Page 60 of For Your Eyes Only

“I liked that movie.” My throat is dry, and I reach for another sip of wine. “She had great tits in that bunny costume… and a pretty decent ass.”

“You love tits and ass.”

“And that’s a problem because…”

“You’re like the player, Daniel Cleaver.”

I set the wine glass aside, thinking about my carefully cultivated persona. I suppose it is similar to Hugh Grant’s character in that film. “Only on the outside.” My voice quiets. “Only for protection. When it comes to you, I’m entirely Mark Darcy. I like you just as you are.”

Her cheek lifts against my skin with her smile, and she turns her face to kiss my chest. “Why do you say it’s for protection? What does that mean?”

“Hmm…” Pressing my lips together, my mind travels back to New York, which currently feels galaxies away from this cozy nook where we’re hidden. “The men in my world believe they’re better than everyone. They make decisions that change the world—sometimes literally. It’s important never to let anyone see you have feelings… or they use them against you.”

She’s quiet, and I lift a curl from her shoulder, studying the way it wraps and clings to my finger. It reminds me of the way her body wrapped and clung to mine moments ago when we made love.

They use them against you… My own words drift through my mind, a warning whisper. I shouldn’t allow these feelings for her. I’m cultivating a weakness, a vulnerability.

Not only that, I’m her fucking boss. She’s my employee—at least for now. I’m not supposed to be touching her… which is probably what makes it all the more irresistible. No touching?Watch this.

“I’m sorry they’re like that.” Her voice is quiet, and I push away my dark, angry thoughts.

“Didn’t mean to bring down the mood.” I exhale, shifting my position. “Should I tell you a funny story? One summer when I was a kid, I pretended I was fluent in French, and our doorman Rusty gave me a shopping list for one of the temporary residents. Everything I bought her was wrong. Everyone was pissed.”

Gia blinks up at me. “You should have confessed.”

“I thought I could figure out the words.” I shrug. “It felt like a challenge.”

“Now you can look them up on your phone.”

“It’s true.” It gives me an idea.

Taking out my phone, I pull up Instagram and start tapping.

“What are you doing?” She arches higher. “Searching for Italian words? I can tell you.”

“I’m searching for your Instagram account.”

“Oh.” She pushes up fully, sitting back on her feet.

The bun in her hair is loose from lying in my arms, and it falls beside her neck. She’s facing me in my thin shirt with her nipples pointing at me, coils of dark spirals on her shoulder. For a moment, I’m distracted by her beauty.

“You have an Instagram, don’t you?”

“I did.” She shoves a curl behind her ear. “I haven’t looked at it since I came here.”

“Giana Rossi?” Another nod, and I tap on an account that can only be hers.

Photo after photo of Gia in perfectly executed ballet poses fill my screen. In one, she’s on pointe, one arm over her head with the swirl of a chiffon dress in an arc behind her. In another, she’s facing forward, one leg straight below and the other straight overhead with a stiff peacock skirt circling her middle.

“These are incredible.” She’s mesmerizing in her form and grace and strength.

The last one is a photo of her and Michele smiling and holding a letter. He’s doing a thumbs up, and the ocean is brilliantly blue behind them. It’s dated three months ago.

“You stopped posting.”

“It hurts to look at them now.” Her chin drops. “Dancing was my whole world. I thought it would carry me to a better life, then it all fell apart.”

Blinking to her pretty face, I set the phone aside. “Palm Beach isn’t the end.”

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