The Secret (The Evolution Of Sin Book 2) Page 10

  Sinclair was quiet too as he gathered our gear and briefly spoke to some other men going down to the rocky water’s edge with their poles and coffee thermoses. I drifted away from him as he set up our stuff and politely asked to take some pictures of the beautifully weathered fishermen already sunk knee deep in the icy waters. They consented without words, a grunt or nod or maybe a toothy grin was all I needed and I was surprisingly grateful for their silence. The quiet felt good around me, like a warm blanket over my shivering sense of self.

  When I finally made my way back carefully over the slippery rocks to our post, the sky was losing the last of its girlish blush, sinking into an eggshell blue. I stopped just to his left side and studied Sinclair through the lens, the way his hair rustled like liquid copper in the wind and the slight flush that sat high on his pronounced cheekbones. I could understand why Willa had chosen him; his beauty was a strange thing, rare and almost inanimate, like a statue brought to life.

  I don’t know how long I stood there before he turned to me. We stared at each other and I wished hopelessly that he could understand even one tenth of the turmoil inside me.

  He sighed, as if in answer to my unspoken desire, and placed his rod in a crevice between two large rocks. In three long, sure steps over slippery boulders, he was in front of me. I tipped my head to maintain eye contact. I was strangely breathless as his intensity exerted itself like the force of gravity on my lungs.

  “Elle.” His cool hands cupped my face. “Stop thinking.”

  I tried to articulate myself but could only shake my head.

  “I didn’t bring you out here to over think, to stress or worry about if what we are doing is wrong. I brought you here because this is one of my favorite places in New York and I wanted to share it with you. Can you please let it be as simple as that?”

  I shook my head again but this time, I found my voice. “Why me?”

  His eyes darkened. “You won’t like the answer to that.”

  My heart plummeted to the pit of my stomach so quickly that I thought I would throw up. Somehow, I managed to smile thinly and step away from him instead.

  “Fair enough,” I said, moving past him to grab my smaller rod.

  It was purple with a glittery grip and I laughed wetly as I took it into my hand. When I looked over at him, he was shaking his head at me in irritation.

  “Is this Elena’s?” I asked, because I was that masochistic.

  “If you can’t stop yourself from saying idiotic things, don’t speak,” he barked, striding back over to pick up his rod.

  I blushed at his reprimand but it was true, I was being petty and weak. Why couldn’t I just enjoy this gorgeous morning with this gorgeous man? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, and all that. So – I took a deep breath and shoved all the grime in my soul under the rug – I wouldn’t.

  “You bought it for me, didn’t you?” It was a rhetorical question because I knew he was too angry with me to answer. “Thank you, it’s adorable.”

  He nodded curtly and adjusted his stance.

  “Je n’arrete pas de faire l’andouille,” I murmured just loudly enough for Sinclair to hear me.

  I snuck a glance over at him and saw his lips twitch reluctantly.

  “I just can’t stop making the sausage,” I repeated, this time in English.

  I beamed as he chuckled, shaking his head at my antics.

  “You may be acting like a fool,” he agreed, taking a side step to bump me with his hip. “But at least you are an adorable fool.”

  I laughed too, so relieved that the tension had dissipated that I felt almost giddy.

  “I love French expressions.” I sighed happily and leaned into him.

  “They have to be the most nonsensical idioms in any language,” Sinclair noted but his voice was warm and I knew he was happy to have someone to speak to about France.

  “Well, les doigts dans le nez happens to be my favorite and it makes absolutely no sense. That’s the beauty of them. I mean ‘the fingers in the nose’ does not translate well to ‘with my eyes closed’.”

  “Who do you think knows more?” Sinclair’s eyes gleamed with challenge as he looked down at me.

  “Me, hands down. You said yourself you haven’t considered yourself French in a long time. At this point, I probably speak your language better than you do,” I taunted.

