Page 95 of Dial B for Billionaire

“It terrifies me,” he says flatly, but there’s a spark in his eyes that suggests he doesn’t mind being terrified. “But Ithink I need the fear to remind me what it means to really live.”

The admission hangs between us, weighted with implications neither of us is ready to explore.

My phone buzzes in my purse. Then again. I ignore it, but Bennett notices.

“Everything OK?”

“Probably Audrey wondering where the hell I am.” I turn the phone face down. “The real world can wait a few more hours.”

His smile is grateful. “Good. Because I'm not done corrupting you yet.”

After lunch, a private guide shows us through Lisbon's historic neighborhoods. We wander narrow cobblestone streets, climb to ancient viewpoints offering panoramas of the city's seven hills. The heat radiates from old stones, mixing scents of jasmine and salt air.

Throughout it all, Bennett keeps me close. His hand on my lower back as we navigate crowds. Fingers intertwined as we walk. When he points out architectural details, his breath against my ear makes me shiver despite the warmth.

“One more surprise,” he says as afternoon melts into evening. We're in Alfama, the oldest district, where music spills from doorways and the scent of grilled sardines fills the air.

He leads me down a narrow alley that opens into a small square. A historic building stands before us, lights glowing warmly from within.

“What is this place?”

“A fado club. One of the oldest in Lisbon.”

Inside, the space is intimate. Maybe twenty tablesarranged around a small stage, walls lined with photographs of singers past and present. But it's completely empty.

“You bought out the entire club, didn’t you?” I ask, incredulous.

“Just for a few hours.” He shrugs like it's nothing. “I wanted you to experience this without distractions.”

A small ensemble waits on stage, consisting of a classical guitarist, a Portuguese guitarra player, and a woman in traditional black who must be the fadista. They begin to play, the woman's voice rising in a haunting melody that seems to reach inside my chest, stirring something I can't name.

“It's beautiful,” I whisper. Even without understanding the words, I feel the ache in every note.

“Fado means 'fate,'” Bennett says, his voice low beside me. “The Portuguese believe some things are written in the stars. Unavoidable no matter how we fight them.”

“You understand what's she singing about?”

“I do.”

“Explain it to me.”

“It’s love. The kind that arrives unexpectedly and changes everything.” His eyes find mine in the dim light. “She's singing about surrendering to feelings that can't be controlled, can’t be denied.”

Something unspoken passes between us. This connection we share, is it also fado? Fate neither of us sought but can't escape?

After several songs, the tempo changes to something more rhythmic. Bennett stands, extending his hand.

“Dance with me.”

“Won’t that seem odd when we’re the only ones here?”

“Just means there's no one here to judge.”

I take his hand, letting him lead me to the small space before the stage. His arm circles my waist, drawing me close as we begin to move.

The fadista's voice swells around us, passionate and plaintive. Bennett's eyes never leave mine as we sway together.

“I never do this,” he murmurs, lips close to my ear.

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