Despite being sure Giorgio’s keeping my phone in his office, I spend the next two days trying and failing to come up with a way to break in.
Two. Long. Days.
Two. Long. Nights.
The lock on the door isn’t one of those flimsy handle locks that you can pick with a bobby pin. I guess it was optimistic of me to hope that it would be, given it’s Giorgio we’re talking about. The keyhole is a strange shape. It looks like he has some fancy key for it, which he must keep on himself all the time.
On the third night, I request to take dinner in my bedroom and spend the evening trying to come up with some workable ideas, but I just end up giving myself a headache out of frustration.
I haven’t been sleeping well, and I’m tired.
Polo has been inviting me to the garden every day to help him—yes, actually inviting me rather than commanding. At first, I thought he was doing it because Giorgio asked him, but yesterday, when Giorgio saw us leave the castello to go to the garden, he didn’t seem too happy. He barked something at Polo in Neapolitan dialect that I didn’t understand, and Polo gave him a curt reply before leading me outside. When I asked what that was all about, Polo brushed my question aside.
Maybe Polo’s just taking advantage of me agreeing to help him, but in truth, I don’t mind. I’ve warmed up to digging in the dirt and picking vegetables and berries.
Polo and I mostly work on opposite sides of the garden, so it’s not like his company is a bother. He’s alright. Besides an occasional flirtatious remark that makes my nape prickle uncomfortably, he hasn’t been hard to get along with.
My problems begin when I come back to my room at the end of the day and there’s nothing to do but sit with my thoughts. Ugly, painful thoughts. I need an outlet. Until now, I’ve always had Imogen.
That heavy-duty lock flashes again before my eyes. How do I get past it? Can I get past it? Or did Giorgio give me an impossible task?
Bouncing my head against the mattress, I release a loud sigh. The less I sleep, the more tired I am, and the more tired I am, the more I ruminate and keep myself awake. It’s a vicious cycle.
Maybe it’s time for plan B. There’s got to be something else in this house that’ll help me get to sleep.
My bags still need unpacking, so I occupy myself with the task until the clock ticks past midnight, and then when the house is quiet, I step out into the hallway. A light shines from under Giorgio’s bedroom, and I imagine him reading one of those history books.
In my visual, he’s topless in his bed.
I roll my eyes at myself. That incident hasn’t been repeated, but I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about it.
Often.
I bite down on my lip and eye his doorway. He’s been busy with work, so I haven’t seen much of him outside of breakfast and dinner. In the evenings, I hear him move on the other side of the wall, and just the knowledge of how close he is to me is enough to send a thrill down my spine.
His offer to teach me self-defense has stayed on my mind even though he hasn’t brought it up again.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little tempted to take him up on it. But when I examine why that is, the answer scares me.
It’s not because I’m that eager to learn a new skill.
It’s because I want to be around him.
There’s something about his presence that draws me in. I have to keep reminding myself that he’s the reason I’m miserable at the moment, but even that isn’t enough to spoil his allure.
“Every object under my protection is of immense value, Martina. And you might just be the most valuable of them all.”
My skin tingles at the memory. He said it like he meant it, and for a moment, I may have even believed him. But the truth is, I feel far from valuable. My name notwithstanding, I have nothing to offer to anyone. My brother’s life would be a hell of a lot easier, and Imogen would still be alive if I were never born.
When the backs of my eyes start to prickle, I look at the ceiling and suck in a breath to stave off the tears. No, I refuse to cry out of self-pity.
Turning away from Giorgio’s door, I move silently down the steps, through the living room, and into the kitchen.
Before I manage to find a switch on the wall, a light flicks on.
My heart drops.
“Jesus!”
It’s Polo. He arches a brow. “What are you doing creeping around in the dark?”
“I didn’t know where to turn on the light. What are you doing here?”
“Allegra asked me to get her some tea. We ran out of the one she likes in the staff house,” he explains as he opens a cupboard and takes out a jar filled with dried herbs. “Fennel. It’s good for digestion.”
