Page 63 of Vistaria Has Fallen
“To stand before the glass so I could come upbehind you. Do you know how I have replayed that moment at Ashcroft’s over and over in my mind? How I have wished it might have ended another way?”
His hands slid up the dress to cup her breasts and she gasped in her breath. “It was one hand,” she whispered.
“Ah, yes.” He cupped her breast. She swallowed hard as low-key pleasure spurted through her. In response, her shoulders straightened andshe thrust the breast he held into his hand.
In the glass she saw his black shadow by her shoulder, the dark arm across her chest. He spread his other hand out across her abdomen, splayed flat, possessive.
“More.” Her voice came out weak.
“Mmm.” He kissed her neck, making her shiver. “Much more. Later. For now, I must eat real food.”
Her stomach grumbled and he laughed. “And so must you.”
* * * * *
They were eating—a spicy casserole with a salad and lots of crusty bread rolls and a pale pat of butter—when a quiettap-tap-tapsounded.
Calli frowned, unsure what she’d heard.
Nick lifted his head and cocked it, his whole body straightened in the chair, alert.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Shhh.”
Thetap-tap-tapsounded again.
Nick stood and picked up the jacket slung over the backof the chair next to him and put it on. “Stay there,” he instructed, as he might a child. He left the room, using the archway to the front door. The one he had carried her through only a few hours earlier.
Her body tingled at the memory.
Calli wanted to eat more of the casserole, for her hunger was still not satisfied. It felt like she had not eaten for a month. Only, Nick had taken his jacketwith him and she knew it was because there was a gun in it. The knowledge slowed her movements, made the worry return. She listened, trying to hear Nick. As she scooped up another spoonful of the casserole, she heard what she assumed must be the front door open and close. Then nothing.
Several minutes later, the door opened and closed again. Nick returned. He sat and picked up his fork again.“I apologize for the interruption.”
A small chill touched her spine. “What’s wrong? What has happened?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“You haven’t taken off your jacket.”
He paused, looking at her as though he weighed his answer, then continued to tear into a bun. “It is cool outside. I want to be warm again before I remove it.”
He wore the same expression when she had seen him in the cell. The cool, assessinglook that missed nothing and gave nothing away. His voice was the same rough burr she remembered from the first time they had met. The low, controlled voice of one used to command.
“Bullshit,” she said. “You’re not Nick. You’re...el leopardo. Whoever it is at the door has made you think of Vistaria, your affairs.”
He put down the bun and slid his hand into his pocket. She had seen him make thathabitual motion dozens of times and realized he was reaching for the St. Christopher medallion. It was an instinctive and secret reach for comfort, for reassurance.El rojo leopardocould not afford to reveal weakness or hesitancy.
Yet he had placed the medallion around her neck. He had given it to reassure her.
Yes, Nick was thinking of his country now. The reach for the medal told her that.
Nick withdrew his hand. “You’re very perceptive.”
“Tell me.”
“I would not burden you with my petty concerns.”
