Page 93 of Ricardo

Ricardo adds, “Se serve qualcosa, ti chiamo.”

“Va bene,” she says, smoothing one hand over the edge of her cardigan. Then she turns to me in English. “Miss O’Brien, it was lovely to meet you.”

“And you,” I say, though my voice is not quite as steady as I want it to be.

Marisa gives me a small, knowing nod that makes my cheeks heat, then leaves us alone.

“You're not sending her out there in this, are you?” I ask, alarmed.

“No,” Ricardo says. “Marisa has her own suite on the property.”

“Oh.” My grip loosens slightly on the blanket.

“I would not do that.”

“No,” I say, heat moving into my face for a different reason now. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

His mouth curves faintly as he pours coffee into two cups. “You were ready to be offended on her behalf.”

I let out a bit of an embarrassed laugh. “I guess I should have done better.”

“I quite like it,” he says simply.

The slowly moving heat bursts into my face at his words.

He brings one cup to me, along with the sugar and cream.

I take the cup from him carefully and try not to think of the fact that we're alone now.

Technically, Marissa is still here on the property, and I'm sure there are other people, but unlike the private dining at the club, we're alone.

Ricardo sits on the couch next to me, and I realize that this is going to be a lot harder than I thought.

Chapter Ten

Ricardo

The moment Marisa leaves, the house changes.

The storm fills the silence she leaves behind. Rain lashes the windows. Thunder rolls over the roof, deep enough to feel in the floor. The fire in the sitting room throws heat across the rug and turns the lamplight softer, lower.

Much more dangerous.

Julia sits on the edge of my sofa with my blanket wrapped around her shoulders and my coffee cup in her hands.

She looks like she belongs here.

There is a perfectly good chair across from the sofa. Sensible. Polite. Safer for both of us. I ignore the perfectly good chair across from the sofa and sit next to Julia.

The space between us is alive with electricity.

Her fingers tighten around the cup. Her gaze drops to my shirt, then jerks away. My shirt is still damp at the shoulders, the fabric pulling against my chest every time I move.

She notices.

I notice her noticing.

The storm cracks hard outside, and she flinches before she can hide it.