Page 34 of Forging Caine

He patted my ass as I walked toward the table. “You told me you loved it!”

“I do, except when it’s hiding exactly the tool I need for my job.”

“You’ll have to give me more advanced warning the next time you plan on taking over the place when I’m not even living in the country.”

My hands settled on my hips, the feigned irritation slipping as he moved each canvas to the stacks along the wall. All three paintings were of the night sky. One black with specks of stars crowding the canvas, another with the setting sun on the horizon as a dark sea swallowed it, and the third was all sharp edges and post-modern concepts in blacks and whites. “Good god, you are so talented.”

He paused, staring at the paintings lining the walls. “I should probably do a purge sometime soon.”

“What doespurgemean in this instance? Please tell me you don’t burn them?”

“No, no,” he chuckled. “I give them away. Some as gifts, lots to the children’s hospital—I have some fairy tale inspired ones in the back and maybe I’ll give one or two to Emma—and others I donate to charities.”

Warmth filled my belly. I knew he was a good man. Knew he and his father donated to the children’s hospital but didn’t know this.

My fiancé was a good man.

“You’re staring, bella,” he said, rolling his head toward me.

I swallowed hard. Maybe Mrs. Samantha Ferraro. “How do you turn this table on?”

He chuckled and returned to my side, flipping a switch that lit up the table. It was four feet by six with a simple, but sturdy-looking metal frame and two bins underneath. A white light lit the entire surface.

“What do you use this for?” I asked as I returned to pick up the rest of the onionskin sheets.

“Lots of things. Drafting, inspecting photos, sometimes I use it with a damaged canvas to help spot weaker areas that aren’t ripped yet but may soon. I’ve even done some animation—flip books for Sofia’s boys when they were little.” He lined the eight sheets up, four per row. His elegant fingers with the black promise ring he still wore, the bespoke black matte watch Mario had surprised him with as a project-completion gift, the veins running up his forearms to where he’d pushed up the sleeves of his deep burgundy Henley.

Apparently, I didn’t need to go downstairs for him to distract me. My thighs clenched just watching him organize pieces of paper.

I dropped the cornetto in the white box, licked the filling off my fingers and joined him, analyzing the set with fresh eyes. “The writing is slightly different colors.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“These marks here.” I pointed at a group of four dots near the corner of one sheet. They were so pale, I hadn’t seen them until they were on the light table. I rolled my shoulders and stretched my back. Leaning over piles of documents on the floor wasn’t the wisest choice I’d made.

The desk was covered with a computer, two monitors, and other desk paraphernalia, so that hadn’t been an option. Maybe I should have put the piles on the lab bench against the back wall. At least its equipment was stacked neatly on shelves.

Antonio stepped behind me and dug his powerful hands into my shoulders. “You’re carrying so much stress in here.”

“It’s been a long four months.”

“Only one day of work left before vacation. Then you’ll have no choice but to relax.”

Except we still had Fiori’s painting to contend with. Plus, I wanted to work with the onionskins. My inner detective was doing so many cartwheels, I could barely focus on one.

“You know…” His hands loosened for a moment, hesitation coloring his voice. “We could always suggest to Papa that he hire you. You know, keep it in the…”

I stiffened and he stopped. Family. He was going to say family. If I had to be honest with myself—which I didn’t like doing—ithadhurt that Antonio didn’t tell me about Dom’s plans. Hurt they hadn’t asked me to be some part of the hiring, at least.

But when Antonio said it out loud, it felt like more of a… a what? A commitment? Hell, I was engaged to the man. What more commitment to the Ferraro family could there be?

Would I enjoy working there? Was I qualified?

Should I keep Caine for professional services?

Who would I end up working for? At least if I was working with the FBI, I knew Elliot would be sure he was my contact for everything. I respected my co-workers at Foster, but I’d worked with enough jerks while I was on the road as an independent adjuster to know I wouldn’t tolerate a bad boss.

Antonio pressed against me from the back, wrapping his arms around my waist. “You don’t have to decide anything right now. Don’t stress.”

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