Page 24 of Deception

He’s going to throw me out.

Or snap my neck.

He's inches away, looking down at me.

And I just know that I'm done for.

6

ALESSANDRO

My gut warns me to be careful, wary. An intruder to my sanctum, in the middle of the night? Alarms go off in my head.

But she’s standing here, so close.

Shivering.

I reach out, slipping out of my robe and pulling her soaked scarf from her in one motion, wrapping her in the soft fabric. She looks terrified for a split second, then confused.

“Come. Sorry I made you wait here for so long.” I gesture toward the den, the roaring fire.

After a few moments, she peels out of her wet coat, settling onto the couch and huddling closer to the fireplace.

“Isabella Bianchi. What is it you do for a living?” I feel odd, awkward in my own skin. I’m not used to small talk or offering comfort to others.

Her eyes light up as she turns to me, her guard dropping slightly. “I’m a photographer. At least, some of the time. I haven’t quite found my true calling yet.”

She’s clever. Answering with some vagueness, not offering me more information than I ask. Always play your cards close to your chest…

Or I am reading into the situation the wrong way? It’s hard for me not to react like an interrogator. She’s probably just some woman, like she said.

“I’ve always loved photography. Not that I’ve ever really indulged in creating art myself.”

“And why not? What do you do with your time, Alessandro?” Her question is leading, loaded.

“Exports.”

Her expression goes blank after a few seconds, and I realize she was expecting some elaboration. “My family owns several exportation enterprises. International shipping, precious metals, specialty engineering, tech, pharmaceuticals. Cargo yards and such.” A pretty way of saying I move guns and drugs.

“Fascinating. I take it your family goes back a long way in Italy?”

“You could say that.”

“Mine too.” She gazes into the fire, lost in thought for a moment. I find myself waiting to hear her speak again, eager to learn more about her.

“Would you like something to drink?” The words are out of my mouth before the thought is fully formed.

“Something hot, please.” A little smile pulls at her full, rosebud lips, making me swallow. It’s the booze. Definitely the booze.

“I think Carla left some mulled wine on the stove. I’ll be right back.” The trip to the kitchen gives me a chance to cool down, clear my head.

The fire and seeing this captivating woman again have my mind wandering, wishing.

Fool.

When I return, she’s wrapped in a blanket, and several of her clothing items and boots are set out in the entryway. She’s sitting on the fur rug, her toes practically in the fire and her smooth, silken legs stretched out beneath my robe.

“Comfortable?”

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