Page 42 of Heart of Stone

I followed the practically running Matteo through the vacant restaurant, as if I was late for some monumental event. I truly felt like Alice must have on her adventure into Wonderland, except I was chasing an Italian rather than a white rabbit in to an unfamiliar place.

The restaurant was eerily quiet, and obviously not opened for business. I found myself wishing that Alexander’s driver were still here. Ironically, I began to feel nervous over the absence of the brooding man. It was almost like he was my protection in this deserted place. Chairs were flipped up on the tables and there wasn’t a soul in sight. The lighting from the pendant fixtures was dim, revealing half finished decorations and empty curtain rods. The shelves behind the bar looked like they had only been partially stocked. The only clue that I would be eating dinner here came from the delicious smell that wafted out of the kitchen, a mouth-watering aroma of garlic and sage.

Matteo paused in an open doorway off of the main dining area, giving me a moment to catch up to him. When I reached his side, he took hold of my elbow and escorted me into an intimately furnished room with soft guitar music playing overhead. At first glance, the room appeared to be set up for small banquets. But upon closer inspection, I realized that this wasn’t your normal run of the mill banquet room. The furnishings reeked exclusiveness, the setting more appropriate for high-ticketed private gatherings.

Alexander Stone sat alone at a candlelit table set for two. As I made my way towards him, I was suddenly overcome with anxious jitters and my palms began to sweat. I couldn’t fathom why I was suddenly so nervous.

He’s just a man sitting at a table.

But then again, Alexander wasn’tjustanything.

He stood and pulled a chair out for me. I gave him a quick once over. He was killer as usual, in khaki pants and a charcoal gray poplin button down.

“Good evening, Krystina.”

“Mr. Stone,” I greeted politely, discretely wiping my damp palms on my skirt.

I tried to sit down gracefully and make myself comfortable in the offered chair, but it was hard to feel relaxed under his watchful eyes.

“I take it that you’ve met Matteo already,” Alexander assumed, reclaiming his seat across from me.

“Yes. He was at the door when I arrived,” I said and gave Matteo a nod of thanks.

“Krystina,” Matteo said and bowed before me, taking me by surprise. He took hold of my hand, placed a feathery kiss on the backside of it, and murmured something in what I recognized as Italian. Then he looked back up at Alexander, his expression coy, and said, “I think we have finally found a name for my place!”

Alexander smirked at him and shook his head back and forth.

“It appears that you have yourself a fan club, Krystina,” Alexander said dryly.

Matteo let out a boisterous laugh and released my hand.

“No worries, no worries! It was only an observation,” he assured. “Now,mi scusi. I must go see to yourantipasti,” Matteo declared with a loud clap of his hands and hurried from the room.

I couldn’t help but laugh at his overly flamboyant performance, despite the fact that I was totally confused by their interaction.

“What did he say?” I asked Alexander, curious about what Matteo had said in his native tongue that had Alexander looking so thoroughly annoyed.

“That you are a beautiful lady,” he answered, his eyes softening as he regarded me. “You really are very beautiful, Krystina.”

His voice was tender, all of the irritation with Matteo diminished.

I wasn’t so sure that ‘beautiful’ was a word I would use to describe myself, and I felt a red glow begin to blossom on my cheeks.

“I love that you blush so easily. It’s refreshing.”

I’m glad you’re into the whole red in the face thing – I despise it!

Rather than give a voice to my embarrassment, I chose to cast my gaze down towards my lap and focus my attention on the soft melody that was playing overhead. I used the guitar’s wide acoustical range as a distraction from my reddened face. I found the music to be calming, yet seductive at the same time.

I peered at Alexander through lowered lashes only to find that he was still watching me. His stare was doing nothing to cool the mortifying flames that refused to leave my cheeks.

“This music is lovely,” I finally said, attempting to break his unnerving observation.

“I thought it might appeal to you. It’s a guitar compellation by Tadeusz Machalski.”

“I never heard of him.”

“No, I don’t imagine you would have. I stumbled upon him playing in the streets of Venice a few years back. I listened to him play for hours before I finally bought one of his CD’s.”

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