He nodded.
Of course I did, but it was easier here. “Yeah, sometimes.” The quiet was heavy. “Where in the States are you from?”
He took a long sip of his coffee, and the lines around his eyes hinted he was desperate for the caffeine. “Kentucky.”
Really? “You don’t sound like you’re from the South.”
“Not everyone in Kentucky sounds like a hick.” He delivered it with no emotion, but it came out biting anyway. “And you?”
“I moved around a lot growing up.” People didn’t seem to like vague answers. “Michigan, I guess.”
The silence returned.
I took a sip of my tea and focused back on the river, like I was no longer interested in the man staring at me, even though I was. A small herd of impalas grazed on the far shore, undisturbed by the grunting and snorting hippos that rumbled like motors in the water nearby.
“Can I ask how it is you work for the Abramos?”
I set my cup down, and my heartbeat ticked up a notch. “You work for the Abramos, too.”
“I’m used to dealing with people like them.”
That sounded dark. “Meaning?”
He gave me a gaze that nearly leveled me. “You seem like a smart girl. You think the Abramo family comes by their money legally?”
No, I didn’t, but my annoyance overpowered that. “Maybethiswoman”—I emphasized the distinction—“doesn’t care where the money comes from.”
I planted my gaze on him, and everything else around us fell away. Judging by the scowl twisting on his lips, what I’d said displeased him. But as soon as the scowl was there, it was gone and his face returned to an empty, expressionless mask.
“Look,” I added, “the truth is I have to work for the Abramos, but my contract is almost up. I’ll be free of them in a few weeks.”
He was either evaluating my statement for truth, or for how much further he could pry. “Have you flown for all of them?” he asked. “Vitale?”
Giovanni’s father, the head of the Abramo family. “Yes. He’s the one who hired me.”
His shoulders straightened. Was that interest he was trying to hide? “Why do you think he did that?”
Now I was fully annoyed. I wanted to snap something along the lines of, “Because I’m a damn good pilot.” But I kept my tone even. “The Abramos hate Americans. I think they employ as many of us as they can, so they can boss us around and feel powerful.”
Was that a half-smile teasing his lips? “Doesn’t that bother you?”
I took another sip of my tea and leisurely set it down. “People usually don’t tell me what to do when they’re in my plane and we’re twenty thousand feet in the air. They’re welcome to try.”
Itwasa half-smile. And then it was gone like it had never existed.
“Does their superior attitude bother you?” I asked.
“Giovanni,” he said of our employer, “can tell I’m not someone you want to piss off.”
Nathan gave me a dark, authoritative look, and it was... odd. Like an act. I didn’t know him. We’d only met the previous day while I’d gone through preflight checks. But Icould see through this easily.
I offered a knowing smile. “You work hard to give off that impression.”
He took a deep breath, and his pupils dilated subtly.
Whoa. He didn’t like that I’d called his bluff. He reacted like I’d knocked him back, and his eyes narrowed, furious. This bad-ass persona of his... was itallan act?
Abruptly, there were Italian words behind me. Giovanni. Nathan nodded, stood, and downed the rest of his coffee.
