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“Did you come here with someone tonight?” His deep baritone makes my stomach quiver as his eyes shift to the door behind me.
“Oh, uh, no. I was invited,” I say quickly.
My immediate blush gives me away, I’m sure, and his eyebrow creeps higher up his forehead, indicating he sees straight through me.
“By whom?”
Now what do I say? I have no idea who might have the power to invite me aside from the Morettis themselves. All I can do is hope that giving a name with authority will minimize his questions. Trying not to panic, I swallow hard and smile. “Don Moretti, of course.”
“Really? Marco Moretti invited you to this party?” Both eyebrows rise now.
Oh, dear god. I am so busted. “Yes? Well, I mean, no. Just in a manner of speaking. It was more like his son.”
“Leonardo Moretti sent an invitation to your house?”
It’s just a hint of challenge that gives away his skepticism, and I can feel myself buckling under the pressure.
“Mm-hmm,” I agree, flashing him my most winning smile.
Laser intelligence cuts through me, asking a hundred questions in the silence that follows. I should not have come. What was I thinking? He knows I don’t belong, and I’m definitely about to get kicked out. Or worse…
This was such a bad idea.
Then he unleashes a devilishly handsome grin. “Well, in that case, welcome.”
Relief floods me as the inquisition ends as quickly as it began.
“Would you like a drink…?” He leaves the question hanging, waiting for me to supply a name.
“Tia,” I provide. “Just Tia.” I suspect throwing around the last name of Guerra might not be the smartest plan right about now. “And yes, a drink sounds wonderful,” I add with a smile.
“Well, Tia, let me show you where they are.”
The man places a hand on the small of my back, bringing butterflies to life in my stomach as he gestures toward the mirrored wall at the far end of the entry. I follow his lead, and the crowd seems to part around us as we move.
The way they shift raises goosebumps on my arms and a tingling sense of foreboding tickles the back of my mind. This can’t be the man himself, right? While still a man, he’s too young to be the conqueror everyone fears. Besides, I’ve been told on many occasions that he never attends his own parties.
Still, this inquisitor of mine must merit enough respect that he doesn’t have to say a word.
We turn right around a corner of the mirrored wall and into a ballroom that dwarfs the size of the one in my family home. The entire back wall is made up of windows and French doors, each opening out onto a stunning terrace that runs the expanse of the ballroom.
“Wow,” I breathe, astonished by the grandeur that somehow manages to outshine the opulence of my own home.
“You like it?”
“It’s incredible,” I confess.
We stop in front of the full bar, stocked with every variety of liquor, all in opulent bottles that must have cost a fortune.
“What do you like to drink, Tia?” my inquisitor asks as the bartender turns his attention to us.
I don’t. I have no clue what I might like to drink. I quickly scan the bottles, looking for something that might sound remotely familiar. “I’ll take a Macallan.” I’ve never tasted it before, but my father offers it to guests as an after-dinner drink.
My guide’s eyebrows rise in apparent surprise mingled with a hint of amusement. “We’ll take two.” He raises two long fingers toward the bartender. “Neat?” His eyes shift back to mine, clearly expecting an answer.
“Neat,” I agree, confused by his question. Is he asking me if that’s cool for him to order the same thing? I have no clue why it would or wouldn’t be. But he’s been nice enough to speak to me, where most people didn’t glance my way.
The bartender takes the beautiful bottle off the shelf and pours us each a small amount of liquid into two cut-crystal glasses. I accept mine and cup it between my palms, too nervous to take a sip right away.
