Page 92 of Ricardo

“Simply being cautious,” he says.

He dries his hair roughly, and the movement pulls at his shirt, which is clinging to his body. His very fascinating and… sexy body.

I look at the shelves. Immediately.

Books. I am fascinated by books. Books have spines and titles and no damp white cotton clinging to them.

A picture on the shelf catches my eye. It's a picture of Ricardo and Dante. Ricardo is younger, his hair darker, his hand on Dante’s shoulder. Dante is laughing at something outside the frame. Ricardo is not smiling, but there is a warmth in his face that makes my heart do a helpless slow roll.

The storm flashes white at the window. A second later, thunder rolls over the house, closer this time. I flinch less than before, but I still flinch.

Ricardo notices.

“Come,” he says. “The sitting room is warmer.”

He does not touch me this time.

He just waits until I move.

The sitting room we passed earlier is even warmer now that I am not rushing past it. Lamps glow on either side of the sofa. Rain trails down the windows in thick lines. A low table holds a few books, a ceramic bowl, a remote, a stack of coasters. Nothing about it looks arranged for guests.

This setting does not look any safer than the study.

Marisa appears with a tray almost immediately: coffee, cups, cream, sugar, small almond cookies on a plate. She sets it down with a look toward me.

“You are cold,” she says.

“I’m fine.”

She looks at Ricardo as if he has done something foolish.

“I’ll get a blanket,” he says.

“I don’t need—”

She gives me the same look, and I stop.

Because I am cold.

The only protection I have against the cold is my blazer, which is damp.

“Fine,” I say. “A blanket would be nice.”

Marisa looks pleased.

Ricardo crosses to a cabinet, takes out a folded throw, and brings it to me. Dark gray, soft, probably absurdly expensive. He does not drape it over me. He hands it to me and lets me do it myself.

I slip off my blazer and wrap the blanket around my shoulders and sit on the edge of the sofa.

Ricardo looks at Marisa and says, “Non avrò bisogno di altro stasera, Marisa. Vai pure.”

I understand enough to know he is dismissing her for the evening.

Marisa’s gaze moves from him to me, then back again. “Sei sicuro?”

“Sì.”

My fingers tighten around the blanket.