Page 15 of Forging Caine

“You’re excited. You’re planning something.”

“Are you kidding me?” Her eyes all but twinkled. “He’s on our turf now.”

I drew closer to her, dropping my voice. “You want to meet with him, don’t you?”

She nodded, the corner of her lip curling into the first genuine smile I’d seen from her since I got home. “Of course! But it has to be somewhere public, and we really should call Elliot about this.”

“Finally!” That was a miracle. “You’re suggesting we call in backup as the first step?”

Her half-smile evolved into a smirk. “I guess youcanteach an old dog new tricks.”

“You’re hardly an old dog, bella.” My mood shifted with hers, the relief of seeing her happy almost enough to make me forget the topic. “He said dessert and drinks this evening. Are you willing to leave Cassandra’s celebration early enough for that?”

“She told me to come and put in an appearance, but insisted we not stay long.” The smile softened and a hint of tenderness appeared. “Said I was supposed to take you home and celebrate your return.”

I lifted my phone and winked at her. “So, I’ll tell him there’s no chance we’re seeing him tonight?”

She grabbed my wrist. “Don’t you dare or there will be no celebration at all.”

The untended fire smoldering deep in my core flared hotter. “You’re playing dirty, Ms. Caine.”

She leaned closer, so I caught a whiff of her heady scent. “Whatever it takes, Dr. Ferraro.”

“I’ll call The Train Station.”

“Good luck!” She snorted a laugh. “Their waiting list is at least two months long.”

“You doubt me?”

“Never.”

“Good.” The Train Station was the best restaurant within a two hours’ drive, and she was right about their waiting list. However, she still had not learned how much weight my family’s name carried around Brenton and so many other places. I opened the center console and withdrew earbuds to make the call while we drove to Cassandra’s. “Do you think the chef’s private dining room would work? It’s on the second floor and overlooks the kitchen. It’s completely closed off from the rest of the diners.”

“There’s no way you can—” She cut off when I cocked at eyebrow at her. “Okay, fine, let’s assume you can pull that off. Is it maybe too private? Do you think he’d try something?”

I started the car and pulled out onto the road. “If by something you mean kill us, he’d either surprise us or he’d be the one making the reservations. He wouldn’t let us control the location.”

“Good point.” She settled back in her seat. “Do you think there might be a link between him and the mysterious letter showing up at your office?”

“Bella, if I were not sitting in this car with you, I’d assume it’s a coincidence. When was the letter mailed?”

She pulled the envelope from her handbag on her lap. “The stamp was canceled three days ago. He’d have no way of knowing if it would arrive yesterday or Monday or even a week from now.”

“He could have had one of his people send it, coordinating with his visit?”

Samantha withdrew two folded sheets from the envelope, holding them up to the window and the sunshine. “I don’t know. If he’s approaching us in person, what purpose would this mystery letter serve?”

“One mystery at a time?”

She pressed the sheets against the glass, rotating one slowly, as though searching for how they lined up.

“You’re not canceling our trip for this.”

She lowered the sheets and mock-frowned at me. “Why would I ever do that? You know how much I love for you to spend way too much money on first class seats and even more on a ridiculously large suite at whatever hotel or resort we end up at?”

“You’re cute when you’re patronizing me.” I pinched her leg and she elbowed my bicep. I swallowed the jolt of pain screaming up my arm—there was no way I’d let her know how much it still hurt all these months after being shot. “We do still have to decide where we’re going.”

“I thought we already did,” she said, focused on the sheets again.

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