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Bruno chuckles, “Do you want to try?”
“On a Benedetti reject?” Alessio’s slow blink is like a wet slap. “What are we, a charity consignment store?”
“Look, it’s brought a big sack. Do you think that’s just a bag of garbage, or those are its clothes?”
My nails dig into my palms. Alessio’s head shakes. “What would be the difference?”
“Maybe she’s here on approval — try before you buy.”
“I pity Carlo.”
“Is the poor man supposed to take it as a pet or something?”
Alessio’s arrogance lifts up a smooth notch. “I think he’s supposed to marry it.”
“Do real people marry wild animals off the street? Is that even legal?”
Bruno is still looking down from the balcony when the quick, hard snap of a pair of heels approaches from one of the shadowy corridors.
A tall, slim woman in librarian glasses marches toward me. Her red hair is gathered up in a teacher’s ballerina bun, with three nearly perfect curls hanging on one side.
A sleek, green, calf-length tailored skirt drapes beautifully over her long curves, as does her high-collar cream blouse.
She stops about fifteen feet away to look at me and shake her head.
Her eyes narrow. Her voice is like an executive secretary in an outer office. The one you know you’ll never get past. In a prim there-must-be-some-mistake voice, she says, “You’re the Benedetti girl?”
She looks me up and down again, scrutinizing. Probing. Interrogating me with her eyes.
Finally, she lifts a perfectly manicured eyebrow and makes the smallest of shrugs. “Well,” she draws breath, “You’d better follow me.”
I don’t move. “And you are?”
She’s already half turned when surprise lights up her face. “Excuse me?”
“I should follow you, because you are…” I leave the sentence hanging.
Her eyes harden. “Because I am going to show you to your room.” Then she relents and her posture relaxes. “Mrs. Jago. I am in charge of the household. Everybody here calls me ‘Jaggers’.”
“Then you may call me Luciana, Mrs. Jago.” Nobody calls me by my full name. Nobody but Mikey. I’m already overwhelmed by the house and positively threatened by the two boys I’ve met. No matter how tiny and weak my clenched insides feel, I’m not going to let this woman think she can bully me.
Momma told me once, ‘If a woman gets herself up and dresses that well for work, five’ll get you ten she’s giving it to the boss.’ Mrs. Jago is hard and arrogant. I’m starting to think that everybody here is. But I won’t be her victim.
Or theirs. I bunch my fist.
After I heft the stuffed duffel over my shoulder and lift the big sports bag that I packed, Mrs. Jago makes a move to help. “Here,” her lashes flutter, “let me.”
“No,” I tell her. “Lead on, please, Mrs. Jago.”
She sets off up the theatrical wide, sweeping staircase. I will not allow my face to show the tiniest pull of tension as I haul my baggage up to the top floor and follow after her through a warren of hallways to a tiny, garret-windowed room.
If this wasn’t built as a servant’s quarters, it could have been designed as a set for where the hopeless heroine is ravaged at midnight by the merciless vampire. In the nanosecond it takes me to look around the room, I think that would at least be a more interesting fate than what awaits me.
The door closes behind Mrs. Jago, and the muffled thump of her heels drums away down the carpeted corridor. I sit on the side of the bed and try to think of an escape plan. This can’t be my future. A tiny servant’s room, poked out of a high room in this dark gothic fantasy castle.
The door to my room flies open, sweeping across almost half the floor space.
An overwhelming masculine scent announces Alessio. His massive frame barely fits in the doorway. The shock of his eyes on mine makes me start to collapse and melt inside.