While my racing heart slows down, I walk over to him and peer inside. The cupboard is lined with shelves displaying glass jars of herbs and spices.
I hesitate for a moment before asking, “Do you have anything to help with sleep?”
Polo nods. “Sure. Valerian.” He takes one of the jars and passes it to me. “Two teaspoons to a cup. Otherwise it’s too strong.”
I take it from him.
“We grow it in the greenhouse. All of these are from there actually,” he says as he closes the cupboard. “Kettle should be on the counter.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” His eyes drop to the neckline of my camisole, and when his gaze lingers, I get the sudden urge to cover up.
I wrap my arms around me, feeling exposed. I should have put on a sweater before I came down here.
He clears his throat and lifts his eyes back to my face. “Goodnight, Martina,” he says with a tight smile.
“Night.”
Once he’s gone, I fill the kettle with water, put it on the stove, and find myself a mug. A sleeping pill would probably be more effective, but I’ll give this a try.
Fifteen minutes after I finish the tea, I’m thinking Polo lied to me. I’m lying in bed in the dark, but nothing’s happening. I should have used three teaspoons instead of two. Two teaspoons to a cup or it’s too strong… Yeah, right. I close my eyes for just a moment.
The next time I blink, it’s morning.
Propping myself up on my elbows, I glance at the clock on the wall.
Nine am.
My eyes widen. I slept for eight full hours? How?
Jesus. The tea. It worked!
I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, but as soon as I do, I’m hit with a wave of lightheadedness.
Ugh. This is terrible. My head is so muddled.
I rub my fists over my eyes and glance around, trying to orient myself despite the brutal brain fog. I got to sleep all right, but I don’t like how I feel right now. It feels like I was shaken awake halfway through a deep dream.
The fog clears after I take a long, cool shower, and when I come out, there’s a plate of breakfast on my desk. I pick at it a bit while I try to formulate a plan for the day. I don’t think I want to drink that tea again, so I’m back to square one. I really need to get my phone back.
I pace around the room. Stare out the window. When no great strategy comes to me, I venture out of the room.
A strange, rhythmic sound comes from somewhere downstairs.
I follow it until it leads me to the gym. The door is cracked open, and I peek inside to see Giorgio working on a punching bag.
My mouth goes dry as I take him in. I’ve never seen him in athletic clothes before. He’s wearing a pair of dark-navy joggers and a fitted black shirt that molds to his athletic build. As he moves around the bag and throws punches, his back muscles flex, highlighting his sculpted physique.
A quiet sigh escapes past my lips. God, he’s sexy. I could watch him move all day, and for a few minutes, that’s exactly what I do. He seems oblivious to me, so I get bolder with my gaze, letting it drift over his back and down to his butt.
Firm.
Round.
Probably as hard as a rock.
Images of him on top of me and my nails digging into that butt assault my imagination. Heat swirls between my legs. I’ve never felt this kind of an attraction to a man before.
It’s the hormones, remember? a weak voice says inside my head.
I clench my fists. Whatever it is, it’s making me lightheaded again.
With considerable struggle, I manage to tear my gaze away from Giorgio. I’m about to walk away when something else catches my attention.
In the corner of the gym stands one of those wooden jump boxes, and laying on top of it is a set of keys.
The haze of my inappropriate arousal parts to make way for excitement.
I’d bet my left arm those are Giorgio’s keys, and one of them leads to his office.
Suddenly, the punches cease. “Are you going to lurk in the doorway all day or are you finally here for our lessons?”
My attention snaps to Giorgio. He arches a brow in challenge and presses one gloved hand against the bag to keep it from swinging.
“Um…” I swallow, my mind still fixated on those keys. Given how crazy he is about security, I wouldn’t be surprised if he only takes them out of his pocket here and in his bedroom. What if training with him is the best chance I’ll have?
“Well?” He drops his arm from the bag and prowls toward me until he’s only inches away. I resist the urge to take one step back. He’s close enough for me to notice a single drop of sweat roll over his collarbone.
