Out of the Dark (3 page)

I know it’s an Italian custom, but it doesn’t stop the irrational pang of jealousy. It shouldn’t matter, but it does.

She studies me over his shoulder.

I don’t read any contempt in her eyes. Just curiosity.

“Who is this beauty?” she asks. Her voice is like a song.

“This is Carina.” He gestures as I get out of the car and walk toward them. “Carina, this is Bianca.”

I smile at her, flinching when Stefan wraps his arm around my waist, but I don’t object to his possessive touch.

“Bianca is in charge of the affairs of the house. She’ll be at your disposal as long as you’re here.”

She smiles, her teeth sparkling white, and bows.

As Stefan begins to escort me inside, Bianca unloads his luggage from the trunk of the car, but I notice she leaves mine untouched.

We walk through intricate wood doors large enough to adorn a cathedral entrance, and a cathedral is just what I’m reminded of as we enter Stefan’s home. The floors are dark polished wood, and the walls are all different shades of cream. From where I’m standing, I see carved wooden doors lining the upstairs halls. A balcony surrounds the entire area. We walk through the great foyer, past enormous white pillars, and enter a vast living room. A chandelier hangs in the middle, its warm golden light makes the entire home feel so inviting. The furniture is covered in lush fabric, and I’m tempted to lay across the luxurious sofa and never get up again. Tall french doors open onto a stone patio, where a large in-ground swimming pool glimmers in the sunlight.

“Your home . . . it’s so beautiful.” I try my best not sound blown away or intimidated. Having grown up in a meager two-bedroom house in which my family barely scraped by, opulence is very foreign to me and I feel out of place.

Stefan doesn’t respond, but I catch him staring and notice something different. He’s looking at me in a way that makes me feel naked, as though his interest is growing into something else. Something deeper.

My chest tightens as I study the way his tie is undone, his lips—so luscious and inviting—his perfectly groomed hair, his broad shoulders, and his thick, strong neck. I feel an impulse to wrap my arms around him. I lick my lips in an effort to moisten my suddenly parched mouth.

He lifts his hand toward my face. My body feels as if it’s buzzing in anticipation of his touch, but he stops and lowers his hand back to his side. “Carina—”

His phone chirps.

He clenches his jaw, reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket, and holds up one finger, signaling for me to wait. He strides through one of the many doors with his phone pressed to his ear. “This is Savano. Yes. That’s unacceptable. I want it fixed this instant . . .”

I eavesdrop for as long as I can, enjoying the commanding tone in his voice. Everything about him is so alluring, so inviting. I sigh and realize this is the first moment I’ve been alone since I laid eyes on Stefan.

I amble through the living room, letting my hand glide over the different furnishings and fabrics. On the far wall, I see a rack containing several different shotguns, rifles, and pistols—items that might put some people off but, as the daughter of a game hunter, I’m numb to any shock the sight of guns could bring. They’re all very beautiful and look to be expensive, like everything else in this house. Stefan must collect them.

The tap of heels on the wooden floor startles me, and I turn around to find the beautiful Bianca staring at me, her hands clasped behind her back.

“Miss Carina, may I please offer you something to drink?”

“Oh, yes, thank you. A glass of water would be nice.”

“I’ll be right back.” She bows in the same way she did for Stefan, and I smile to myself once she leaves the room.

Tasting Stefan’s lifestyle is intoxicating.

I hear a click, and he emerges from behind the door looking even sexier than he did when he went in, if that’s possible. His tie and jacket are gone and the top buttons of his shirt are open. He doesn’t falter or hesitate in his path, striding to my side and taking my hand in his. That desperate yet sensual look is still in his eye. It’s unnerving how free he is with his touch, and I can’t help but feel excited by it. He has an impulse and he acts on it. He wants to touch me, and he does so.

“I’m sorry.” He brings my hand to his lips again.

I feel lightheaded.

“Your water, miss.” Bianca arrives with my drink, but Stefan is unaffected by her presence.

His eyes are still fixed on mine, my fingers against his warm lips. “She’ll take it on the veranda,” he answers for me and entwines his hand with mine as he guides me through the french doors and out into the warm, late afternoon light.

Although I’m enjoying the physical contact and affection he’s showing me, I just met this man, so I pull my hand from his when we get outside.

He pretends not to notice my rebuff, but I can tell I’ve either hurt or irritated him with this small gesture of rejection, the first one I’ve shown him.

I grip the green glass bottle of water that Bianca brought me with both hands to deflect attention away from what I’ve just done. My mind is telling me to create distance, but my body doesn’t want to.

Take risks, be brave, live
.

We sit together on a large cushioned couch at the edge of the pool. The rolling hills and sloping valleys of the entire vineyard are visible from here.

He’s quiet, and the enchanting charm he holds over me retreats as I start to feel anxious and out of place again.

“I’ve never been anywhere like this before. I mean, I’ve never even been in a house this big. There must be a million bedrooms.” I immediately regret the allusion.

Stefan soothes my embarrassment with a playful laugh. “There are rooms in this estate that I’ve never even seen, to be honest, and I’ve been coming here since I was a child.”

“I thought you said you live here?”

“I do at times. This estate has been in my family for years, but it’s not my true home,” he says in his pleasant yet gritty voice.

“Where’s your
true
home?”

“Ravine Creek. It’s a small town in upstate New York . . . the Finger Lakes region?”

“I’ve never been that far up. The Culinary Institute is in Hyde Park, and I never got to see much more of the state than that.” I think of my mother, my father, my old friends and feel a wave of nostalgia wash over me. They seem so far away. “I went back to Michigan to be with my family as often as I could.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I love being here and working . . . enjoying the old country, but Ravine Creek will always be my home. My family is there, and they’re everything to me,” he says.

