Page 16 of Tide of Treason
Mamma relaxed into her seat, and Nonna took the one beside her with a low grunt.
“Do not slouch,” she snapped.
Mamma fixed her back, jaw clenched.
“And you!” Her eyes flicked to me. I looked back at her blankly. “Heels off my rug,ragazza! I do not allow pigs inside the house.”
Summoning a smile took an effort, but I managed it. I rose, grabbed my heels, kissed her on both cheeks with a murmured, “Buona serata, Nonna,” and exited the library without a backward glance at my mother.
Which, naturally, meant I wasn’t looking where I was going. Because why would I be? I was too busy muttering Sicilian curses under my breath, clutching my heels, and daydreaming about pushing every last relative of mine into a river when—
Impact.
A warm, solid, thoroughly male wall blocked my exit. My nose crunched against expensive fabric. My lungsevacuated all remaining air with a dulloof. It all happened in the span of a heartbeat, and yet somehow dragged out into an agonizing, cinematic moment where I wondered if the Almighty was out for blood, or simply bored.
“Saints above,” the wall rumbled, vibration skittering down my spine, “I’m starting to lose track of which Sforza sister I’m promised to. Hard, when we keep colliding like this. Literally speaking.”
My eyes narrowed on Lucius Andrade’s collar. I refused to dignify his presence with a look.
He continued, “Perhaps you could wear a nametag for me so I’ll know. It would probably save us both a little time and inconvenience. A good investment, yes?” His chest lifted and fell with a bitter laugh. “Unless, of course, you enjoy this? I suppose I could try to see it from your perspective, but I’m not quite that flexible.”
I thought of Viviana alone upstairs, painting women she could never publicly love. Fury scorched a path through my veins. I sucked in a calming breath and, with a surge of irritation, shoved off him.
Lucius didn’t budge. He seemed to be in no hurry to relinquish his position. A knuckle brushed idly against his jaw as he raked a slow glance over me, from my bare feet sinking into plush carpet, up the lines of my scarlet dress, to the snarl barely contained in my expression.
He looked thoroughly unimpressed.
At me.
At this house.
At this family.
When my tongue failed to loosen, he gave the slightest of nods. “I also was wondering, in all my infinite boredom, whether you are just as cold in bed as you appear to be.”
My nails bit into my palms. “You’re mistaking disdain for frigidity. Don’t worry, Lucius. You’ll find it’s a common problem among men with . . . performance anxiety.”
“I don’t think it’s possible to mistake those two things, even if one is an expert at them both, which you seem to be.” He tapped the underside of my chin, and, before I could bite his finger, turned and walked down the hall without looking back.
“Oh, you rude little bastard—what’s that supposed to mean?”
Casual hands slid into pockets. “It means exactly what I said. You’re a little cold, a little too frigid for my tastes.”
“Don’t tell me you prefer them brainless and eager, Lucius.” An unmistakable edge entered my voice as I pivoted to follow the broad set of shoulders. I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation with this man. Even more unbelievable was my irrational need to prove him wrong.
Lucius paused in the foyer. “I’m not quite that picky. Just like them warm.”
Warm. I chewed on the word. Warm as opposed to what—me? I’d been called cold so many times it was almost a compliment now.
I scowled and snapped, “I don’t recall asking what you liked, so why don’t you spare me the gory details and disappeardown the nearest wormhole.”
I got a quiet chuckle for that, though the smirk on his face dimmed. His eyes did a quick sweep around the hallway. When they came back to me, he said, “You didn’t ask, but it wasn’t me who followed another person down a hall to continue a conversation.” He paused, voice dipping soft and slow. “A curious thing, the way you seem to seek out the attention you claimto hate.”
4 | Lucius
20 years old
February 2016
