Page 94 of Ricardo

I reach for her cup. “Give me that before you spill it.”

She lets me take it. Our fingers brush, and her breath catches.

I set both cups on the table.

Now there is nothing in her hands.

She seems to realize that at the same time I do.

“Ricardo,” she says.

“Yes?”

Her throat moves. “This is a bad idea.”

“Yes.”

The fire snaps softly in the hearth.

She looks away, then back again, as if she cannot decide whether looking at me is better or worse.

“We work together.”

“Yes.”

“You’re Dante’s father.”

“Yes.”

“My boss’s brother.”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to keep saying yes?”

“Everything you've said is correct.”

Her mouth parts, and for one second, I think she may laugh.

She does not.

Her gaze drops to my mouth instead.

The want in me tightens so sharply I have to close my hand against my thigh.

“Julia.”

Her name comes out rougher than I intend.

She hears it. Her lashes lower, and the blanket slips down one shoulder, exposing the damp black fabric of her dress beneath. I could fix it. I could reach over and draw the blanket back into place.

I do not.

I am not that good a man.

“You should tell me to sit in the chair,” I say. “If that's where you want me.”

She looks at the chair across from us.