We have something in common. When he speaks of his home and his family, there’s a fierceness and yet a vulnerability in his voice that I hadn’t heard before.

I steal a glance at him. He seems far away, lost in his thoughts. His hand rests beside me, and without thinking, I reach for it, sorry that I ever let go.

My touch seems to bring him back from wherever his mind had wandered to and he locks his fingers with mine. My face warms and my mouth turns up at the corners as he slides closer to me, the side of his body pressing against mine. The feelings I’m having for him are crazy, but my will to fight them is fading further away each minute.

The sun begins to go down, the light shifting from yellow to orange and red.

I’m so content here, with him, that I feel sad knowing that any moment Rocco or someone else will be driving me to my hotel. This can’t last forever, and reality pinches at my heart. I don’t want to leave.

“Do you like music?”

“Yes, I do.”

He smiles. “Wait here.” He heads into the house through a different set of glass doors.

A few minutes pass, and then Otis Redding’s sweet voice slips through the air. He’s one of my favorite singers, and I yearn for someone to share the melody with.

Stefan emerges on the veranda but doesn’t walk toward me. He stands just out of reach and completely still.

The wind blows my hair into tangles around my face, and I rise from the sofa, mimicking his stance. That look is in his eyes again, and all I want is to be next to him.

The desire is palpable, and he must feel it, too, because whatever hesitation he had disintegrates, and he’s quickly at my side. “I’d like you to stay.”

“What?”

“Stay here. In my home. I want you . . . to stay. Stay the night. Have dinner with me. Afterward, I’ll have Bianca make up a room for you. I don’t want you to go.”

Brave or reckless?

“Carina, I don’t make this offer often. I want you to know that. And if you want to leave, I’ll hold no ill will.” He takes my shoulders in his gentle hands, but there’s urgency in his touch.

I see my own feelings of sadness at the idea of saying goodbye reflected in his beautiful eyes as he stares back at me.

“I want you to . . .”

My lips move, speaking words from my heart, not my mind. “I’ll—I’ll stay.”

And then I kiss him.

I rise to my tiptoes and grasp his shirt, holding on as my lips move against his. The sensation I felt when he first touched me on the airplane is nothing compared to this.

The tips of our tongues meet and withdraw as he cradles my face. His fingers are warm against my wind-kissed skin.

Like every first kiss, we explore each other, finding a rhythm and succumbing to pleasure. But unlike other kisses I’ve shared, I feel my body almost melting into his, as though I’m not myself but a part of him. I’m aware of sounds around me—rustling leaves, music playing inside the house—distant and indistinct, but I no longer truly hear them over the pounding rush of my own heart.

He returns the kiss but doesn’t escalate it. As a man and not an overeager boy, he takes his time, seeming to savor it with a pace that’s slow and sensual. It’s a stark contrast to my impulsive and passionate gesture. His hands on my face are gentle, but they possess an air of authority.

I submerge myself in his sexy scent and heavenly taste, but when he pulls his lips away, pressing his forehead against mine, I struggle to catch my breath and feel the deep flush that must be evident on my skin. I wanted to kiss him but fear I went too far too soon. I allowed my emotions to take hold of me without thinking my actions through, which is something I don’t often do.

“I’m sorry.”

Still cradling my face, he tilts his head to the side. The setting sun glints off of his dark hair, and his eyes own me.

He smiles. “Are you? An apology is not necessary. I’m a little surprised, but not unhappy that you kissed me. I’ve been fighting the impulse since I first saw you.” His lips brush against the tip of my nose. “I’m glad you decided to stay. I guarantee you won’t regret it.” He touches his lips to mine again.

I want more, but I don’t push him. “Stefan, can I ask for something?”

“Of course.”

“Can I use your phone? I really need to call my parents and let them know I landed safely.”

He nods as though he should have thought of it himself. “Of course! Come with me.”

Stefan guides me to his study and gestures toward the phone on the desk before letting me know he’ll be waiting just outside.

I gnaw the edge of my nail, terrified to tell my parents where I am, as I listen to the first ring then a second. I’m afraid they’ll be disappointed in me, going against everything they taught me and trusting someone I just met.

Initially, they’re concerned, but I do my best to abate their worry.

My father is happy I landed safely but hesitant regarding my decision to accompany Stefan.

My mother is not. “You know, I met your father when I was on vacation,” she says.

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“It’s true. I was fifteen, and my family went to a lake house for the month of August. Your father was a lifeguard on the beach.”

The story is adorable, and I’m shocked that I never heard it before. My parents are like one entity. It’s hard to believe they were ever separate people, that there was ever a time they didn’t know and love each other.

I think of her sitting in her armchair at this moment, withered from her battle with cancer. Nothing like the vibrant beauty she was at fifteen.

“We wrote letters for two years. When he graduated he came to find me, and here we are,” she says in a dreamy voice.

“Mom, that is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Well, maybe one day you’ll have a story of your own. How old is Stefan, anyway?” She’s whispering like she does when we’re conspiring to do something we don’t want my father to know about.

“Well, he’s . . . older.”

“How much older?”

“I don’t know, but he looks like he’s . . . forty, or so.” I wince as I wait for her reaction.

She gasps. “That’s almost twice your age!”

“I realize that, Mom. I just . . . I just
feel
something. I’m here, and I feel something.”

She’s quiet for a long time and so am I, but in that silence, Stefan’s sweet face is all I see.

“Just be careful, honey. I trust your judgment,” she says.