Her brows bounced in surprise. Last time, I hadn’t given her any privacy when she spoke with her mother. I smiled, a silent promise things were different now, better.
An hour later, I knocked on my bedroom door.
“Yeah?” She sat on the edge of the bed, already in her pajamas. The air in the room was thick with the faint scent of the lavender lotion she used.
Her gaze drifted to my bare chest and then lower to my black boxer shorts. “Everything okay with your mother?”
A blush stained her cheeks, and she peered down and trailed a finger in the pattern on the duvet. “She’s relieved to hear my voice.” She collected my phone from the side table and handed me the device. “Thanks again for letting me call her.”
We stared into each other’s eyes. The distant hoot of an owl echoed through the room. I imagined it perched high in one of the old oak trees surrounding the estate. “Sleep well. Big night tomorrow.” I pointed to the room where my temporary bedroom awaited and nodded. She knew where to find me if needed. Sinking into bed, I slipped the fragranced sheets over my skin, then finished up a work email on my phone and hit send before setting it on the nightstand.
“Don’t look at me.” Her voice, small and vulnerable, carried in the darkened room.
I sprang up against the headboard. A nightmare, already? No, no one could fall asleep that fast. “I’m not looking at you. I can’t see you from here.”
“Not you.” The clock on the wall ticked into the silence, each beat sharp and distinct. “The portrait.”
Portrait? My great-great-grandfather? It had been in this room for as long as I could remember, probably before I was born. “It’s just an old painting. Try to sleep.” I lay back down, but the rustle of her restless tossing kept me awake.
“Enzo?” she whisper-shouted as if afraid of the dark.
I rubbed my eyes. So much for going to sleep. “What is it?”
Silence at first, then, “I can’t sleep. He’s staring.”
I switched on the bedside lamp and stomped over to her side. Moonlight streamed across the wall, illuminating the portrait. I’d seen the picture many times. An ordinary portrait, nothing too creepy. Yes, my great grandfather owned a bushy set of brows and a strong moustache. His wide eyes might make someone apprehensive if they stared too long, but he was dressed in his gray-green army uniform, complete with a set of badges on his left shoulder as he gripped an antique chair which held his uniform cap. Not exactly the boogie man. “Does he really bother you?”
She nodded, stamping her lips. “Everywhere I go in this room…bam, he’s looking. You have no idea how uncomfortable it was to change into my pj’s.”
I cocked a brow at the old man. “You’ve seen more of her than I have.”
She scoffed and hurled her pillow at my head. It bounced off me and flopped to the floor. “Quit playing. I’m serious.”
I rolled my eyes, unhooked the frame, and turned the image to face the wall. “Better?”
She breathed a sigh of relief, taking the pillow I handed back to her. “Much better, thank you.”
“Goodnight, Gemma.” I flopped back in bed, suppressing the smile tugging at my lips.
???
We arrived at the banquet at seven sharp. Lombardy’s famous Castello, now a carefully preserved museum for tourists and history buffs, reeked of money and old stones.
Gemma gaped, marveling at the eighteenth-century establishment, enchanted by its old charm. We passed the baroque courtyard, and she paused to view the tall stucco columns and vaulted frescoes. I’d been here too many times; the place bored me, but this was her first visit, so I bit back my impatience. While she admired the castle, others admired her in her silk, sage green dress. Her hair sat piled high, a few loose strands framing her face, and her deep red lipstick reminded me of the most expensive wine. I craved the taste of it.
The orchestral music mingled with the clinking of glasses and the murmur of conversations. The air, thick with expensive perfume and the aroma of roasted meats. Gemma stood by my side as I introduced her to my good colleague, the Chief Operator of Cammarata Co, Sergio Benati, and his American wife, Cassandra.
“So…” Cassandra’s already too high voice shot up another octave. She waggled her brows at Gemma. “The proposal! Spill. How did Enzo do it?”
“Cass…” Sergio cut her off with a roll of his eyes.
She gave her husband a playful swat on his chest. “Oh, stop. You know I’m a sucker for this sort of thing.”
Gemma sipped her champagne. “Trust me… it wasn’t a rom-com type proposal.”
“C’mon Gemma.” The woman insisted. “I want every juicy detail.”
Gemma’s brows bounced, no doubt recalling all thejuicydetails. “Well, let’s see. He kidnapped me from my bachelorette party, chased away my real fiancé, and coerced me to marry him while holding my father at gunpoint.”