“I’ll go easy on you,” he says, the words rumbling inside his chest. When our eyes lock, he serves me one of his barely-there smirks. “At first.”
I drag my damp palms over my thighs. Should I do it? It’s the only semblance of a plan I have. I can’t rely on that tea to sleep. It makes me feel too weird.
Decision made, I let out a breath. “Okay. I’ll give it a try.”
Satisfaction flashes across his expression. “Good. Go get changed.”
“Right now?”
“You’ve already spent days humming and hawing. Let’s go,” he says roughly.
Looks like I need to brace myself for the worst. I get the distinct feeling Giorgio’s going to be a tough instructor. “All right. Give me ten minutes.”
“Five.”
I shoot him a glare, but he doesn’t notice, as he’s already walking back to the bag.
When I return in my gym clothes, he’s still throwing punches, so while I wait for him, I examine the gym a bit more closely.
Equipment lines the perimeter, and there’s a big empty space in the middle with a padded mat. There’s a lot of light, high ceilings, and the mirrors on the wall make the gym seem even bigger than it really is.
Giorgio catches my gaze in one of them as he takes off his boxing gloves.
“Ready?”
Not exactly. I anticipate I’m going to absolutely suck at this.
My tongue darts out to lick my dry lips. “Yep.”
He nods. “Get on the mat then.”
I shrug off my zip-up, letting it drop to the ground, and then meet him in the center of the mat.
His eyes scan my body, his gaze assessing but not entirely cold.
“Have you ever taught anyone before?” I ask, my heart bouncing against my ribs.
He cuts a circle around me. “No. But I had a good martial arts teacher many years ago, and I’m going to show you some of what he taught me.”
I glance over my shoulder, following his movements. “I always thought made men learned this kind of stuff on the job.”
He stops before me. “They do, but I wanted to have an edge. There’s only so much you can learn from getting into brawls. We’re going to jump right into practicing some escape skills. Those will be most useful, since for someone your size, the best strategy is to get away from the attacker and run. You want to avoid fighting at all costs, as chances are you’ll lose,” he says bluntly.
“Makes sense.”
“Let’s start with how you escape a wrist hold. Give me your wrists.”
Snakes move inside my belly as I extend my arms. He’s so intense. His big, warm palms engulf my wrists with a firm grip. “Try to escape.”
I tug. And tug. And TUG.
“Ugh! I can’t. You’re too strong.”
“Instead of pulling toward your chest, jerk your wrists up, as if you’re trying to break through my thumb.”
I do as he says, but his hold on me doesn’t budge.
“Harder, Martina. Use all of your strength.”
“I’m trying.” His hand might as well be an iron shackle. “It’s not working.”
He readjusts his grip. “Pull downward first, and then quickly jerk your wrists up. You’ll see, it’ll help.”
I’m skeptical, but I do as he says.
To my surprise, I manage to break free. My eyes widen. “How? You must’ve been holding me less firmly.”
“I wasn’t. Here, let’s reverse. You’ll see how effective the move is when you feel it yourself.”
The tip of my thumb doesn’t reach my index finger when I wrap my palms around his wrists, but I squeeze as hard as I can.
He uses the same technique on me, and suddenly, I understand. “It’s like you’re confusing me about which direction you’re going to go in.”
“Exactly. When I pull down, the thumb loosens.”
“Let me try one more time.”
He steps closer and takes me into his hands. While I run through the technique in my head, his right thumb slowly swipes over my wrist.
My gaze jolts up to his. The burst of adrenaline inside my veins from that tiny, barely-there movement can’t be healthy. Why did he do that?
What does it mean?
Whatever answers I hope to find in his expression never appear. A shadow shifts over his face before he glances away. “Go ahead.”
Down, then up.
The second I escape, he steps away.
We practice for another hour before Giorgio decides to call it a day. When we finish, he walks over to the wooden box, picks up his keys, and slides them into his pocket. “Same time tomorrow.”
Brusque tone. Firm shoulders.
“Okay.”
When he walks by me, all I get is a passing glance, and I’m left wondering if I imagined that light caress.
