“What wicked images dance in that dazzling mind of yours, hmm? You’re showing your hand, kleine Hexe, using words like ‘sexy’ and ‘sultry.’”
“And you’re showing your egotism by assuming my bad mood is because I’m pining away over your pompous self. Or do you think everyone just ceases to exist outside the boundary of your shadow?”
I give her an affronted look. “You’re trying to bait me.”
“Okay, perfect. Let’s definitely keep it all aboutyou.”
Another mile passes in stiff silence.
“Fine,” I say coolly. “We will be professional. Cordial.”
“Works for me.”
Another mile.
“How was your Christmas holiday?” I ask, trying for something neutral.
“Dandy. Santa brought me a new pair of roller skates, and the news that my long-lost mother is a screwdriver murderess.”
I glance at Natalia, who’s retying the scarf.
“Is this a joke I’m failing to get?”
She sighs with enough drama that I can hear it over the engine, then cradles both hands on her face and slides them off.
“It’s… Forget it. Sure, a joke. Let’s stick to the professional stuff—I agree. Lemme get a bath and an hour of downtime, and we can start the first interview before dinner.”
While Natalia bathes and rests, I go over the menu with my cook and housekeeper, Elena, for tonight’s dinner. Next, I go outside to pick some fresh oranges. I set one in front of the statue of Aphrodite in the garden, then bring the rest to Elena so she can make portokalopita—an orange cake that is one of my favorites.
Going to my bedroom with the intention of getting a book to read on the patio, I round a corner and find Natalia leaninghalf into my room. She’s changed into a gauzy maroon dress that brushes her calves and leaves her shoulders bare.
I walk up quietly. One of her hands is gripping the doorway, and her fingers caress the wood, restless.
“Can I help you find something?” I ask.
She chirps out a tiny shriek, hopping back with a hand braced over her chest. The dress has abalone-shell buttons down the front, from the low neck to the hem.
“Holy crap, you startled me,” she says with a flare of anger. “I was just curious.” She points at my doorway. “The, uh, architecture is interesting.”
“Is it?” I pass her into the room, then sweep an arm out in invitation.
She wanders inside after me, clasping her hands behind her back and scanning the surroundings—tile floors, white stucco walls, beamed ceilings, stained-glass windows. Going to one of the two bookshelves flanking the hearth, she trails a finger along the spines, then tips free an old hardbound copy ofDon Quixote.
“Hmm. These actually look read,” she murmurs, almost to herself.
“If they were for display, they’d be in the living room where people could admire my excellent taste.” I give a tight smile. “Isn’t that what a ‘pompous’ man would do?”
She replaces the book. “I’m sure you entertain plenty of admirers in here. I know your reputation.”
“I don’t ‘entertain’ inthisroom,” I retort.
Natalia drifts to the other bookcase, and the urge to call her away is strong. Instead I watch her, with a sense not unlike peering beneath a bandage: I don’t want to look, but I can’t resist—it’s sore, fragile, too soon, naked. I’m testing myself.
“Not alphabetized,” she says lightly.
“No.”
“Or divided by subject.” She pulls down Margaret Atwood’sCat’s Eye. “And not sorted by color, like on those silly home remodeling shows.” She replaces the book a few inches from where it originated.
