Tomasso grinned his little twisted, cocky grin that sent a thrill down my neck while at the same time irked me, and led me to his car. I climbed in, buckling my seat belt. "By the way, what is it with your family and Italian cars?"
“That’s all we drive,” Tomasso said. “Only the best. What do you have back home?"
I chuckled and looked out at the weather. "A TAC, actually."
"A what? Seriously? I would have taken you for a Porsche or Lambo girl," Tomasso said. "Lots of power, lots of curves."
I felt heat rise in my cheeks at his compliment and glanced over at him to see if he was making fun of me. His eyes were on the road, and his face seemed honest and open, which made the heat in my cheeks go up even more. “Nice try. But like you, my family likes to stick to cars in our heritage. TAC is a Brazilian company, not a subsidiary of someone else. They only make a single model, and it looks a lot like a Jeep. There are lots of roads outside Porto Alegre that make four-wheel drive and high clearance a necessity, so I drive that. I've gotten out of ruts and mud holes that would have gotten a Ferrari or BMW stuck to the rims."
Tomasso smirked and looked over. "You know, you continue to surprise me. I'd never have pegged you as a person who goes for practicality."
“Says the man who wears a thousand-dollar suit to do pickups," I noted, then shook my head. “I’m sorry. I'm not trying to be mean. I'm just saying that there’s more to me than meets the eye.”
"That goes both ways," Tomasso said softly, as if I'd touched a nerve. He found a parking spot and shut off the engine. "Shall we?"
Walking through the park that surrounded the Space Needle, I was taken with the prettiness of the day. As opposed to the previous day's gloom, the sky was clear, and the warmth of the sun felt like a taste of home. "This is nice," I said, stopping and facing the sun. "There are days, back home, when I use to do this over and over."
"When I first got to Alabama, I spent so much time outside that I turned a dark tan," Tomasso said. He sighed and looked up at the Needle. "There were a few years there when I could have stayed that nut brown and bummed my way around the South. I'm sure Dad would have cut me an allowance until I made something of myself."
"Why didn't you?" I asked, curious. "You just . . . you still seem to not be fully committed . . ."
He shook his head. "I am. I was looking for something when I went down South, and to be honest, I'm still kind of looking. But I learned that I didn't have to leave Seattle to find it and that my family is an important part of my life. To not have my family . . . that would be nearly as hard as not finding what I'm looking for."
I tilted my head, curious. "And what are you looking for?"
He chuckled, shaking his head. “The same thing we're all looking for, I guess. Dozens of grandchildren, full control of any business I set my sights on, and for all my enemies to die in highly unlikely accidents that can’t be connected to me. What about you?"
"About the same," I said with a laugh. I stepped closer for some reason, and he turned to me. Reaching out, he took my hand.
"Come on. Let's check out the view." During the wait in line for the elevator, we kept our conversation going, like two new acquaintances learning about each other. There was a pleasant tension building between us, unlike the hostility that we started with. "So why did you go to Brown? I mean, I know your father wanted some of his family to be internationally educated, but Brown's Ivy League, and you don't strike me as too pleased with being up here."
"Actually, Brown is what caused a lot of it," I admitted. "Before that, I thought that I'd love it in America all the time. Instead, I found Rhode Island dreary and cold far too often, and the students were too whiny and spoiled for my liking. I'm sorry, but listening to trust fund girls complain about the unfairness of life when I came from a city that only has sewer systems in about eighty percent of the houses and air quality that is worse than everywhere in Brazil except Sao Paulo . . . they have nothing to complain about."
Tomasso smiled at my rant and reached over again to give my hand a squeeze. "I knew there was a reason I liked talking to you. Come on. We're getting in the next car."
The elevator was busy but not packed, and I could feel the strangely comfortable heat of Tomasso's presence close to me as we rode the elevator up. He let go of my hand to rest his fingers on my back—not too low, still above my waist—and I nudged in closer to him as a grandmother suddenly sneezed. "It's been years since I've been up this thing," Tomasso whispered. "I hope we've got a good view of Rainier."
Even I had to admire the rugged natural beauty of the Cascade mountains. "It's been a long time since I went to actual mountains," I said, taking his hand again. For some reason, the simple gesture was what both of us wanted, like we were quickly becoming something more than just acquaintances. "That would be fun to do some time."