Page 72 of Ricardo

Ricardo glances at me. “You dislike places like this.”

I watch a stone wall pass beside the road. “I grew up in a place like that.”

“Which means you understand it.”

“I dislike what places like this do to people.”

“What do they do?”

“They make people confuse access with virtue.” I adjust my bag on my lap. “If you are inside, you must deserve to be inside. And if someone else is outside, there must be a reason.”

Ricardo is quiet.

I immediately wonder whether I have said too much. Too blunt. Too personal. Too full of the kind of judgment people in my parents’ world call unbecoming when it comes from a woman and insight when it comes from a man.

Then Ricardo says, “That is a very accurate indictment of country clubs.”

I look over.

His expression is serious, but there is amusement at the edge of his mouth.

“You are an esteemed member,” I remind him.

“I did not say I was innocent.”

The honesty makes me smile despite myself.

“Why do you belong, then?”

“Business. Access. Convenience.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“As I’ve told you before, I try to be.”

The echo of our conversation outside Mario’s office brushes over us.

He hears it too. I can tell because his gaze shifts briefly to my mouth, then returns to my eyes with enough restraint to make my hands still in my lap.

The air charges between us.

Outside, the road curves beneath an arch of trees. Sunlight breaks through in scattered pieces across the glass, flickering over his face, his hand, my knees.

The SUV slows at a gatehouse set into a low stone wall. Quickly, I turn back to the window.

A uniformed attendant steps forward, and the driver lowers the window to give Ricardo’s name. A moment later, the gate opens.

We continue up a long drive bordered by old trees and a wide sweep of lawn that looks unnaturally green. The clubhouse appears gradually, pale stone and dark shutters, broad terraces, striped awnings, flower beds professionally arranged.

The Halstead Club.

The SUV rolls beneath the porte cochere and comes to a smooth stop.

The driver steps out.

Through the window, an attendant in a navy blazer moves toward my door.

Ricardo’s gaze remains on mine for one second longer.