  He leaned down, so close to my face that I could smell his minty breath, and grinned boyishly.

  “You’re on.”

  We spent the entire morning in Brooklyn. After five hours in the water with three gorgeous striped bass in our cooler, we made our way to a small pizza shop that was already packed at eleven in the morning. The pie was cheesy, greasy and loaded with fat speckled pepperoni and we devoured it between sips of Sprite, which we both agreed wasn’t nearly as refreshing as the French Schweppes.

  He caught me up on the developments with the Mexican resort; Richard Denman was flying into town with the preliminary blue prints and he was in the process of procuring a decrepit building near the Hudson, which he hoped to turn into high-end condos. I loved the passion in his eyes as he spoke about his work and I knew that, despite his parent’s wishes, he would never go into politics when he could be building things.

  I told him about my years in Paris, how I had met Brenna and why my relationship with the Canadian boy had ended. Nothing serious passed our lips and by the time the check came, my lips were rubbery from holding onto a smile for so long.

  As we slipped back into the Porsche, I thought about how easy it was to forget about everything else when I was with Sinclair. Our chemistry still sizzled in the air between us but today had truly felt like a date between friends, our looks full of a different kind of intimate heat.

  The closer we got to Manhattan, the stiffer I became as reality began to encroach on my thoughts. In an hour, he would be home with Elena and I would be back to pining for the unattainable Frenchmen.

  “Stop over thinking,” Sinclair ordered, placing his hand on my thigh. “We just had an amazing morning. Let’s not ruin it by thinking.”

  I sighed. “Am I that easy to read?”

  “You forget how well I know your body.”

  His fingers splayed across my jean-clad thigh and I could feel the heat of his touch through the thick material.

  “I should forget,” I said.

  “No, don’t ever.”

  I shifted out from under his hand and looked out the window. How could he so easily balance the morals of this situation? Was it because he really didn’t care about me in any way other than as a friend, with only a lingering desire for my body? I knew he wasn’t a bad person, that he wasn’t hoping to use me for sex or manipulate me into falling further in love with him, but no matter his intentions, both outcomes were entirely possible.

  “Why don’t we swing by and pick up Cosima?” he suggested, his voice bright for my benefit. “When we first moved to New York we went to a show on Broadway every Saturday.”

  “That’s a good idea,” I agreed, mostly because I knew he suggested it to put me at ease. If Cosima joined us it wouldn’t be so taboo, that he usually hung out with my sister suggested that our behavior was fine.

  Sinclair waited in the car while I zipped up to our apartment to fetch her. I was pulling the keys out of my purse to open the door when I saw that it was already cracked open. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I slowly pushed the door open.

  I cautiously moved through to the back of the apartment and finally caught a glimpse of someone sitting at the island in the kitchen, someone I had never seen before. My gasp must have alerted him, because the large, bare chested man swiveled on the stool to face me.

  His broad face was tight with pain and my eyes quickly crossed the quilted breadth of his chest to latch onto the sight of his hand over a bloody towel pressed to his left side. Through my shock, I noted the thick, wavy brown hair falling into black eyes and over deeply tanned skin. He was so gorgeous, he made my e
yes water.

  I was just opening my mouth to scream or question him when Cosima came sweeping into the room, her eyes focused on the medical kit in her hands.

  “Cazzo, Dante, I don’t know why you don’t just –“

  “Cosima,” the man named Dante practically purred, in a voice like none I had ever heard, thick and pulsating with sexual allure. “We have a visitor.”

  I was looking right at her when those golden eyes shot to me and widened. Her mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ of horror and she dropped the tin box to the counter with a loud clang.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Um, I live here. What is a man doing in our kitchen with a bleeding wound?”

  Dante adjusted in the chair, leaning back as if he wasn’t clutching what I was sure was a bullet wound.

  “I,” Cosima sighed loudly and pushed her hair back with both hands. “I need you to leave. Right now.”

