Page 84 of Tainted Blood
“It’s my new shawl,” I say, in mock exasperation, reaching for the swathe of crimson cashmere that’s draped across the back of my chair, as I shut down my laptop and rise to my feet. “He can’t get enough of it.”
“Is that a kink? Did the generational gap just get wider?” My project manager shoots me a look—forty-five years of doubt, tinged with wonder that she might be missing out on something exciting.
“Only for him,” I say with a laugh, leaning over to catch a glimpse, myself.
I only started at IFDF a couple of weeks ago, but it’s a small company and routines tend to get noticed around here.
Santi sticks to his like clockwork.
At seven p.m. every night he’s downstairs, come rain or shine. Black suit. Stormy vibes. Always leaning against the side panel, smoking one of his cigarettes, the silver trails rising up from his fingers like a prayer that only New York can answer. Readying himself for another half hour of polite small talk as he drives me home—something that’s way way out of Santi Carrera’s comfort zone, but one he’s trying out just for me.
“Does dark and moody have a name?” Bonnie says, leaning out for another peek.
“Why waste time with introductions?” I say casually, watching her eyes widen to saucers at my wicked implication. “Bye, Bonnie, I’ll see you tomorrow at nine a.m. for the project review meeting!”
With that, I grab my purse, and head for the elevator, pausing by the vending machine, and then dropping a chocolate bar on the counter for the receptionist as I pass. Lisa is usually the first in and first out of the office, so she deserves all the calories for that.
Slapping a caller on hold, she mouths me a “thank you”, and blows me a kiss.
Santi looks up as I exit the building. Right away, his gaze drops to my shawl. For weeks, I’ve been wearing nothing but muted tones of gray and black, but when I was out shopping with Ella yesterday, I saw this in the front window of Saks, and I couldn’t resist.
“Good day?” he asks, chucking away his cigarette, and opening up my door for me.
These are the rules to this agreement. We keep it brief. We keep it light. He’s finally giving me the room to breathe, and in return, I’m giving him this precious hour where my safety falls under his protection—on the proviso he stops drinking eighteen bottles of Añejo a day.
“It was good, thanks.” I slide my hands into my pockets, trying to ignore the scent of musk and sandalwood. It seems stronger tonight, like a temptation that’s becoming harder and harder to resist. “We finally submitted the proposal for the rehabilitation project in Honduras.”
He nods. “Want to know how mine went?”
“Did you torture anyone?”
“Not that I can recall.”
“Kill anyone?”
The corners of his mouth start to curl. “Surprising no. Although I may have sent Sanders an inappropriate impending fatherhood gift, which may result in him attempting to kill me.”
“Oh dear,” I say lightly. “Being a widow at nineteen wasn’t part of my life goals, Santi. And to think I was just starting to wear bright colors again.”
“You ready?” he says, gesturing to the empty passenger’s seat.
“Thanks.”
“Look at you fly,” I hear him mutter.
I stop and turn. “What—?”
But he’s already walking around to his side of the car and gesturing at the two black SUVs parked across the street.
I pause, finding I don’t want an hour of stilted conversation tonight.
I want to make it tilt.
“There’s a diner around the corner,” I say in a rush. “Do you, maybe, want to go grab a coffee or something first…?” I trail off as his unblinking stare finds mine across the roof of the Aston Martin.
“Sounds good,” he says, making his way back around to me. “Considering tomorrow may be my last day on this earth, a cup of bad filter coffee sounds like the perfect way to celebrate.”
The first fifty feet are a tutorial in “awkward.” Even small talk seems embarrassed to be in our company.