Page 13 of When She Tempts (The Fallen)
“I said, I’m…”
He doesn’t listen, he just rounds the seat and moves toward the exit of the plane.
Angry fire licks up my insides. My teeth clench. I’m not sure what’s worse: feeling nothing the way I did this morning, or feeling like I want to strangle him in his sleep.
A car waits for us, the driver a gray-haired man with a potbelly and a thick mustache. His name is Tommaso, and he greets Giorgio with a two-handed handshake and me with a warm smile.
“Welcome back,” he says to Giorgio. “Sophia is going to be so happy to see you. She’s missed you a lot, Giorgio.”
My brows pinch together.Who’s Sophia?I thought he said it was just us and three members of staff.
A ghost of a smile passes over Giorgio’s lips. “I’m looking forward to seeing her too.”
Maybe it’s the maid, and everyone knows he’s sleeping with her.
Irritation scratches at my throat. Yep. I’d bet anything Sophia is the maid, and she has the extra duty of keeping his bed warm. Given we’re talking about Giorgio, I doubt she sees it as anything other than a benefit.
The wind plasters his white shirt to his muscular back while he talks to Tommaso, and even as annoyed as I am, the urge to check him out is impossible to resist. This man is built like a taller version of Michelangelo’sDavid. So many ridges and valleys.
I sniff. Sophia is a lucky girl.
We get into the car, Giorgio taking the driver’s seat, Tommaso on his right, and me in the back. The road is only two lanes, and we don’t pass a single car on the journey. It’s too dark to make out much on the sides of the road, but I get the impression of a lot of fields and trees.
I’ve never been to Umbria, but I know it’s foodie heaven. In the forests of the region, truffles grow under the soil, and people forage for them using sniffing dogs. I used to get excited about things like that in the past, but my interest in cooking has dwindled ever since New York. I had a few bursts of inspiration in the beginning when Vale came to live with us, but after Lazaro’s latest attack, even those have stopped.
It is what it is.
I glance at Giorgio. He’s speaking quietly to Tommaso in Italian, and I can’t really make out what he’s saying from the back, but I swear I hear him say Sophia again.
Rolling my eyes, I look away.
The car turns onto a narrow dirt road that disappears inside dense woodland, and when the trees around us part again, I get my first glimpse at the castello.
The sight of it steals air out of my lungs.
It stands on a hill, the moon illuminating a tall medieval tower and a three-story building that’s surrounded by pines and lush oak trees. On the horizon behind it are layers upon layers of hills that protrude from the ground like enormous spines before melting into the night sky.
I roll down the window and suck in cool, woodsy air. Giorgio was right, it is chilly out here, but I keep his jacket folded across my lap. Not because I’m stubborn, but because I don’t want to get used to the smell of his cologne.
This crush of mine needs to die. At least it’s just physical. His personality can use a lot of work.
Sliding my hands under my thighs, I peer out the window just as we pull into a large courtyard. A motion-activated light flickers on.
There’s a lot to take in, but then Giorgio sees me yawn, and no matter how I protest, he insists on taking me inside.
“You need to rest,” he says gruffly, leading me through the enormous front door with his palm wrapped around my elbow. “You’ll have plenty of time to look around tomorrow.”
We pass through a large entry hall illuminated by a few wall sconces, before going up a spiral staircase made of creaky old wood. Giorgio walks past two doors before stopping in front of the third. As he turns the handle, he looks at me. “This is your room.”
The bedroom is large, far larger than the one I have back in Ibiza, but the furnishings make the space feel cozy. There’s a four-poster bed with a sheer canopy, a sitting area by the window, and a stone fireplace with a painting of the castello hanging above it.
It feels like I’ve been transported back in time.
“How old is this place?”
“Couple hundred years,” Giorgio says. “It’s been renovated many times, the last time was about thirty years ago. Most of the furniture is antique.”
I run my fingertips over the embroidered bedcover before I sit down on its edge. The mattress sinks slightly below me.
