Page 10 of The Assassin's Captive
"Or maybe you're hiding something after all."
I meet her gaze directly. "Would that bother you?"
"It would make me more curious."
"Curiosity can be dangerous."
"So can mystery."
The tension between us is palpable now, charged with possibilities. I lean closer, close enough to smell her perfume, to see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes.
"Maybe we should continue this conversation somewhere more private," I suggest.
She doesn't hesitate. "I'd like that."
I pay the check quickly, and we make our way to the elevator. In the confined space, I'm acutely aware of her presence beside me, the way she stands close enough that our arms brush when the elevator moves.
The drive to my secondary property takes fifteen minutes through Rome's evening traffic. It's a small house in Parioli, clean and anonymous, furnished with expensive but impersonal pieces. I use it for meetings that require privacy, though I've never brought a woman here before.
"This is nice," she says as we enter. "Very modern."
"I like clean lines. Less distracting."
"Distracting from what?"
"From what's important."
She moves to the window, looking out at the quiet street. "And what's important to you?"
I join her at the window, standing close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body. "Right now? This conversation."
She turns to face me, and I see something shift in her expression. The professional mask slips, revealing something more vulnerable underneath.
"Can I get you another drink?" I ask.
"Please."
I move to the bar cart and pour two glasses of whiskey, expensive single malt that I keep for occasions that require a certain level of sophistication. She accepts the glass and settles onto the edge of the couch, crossing her legs in a way that makes her dress ride up slightly.
I sit beside her, close but not touching, and raise my glass. "To beautiful beginnings."
She smirks at the toast but taps her glass against mine. "That's very presumptuous of you."
"Is it?"
"You're assuming this is a beginning."
"What would you call it?"
"A conversation. Between two people who don't really know each other," Serena purrs, but there's a hint of seduction in her tone.
"Yet."
She takes a sip of whiskey and studies my face over the rim of her glass.
"Tell me about the first time you killed someone," she says suddenly.
The question catches me off guard, and I feel my expression harden involuntarily. "What makes you think I've killed anyone?"
