Page 25 of Luca
Everything except the things she found on her own. The lock she picked. The drink she stole.
She turns back to the cutting board, wrist flexing as the knife slices clean through another zucchini. “It’s starting to feel like home,” she says.
I almost laugh. Because home isn’t something you case. But she says it like she means it, and she’s good enough to almost make me believe her.
I should walk away. Keep my distance. Play this slow.
Instead, I find myself imagining what she’d do if I crowded her right here, pressed her back against the counter, hand sliding up her thigh until that sunny composure shattered. If she’d taste like Dalmore still, or if she’d replace it with something sweeter.
All dangerous thoughts.
The kind that get men killed.
But if she keeps moving through my house like she owns it — keeps looking at me like she’s daring me to stop her — I might just let her try.
Chapter 10: Gabriella
He comes into the bedroom just as I'm toweling my hair dry. No tie, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the top buttons of his shirt undone.
And in his hand?
A bottle I know very well.Oh, hello, old friend.It's the rare, stupidly expensive whiskey I liberated a sip from after picking the lock to his liquor cabinet.
"I brought this up from my study," he says, watching me over the neck of the bottle like it's a loaded gun. "It’s a special bottle."
Of course he'd say that. He’s testing me.
I give him my best warm-but-innocent smile, the one that says sweet newlywed wife, not international woman of mystery.
"I don't usually drink whiskey," I say lightly, as if confessing a girlish preference. "Champagne is more my thing."
One of his brow tilts just slightly. "You'll like this one."
I shrug like it's no big deal. "I’ll try it, if you insist."
He takes two heavy-bottomed glasses from the shelf and pours. The deep amber whiskey catches the lamplight. The scent curls in the space between us, dragging me right back to that stolen sip in the quiet of his study and the illicit thrill of doing something I absolutely shouldn't.
He hands me a glass, his fingers brushing mine. No accident there. His eyes don't leave my face. He's looking for something. A blink. A hesitation. The give-away flinch of someone outside her comfort zone.
Not tonight, husband.
I swirl the whiskey gently, pretending I'm watching the way it clings to the glass. Really, I'm buying half a second to slip back into that memory, how it burned and bloomed on my tongue, how the heat lingered in my chest. The man knows good whiskey.
Then I sip. Slow. A measured mouthful that I let roll over my tongue before swallowing. No wince. No cough. No "oh gosh, it's strong" little gasp. Just appreciation.
"Mmm," I say, setting the glass down like I could take it or leave it. "It's nice. Smoother than I expected."
His gaze sharpens, not suspicion exactly, but something heavier. Something that makes my pulse quicken.
"Not what you were expecting?" he asks.
"It's... good," I say, letting the warmth spread through me. "Stronger than champagne, but nice."
He moves in fast. "I want to taste your first drink of expensive whiskey."
Too late for that, I want to say.
Before I can answer, he's got a hand at the back of my neck and his mouth is on mine. Not soft, not sweet, but deliberate. He kisses like he's claiming territory, and when his tongue slides against mine, I feel the slow burn of the whiskey pass from me to him.
