Page 34 of Burning Caine
“Buongiorno, Antonio!” The man shook Antonio’s hand vigorously and clapped him on the shoulder.
Antonio gestured to me, and the man shook my hand enthusiastically. “Samantha, this is Angelo Russo. He makes the best coffee in Brenton.”
“In Michigan, he means! And the best cornetti!” Angelo’s accent was much thicker than Antonio’s and his boisterous personality was charming.
I asked, “Chocolate hazelnut filling?”
He nodded, and I smiled, already planning to return to Russo’s on my own to reminisce about my summer in Italy. Alone.
“Due caffe, per favore,” Antonio said. By default, an order of two coffees meant espressos in an Italian café.
I did a quick check of my watch—9:15 a.m. “Actually, un caffe per lui e un cappuccino per me, per favore?”
Angelo nodded and made his way back into the café, straightening chairs, inquiring as to the other patrons, and wiping crumbs off tables as he went.
Antonio frowned. “You are already checking your watch? We have two hours to enjoy a coffee and review your painting. Don’t be so impatient.”
“No, it’s—it’s not that.” I was suddenly conscious of the case again. “No cappuccino after ten. I was making sure it was early enough—never mind.”
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He clasped his hands together and put them on the table. Leaning forward, he gave me a rueful smile. “Are two fresh starts more than I can ask for?”
“Don’t worry about it.”Go back to the office, Sam. He doesn’t care.“I should apologize. This was a stupid idea. I’ll head back to your office and wait until you’re done.”
I put my hands on the table to stand, but before I could, his were on top of mine. I took in a quick breath and tensed. My heart rate kicked up as the heat pooled in my core and my arms trembled. Jesus Christ, Sam, get control of yourself.He’s just a pretty face. Averypretty face, but still.
“The apology is mine,” he said. “Please, stay.”
I pulled my hands back. It was silly but looking at him was like looking at the sun, as warmth gathered in my cheeks under his gaze. I stared at my hands now folded in my lap and let out a hesitant laugh, doing my best not to cover the blush I knew was there. I could handle any work situation, but this man had me tripping over words and feeling things I hadn’t in years? Things I didn’t want to feel.
“And you speak Italian?”
“Some,” I said, playing down my fluency.
“Have you been to Italy, Samantha?”
I loved the way he pronounced my name. It took him twice as long to get it out as it took me, with his slow emphasis on the middle syllable, his tongue resting on his upper teeth as he breathed outmahninstead ofman.
“Only once, about nine years ago. I spent a summer in Amelia, about an hour and a half north of Rome—”
“Sì, I know it well.” He was leaning forward, eyes locked on me, as though every word I uttered was the most fascinating thing he’d ever heard. He sucked at not flirting.
I tried to adopt the calm and confidence he exuded, but my eyes darted over him and then moved along to anywhere else. Maybe I should get angry at him again, because I was able to look at him when I was arguing. “I spent a summer there and learned some Italian customs and practiced the language.”
“From a man?”
Yes, but no. “From several men and women.”
He gave me a knowing nod and wink, which caught me off guard.
“Not like that!” I spluttered, my eyes finally coming to settle on him long enough to roll my eyes. He was smirking now, toying with me again. “I did some postgrad there and boarded with a family for the summer.”
“In Amelia?” He straightened, brows knit together, the smirk vanishing. “Surely not with the Association for Research into Crimes against Art?”
“Yeah, ARCA, exactly!”
“Allora…” He leaned so close his chest rested on the table. “You are a claims adjuster, with postgraduate training in art crimes and cultural heritage protection? How do you go from one to the other?”
“That’s a long and uninteresting story.”