Page 73 of Cara & Gian: The Guzzi Duet

He didn’t bother to wait around and hear what was going to be said next. He had far more important things to do.

Like a woman in the unit upstairs waiting on him.

Cara needed a ride home. Happy fucking birthday to her, he thought miserably. This was not how the weekend was supposed to be. They should have been in Quebec already—hours ago, actually—watching a ballet together.

An apology was not going to make this better.

Of that, Gian was most sure.

Cara said nothing, her gaze lowered to the tiled floor of her bathroom as Gian carefully removed her white tweed coat and set it aside. The front of the beautiful dress that had been one of her birthday gifts was stained a reddish brown—Chris’s blood, likely.

She had suffered no open injuries, thankfully.

When Cara did finally speak, her dull tone took Gian off guard. Other than her soft greeting at the hospital when he walked into her room, she had said nothing the entire time it’d taken to get her out, and get her home.

He was not accustomed to this steel-spine, sharp-tongued woman being so … quiet.

“Please don’t say you’ll buy a new dress to replace this one,” Cara said.

Gian shrugged, pulling the zipper down on the garment to expose Cara’s back to his hands. He let his palms linger over the warm, soft skin of her shoulders as he pushed the shoulders of the dress down.

“I have a pretty decent drycleaner, actually. He’s got a knack for getting blood out as long as it’s not too old. A secret trick, or so he says. I think I’ll take it to him.”

Gian was lying through his teeth.

Blood didn’t come out of fabric.

He would get a new dress for Cara, he simply wouldn’t tell her that was what he had done.

“You don’t have to do that,” Cara said.

She still wasn’t looking at him.

Gian hated that.

“Hey.”

Cara let out a soft sigh. “Hmm, what?”

“Bella mia, look at me.” Gian carefully pulled the dress over Cara’s head, and then turned her to face him. Her emotionless expression only hurt him more. “I’m sorry for today, Cara.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Technically, it probably was.

He didn’t have to pull the trigger.

“The cops were in questioning me,” Cara said, running a hand through her messy curls. “They only got more annoyed when I couldn’t give them what they wanted. In case you’re worried, I didn’t say—”

“I’m not worried about that at all, mon ange,” he interrupted quickly. “I was worried about you, nothing else.”

“Still. I didn’t have much to tell either way.”

“Chris mentioned you … blanked a bit after the gunfire stopped and whatnot. Like you were frozen on the ground.”

Cara shrugged. “It could have been that day in Chicago all over again, because that was all I saw. I could hear Lea asking me to help her, not Chris. My mind is broken that way, I think.”

“Or you’ve got a touch of PTSD. An event like that is difficult to get over, Cara.”