Page 3 of Every Step She Takes
“That is like asking if Pavarotti is an opera singer. Colt Gordon is a bona fide moviestar. Look up the top-grossing movies for the past five years. He starred in at least half of them.”
“Wait! Isn’t he married toIsabella Morales? That’s where I knew the name from. Holy crap. I’d be working for Isabella Morales.”
Nylah shrugged and spooned sugar into her coffee. “She’s all right. I’ve seen her in a few things. Marrying him certainly helped her career.”
“Helped?Helped?” I spluttered. “A pox on you and your house, girl. Isabella Morales was a Mexican national treasure by the age of twelve. A freakinglegendin the world of telenovelas.”
Nylah rolled her eyes. “I’m about to get another lecture on the underappreciated art of telenovelas, aren’t I?”
“Isabella Morales is a goddess. Started acting at the age of seven, and by eighteen, she was lead writer on her show. Totally self-taught. She began tweaking her scripts when she was a kid, and the writers humored her, but by the time she was a teenager, she wrote all her own lines and was drafting storylines, too. By twenty-one, she was directing.”
“Then she married a huge American movie star and got to give up all that hard work for a cushy life raising his children.” Nylah lifted her hands. “Kidding. Don’t kill me. I just like to see that temper flare. You’re a redhead and a Latina. You need to let that fire out more often. Live up to the double stereotype.”
I’m only a quarter Latina. The rest is Irish and Italian, but if I point that out, Nylah claims that just gives me more reason to be tempestuous, one word that has never been used to describe me.
“Yes, I knew Isabella did marry some action movie star, but I follow her career, not her personal life.” I said. “She played a few roles in Hollywood movies, but she quit acting when she had kids. She continued writing for telenovelas, and she just started work on an American one she created herself. She’ll be the producer.”
“I get the feeling you’re a fan of this Isabella chick.”
I shot her a look.
“Which probably means you don’t want to work for her, right?” Nylah said. “I mean, that’d be terrible, spending the summer in the Hamptons, living with a gorgeous movie star… and a woman you idolize.”
Working for Isabella Morales.
I’d been offered a job working forIsabella Morales.
“I…” I swallowed. “That could be really awkward, with me being a fan, and–”
“Oh, my God, are you actually hesitating?” She shoved the phone at me. “Call him back, or I will.”
I stared at the phone. Then I made the call.
Chapter Three
Rome, 2019
The parcel sits on my kitchen table, my former name screaming in block letters, and my past surges again, making my heart pound a drumbeat that steals my breath. My fingers tremble as I reach for the box. Then I remember the unlocked door. The courier service certainly doesn’t have keys to my apartment. Does that mean whoever entered my apartment brought this inside for me?
Most considerate burglarever.
I manage another weak laugh and roll my shoulders, struggling to stay calm. I made this choice. I came into this apartment, knowing the door was unlocked. If I’m really doing this, I need to see it through without collapsing in a heap on my kitchen floor.
My gaze slides to the stairs. It’s a narrow flight, curving around to the loft bedroom. I back up and slide a knife from the drawer.
The problem with curving stairs is that there’s no way to sneak up. The top of my head will appear before I can see anything.
I proceed slowly, holding my breath. I’ll admit I’m starting to feel a little silly. I haven’t heard even a floorboard creak since I’ve come in, and in a place this old,everyboard creaks.
The stairs open right into my bedroom. It used to remind me of an attic garret, the sort of place I’d read about, where the family stores their crazy aunt, saving themselves the embarrassment she might cause. It’s a little late for my family. Not that they’d ever complained. I stashed myself in Italy, and my garret cell has become a gorgeous nook instead, a cozy attic bedroom straight out of a little girl’s dream.
From the stairs, I can see that my bed is empty. It’s within arm’s reach, a double mattress on the floor with no space for anyone to hide underneath. The minuscule bathroom is off to my right, and I can see it’s empty. Across the room, the terrace-door shutters stand open.
I didn’t leave them like that.
I creep to the terrace door, which is actually a low window. When I rented the place, the landlord told me to crawl through it to see the terrace. I thought he was joking. I’m accustomed to it now, and it’s been at least a year since I last bumped my head.
I crouch and peer through as I scan the sun-bright terrace. To my left, there’s a pergola, the wooden frame lost in ivy and climbing flowers. Under that is a lounge chair… with a man sprawled on it, sunglasses propped on his head, his eyes closed as he dozes in the afternoon heat, wearing only his boxers.
