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“That’s good, because I don’t get impressed,” she said sternly. “I don’t give a shit how rich you are. Swear to God. From the bottom of my heart. So don’t try to dazzle me. I just do not care.”
“I hope it doesn’t bother you, or piss you off,” I said.
“That depends on you.” Her voice was crisp.
I did not run into women very often who could convincingly say that. Nor did I blame them. After all, I liked money, too. I had sought it with great energy. I would never judge a person for being attracted to luxury. Hell, what wasn’t to like about it?
But Kat was a whole different breed.
“Message received. You don’t approve of money. What do you approve of?”
Kat thought about that for a moment. “Respect,” she said. “Not muscling people around. Not throwing them into vans or helicopters. I favor people who refrain from that kind of activity.”
“I told you,” I said. “I was just trying to—”
“Yeah, said every man ever when throwing his weight around,” she said. “It’s always the same song.”
“If I had left you outside that building, you would be dead. Or worse.”
“Worse?” she let out a sharp laugh. “Tell me about worse.”
I hesitated for a moment, and then decided she was tough enough to deal with the truth. “The people gunning for me like to inflict pain,” I told her. “I couldn’t let you fall into their hands. At the risk of throwing my weight around and pissing you off, and offending you with my gratuitous wealth. I’m sorry. But I wanted you to live. So sue me. Call me a bully if you want. God knows, my sister does.”
“Tell me about this sister. Does she live here?”
“Sometimes she stays in her own private apartment here,” I said. “All of us do.”
“All? How many of you are there?”
“Just the three of us. My brother, Shane, and my sister, Freya. She’s in Seattle, right now, with her husband.”
“How about your brother? What’s his story?” Her voice had a challenging tone, like an interrogation, so I ignored her question. That was no way to talk about Shane.
Later for that.
I poured her a flute of the sparkly, pale pink Polvanera. “Shall we get to know each other over lunch?”
“Lunch,” she said. “Check us out. We’ve run full gamut. From blood and bullets and forcible abduction and imprisonment—to lunch.”
“This is not abduction and imprisonment,” I said patiently. “This is a disagreement, to be negotiated and discussed. And it is an excellent lunch. The food’s ready, you’re here, you have questions, and I want to learn about you, too. We might as well do it over grilled antipasti,penne alla vodka, and Angela’s perfectly grilledtagliata. And lemon profiterole, of course.”
“Lemon?” Her eyes lit up. “Lemon profiterole? Really?”
“You like lemon?”
Her mouth tightened, as if I had caught her in some kind of sneaky trap. “Sure,” she said. “I just don’t like talking about myself.”
“We can sit and eat in tense, uncomfortable silence, if you prefer,” I offered.
“Just the clinkety-clink of forks against plates. Chewing sounds.”
That got me a crack of stifled laughter, which I took as a huge win. I proffered the flute of Polvanera to her once again.
“Have a glass,” I coaxed. “It’s not a trap. It’s been a hell of a morning. You must be hungry.” I gazed into her haunted eyes, trying to project good vibes. Righteous dude, trustworthiness, honesty, respect. Dudley Do-Right in the flesh. “Please, Kat.”
She let out a sharp sigh. “Well, hell. I still have a container of leftovers in my purse for lunch. But I will not lie to you—Angela’s lunch smells better.”
My spirits soared as she accepted the glass. I picked up the other one, and held it up. “To unexpected encounters,” I said. “Thank you for saving my life today.”
