Page 65 of Valentino

The truth is simple: what I feel for her has nothing to do with what happened in that palazzo.

"I'll look at you however much I want," I tell her. "For as long as I want."

"I don't need your pity," she says. "I've had enough of that to last me. People feel sorry for me and then they leave. So if that's what this is, do me a favor and skip to the end."

I push off the wall.

"I don't pity people."

"Everyone says that."

"I'm not everyone." I hold her gaze. "Pity looks down. I have never looked down at you, bella. Not then. Not now."

Her throat moves. She blinks fast. "I hate lies," she says. Her voice wavers.

"Good." Her eyes snap up to mine. "I hate liars," I tell her. "I've buried a few of them."A breath of a laugh leaves her. Wet and small, but real. "That's dark, Conti."

"You wanted the truth."

"I did."

She picks the fork back up and winds another bite. Her hand is steadier now. "Keep going, then. The not-lying thing. I think I'm enjoying it."

Amanda

"More truth," I say, twirling the fork through pasta I have no intention of eating. "I'm collecting it. Like trading cards. Tell me something else terrible."

He's leaning against the wall, arms crossed. "You should sleep."

"You should sit down. You've been standing guard like a gargoyle."

His mouth almost curves before he kills it, but I saw it. I always see it. It's become a small private game, hunting that almost-smile across his stone face.

I set the plate on the nightstand. He pushes off the wall, crosses to the bed, and sits on the edge of it.

I know he wants me. I saw the way his eyes dropped to my mouth in the car, the way his hand lingered at my back, the way he admitted he'd been noticing me.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this is proximity and adrenaline and two people trying to survive the same terrible night. Maybe tomorrow I'll see it differently. Tomorrow can deal with itself.

Right now, I'm tired of second-guessing everything.

I shift closer.

His gaze drops to my mouth.

"You need to stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're about to do something we're both going to regret."

I move closer anyway. My knee brushes his thigh through the blanket.

"White."

My last name sounds wrong this close.

"Amanda," I correct quietly. "When I'm this close, it's Amanda."