Page 18

SANTORINI, GREECE

SIX WEEKS LATER

KLAUS

There’s little point in ruminating on everything I did wrong last year.

I’ve no clue why I torture myself still.

For several months after the catastrophe of our initial meeting, I briefly succeeded in winning Natalia’s cautious affection.

But having made a mess of it again last summer in Montréal, I’d be mad to expect a third chance.

I’ve not seen her since the end-of-season party eight weeks ago in December, when I turned my back on her and strolled away with Sage Sikora. Our only contact has been a recent exchange of brief emails in which we set up this visit to launch the interview series.

Her flight is going to be late, which means when it arrives precisely on time, I’m the one who looks late. She’s waiting outside—fingertips drumming on the tow handle of her suitcase—as I swoop into a stretch of free kerb.

She offers a terse nod when I wave. I pop the boot and pull the safety brake, moving to climb out of the convertible Alfa Romeo to help stow her luggage.

“Please don’t,” she insists, her voice flat.

I lower myself into the seat again, and the car shifts as she slings her suitcase in.

She strides to the passenger door, which I stretch to open before she can instruct me not to.

Her huge octagonal sunglasses obscure half her face, and I push my Bulgari Le Gemmes up onto my head, hoping she’ll do the same when she climbs into the car so we can make proper eye contact. She doesn’t.

“How was your flight?”

“Mercifully uneventful,” she says simply, smoothing her travel-wrinkled skirt, then placing her handbag into the footwell.

I flick a glance over my shoulder and ease onto the road. For a few minutes, we say nothing. Natalia’s glossy hair roils like a dark storm cloud, and she digs a tatter-edged pink chiffon scarf from her bag, folding it diagonally and tying it beneath her chin like an elderly woman.

“I can put the top up, if you prefer,” I offer.

“I’m fine.”

After a pause, I venture a smile. “Hermès?” I ask cheekily.

She tips her head my way with a flat expression, lips in a severe line. “It used to belong to my aunt, and she probably bought it at the Woolworth in Lexington decades before I was born.”

“An orange Hermès scarf would look lovely against your hair and complement the blue of your eyes.”

“Thanks for the fashion tip, Tim Gunn. I’ll be sure to add that to my list of ‘how to waste a thousand bucks on ninety centimeters of silk.’” She turns her attention to the scenery zipping past.

I’m stung by her rebuff, though I have little right to be. A dozen replies cycle through my mind over the next few miles. My frustration wins out and I cut a hard-jawed look at her. “Is this how we are going to be with each other? Because if so, it will make for a long and miserable season.”

“Oh, you are priceless . I love how you assume I can flip a switch and be smooth and impartial with the jerk who toyed with my feelings for half of last year.” She whips the sunglasses off her face. “I didn’t want this assignment, Klaus. And—”

“Nor did I!” I shoot back. “Reece spent three days convincing me of the value in speaking with you at all before I assented.”

Natalia looks stung, to my surprise. After a beat, her eyes narrow and her expression reverts to indignation. “ Sure. I’d bet my bottom dollar it was your suggestion to do the first interview in Santorini. Coaxing me into your… sexy little spider lair.”

My lips quirk. “Sexy spider lair?”

“We could’ve met up anywhere ,” she goes on, “because you’re a damned billionaire. The first interview could be at McMurdo Station in Antarctica if you’d wanted, but… nooooo!” She flips her hands with a sarcastic laugh. “It’s a sultry shag pad in Greece. Show-off. ”

I have to bite my lip to hold back laughter. She jams her sunglasses back on and swipes a tendril of escaped hair under the kerchief.

“What wicked images dance in that dazzling mind of yours, hmm? You’re showing your hand, kleine Hexe, using words like ‘sexy’ and ‘sultry.’”

“And you’re showing your egotism by assuming my bad mood is because I’m pining away over your pompous self. Or do you think everyone just ceases to exist outside the boundary of your shadow?”

I give her an affronted look. “You’re trying to bait me.”

“Okay, perfect. Let’s definitely keep it all about you .”

Another mile passes in stiff silence.

“Fine,” I say coolly. “We will be professional. Cordial.”

“Works for me.”

Another mile.

“How was your Christmas holiday?” I ask, trying for something neutral.

“Dandy. Santa brought me a new pair of roller skates, and the news that my long-lost mother is a screwdriver murderess.”

I glance at Natalia, who’s retying the scarf.

“Is this a joke I’m failing to get?”

She sighs with enough drama that I can hear it over the engine, then cradles both hands on her face and slides them off.

