Page 87 of For Your Eyes Only
With that, he leaves me alone and confused. I turn the bolt then go to where I left my glass of wine. Taking another sip, I look at the brown envelope bearing Trip’s name and consider opening it.
My stomach shivers, and I don’t want to invade his privacy. I want to be a good roommate, a good girlfriend, a dream he never wants to lose. Carrying my wine to the bedroom, I hesitate a moment, thinking about this sudden turn of events. Trip didn’t seem angry when we were texting, and he never said a word about packing.What does this mean?
Slowly, I pull my large suitcase out of the closet where I stashed it and lay it open on the bed. I’ll take my time, and if it’s something fun, I can always finish fast. Maybe he’s taking me on a vacation to get away from whatever he’s worried about here.
I can tell him I haven’t had any more contact from my Number 1 fan, and maybe that will put his mind at ease. Either way, we can’t leave tonight. I made spaghetti. His favorite.
At least packing slowly makes the time pass quickly. I’m skipping into the kitchen in my bare feet again to check the sauce when I hear the bolt move in the door. I let out a little yelp, and my insides squeeze and zip as I replace the lid and slide my hands over my hair, the front of my dress.
It opens, and there he is, as always impeccably dressed in a dark gray suit, collar unbuttoned, hair too long, scruff on his cheeks, taking my breath away.
“Welcome home, Mr. Alexander.” My voice has that faint rasp I get when I’m excited or nervous.
Our eyes meet, and his flash with the desire I know so well. It warms my blood, and I close the space between us quickly, wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing my lips to his.
The first thing I notice is he doesn’t kiss me back. His lips don’t open; there’s no hungry devouring. Instead, his hand goes to my waist, and he hesitates briefly before moving me away.
“Giana.” His voice is all business, not the way he usually speaks to me, and he leaves his small suitcase just inside the door as he enters the apartment. “Did Franco come here?”
“He did.” My voice wobbles, but I do my best to be upbeat. “He was very cryptic. He left an envelope and told me to pack all my things.”
“Did you?”
“I started.”
Silently, he lifts the brown envelope off the table and opens it, taking out another long envelope like they used to give for airplane tickets. He lowers the parcel to the table, takes a beat, then turns to face me.
“What do you have left to pack?” His eyes are level, the warmth I’m so used to seeing in them extinguished.
“Oh, a few toiletries and shoes. I had just finished moving all my things into your closet.” I’m still trying to keep my voice optimistic, but I’m faltering.
“Who told you to do that?” His icy tone makes me nervous.
“You did?”
“I never told you to unpack.”
“But you told me to move in here.”
“Now it’s time for you to go.”
My brow furrows. “Go where?”
“You’re returning to Italy. Tonight. I have your airline ticket here.”
Cold filters through my veins. Panic rises in my neck. “I’mreturning to Italy? Just me?”
“I’m not going with you.”
All the air leaves the room. “Did something happen?”
“Yes.” His lips curl with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Silence falls between us, and I’m afraid to ask. “What… happened?”
“I discovered you were performing without a work visa. You put my entire business at risk, every single job, all of it. I could’ve been raided, shut down permanently for hiring an illegal alien.”
“But it wasn’t your fault.” Panic shivers in me. “You didn’t know.”