Liam says something else in Italian to the waiter, who smiles. He retreats, whistling, and disappears around a corner.
“So you speak Italian, too.”
Liam shrugs.
“Along with Gaelic, Spanish, and French. Any others?”
“A few.”
“Did you study languages in school?”
“It was more like on the job training.”
I sit back in my chair and gaze at the Mona Lisa smile on his face. “Oh, look, we’re being vague and inscrutable again. Was that part of your training, too?”
“As a matter of fact, it was. Have some bread.”
He passes me the bread basket from the middle of the table. It’s covered in a white linen cloth. I pull the cloth back to reveal a beautiful selection of fresh ciabatta rolls baked with olive oil, salt, and rosemary. They smell like heaven.
I take one, put it on my bread plate, hand the basket back to Liam, then slather the roll with butter from a small round butter dish near my water glass. Then I tear off a hunk and pop it into my mouth, moaning when the taste explodes on my tongue.
“I’m glad to see you’re not on the low carb bandwagon.”
“If carbs are good enough for Sophia Loren, they’re good enough for me.”
That earns me a laugh. “She’s a little before your time, isn’t she?”
“I saw a picture of her in a bikini once along with a quote about how she owed her figure to spaghetti. I thought it was cute. I feel sorry for women who don’t love food. It’s almost better than sex.”
Liam’s eyes go hot, and his voice turns husky. “It’s not even a close second.”
“You haven’t tried the bread yet.”
He chuckles, shaking his head.
The waiter returns with a wine list as thick as my arm. Liam scans through it, flipping pages, then says something in Italian. The waiter bows again, then retreats.
We’re quiet for a moment, then Liam says suddenly, “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?”
It’s a strange turn in the conversation, but I consider it. I tear off more of the ciabatta roll and chew on it while I think. “Probably Argentina.”
“Interesting choice. Have you been?”
“I’ve never been anywhere. But there was this woman named Valentina who lived in the town I grew up in who was from Buenos Aires. She had to be at least seventy years old, but she was beautiful in that way certain older women are. Sexy, too. She had lovers half her age. I’d see her sometimes, riding through town on this big black horse with red ribbons braided in its mane. She was always singing to herself. Singing and smiling, like she had a delicious secret she was thinking about.
“My mother thought she was crazy, but I thought she was so glamorous. You could tell just by looking at her that she’d led an interesting life. A big life. That’s what I wanted, too.”
He studies me with such intensity I start to feel self-conscious.
“Is that why you moved to Boston? To live a big life?”
My laugh is small and dry. “I moved here because my boyfriend at the time was starting medical school at BUSM.”
Liam’s scrutiny grows sharper. I can tell he wants to ask more, but doesn’t. And because he doesn’t pry, I tell him.
“He cheated on me a few months after we got here. With the dean of the university, if you can believe it. I always knew he was ambitious, but that really took the cake.”
“He’s a damn idiot.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you like me to break his legs?”
He looks serious. I take a moment to consider it, then shake my head. “He’s not worth the trouble. Besides, I already got my revenge.”
Liam sits forward in his chair, folding his arms on the tabletop and pinning me with a razor sharp look. “How?”
“I dumped all his clothes into the street and lit them on fire.” A little embarrassed by the admission, I add, “It might be petty, but it made me feel better.”
Liam stares at me. He says softly, “Oh, I know. Revenge is good medicine.”
He’s my wolf again, all glittering eyes and ferocious energy. A shiver goes through me, but it isn’t fear.
“Were you in love with him?”
“I thought I was.”
“That sounds like a no.”
“I moved on too easily for it to be true love. My ego was bruised more than my heart.”
The waiter returns at that moment, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. Liam and I are silent as we watch him uncork the bottle and pour a small measure into a glass, but I feel every bit of his attention. It’s bright and burning hot, like sitting under the summer sun.
He samples the wine. He swirls, sniffs, sips, rolls it over his tongue. Then he nods at the waiter, who appears incredibly relieved.
He pours me a glass, refills Liam’s, then retreats again.
Liam lifts his glass and holds it out. “A toast.”
I pick up my own glass, matching his gesture. “To?”
He licks his lips, staring hungrily at me. “To lighting things on fire.”
We touch glasses, our gazes locked. When we drink and set our glasses back down, it feels final, as if something has been decided.
Perhaps what’s been decided is that I’m certifiably insane. I’m toasting my kidnapper? Next I’ll be having a heartfelt conversation with my grandfather’s ghost.
“So.”
“So.”
“You own a skyscraper.”
“Technically, I lease it through one of my corporations.”
“One of your corporations. Must be nice to be a bazillionaire.”
“Mostly, it’s just exhausting.”
That admission surprises me. He sees it on my face.
“After a certain amount, money is a burden.”
“I’m dubious.”
“You’ll have to trust me on this one.”
“So you’d rather go back to being poor like you grew up?”
He’s surprised again. “You remember I said that.”
“I remember everything.”
When his eyes sharpen, I avert my gaze and sip more of my wine.
Drumming his fingers on the tabletop, he watches me closely for a moment, his head tilted to one side. Then he switches the subject. “Why a criminal defense attorney?”
My heart skips a beat.
This isn’t a topic I want to discuss. There are too many emotional minefields. I drop my gaze to the bread basket and carefully set down my glass of wine. “It’s a long story.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
When I don’t say anything, he prompts, “Are you planning on representing celebrities?”
My gaze snaps back to his. A flash of irritation tightens my stomach. “What would make you say that?”
“Law school is expensive. Low six figures, at least.”
His stare is challenging. He’s right, so I look away, even more irritated than before.
He says, “And there’s no money in criminal defense, unless your clients are very wealthy.”
“I don’t care about the money.”
“Then you’re one of the few people who don’t.”
“You just said yourself that money is a burden.”