Page 81 of Enduring Caine
“Where’s Samantha?” A jolt of pain ran through my injured arm, reminding me I was less a man than he was.You’re not. It will heal.
As though he noticed my flinch, he used both arms to heft open the heavy door. “She’s inside. Will Leonardo be down soon?”
“He will. He’s upstairs confirming perimeter assignments first.” I paused, looking him up and down. Taking in his lean form, fitted black shirt, and bright gray eyes. “Why aren’t you working with him?”
“I have other duties today.” He shrugged and gestured into the wine cellar. “I suspect Samantha’s in the tasting room. Have you ever been down there?”
“Of course. I used to work here.”
He nodded. “I heard stories about that.”
“Stories?” I stopped myself before snapping more words at him.
“I’ll be working down in the cave and around the ruins today. Samantha quite liked the tour I gave her on Tuesday.” His head tilted back slightly, as though he was challenging me. Or baiting me.
“I expect she enjoyed the tour I gave her yesterday better.”
“Perhaps.” He took a half-step toward me, smiling an irritatingly handsome smile. “Is it true you haven’t been back in nine years?”
What business was that of his? “I’m here for Samantha, not for small talk with the staff.” It’s possible the last came out as a snarl.
His smile reverted to a smirk, and he lifted one eyebrow. More challenge. “She’s all yours.”
I hummed my assent—perhaps it was more like a growl that time—and shouldered past him. Shewasall mine. I’d proved that to her last night. Three times.
The lights were dim and I squinted to adjust as the door closed behind me. The scent of oak, red fruit, and wet stone invaded my nostrils, reminding me of all the times Zio Gio had brought me down here. “Samantha?”
No response. That woman had an intensity about her and was undoubtedly too focused on a search for clues to have heard anything outside of two feet away from her. I made my way through the dank space, running my fingers along the terracotta-lined shelves and over dusty bottles which waited until they were perfect before being chosen.
Living in my condo was convenient, particularly when I had to leave for months at a time and the staff could look after it. But it also lacked. My parents had a proper wine cellar, although not as extensive as Giovanni’s, and theirs smelled more of wet earth than stone and more of cherries than the mix of red berries.
Last week, Samantha and I posed as home buyers as part of an investigation. I’d told the real estate agent that Samantha wanted a yard. But returning to this villa brought back memories of my time studying for my architecture degrees, and all the plans I’d had for the house I’d design for myself.
Long ago, those plans had been for a bachelor’s pad, focused more on entertainment—game room, small cinema, and a cellar to store a vast array of alcohol.
Priorities change.
The condo was large, with a massive studio for my painting and research, gourmet kitchen, and four bedrooms to accommodate a family. And yet, it no longer felt right.
“Bella?” I called as I neared the turn into the tasting room. “Are you down here?”
Still nothing.
I brushed a cobweb from my hand, which I’d collected from the top of one of the oak barrels my fingers had trailed over. The cleaning staff must not work down here. Although the sand on the floor appeared fresh, fully dry rather than having captured any of the moisture in the air yet.
As I rounded the corner into the tasting room, the most extraordinary sight greeted me. Samantha, on hands and knees at the far end of the room, beside the cupboard. She had a flashlight pointed between two barrels, head down to the floor, looking into the small space.
That magnificent ass, high up in the air, faced me.
I leaned against the archway into the room and gritted my teeth through the effort required to fold my arms. Kicked one ankle over the other to add to the casual effect. “Not right now, bella, we have other priorities.”
She huffed, dropping her forehead to the floor. No doubt, her eyes were rolling. She turned off her flashlight and pushed herself up to dust sand and dirt off her gray long-sleeved T-shirt and black cargo pants. “Took you long enough.”
“So this little display—” I flicked my fingers toward her, intending to tease about her outfit and her position, but she came closer and my heart skipped. Despite the dirty clothes and long braid confining her luxurious hair, she was stunning. “Makeup for a murder investigation? That hardly seems like you.”
Her lips clamped shut, fighting against a smile. “They cleaned the room already, so I thought I’d check for whatever they may have missed.”
I straightened from my flirtation pose—it hadn’t accomplished much, anyway. “Find anything?”