  I looked between her and Dante, whose eyebrow was raised at her in curiosity.

  “Are you kidding me right now? I’m not leaving you here like this!” I said.

  “You are.” Her voice was aflame with surety. “You are going to go out for the afternoon and enjoy the city, think about your show and see friends. You will not say anything about this to anyone and I will text you when you can return to the apartment.”

  “Cosima,” I started to yell, but her posture changed, arms crossed under her breasts and eyebrows drawn so low over her eyes I could only see dark pits of determination.

  Dante stared at me impassively but the moment his eyes flicked to my sister they burned like hot coals. He seemed proud of her for showing me the door and not the least bit distressed that I had walked in on him or, more importantly, that blood was seeping through the towel and the firm press of his fingers, coating them a lacquered red.

  “Cosima,” I tried again, my voice softer because I knew I would leave like she wanted me to.

  She shook her head firmly but brushed her hand feather light down my cheek as she moved forward to tend to Dante.

  “Go.”

  I backed away slowly but they didn’t notice or care. Cosima was bent over her wounded soldier whispering passionately in Italian while he closed his eyes and hissed with pain. They were a striking pair and under other normal circumstances, I would have loved to stick around to get to know him better, to see what kind of relationship they had.

  Instead, I tip toed quietly to the front door, slipping past them without trouble, but I froze with my hand on the knob when I spotted the unfamiliar keys tossed on the small hallway table.

  Beside them rested a small, strangely innocuous looking black gun.

  “Excuse me.”

  I turned around to see Dante looming over me, so tall that I had to crane my neck back uncomfortably to meet his black eyes. A shiver started at my ankles and coated every inch of my skin. He brought to mind the men I had known in Naples, the kind of men who took what they wanted regardless of the cost. They were the same ones Cosima had run away from when she left home.

  Dante was a Mafia man.

  “Uh, yes?” I asked, finally.

  A smirk sliced the right side of his lips and gave his beautiful face an almost manic charisma. I held my breath as he stepped closer and slowly leaned towards me. I closed my eyes when his breath fanned across my face, although I wasn’t sure what I was thinking in doing so.

  His dark chuckle alerted me to the cool air now brushing my front and I peeked through one eye to see him standing at a respectable distance again, this time with the gun in his large hand. I let out a sound somewhere between a yip and sigh. His grin stretched wider.

  “Shouldn’t leave this laying about now, should I?”

  I frowned at his accent; somehow, I hadn’t placed it before. “You’re British.”

  A snarl tangled his features for just a second before he stared calmly at me. “And you are Giselle, the beloved sister of my Cosima. She wouldn’t like it if she knew we were talking but, please, let me just say,” his blatantly sexy smile punched me in the gut with reluctant desire, “it is an absolute pleasure to finally meet you.”

  “I’ve never heard of you,” I said as I moved closer to the door and twisted the knob.

  Dante continued to smile at me. I had never seen a man with so many different kinds of smiles.

  “You will,” he promised.

  I shut the door and fled down the hall to the elevators.

  We saw Wicked. I hadn’t wanted to see it. After all, a play about a woman who descends the slippery slope into villainy was a little too close to home for my tastes but Sinclair, with his slight smile – much preferable to Dante’s sinister smirks – had insisted that it was not to be missed.

  “Okay, okay,” I admitted as we followed the crowd out of the theatre. “That was absolutely amazing.”

  He shot me a sidelong look as we walked into the fading sunlight.

  “Don’t you dare tell me ‘I told you so’,” I threatened, leveling a finger at his twitching lips.

  He held his hands up in mock surrender but his voice was seriously lacking in sincerity. “I don’t even feel the need.”

  “And I don’t want to hear anything about the bad witch being a sympathetic character or anything, okay?” I added with narrowed eyes. “Last time I checked, you didn’t have a degree in English.”

