Page 31 of Scarlet Angel

“She doesn’t see it that way.” It’s an observation that I say more to myself than to him. I assumed the worst about him, but his worry sounds logical.

Back home, my uncle maintains security around the estate. There have been times when relations between other families soured and the security detail increased, but there’s a minimum level he maintains, as the world knows him to be a shipping magnate. He shared the same concerns about ransom threats.

“Are you cold? I can turn up the heat.”

Why does he keep asking me that?

“The fire is plenty warm.”

An older man dressed for barn duty, with knee-high scuffed boots and a flannel shirt, stoked the fire earlier.

“Is that your warmest outfit?”

I glance down at my linen dress. “In Italy, our weather is quite different.”

He stands rather abruptly, moves across the room, picks up a device, and taps into it.

When he returns, he carries over a throw and lays it over the back of the sofa. “Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink?”

“Gin and tonic?”

“Coming right up.”

The clink of ice combines with the crackling fire.

Our fingers touch when he delivers the cocktail. The point of contact stings, drawing my attention to the sensitive skin. Yellow and red spots light my vision because, once again, I’ve stared too long into the flames. He hovers near, so close I inhale cedar and clove, a scent I assume is his cologne. It’s the same as what I’d smelled on the barn jacket. Quite different from the cloying perfume he wore earlier.

“Your hair is ravishing in the firelight.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s lovely. You’re lovely.”

I shake my glass, knocking the ice about.

“Your skin. Smooth and unblemished. It nearly glows.”

“What are you on about?” He’s full of it. But why?

“I can’t be the first to tell you.”

“You’re lying. I have scars.” Annoyed, I lift the glass to my lips and drink. I’m not looking for sympathy, but I won’t endure lies.

His fingers lift a strand of hair from my shoulder. My muscles tense, and a prickly sensation trails from the point of contact down my spine.

He twirls the strands between his fingers, and tingling sensations leap from my spine to my scalp.

I force myself to swallow. To breathe. A log crackles and falls, and the flames leap.

His index finger strokes my cheek. I freeze.

I’m caught between pleasure and terror.

Breathe.

Dr. Rosenthal’s voice, the American therapist I secretly met with for years, comes to me.

You’re stronger than you know. Believe in your strength.

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