Page 80 of Mario
Silence follows.
Then light footsteps above my head.
She must be moving through her bedroom.
I picture her with a towel wrapped around herself. Bending to pick up clothes. Standing in front of a mirror with that wet chestnut hair loose around her shoulders, looking at herself with those cool gray-green eyes and trying to decide what to wear.
I hear a drawer close.
I stay where I am.
I will not go upstairs.
Waiting has never been difficult for me. I learned patience young. I learned to observe, to let another man reveal weakness first, to hold anger unless it’s useful. I have waited years for opportunities, weeks for answers, hours for men to understand they had made their last mistake.
Waiting for Victoria Murray to come down a narrow staircase in her own home is harder than any of that.
When she appears at the top of the stairs, I understand why.
Her hair is loose and damp, darker now, falling over her shoulders in waves that make my hands curl at my sides.
She is wearing soft black pants and a thin gray sweater that slips slightly off one shoulder. No shoes or makeup. Her face is clean from the shower, still tired, still pale, but softer now. More herself. Less lawyer. Less professional armor.
More dangerous.
She stops halfway down the stairs when she sees me standing in the living room.
Her hand closes around the railing.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
The air shifts again.
It has been shifting all night.
In the garage. In the car. At her door. Against the wall. And now here, with her damp hair and bare feet and the knowledge between us that I have already had my mouth on hers and intend to do it again before the night is over.
Her gaze drops to my rolled sleeves.
Then to my mouth.
Then quickly away.
Too late.
I saw it.
“Food will be here soon,” I say.
Her eyes return to mine. “You ordered food?”
“Yes.”
“I could have thrown something together or ordered it.”
“You did not.”
“I was in the shower.”
