I shrug. “I made an opening.” She looks at me like she’s simultaneously impressed and disappointed. “It’s all smoke and mirrors. Bovaro means something in New York. Money means something everywhere else.”
“You say that like you have no respect for yourself.”
I think for a moment, struggle to make eye contact. “I don’t.”
She takes a step closer. “You seem like a decent guy to me, Jonathan.”
“Let’s be honest: What you mean is I seem like a decent guy, respectively.”
“I’ve been told a lot about your family over the years. Granted, the people doing the telling aren’t exactly your advocates, but you really don’t seem to fully fit the profile.”
Ask Willie. Ask Ettore (if you could). Ask anyone, really.
“I’ve never had to work hard at anything in my life,” I say. Except this. “I’m trying, though. I want to be fair and honest. I mean, it would mean so much more if the cash I was throwing around was money I’d earned from being a talented chef or a successful restaurateur—even if I’d legitimately won it at the track. I mean, most of my income comes from aboveboard sources, but the rest poisons the whole wad.” She nods a little. “Do I smell sausage?”
She slinks in front of a room service tray in the corner of the room. “I took the liberty. Sorry, I was famished.”
“No, good move. We won’t have time to eat before your spa appointments anyway.”
“Plural?”
I walk right up to her, rub her shoulder in a nonsensual way. “The whole day is yours. You’re getting the works: massage, facial, hair, manicure, pedicure, some sort of upper-echelon skin treatment, and a couple of things I didn’t really understand and probably can’t pronounce correctly.”
She stares at me. “So, I’ll be done around…”
“Dinnertime.”
The narrow space between us disappears as she stands on her toes and throws her arms around my neck. She closes her eyes and gives me the gentlest kiss I have ever received, presses her lips to mine and keeps them there long enough to knock the power from me, then she runs her fingers up the back of my neck, slowly moves her mouth to my ear and whispers, “Something this thoughtful could only come from the money you earned.”
I swallow, reluctantly hold her in my arms. As we embrace I squeeze her back, unable to deny how perfectly the shape of her body rests in my hands. I try to breathe but I cannot inhale deeply enough. She pulls back a little, keeps her eyes on me and twists her arms around my neck, and as she drops down from her toes, her robe falls open.
Have you ever walked into a kitchen that smells so good you can’t resist having a taste of what’s cooking? In our house, there was always a loaf of crusty bread sitting on the counter near the stove, available for anyone who wanted to tear off a hunk and plunge it into whatever sauce had been simmering. In the open space between the left and right side of her robe lies a temptation that could never be matched by any gastronomic allure. I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted to touch something this badly. And I can’t tell if she notices she exposed herself to me or if she’s aware and willing to let me indulge, but I know I’m not what she needs. And so, no matter the scents coming from the kitchen, I’m determined to keep myself on a strict diet.
Watch this self-frigging-control.
I lock my eyes on hers, concentrate like I’m trying to read her mind. I carefully bring my hands around to her front, gently grab the edges of her robe—I do not touch her skin—and pull them together. She and I look down and watch me tie the belt.
I press my lips together. “I’m picking up a hollandaise.”
She squints, feigns annoyance. “And to think I let you in my room at such an unscrupulous hour.”
“Tastes like those bastards used tarragon vinegar instead of fresh lemon. If one of my chefs did that, he’d be at the bottom of the East River. Want me to take the guy out?”
“Have him drawn and quartered.”
“Eh, horses are a hassle. Gimme your coffee spoon. I’ll file it into a shiv.”
We smile at each other, then she tosses a question my way. What I thought would be a pillow turns out to be a grenade: “Have you ever killed anyone?”
I smirk, look up to the corners of her room for a camera or microphone, then