  “No, you’re right. Just psychology.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  His gorgeous eyes sparkled as his hand found my lower back to gently usher me through the throbbing crowds in Times Square. “And a Master’s in Business Administration from Columbia.”

  I stared up at him, knowing that he would safely see me through the swarms of people. “I really don’t know anything about you, do I?”

  He shrugged and I immediately regretted puncturing our beautiful bubble with the sharp edge of reality.

  “You know considerably more than most people. The facts you are referring to can easily be looked up online.”

  “I thought about doing that, looking you up. But I was too nervous,” I admitted as I stopped to root through the pocket of my parka for change.

  The violinist who swayed to the sound of his own lilting tune nodded at me even though his eyes remained closed. He was so absorbed in his music, his passion, that he had transcended his body. Art had always been the medium of my sublimity. My love for Sinclair was devastatingly similar, dangerous because it did not recognize right or wrong. It simply existed. I smiled at the violinist with my heart in my eyes before turning to look over at Sinclair who viewed me with that inscrutable expression.

  “I must admit I haven’t read my own Wikipedia page, we have someone at the company to manage those sorts of things, but I am reasonably sure that there is no mention of me being a serial killer or something equally disturbing.”

  I snorted. “I wasn’t worried about that. You tied me up and spanked me; if you had wanted to kill me then you definitely had the opportunity to.”

  He grinned at me, shaking his head almost reluctantly as if he couldn’t quite believe I was real. I beamed back at him and didn’t notice the seriousness in his eyes until it was too late.

  “You were worried about seeing pictures of me with Elena.”

  I swallowed painfully and nodded.

  He sighed and brought us to a complete stop in the middle of Times Square. The darkness brought out the multicolored lights flashing against his features and reminded me of our strangely intimate time at his club.

  “Giselle, I want you to listen to me when I say this because I know you will only let me tell you once.” His hands fell heavily onto my shoulders so that he could bring me closer. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. At the risk of sounding callus, I do not regret the time I spent with you in Mexico and neither should you, not unless you truly did not enjoy it.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” My voice was fainter than I would have liked but it was hard to speak past the gunk of volatile emotions clogging
my throat. “It’s not about me though, it’s about Elena.”

  “Is it?” His hands squeezed my shoulders. “Or could it just be about us?”

  I was already shaking my head. “It doesn’t work like that.”

  “We set the fucking rules, Giselle.” He stepped back from me and glared, his eyes so cold they burned. I didn’t know what he could have been thinking, staring at me with such furious intensity in the crowded space, the bodies bumping into us and the cacophony of downtown New York City completely forgotten.

  “No, we don’t.” I laughed but there was a frenzied edge to it that made me realize I was close to having a panic attack. “I haven’t set the rules for my own in life ever. And now? When I could ruin the life that my sister has so carefully constructed for herself? It’s not the time to start.”

  Sinclair glared at me for another long minute before stuffing his hands in his pockets. He looked off into the crowd and shook his head.

  “I would hate to call you a coward, Elle, but a person who does not pursue their own happiness is definitely that.”

  “I am happy.” When his eyebrows rose coolly as I had known they would, I shrugged gracefully. “I really am. Right here, right now with you, I am happy.”

  “And when I go home to Elena?” he countered.

  It was my turn to look off into the distance, at the hundreds of people passing under the colored lights of Times Square.

  Finally, I pursed my lips and faced him. “Will you be?”

  “You’ve asked me before not to answer that question.”

  “You’re right. You are still with her though, so I guess I have my answer, don’t I?”

  He frowned at me but I smiled softly at him and linked my arm through his to pull him through the crowd. I was done with heaviness and despair. The regret and the shame would surely visit me in the morning, when I woke up heavy with my separation from him. For now, I was content to fool myself into a friendship with him, this man I loved.

  “Want a pretzel?”

  There was only a slight hesitation before he said, “Only if they have Dijon mustard.”

  I hid my sigh under a smile and fell just a little bit more in love with him for going along with my charade.