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“Don’t worry about it, Libby,” I say breezily. “Mr. Visconti is filthy, stinking, rich.”
Satisfaction pools in my stomach, partly because I enjoy even the tiniest triumphagainst Raphael, but partly because the laugh that slips from his lips and floats over the counter is deep and genuine.
Our food arrives in a grease-stained paper sack, and Raphael holds it like it’s a poop bag from a dog he doesn’t own.
Just as the doorbell chimes above our heads, an abrupt “Wait!” shoots through the diner and turns my head.
A server hot-foots it toward me. She sets down her coffee pitcher and lays a soft hand on my arm. “Are you okay, lovely?”
I blink. “What? Oh, right. He hasn’t kidnapped me, don’t—”
Her nervous laugh and wary glance up to Raphael cut me off. “No, sweetie. You were in here a few nights ago and you left so suddenly. You looked like you were about to be sick.” She looks over her shoulder and lowers her voice. “We didn’t make you sick, did we?”
Realization hits me. She means Thursday,the night with the drunk girls and the news report and the realization that my vengeful wave of a lighter over a vodka bottle was the worst mistake of my life.
The server’s sympathetic smile stays in focus, but behind her, red booths and checkered tiles spin. I’ve always done this. I take the bad things that happen in my life, like worries and fear and trauma, stomp them down to a neat, compact package, then store them somewhere so deep inside me I forget they exist. Then they rear their ugly head when I watch the news, or I’m left along with my thoughts too long.
A strong hand grips my waist, and a dark, silky voice touches my ear. “You okay, Penny?”
Penny. I’d obsessover the fact Raphael called me anything but Penelopein that condescending drawl if panic wasn’t rock-climbing up my throat.
I force it down, force a smile, and force a lie. “I was just a little under the weather, that’s all.”
Raphael’s narrowed gaze scorches my cheek as he holds the door open for me. My heart thrums with the threat of interrogation in an aftershave-soaked car, but he simply slides into the driver’s seat with a disinterested air and drops the sack of food on my lap.
“Hey, watch my book!”
He regards the canary-yellow spine and kicks the car into gear. “HTML for Dummies,” he drawls. “Heard it’s one of Shakespeare’s finest works.”
I bite back a retort and glare out the misted window, watching as the safety of Main Street melts away. The Rusty Anchor’s broken sign flashes to the left, and then we’re back on the road where Raphael found me, climbing up into the abyss.
A hot prickle shifts under my skin. “Where are we going?”
His gaze cuts to me, a hint of amusement playing within it. “Somewhere no one can hear you scream.”
Oh. Even knowing—okay, assuming—it’s little more than a morbid joke, my throat still constricts. We sit in tense silence for a few minutes. The scent of deep-fried goodness rises from the bag in my lap. The radio hums with one of those festive songs that always get stuck in your head around this time of year, and Raphael’s thick fingers strum against his thigh in time with it.
Eventually, we roll to a stop opposite the old church on the cliff. It’s raining heavier now, and nothing beyond the dash is visible. Raphael kills the engine, and the sudden silence rings in my ears.
I clear my throat. Slide across the wide seat closer to the door. With a quick glance at my legs, Raphael shrugs off his jacket, lifts the paper sack off my lap, and drapes it over me. His warm hands brushing my thighs feel like static electricity and make my next breath shallow.
“Take your jacket off, it’s wet.”
I do as I’m told. He tosses it back on the seat, before turning on the engine and cranking up the heater. Clearly, he mistakes my discomfort at being trapped in a car with him for being cold. Truth is, I’m anything but. Despite being soaked through to my panties, I’m burning. My blood only grows hotter when Raphael unclicks his seat belt and shifts his body, subjecting me to all of his attention.
The burden of his gaze is heavy on my cheek. In an attempt to avoid the brunt of it, I unwrap my burger and take a bite. A river of ketchup runs down my chin and lands with a plop in the carton.
Raphael lets out a soft chuckle. “You’ve got it all over your face.” He lifts his arm and for a breathless—and utterly ridiculous—moment, I think he’s going to lean over and wipe it off my chin.
But of course he doesn’t. Christ, why would he? He simply leans his elbow against the armrest and runs two fingers over his lips.
Although it was stupid to assume he’d touch me, the fact that he didn’t sends a violent shiver of disappointment down my spine. I deal with it the only way I know how: being a dick.
I fumble with his jacket on my lap and whip the silk square out of the top pocket and wipe it across my mouth. “Thanks.”
The hard sneer that settles on his lips puts the world to rights again.
“You not hungry?”
