Page 62 of Ruthless Beast

“Fair enough.”

“How long have you beenthe boss?”

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Making conversation.”

“I’d prefer to talk about something else.”

“Fine. Tell me about your childhood.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Well, I know you don’t have siblings and that your mother was a poor cook. What about your father?”

“Not much to tell, really. Frank Lucchese was a quiet man who believed in hard work and discipline.”

“Excellent qualities in a man.”

“Yeah. It's a pity his qualities didn’t do him any good. He died a mediocre man with a meager pension.”

“Is that why you got into your career? More money?”

“I watched my father being used as a doormat all his life. There’s no way I’ll ever settle for mediocrity.”

“One man’s mediocrity is another man’s peace.”

“It seems you missed your calling, young Emily. You should have gone into the field of psychology,” I smirk.

“And miss out on all this?” she says, waving her arms around.

“I loved my father. I wish he was still around so I could spoil him with the things he never had.”

“I’m sure he’d be proud of your accomplishments.”

I’m not entirely sure if Emily is insulting me or if her comment is genuine, but it’s been such a lovely afternoon that I decide it’s best to let it go. I don't feel like arguing with my beautiful companion.

Lunch is a triumph. The food is perfect, and the company is stimulating. Emily talks to me about her love for art and how she's always wanted to paint since she was a child. Her passion is contagious. I fear I’m starting to have very real feelings toward this enigmatic woman. It’s a dangerous place I’ve put myself in, and I’m not sure I care to stop it from developing into a romantic relationship.

We spend the rest of the afternoon chatting and walking the streets of Paris. I haven’t been this relaxed in a long time. Emily is a pill.

“Dinner at the chateau is usually a fancy affair,” I say once we’re on our way back.

“Oh? It’s a good thing I packed my Sunday best,” Emily says in a snooty accent.

“The staff have done it for centuries, and I appreciate tradition, so.”

“No, I get it. When in Rome…”

“Cute. Are you comfortable in your suite?”

“Hey, it isn’t the dungeonesque accommodations I’ve become accustomed to, but it will do.”

“I fear I may be spoiling you,” I chuckle, as we drive into the estate.

* * *

Emily is standing at the landing at the top of the staircase. She’s wearing a figure hugging, pale yellow evening gown with her hair in a French braid. I can hardly breathe as she slowly descends the stairs. The woman is magnificent!

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