Dishonorable

He looked up a moment later, surprising me. I stepped away, embarrassed, shook my head, and opened one of my suitcases to get something to change into before heading down for lunch. I needed a shower and a nap, obviously. Exhaustion was making me think and feel things there was no way I should think or feel.

The travel between time zones made sleep difficult, so when I woke at close to three a.m. the next morning, I wasn’t surprised. After tossing and turning for half an hour, I gave up. I was wide-awake. Throwing the covers back, I got up and went to one of the windows, pushing the curtain away to look out at the rich, velvety midnight-blue sky dotted with sparkling stars. More than I saw at home, more than at school. It was a clear night, and I felt like I could see forever. The few clouds that floated past shone silver in the moonlight.

The gardens were quiet, and I saw once again the shadows of the ruined vineyard. It seemed impossible that Raphael’s father would burn it down. And more impossible that he would do it to repay my grandfather for a debt.

I didn’t know much about the process of growing grapes or making wine. It seemed strange now, considering that was where my family’s money came from. I wondered if he could replant, revive the land. It seemed like a waste and a shame to leave it dead, like it was.

Although it fit, in a way. Part of Raphael was dead too.

I shuddered and dropped the curtain, hugging my arms to myself. I picked up a sweater I’d hung on the back of a chair, put it over my shoulders, and slipped into a pair of flip-flops. I’d go to the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea.

I glanced both right and left but the hallway was quiet. I wondered which room was Raphael’s as I made my way down the stairs and around the living room to the kitchen, which had been expanded and, judging from the wall, looked to be about twice the size of the original. I pushed the door open and walked inside, switching on the light. It seemed almost eerie now with only me there, but I set that thought aside and found the kettle, filled it with water, and set it on one of the six burners. I then set about looking for mugs and tea bags. That was when an outer light came on, startling me. A motion detector? The door opened before my imagination could carry me off, and Raphael walked inside. He stopped short at the door, just as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

He looked different, his hair messy, his face relaxed, the usual cockiness gone. He wore jeans and a tight-fitting V-neck white T-shirt that hugged his shoulders and arms, giving me a glimpse of cut muscle beneath.

I swallowed.

He stomped dirt off his shoes and took them off, then stepped inside and closed the door.

The tea kettle whistled, but all I could do was stare at him. He raised his eyebrows, and when I didn’t move, he came toward me, stepping a little too close, closer than he needed to. His chest touched mine, and I picked up the faint scent of sweat and grease before stepping backward as far as the counter allowed.

He grinned.

I knew he liked it, liked making me feel uncomfortable. He seemed to take some sick pleasure from it. It was probably more that he liked messing with me because I made it so damn easy.

He switched off the burner.

I cleared my throat, blinking away. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d make some tea.”

He nodded and reached over my head, one corner of his mouth curling upward as I shrunk away. Being this close to him, it felt strange.

“Why do I make you so nervous, Sofia?” he asked, setting a mug on the counter.

I turned around and looked up and found an array of tea bags in the cupboard. “You don’t,” I said weakly, focusing on reading every box.

“I told you I don’t expect to bed you. I thought that would ease your mind.”

I concentrated on opening a tea bag.

“Unless you wanted me to, that is. I’m open to the idea, of course.”

“You like messing with me,” I said, watching the water as he filled my mug.

“I do. It’s so easy.”

He set the pot down and went over to the sink. On his way there, he glanced down at his shirt, which was smeared with dirt. He pulled it over his head and dropped it down a chute along one of the walls. A laundry chute. I had one in my room too. He stood with his back to me, scrubbing his hands and splashing water on his face. I wasn’t sure if it was the marks I noticed first, thin silvery lines crisscrossing flesh, or his powerful back flexing with muscle at the movements.