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“Fift—” I shake my head. “You skipped sixty-one.”
“No.”
“Yes. Mine was sixty-three.”
“It wasn’t.”
The flame flickers again, its movement rearranging the play of light and shadow on Alessandro’s face. His jaw is tightly pressed, and there is that malevolence in his eyes again, clearly visible even in the dim illumination. This man hates me, and I don’t understand why. What I do understand even less, is the fact he’s still holding my finger with his and, obviously, is trying to ease my panic by distracting me. Because I’m sure he missed that number on purpose.
There is a barely audible click, followed by a sudden brightness as the overhead light comes back on. A ding rings out and the elevator door opens, revealing a man in a maintenance uniform on the other side. He’s saying something about a circuit glitch and apologizing for needing to turn off the light while overriding it, but I keep staring at my bodyguard. He’s still holding his lighter in front of me.
“You skipped sixty-one on purpose,” I say.
Alessandro tilts his head to the side. “And why would I do that, Mrs. Pisano?”
I can hear a subtle hostile undertone in his voice. He closes the Zippo, extinguishing the flame, and pulls his hand from mine before he steps out of the elevator.
You can learn a lot about a person by simply watching them, especially when they don’t know you’re doing so. Mrs. Pisano has been perusing the shelves in various boutiques for almost two hours, and I’ve noticed a very unusual thing. Every time she enters a shop, she walks amid the racks, pulls off a thing or two from each, then continues to the next one. She doesn’t try any of the items on, and she barely even looks at the stuff she picks. And then, just before going to the checkout counter, she approaches the exclusive section.
All the clothes in these shops are pricey, but the apparel in the exclusive sections is a different level of crazy. In the first shop we went to, she purchased boots that cost six grand. In the next one, she bought an extremely ugly purse for twice that amount.
Now, I watch as she approaches a rack with coats and starts looking at the labels. She never does that when she’s browsing the rest of the shop, but for the higher-end items, she checks every single price tag.
She pulls off a long coat with faux fur trim over the collar, checks the size label, and then heads to the cash register. She didn’t even try it on, but even from a distance, I’m sure that it’s at least two sizes too big. I focus on her feet. Now that I think about it, the boots she bought earlier seemed rather large, as well.
Mrs. Pisano places the heap of clothes on the counter next to the cash register and looks at me. I take out the credit card Rocco gave me yesterday. As I’m passing her the plastic, our fingers touch, and it’s as if a hot iron sears my skin. Just like when she hooked her pinkie with mine in the elevator. I don’t like it, but at the same time, I can’t make myself move my hand. Mrs. Pisano looks up, but I can’t see her eyes. Those dreadful sunglasses are still hiding most of her face.
I let go of the card and collect the bags after the attendant packs up her purchases, but the feeling of her skin against mine still lingers, tingling the tips of my fingers.
When we leave the boutique, Mrs. Pisano heads right toward the jewelry store at the other end of the mall, walking a few steps in front of me. She left her coat in my car, so I’m gifted with an undisrupted view of her perfect round derriere. I’ve never understood the fascination some men have with female asses, but as I watch her buttocks shift under the soft fabric of her brown pants, I have the urge to place my palm on her behind and check if it’s as firm as it looks. Disgusted with myself for my thoughts, I quickly look up and focus my gaze on the back of her head.
She looks so regal as she walks down the promenade with her focus fixed in front of her, while her four-inch heels make a distinct tapping sound on the tile floor. Every man who passes her, no matter their age, stares at her with wide eyes. Even those accompanied by their girlfriends or wives. It’s as if they can’t help but be drawn to her.
And it seems I’m one of them, as well. I should be paying attention to our surroundings, but I find myself unable to move my eyes off her. Ravenna Pisano doesn’t appear to notice the uproar she’s creating. Majestic and controlled, she keeps strolling with her head held high, absolutely unperturbed by what’s going on around her.
It’s such a difference in her behavior compared to how she acted in the elevator earlier. At first, I thought she freaked out from having me so near in the small space. Most women tend to be intimidated by my size. But then, she grabbed my hand, holding onto it as if for dear life. That’s when I realized that it was the enclosed space that triggered her. I should have exploited that fear.
But I couldn’t make myself do it.
Just as Mrs. Pisano reaches the entrance of the jewelry store, a man exiting stops at the threshold. His lips curve upward as he gives her an undisguised once-over.
“Well, hello there.” He smirks as he stands there, barring her entry.
He’s one of those hipster types—expensive suit with too-short pant legs, a neatly trimmed beard, and blond hair slicked back in some moronic style. I set the shopping bags on the floor and take a step forward until I’m standing right behind my charge. Wrapping my arm around her waist, I move her to the side. She lets out a small yelp of surprise, which quickly transforms into a muffled cry when I grab the fancy idiot by the knot of his yellow silk tie.
The man’s eyes flare in shock as I pull him out of the way and nod toward the escalator on the left. “Get lost.”
I let go of him and keep his retreating form in sight as he hurries away, then collect the shopping bags and stretch out my arm in the go-ahead gesture. Ravenna Pisano blinks at me, then quickly looks away and enters the shop.
How is it possible to want to kill a person, and feel the urge to protect them at the same time?
***
We’ve nearly reached our next destination, Mrs. Pisano’s mother’s house, when I feel a light touch on my shoulder.
“Can you make a stop here? I need to get something from the pharmacy.”
I pull over and park, and then walk around the car to open the back door. The sidewalk is in bad condition, and there’s a puddle and half-frozen mud where the mess has collected near a curb drainage grate under the car. As my charge starts to exit the vehicle, my eyes fall to her shiny white heels. Without a thought, I lean forward, grasp her waist and lift her out, setting her onto dry ground. The moment her feet touch down, I release her and close the car door.
