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“Right. Of course not. I just need to talk to Ilarion about something.”
“I’ll leave you to it.” She charges down the stone path, cheeks flaming. I let her walk a few paces ahead of us before I step to Dima’s side.
“Sorry, man,” he mutters. “I didn’t…um… Was there something—?”
“What’s going on?” I ask. I try not to sound impatient; I know it must be important.
But so is holding that beautiful woman in my arms.
“Benedict got back to us about the meeting.”
I notice Taylor glancing back over her shoulder at us, but she’s too far away to overhear anything. “And? What’s it going to be?”
“He’s open to it. He sent along a location as well as his terms for negotiation.”
“Unreasonable?”
“More like…suspicious,” Dima hedges. “He wants to meet you at the Hotel Caravaggio tomorrow at ten. You each bring one man. No weapons.”
“Hm. Reasonable.”
“Which is exactly why it’s suspicious,” he underscores. “He could be lying.”
“He probably is. But I’m not going to be the one to break a gentleman’s agreement.”
Dima snorts derisively. “Benedict Bellasio is no gentleman.”
I nod, my eyes still fixed on Taylor. She’s just entered the aura of light emanating from the house. Lit like that, I can make out her perfect hourglass silhouette through the soft fabric of her dress. It occurs to me that in only a few short weeks, I’ll be able to see a gentle swell to her belly.
Despite our romp in the grass being barely minutes-old, that thought stirs up new hunger.
I sigh. “No, but maybe it’s time I tried to be one.”
Dima’s eyes veer from me to Taylor. He swallows audibly. “Good luck with that, brother.”
When we reach the house, Taylor is standing on the deck, her bare feet pale against the dark bluestone. Dima slips in ahead of me. I stay behind for a moment.
I give her a curious glance. “You planning on camping out on the patio tonight?”
Her face blushes and her gaze drops. “It’s just a…a nice night,” she mumbles. “Thought I’d enjoy it for a little while longer.”
I nod slowly. “You don’t want to go inside, you mean.”
Taylor’s blush deepens, caught in a lie. “It smells like death in there,” she whispers. “At least, it does to me. I’m probably just hallucinating.”
I watch how her eyes whirr in their sockets with anxiety, how her hands flex and unflex again and again at her sides. The curve of her neck looks so delicate to me, like a swan’s.
“Have you eaten anything today?”
She frowns as she considers it. “I can’t remember.”
“Come on.” I take her elbow, gently but firm enough to erase any argument. “I’ll make you something.”
Dima is gone when we enter. Taylor perches herself tentatively on a stool at the counter as I go rummage through the pantry and begin to cook.
The chopping is soothing, meditative. I dice onion and press garlic, relaxing into the simple sensations of the work. It feels good to do something so straightforward.
Tomorrow, things will get complicated. I will meet with Benedict. Maybe he has Archie, maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s dead, maybe he’s not.