“It’s… Forget it. Sure, a joke. Let’s stick to the professional stuff—I agree. Lemme get a bath and an hour of downtime, and we can start the first interview before dinner.”

While Natalia bathes and rests, I go over the menu with my cook and housekeeper, Elena, for tonight’s dinner.

Next, I go outside to pick some fresh oranges.

I set one in front of the statue of Aphrodite in the garden, then bring the rest to Elena so she can make portokalopita—an orange cake that is one of my favorites.

Going to my bedroom with the intention of getting a book to read on the patio, I round a corner and find Natalia leaning half into my room. She’s changed into a gauzy maroon dress that brushes her calves and leaves her shoulders bare.

I walk up quietly. One of her hands is gripping the doorway, and her fingers caress the wood, restless.

“Can I help you find something?” I ask.

She chirps out a tiny shriek, hopping back with a hand braced over her chest. The dress has abalone-shell buttons down the front, from the low neck to the hem.

“Holy crap, you startled me,” she says with a flare of anger. “I was just curious.” She points at my doorway. “The, uh, architecture is interesting.”

“Is it?” I pass her into the room, then sweep an arm out in invitation.

She wanders inside after me, clasping her hands behind her back and scanning the surroundings—tile floors, white stucco walls, beamed ceilings, stained-glass windows.

Going to one of the two bookshelves flanking the hearth, she trails a finger along the spines, then tips free an old hardbound copy of Don Quixote .

“Hmm. These actually look read,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

“If they were for display, they’d be in the living room where people could admire my excellent taste.” I give a tight smile. “Isn’t that what a ‘pompous’ man would do?”

She replaces the book. “I’m sure you entertain plenty of admirers in here. I know your reputation.”

“I don’t ‘entertain’ in this room,” I retort.

Natalia drifts to the other bookcase, and the urge to call her away is strong. Instead I watch her, with a sense not unlike peering beneath a bandage: I don’t want to look, but I can’t resist—it’s sore, fragile, too soon, naked. I’m testing myself.

“Not alphabetized,” she says lightly.

“No.”

“Or divided by subject.” She pulls down Margaret Atwood’s Cat’s Eye . “And not sorted by color, like on those silly home remodeling shows.” She replaces the book a few inches from where it originated.

I cross to where she stands. We’re so close I can smell the shampoo scent of the still-damp hair she’s pushed behind her ears.

A visceral memory intrudes: washing her hair the night we met.

My pulse jumps. Her wide, black pupils are like dangerous holes in a blue sky.

She drags her gaze from mine and looks at the bookshelf again.

“This one… is Sofia’s,” she says.

“What of it?” My defensive grief is so obvious I can hear it myself.

Natalia lays one hand flat at the center of my chest—a lightning-quick touch, and no less shocking. “Don’t take it like a criticism, Klaus. It’s just a thing I noticed.”

Could she feel my heartbeat against her palm in that moment? I’m not sure if its pounding is more like the promising kick of a growing infant or that of an unbroken horse warning away those who venture too close.

Suddenly we’re farther apart. I assume she’s taken a step backward before I realize it was me—the woundedness on her face clues me in.

“Isn’t it time we got this thing started?” she asks crisply.

My eyebrows lift. “ This…? ” I echo, the word more a shape than a sound.

“The interview.” She takes a step back and points a thumb. “It, uh, smells like the food’s almost ready. Let’s work during dinner. No need for phony small talk.” She pivots and nearly collides with the wall before redirecting her path and disappearing into the dark corridor.

I watch the empty doorway as the warmth of Natalia’s touch on my chest fades like a handprint on cold glass. Before following her out, I turn to the shelf and put Cat’s Eye in its proper place—exactly where Sofia chose.

The food is so good that conversation is impossible until we’ve razed the appetizers—marinated eggplant, goat cheese spread with thyme and lemon, rosemary pita, tomatokeftedes.

“Damn,” Natalia sighs, mopping up a puddle of seasoned olive oil with her flatbread, “I’m almost scared of Elena. How’s she such an amazing cook?” She folds the bit of bread into her mouth. Her tongue darts to catch a drop of olive oil sliding down her thumb, and I try not to stare.

She dabs her mouth with a napkin and leans back. “I’m not going to have room for the main course if I don’t control myself.”

She flips back a fresh page on her legal pad and uncaps a fountain pen—lapis blue with mother-of-pearl.

Something about the way she holds it tells me it’s new and unfamiliar.

I assume it’s a gift, but it seems too luxurious to have been bought by the aunt whom Natalia has described as frugal and practical.