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“You’re dressed.”
“I need to be somewhere in fifteen minutes. A crucial meeting.”
“Oh my God!” She freezes. “What time is it?” She twists around, disorientated, searching for a timepiece.
I suppress a smile of pure masculine pride and point to the large digital clock sitting on her bedside table. Despite wildly glancing about her room, she somehow kept missing it.
“Shit! It’s seven thirty!” She leaps out of bed and straight for the bathroom.
“When is your first session today?” I call after her.
“Eight-thirty.”
“That’s plenty of time!”
“For you, maybe. You drive like a maniac.”
“Actually, now that you mention it, I’ve been meaning to say something about your driving, Sophie.”
She pokes her head out of the bathroom, a toothbrush stuck in her mouth, a single eyebrow arched high. “What about it?” she mumbles around the brush.
“It’s…” I trail off when I catch the glare in her eyes and the stubborn set of her shoulders. “Very safe, actually,” I finish, deciding not to mention that my eighty-four-year-old grandmother in Sicily drives faster and smoother than her. I suspect her driving is a sore point, especially growing up around the kind of men she did.
“Whatever,” she grumbles like she already knows I meant to say something else.
I smile wickedly as the thought of Sophie giving Dante a lift, occurs to me. That ought to teach the little shit a lesson in patience—if it doesn’t kill him first.
“What’s funny?” Sophie asks, eyes narrowed at me.
“Nothing. Can you ride a motorbike, though?”
“Duh,” she rolls her eyes and returns to the bathroom sink to rinse off.
Well, then, that more than makes up for her shitty driving. Maybe she could consider riding to work then. I catch myself already making plans to give her one of my Harleys, then I spin on my heels and head out of her bedroom.
“Later, Sophie,” I call.
“Sure,” I hear her call back.
I’m about to pull open her front door when she comes streaking out of the bedroom, a towel around her breasts. I pause, wondering what she’s up to.
She simply comes to me, reaches up, and curls her hand around my nape while she stands on tip-toe. “Thank you, Nico.” She plants a kiss on my jaw and immediately darts back to her bedroom.
I stand there for a full minute wondering what that was about, but more than that, wondering why I found that simple gesture almost as hot as spending the entire night with her.
I’m about to get into my Lambo when I see a brown sedan slide slowly away. Something about that raises the hairs on my nape. I’ve seen that car before—the day Sophie and I left for Harmony.
Neighbors? I wonder, although the car has never pulled out of any of Sophie’s neighbors’ driveways but always seems parked on the curb. I squint at the license plates, then take another look around her house.
It’s a row of four unremarkable terrace bungalows. Hardly a target for opportunistic thieves unless Ms. Willoughby is sitting on a hidden fortune or some pricey jewels, which seems doubtful. However, I can’t make the same assumption about her two other neighbors.
Damn, I've got to figure out who her neighbors are ASAP. If there’s no rest for the wicked, then I must be one evil son of a bitch.
I’m about to call Pietro to have the plates checked out when my phone vibrates.
It’s Maria calling. What does she want this time? She doesn’t appear to be as fond of the secluded island as I had hoped, though it remains the safest option for her for the time being.
The moment I answer, Maria’s urgent voice comes through. “We need to leave this place. It’s not safe.”
