The double gates that give access to our property are closed. The driveway leading up to the house is visible through the bars. The front parking is already packed with luxury cars. After ensuring that no one is hanging around the entrance, I fish my key from my pocket and let myself in through the pedestrian gate before sneaking around the side of the house.
Caterers carry crates of food from a cool truck parked on a strip of paving. On the front lawn, where the guests are mingling, waiters are serving champagne and oysters. Aunt Judith, my late grandmother’s sister, stands at the edge of the garden, wearing a powder-blue lace dress and matching hat. She talks animatedly, waving an empty champagne glass to emphasize whatever point she’s making.
My sister, Matilde, faces her with a solemn face. Dressed in a mauve silk dress and matching heels with a short string of pearls around her neck, Mattie looks older than her eighteen years. Her fiancé, Jared, stands like a puppet in his tux at her side, offering a stiff smile at anyone who makes eye contact. A man I don’t know talks to Dad. Dad slips a finger into his collar and cracks his neck. It looks as if his bowtie is already strangling him.
Great.
How am I going to get through this evening?
Falling into step behind one of the caterers, I manage to arrive at the side door that the staff use to access the kitchen without being spotted by any of the guests. Just as I exhale a sigh of relief, Doris, our housekeeper, waggles through the door. Blotchy patches redden her cheeks, and perspiration shines on her forehead.
She shuffles down the path, waving a dishcloth in the air. “Hey, you. Yes, you with the mustache. Come back here.”
I duck, trying to make myself small, but the man I’m using as a shield steps aside to let her pass and thereby exposes me.
When her gaze falls on me, her eyes bulge. Her face turns pink as she takes in my state.
“It’s about time you show your face,” she says with a scowl. “You should’ve been ready two hours ago. What an insolent girl you are.” She points toward the kitchen. “Get inside now before I call Mrs. Edwards.” Throwing her arms in the air, she hurries on her way. “Hey, you. Are you deaf? I told you to wait. We need more ice.”
Holding my breath, I glance at Doris’s retreat from over my shoulder. She’s in such a flat spin with the party arrangements that she didn’t pay attention to the box in my hands.
“Where the hell is your manager?” she asks the poor man she cornered. “You’re running late with the starters.” Grabbing his arm, she drags him in the direction of the cooler truck. “This won’t do. It won’t do at all. It’s not my job to…”
Her ranting trails off as she and the man disappear around the corner.
“Not in the mood for the party either?” someone with a deep voice and a slight foreign accent asks.
I turn my face toward the voice, and then everything inside me goes still. The guy leaning on the wall next to the door is both the most arresting and scariest male specimen I’ve seen. With a square jaw and strong nose, his angular face is strikingly handsome. Yet at a certain angle, there’s a harshness to those lines. Tall and broad with hair as black as coal and a skin with a Mediterranean coloring, he looks like a character who emerged straight from a fantasy book. From a different world. He can be either a fallen angel or a demon, depending on his mood.
Right now, with the tilt to his lips, he leans toward the angelic side, but rather an archangel with a sword decapitating dragons than an angel with soft white wings. If he scowls, he’ll look more like a demon. He’s so beautiful, so utterly perfectly created, that something twists in my stomach. He’s dark like the ocean and breathless like water. That’s how I’d describe him if I could only use one word.
Water.
However, it’s not his external beauty that makes my heart skid to a complete stop before resuming to beat like a drum in my chest. It’s the energy surrounding him, a vibe of danger and deadly allure. He looks nineteen or twenty maybe, but there’s a worldly air to him that makes him seem older and more experienced. Even as my pulse spikes and awareness contracts my skin, instinct tells me he’s the kind of guy I should stay away from. Yet I stand rooted to the spot. What can I say? It’s not my fault I’m a Capricorn with a sea-goat star sign who’s attracted to water.
With one hand shoved into the pocket of his slacks and his knee bent, his pose is relaxed. It’s just acting though. Tension oozes from his pores. I’m good at feeling people.
He chuckles at my silence. “I guess not.”
Giving myself an internal shake, I try to remember what he asked.
Not in the mood for the party either?
He’s not wearing a tux, but his formal slacks and jacket tell me he’s a guest. The pang in my belly intensifies. I recognize the sentiment with a start. Regret. Regret that I don’t know him. Regret that I won’t. Already regretting that I’ll listen to my mind even though my heart loves water.
“What are you doing here?” I ask in a hostile tone designed to mask my overwhelming reaction to him. “This entrance is for staff only.”
He lifts his free hand, showing me a joint. Beneath the collar of the white shirt that’s open to the third button, his chest is visible. Just the glimpse is enough to hint at well-defined pecs. He’s inked, the top of the tattoo that’s showing jet black. I can make out the decorative curls of a border. I wish I could see the whole picture. Where it ends. His broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist. The tailored pants and the fitted cut of the shirt where his jacket falls open show off his lean shape. He’s a good dresser. I know all about understated elegance. Mom drilled it into me.
I drag my gaze back to his face lest I give him the impression that I’m staring. His full lips stretch, revealing straight white teeth set off by the olive tone of his skin. He observes me with eyes blacker than onyx, which are framed by long, dark lashes and thick eyebrows. Running a gaze over me, he weighs me in turn. When he lingers for a couple of seconds on my breasts, my heart does something funny in my chest. My shirt is still wet in patches, particularly where it’s plastered to my boobs. The red bikini top is visible underneath, as is the dip of my stomach where he fixes his attention next.
“You don’t look old enough to be a waitress,” he says, finishing his evaluation by inspecting my legs. “How young are they hiring these days?”
I don’t correct him. If he knows how young I really am, he won’t give me another ounce of his attention. Although walking away is without a doubt the wiser option, I don’t want to turn my back on him. Not just yet.
His lips quirk, amusement sparking in his eyes. “Has the cat got your tongue, bella?”
A jolt runs through me. How does he know my name? Only my family and close friends call me Bella. But no. He said it differently. He said it like a term of endearment. I know what bella in that context means, and it warms my chest with a pleasant heat.
“You have an accent,” I say.
“French-Italian.”
“Are you from Italy or France?”
“Corsica.”
“You speak English very well.”
“My mother insisted that we learn from a young age. It’s important to speak it for business.”
His cryptic and polite answers are a clear sign that he’s getting bored with the conversation. I should go, but I linger, unable to pull myself away. “I wish I could speak a foreign language.”