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“Why?” Vladimir returns.
“I want to speak with him.”
“Why?”
I hold back a growl and keep my tone polite. “I had a thought about my brother.”
Vladimir gets on his phone. “The girl wants to talk to Boss.”
“The boss left,” returns a man on the other line. “He’s headed out of town. She’ll have to wait till tomorrow.”
Disappointed, I while away the hours by walking through the art galleries once more, all except the erotic-themed one because I don’t have access to that part of the house. I hang out at the library and pick out a book about the Impressionists. Although I’m interested in the history that Rafe’s family grew up in, and plan to read more of Iris Chang’s book, I’m not ready to take in more tragedy at the moment. Especially when I could be confronting my own.
The question that keeps haunting me is: will Rafe really kill me?
I recall the look in his eyes right before he kissed me. It was one I hadn’t seen from him before. I saw a glimpse into his emotional side, his vulnerability even.
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. I’ve never met a man like Rafe before, so I don’t know if I can trust my judgement of him.
Vladimir finds me to tell me that dinner is ready. The table is lonely without Rafe. I try to talk up the server, an older Asian man, and see if there’s a remote chance he can help me. But his English seems limited.
Dinner is a series of small plates comprising butternut squash soup, crostini with what I think is pâté, some kind of fish garnished with tropical fruit, duck with cherry glaze, and an assortment of mini tarts for dessert. It’s more food than one person can reasonably consume. I wish Peter were here to enjoy the meal with me.
“Have you had dinner?” I ask the server and gesture to all the food still on the plates. “Would you like to sit down and have some?”
He only smiles at me and pours me a glass of port, bows, and departs.
I take the glass, sit back and sigh. Vladimir walks in, and I’m about to invite him to sit down, too, but he hands me a phone.
“Rafe,” he explains.
I take the phone. “Hello?”
“How was dinner?” Rafe asks.
“Incredible. Though it’s hard to fully enjoy it when each meal feels like it could be my last.”
He doesn’t reply right away. Does he feel bad for me?
“I still can’t reach my brother,” I tell him. “Maybe he lost his phone. I’d like to call the hotel he’s at and see if they can get him a message.”
“Been done already.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve been checking the hotel daily. Told them you’re trying to reach him. We gave them your ‘new’ cellphone number to give to him.”
“And?”
“Nothing so far.”
“Peter might be suspicious. I’ve never mentioned wanting to get a phone or new number.”
“He usually suspicious of things?”
I pause to think, then answer truthfully, “No.”
In fact, Peter can be too trusting. I’m the suspicious one.
