I refuse to be embarrassed by him, but the way he looks at me isn’t embarrassing—he looks at me like I’m the most incredible thing he’s ever seen, like he has to hold himself back from snatching it. He looks like a man at the edge of his control. “Lead the way,” I whisper.
He stands as if turned to stone. It’s in slow, almost painful degrees that he moves away. The hall is empty, and I look the opposite direction, toward the staircase.
Giovanni stops and regards me with an assured curiosity. I might try to run, but he’ll catch me. Whatever I do next, I’ll end up in his room and on his bed. The only thing I can do now is be…practical.
It’s a relief to see that he’s changed the bedroom completely. I didn’t spend much time in here, but I had at least seen my father’s severe black furniture with gold trim and glass surfaces. The room has been redone with thick cherrywood in a conservative style. Wood the color of cinnamon is topped by white sheets and a cerulean down comforter.
Against the side wall there’s a table with two chairs—and it’s set with platters. As I step closer, I see cheeses, olives, and herb-filled bread. On another tray there are chocolate-dipped strawberries and candied pecans artfully arranged. Candlelight licks the metal latticework on the small plates.
“I’m not hungry,” I say.
“Maria told me you skipped dinner.” I hear the note of disapproval in his voice. “And lunch.”
Food didn’t seem like something I could digest. It’s like getting married has changed my DNA, turned me into some other creature. I still feel like that, but Giovanni stands behind a chair, waiting for me to sit. The alternative to this is sex, and even though I’ve decided to do it, I can’t bring myself to hurry it along.
I sit, the wood cool against my butt. My almost naked butt.
Giovanni sits opposite me, looking completely unconcerned by the fact that he’s dressed while I’m…not. Of course I did this to myself. I thought wearing the lingerie would smooth along the process. He does seem appreciative of the view, watching me with heavy-lidded gratification; we seem to be moving at a glacial pace.
“Champagne?” he asks.
“Please.” Alcohol sounds amazing. In fact if there were women walking around with neon-green test-tube shots, I’d grab three.
He pours three fingers in a slender flute.
I swallow the entire amount before choking on the fiery bubbles. “Oops,” I cough.
With a quirk of his lips, he refills my glass, then fills his. “Tell me about school.”
I eye the flute of champagne like it’s my enemy. I want the numbness that comes with being drunk, but I’m not sure I can survive another round. Especially on an empty stomach. So I grab an olive and nibble on the salty flesh. “I thought you’d have read everything about it, considering you were following me.”
He doesn’t look repentant. “I know your course load and your GPA. I want to know what you think about it. What you loved. What you hated. What you dreamed about.”
Is this a seduction? I want to tell him it isn’t necessary. I want to tell him that stealing my body doesn’t give him the right to my soul. Instead I find myself telling him the truth. “I loved all of it. Sculpture and sketching, composition and even calligraphy. What I didn’t love was the campus politics, trying to fit in when everyone has an agenda.”
“There was one person you’d usually share studio time with.”
After I finish off the olive, I realize I’m actually pretty hungry. I pick some of everything for my plate. The bread is warm and fragrant, the chocolate strawberries cold and hard. “Amy. I love her. She’s a great artist, even if she sometimes doesn’t think so. It’s just that she has lots of interests. The art thing is more about messing with her parents.”
“They don’t approve.”
“Nah, they wanted her to do engineering or be a doctor or something. And sometimes I think she would have enjoyed that. I’m not like that. Art is my passion. Anything else would be a struggle. It would feel like work, instead of…”
“Instead of?”
“Instead of being home,” I say softly.
His expression darkens, and I know he thinks I’m missing Tanglewood. That’s kind of how it sounded, but it isn’t what I meant. I do miss my sister and my friends back there. But art is not something that belongs to a certain place. It’s not a church. It’s inside me. Whether I’m sketching on a drawing pad or planning a sculpture for the conservatory, I can do that here.
“What about you?” I ask, turning the tables. “What do you love about the life? What do you hate?”
His stare is brooding. Long fingers drum on the table gently. Then he takes a swig of champagne—without coughing, the show-off. “I hate everything about it. The violence, the money. The way it brings out the worst in people.”
I swallow, hearing the sincerity of his words. “Then why do it?”
“I get to have you,” he says, his voice rough.