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Corrado answers me in French.
“Fine. Be that way, but you know that men look at women all the time. You can’t go around threatening people for looking at me.”
“I threatened nobody.”
“You clearly did something to that man.”
“He’s no innocent, I assure you, and he knew the consequences. I gave him ample time to apologize and resolve the matter, but he chose to test me. I dislike being tested.”
“What will the security guys do to him?”
“Nothing.”
“Please. Just let it go.”
“I will not touch him. I promise.” He tugs the end of my hair. “I’m done talking about him.”
The hostess is standing by the small table in the far corner of the room under a large plant I’ll spend the duration of the dinner trying to identify correctly. It’s one of those genetically engineered plants, so guessing the parents (one of them is a tropical plant) will distract me from wondering about what will happen between Tino, Domenico, and Corrado.
Corrado moves to the table and pulls out my chair. “I believe this is what you mean by botanical design.”
The terrace is full of artificially engineered plant life, designed to be overbearing and wild, almost as if someone was trying to recreate a jungle. At first, I find it out of place with the luxurious atmosphere of the hotel, but then I really look at Corrado, and the wildness starts to make sense. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Great,” he says. “I never paid attention to plants before, but then I remembered this terrace, so I decided to bring you here.”
I sit down. “Thank you.” He says all the right things.
“Welcome.” He props a fist on the table, bends, and hovers above me, his cologne and the proximity of his beautiful face fogging up my brain. His gaze roams my face, stopping occasionally at my mouth.
“Why do you look at me that way?” I murmur.
“The joy you find in the mundane reflects on your face.”
“This is hardly mundane.”
“I’m starting to think everything with you is more enjoyable.” He’s still hovering, apparently expecting an answer, but I’m stuck, speechless. I’m out of my league with this man. He speaks in ways I’m not used to. “I don’t know what to say to that.”
“I can tell you what to say. I can even tell you what to do.”
I bet he could. I bet I would like it. “I’m listening.”
“Spread your legs.”
My brain sucks up his command like a sponge, and my legs part.
“That’s a good girl.” He slides his hand between my thighs.
I gasp as my mind races with a million and one ideas of how his fingers will feel when he touches me down there. None are correct, because when he touches me, his fingers feel oddly cold and hard.
I frown when he picks up a roll of the silverware and opens the deep green cloth napkin.
Between my legs is his little gold box, which is what I felt that was cold and hard.
“And now I’ll tell you what to say. You say yes.”
I shake my head and reach for the box, but he drops a napkin over it. “Leave it there.”
Corrado takes his seat. He rolls his shoulders, the gesture reminding me of how my brother would roll his shoulders when he was trying to shake off something that bothered him. It helped adjust his attitude, let things roll off his back, in a manner of speaking.
