and the fact she has few family and friends here, I can’t help but wonder why she’s stayed in Switzerland for so long.

“So the story is true? You simply missed home? Felt it was time to make your mark in the company your great grandfather founded?”

“Something like that.” I offer her a small smile. I’d prefer to tell the truth, but a semblance of it will suffice. “What about you? Did you fall in love with Geneva?” Lake Geneva separates France and Switzerland and the area, surrounded by the Alps, is often referred to as the Swiss Riviera. Charlie Chaplin famously chose Geneva for his second home.

“I love Geneva.” There’s a flush to her cheeks, augmented by the cascade of waves around her shoulders. “But I don’t plan on living here forever. I’m just…”

The microwave beeps once more, and she spins. She’s holding something back. My gaze traces the curves of her waist and ass. She’s focused on dinner, but I’m not hungry for food.

Chapter10

Lucia

The lights flicker as if the old building senses the rising tension in the attic. If we lose electricity from the ice storm, the heat generated by the frisson of energy passing between us will keep us toasty.

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