“It’s a bad thing that the DA wouldn’t help, right?” I watch him pace back and forth again, trying to act as though that wasn’t a major setback. “The brothers will still sell, right?”
“They’ll sell, only the price will be higher. I could kill them both but getting possession of the place might take months or years, and by then our Russian friend might’ve already moved on to making my life even worse. Not to mention you.” He stops and studies me for the tenth time that night. I love the way his eyes roam my body. When I saw the dress Elise picked out, I told her she was crazy: I’ll look insane in this thing, are you kidding me? But she swore it’d suit me, and by the time I put it on, it was too late.
And she was right, at least based on the way Casso keeps staring. He’s not even trying to hide the naked lust in his gaze. And I like it.
He sits on the couch beside me and pulls my legs into his lap. I sip my wine to cover the excited flush that creeps into my skin. Being so close to him like this, working with him and playing his little game, I have to admit it’s a lot of fun and it feels good. I feel useful, but two things keep nagging at me. First, I feel like I’ve forgotten Manuel—he’s the reason I’m still here at all. I’m supposed to be trying to find out who killed him, but I’ve gotten all tangled instead.
But second, the memory of what happened the last time I let myself get caught up in Casso’s attention is pressing, if not downright intrusive.
He keeps talking about what to do and I listen, nodding, smiling, drinking the wine, and his hand remains on my legs, moving up my calf slowly, creeping closer to my thigh, seeing how far I’ll let him go. And I’ll let him go as far as he wants right now. I don’t stop him as he brushes along my thighs and a shiver of delight runs down my spine. Casso hits a button on a remote and the fireplace comes to life, gas flames rippling, orange and blue.
“I want to talk to you about something,” I say, working up the courage and finding it’s barely there. “And you’re not going to like it.” This is the wrong moment, I know. But we’re both in a good mood, basking in the wine haze, and I want to get this over with. Especially if his hand’s going to keep creeping up my body.
His eyes shimmer, maybe from the fire, maybe from something else, I’m not sure. “Now’s the time then. I find myself in a strangely good mood despite the setbacks.”
“That night.” I don’t elaborate. I don’t need to. His fingers press into my flesh, stippling the skin there. He knows the night I mean, the one that changed so much between us, complicating everything.
“That was a long time ago. Whose party was it? I can’t remember anymore.” He’s trying to sound calm. We’re not calm though.
“Roger McPherson. Remember him? Quiet kid, lots of freckles.”
“I remember. He had rich parents and he liked to flaunt it. God, I disliked that little weasel.”
“You remember what happened then,” I say, looking at my glass and wondering if my cheeks are the same color as the wine.
“I remember.” His voice is husky like after waking from a long dream. “I think about it a lot.”
The idea of him thinking about that is hard to fathom. I don’t dwell on it. I don’t want to risk getting knocked off course. “There’s something I’ve wondered, you know, since that night. Can I ask you?”
“Go ahead. Ask.” He grips my leg tighter and I struggle to catch my breath.
“Did you know, when you took me upstairs? That we might do something.”
“I had some idea, yes. There’s a reason I dragged you along.”
“Why? I mean, why that night? Every other day, you treated me like dirt, but for some reason you were the total opposite. Why?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. His fingers stroke along my leg and I want to scream from desire and from frustration. Why am I doing this to myself, now of all times? After we just had a fun night together, why am I bringing up the past?
Because I need to know if I’m going to go further. I haven’t asked him what I really want to ask yet—but it’s coming, barreling toward me, and I’m terrified of what he’ll say.
“You didn’t look like yourself,” he says quietly, concentrating on my ankles. “Without the school uniform you were like—someone else. And I wanted to be someone else that night too. There’d been some hard days at home and I desperately wanted to pretend like I wasn’t Casso Bruno for a while, so when I saw you standing there, looking so fucking gorgeous, I thought to myself, what’s the opposite of what Casso Bruno would do? And that answer was you. I found that I liked the answer, I wanted that answer. I went with it. Maybe I was just making up an excuse to do what I’d been wanting to do anyway.”