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But he’s here.
Angelo Russo flew across the whole of Africa because he didn’t forget my birthday.
It takes a split-second to make a decision. Quickly crossing the floor, I open the steel door of the control room where our security equipment is located. The room is basked in the blueish light from the monitors on the desk. It’s cold inside. I shiver and glance over my shoulder—a nervous, guilty reaction—as I flip the switch to deactivate the cameras.
What I’m doing is wrong. I’m disobeying my father, but my joy at seeing Angelo outweighs my fear of getting caught. No one ever watches the camera recordings anyway. It’s a precaution in case of a burglary.
When the screens go dark, I leave and quietly close the door behind me. At the front door, I switch off the alarm in the house as well as the perimeter alarms in the garden. I turn the three locks on the door as noiselessly as I can. With each squeak, I hold my breath.
Finally, the front door is open. A button on the wall unlocks the security gate. Grabbing my key from the bowl on the entrance table, I cut across the lawn to the pedestrian gate.
Angelo is visible through the bars. He stands on the pavement under the yellow light of the streetlamp with a hand shoved in his pocket and his jacket slung over his shoulder. He looks like an apparition in the mist rolling in from the sea. In dark slacks and a fitted white shirt with the top three buttons undone, he’s both the same and different, familiar and a stranger.
Exhilarating and frightening.
His demeanor is vigilant and alert. He’s observing the surroundings even as his attention is trained on me. Like a seasoned soldier, he seems to be aware of every sight and sound, of every leaf that stirs in the breeze.
For a moment, I can’t do anything but look at him. I take in everything, the thicker curls of his hair, the harsher, more angular lines of his face, and the stubble on his jaw. His forearms are exposed where his shirtsleeves are rolled up. The hair dusting his skin is dark. His biceps are bigger, and his chest is broader.
The difference between us hits me all at once. He’s a man, even more so now than last year. He’s twenty-one, and I’m seventeen. Compared to him, I’m a child. He has experience I’m lacking. Yet he’s interested in me. A year didn’t wipe out the spark of two fleeting meetings. Time only strengthened our attraction.
The curve of his lips is sensual. His voice is rich and deep, his accent still slight but also deliciously different. “Hello, Sabella.”
This isn’t a dream.
He’s here.
“You’re here.”
He tilts his head. “You didn’t think I’d miss your birthday, did you?” When I don’t move, his smile turns amused. “Are you going to let me in, or are we going to do this through the bars of your gate?”
This.
So many possibilities are contained in that one little word, so many meanings and interpretations.
Are we going to do this?
My stomach flutters. Jumping into action, I slip the key in the slot and unlock the gate. He steps into the garden, holding my gaze as he pushes the gate closed. We stand toe to toe, me staring up and him looking down.
I make the first move, taking his hand and closing my fingers around his. The minute we touch, I become aware of my body in a different way, a powerful and scary way. I become aware of him. This isn’t me imagining how it feels to hold his hand. This is real.
His skin is warm. The contrast makes me aware of the dewy grass that’s cold under my bare feet. I look at our hands that are clasped together. His big palm barely fits in mine. The tone is darker than my tan.
I tear my gaze from our hands to look at his face. My heart is beating so hard it aches. It hurts to breathe. For a beat, I’m scared, but I don’t know of what. Of getting caught? No. It’s a fear born from self-preservation, a little voice warning me that this man has the power to destroy me. I feel too much. It’s the third time I see him, and he’s already the center of my life.
He seems to sense my hesitation. “Don’t be afraid, Sabella. I’ll always take care of you.”
Always.
Always means forever.
He’s not the kind of person to throw words like that around carelessly. The statement is huge but so is his presence. Everything about him is bigger than life. The world is too small a place for him. I sensed it that first time, but now it’s so visceral I can taste it on my tongue.
Then he smiles, and the warmth of it penetrates me, melting all those internal warnings and scary feelings. A sense of safety wraps around me. How can I ever be afraid while I’m holding his hand?
