Page 86 of Ricardo

Clear enough that I cannot pretend not to see it.

My breath catches once before I can control it.

He releases the strap first.

I take my bag.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

His voice is low when he answers. “Of course.”

We leave the room before either of us can do something that we should definitely not do.

The dining room is busier now that people are trapped inside. Men stand near windows, checking phones. A woman in pearls complains quietly about the valet. Staff move with umbrellas and towels.

The storm has fully arrived by the time we reach the main hall.

Rain lashes the windows. The terrace beyond the glass is empty, chairs shoved beneath awnings, striped umbrellas folded against the wind. The brightness from earlier is gone, replaced by a gray-green cast that makes the polished floor look colder.

For a brief moment, I wonder if Alastair Valecourt is still around here somewhere, and then I decide that I really don’t care.

Henry appears near the entrance as if summoned by the weather.

“Mr. Conti,” he says, approaching with an umbrella in hand. “Your car is waiting.”

Ricardo nods.

Henry glances toward the drive, then back at him. “A storm shifted in faster than expected, sir. They’re saying it may sit over this area for a few hours.”

“Flooding?”

“Possible in the lower streets. The main road toward the city is already backing up.”

Ricardo nods, but there’s no change in his expression.

Henry opens the door. Wind pushes rain into the entry, sharp and cold.

Ricardo takes the umbrella from him. “Thank you, Henry.”

“Of course, sir.”

The SUV waits beneath the porte cochere, close enough that we should not need the umbrella for more than a few steps, but the rain is coming sideways.

Ricardo turns to me. “Stay close.”

I step beside him, and he opens the umbrella over both of us. His hand comes to the small of my back to guide me through the burst of rain between the door and the car.

The contact lasts maybe five seconds.

I feel it long after it ends.

The driver opens the rear door. Ricardo helps me in, then follows. The umbrella disappears, passed off to the driver or Henry, I am not sure. I am too aware of my damp hair near my cheek, the cold on my skin, the warmth where Ricardo’s hand had been.

The door closes.

Rain hammers the roof.

For a moment, neither of us says anything.