Page 22 of Cruelest Contract (Storm’s Eye Ranch)

Getty lets me go and starts whistling as he nonchalantly climbs the rest of the stairs.

Some songs never go out of style no matter how old they are. Every Breath You Take is one of them. Funny how I never fully appreciated how creepy and stalkerish the lyrics are until now, when I hear the tune coming from him.

Maybe I’m overreacting.

Getty is weird and often a bit sinister but he’s never made a threat. And he did just save me from the humiliating prospect of falling down the stairs.

He likes attention. That’s all. Ignore him and he’ll find something else to do.

The enticing smell of Italian cooking permeates the first floor.

Every meal I’ve eaten here so far has been outstanding.

The Tempestas clearly don’t skimp when it comes to kitchen staff.

The household chef, Enzo, is an erratic, nervous fellow with a streak of white hair.

He’s rarely seen outside of the huge gourmet kitchen at the back of the house.

The soft light of early evening pours in through high windows and adds some cheer to the dark interior. My initial impression of the main house was full of rustic, eerie gloom. After staying here for a few days, I’ve revised my opinion.

The huge house is imposing but it also feels like a real family home. Today a tall vase has been added to the round table in the foyer. The colorful heads of tulips, all of them resembling mouths puckered for a kiss, peek out of the top.

And lo and behold, there’s my cat hunched beneath the table. Louisa’s paws are tucked beneath her and she’s motionless. Just a mound of grey fur with sharp eyes.

I’ve given up trying to keep her with me on the second floor. She doesn’t like it up there and seems much happier with her bed, food and litter box placed in the mud room not far from the kitchen.

Dropping slowly into a crouch, I hold out my hand and call her name in the sweetest tone I can muster.

Louisa doesn’t budge. Her whiskers twitch as she sniffs the air. The shape of her mouth turns down, making it seem like there’s a permanent frown stamped on her face.

With no warning she takes off, zooming past me and disappearing down a dim hallway. I think she might have run into Cass’s study but I don’t plan to wander in there and check.

My bad knee pops as I rise. Yesterday Louisa hopped up into Fort’s lap while he rubbed leather oil on his boots in the sitting room.

He scratched her ears and she purred, just like she did with Getty.

It seems like my cat is going to fall in love with every member of the Tempesta family before she even gives me a chance.

I’m trying not to feel hurt. She’s a cat. I have no idea what goes on inside her grumpy little head but I’ve never felt so unlikeable.

Determined footsteps patter in this direction and I look up to find Mel approaching with a bruschetta tray and a broad smile.

“Don’t you look lovely,” she says. “Dinner’s about to be served. Tonight it’s chicken marsala and Enzo whipped up some blackberry gelato for dessert.”

“Sounds delicious. Can I take that?” I reach for the tray but Mel shakes her head.

“Thanks, sweetie, but I’ve got it.”

She gazes at me expectantly, waiting for me to join her on the walk to the dining room.

And she’s a speed walker. I need to hustle to keep up.

“Mel, why don’t you ever eat in the dining room?” I ask.

“I have a small dining table in my suite,” she says. “Occasionally I’ll eat with the staff. But meals should be private time for the family.” She notices how I’m looking at her with confusion and adds, “It’s my choice.”

This seems to close off the issue to more questions and anyway there’s no time. We’ve arrived at the dining room.

“Look at our beautiful girl,” Mel announces and sweeps her free arm in a voila gesture that ushers me into the room.

Three out of the four Tempesta brothers are already seated at the long table. All of them wear freshly ironed shirts and there’s not a cowboy hat in sight. They immediately rise to their feet upon my entrance and I wrestle with the urge to escape their scrutiny.

A sharp wolf whistle comes from Tye. “Stepping it up a notch, huh?”

Fort gives me a teasing wink. “Not that we’re complaining.”

Julian pulls my chair out and holds my gaze. “You look beautiful, Cecilia.” The heated current in his voice is drenched in sexual tension.

I’m mildly dizzy as I take my seat and allow Julian to push it closer to the table. I can’t explain why. I should be used to being near him by now.

What is it about this man that constantly turns me into an infatuated puddle?

Physical attraction is potent. Of course I’ve felt it before. But never as strongly as I feel it for him. My thoughts melt into hazy clouds when I should be keeping Alice’s good advice in mind.

“ Make him jump through a few hoops.”

But how can I do that? I should have asked. My flirtation skills have always been deficient.

Julian declares that since their father isn’t around we don’t need to wait for Getty to show up. I can feel the three of them watching me as I cut up my chicken. And I wish I hadn’t rolled the sleeves of my dress down. Fixing them right now is too conspicuous. I’ll just have to cope.

Between cutting up my food, fretting about my cleavage, and being hyper aware of the fact that Julian is sitting so close that I can feel his body heat, I don’t even notice when Getty walks into the room.

The next time I look up, there he is, sitting across the table as if he’s been there all along.

“What was that?” Fort asks his brother.

Getty pours the pitcher of ice water into his glass. “What was what?”

Fort scowls. “Whatever you stuck under your chair, asshole.”

Getty takes a drink of water and sets the glass down again before responding. “Keep your eyes on your own plate, kid brother. Or you might lose them.”

Fort either decides the argument isn’t worth the trouble or he’s lost interest. He shakes his head and helps himself to a second serving of food.

Meanwhile, Tye has been trying to educate me on the subject of hockey. I’ve yet to see more than thirty seconds of a game so I don’t have much to add but I’m curious about the injury that ended his career.

“You lost some of the vision in your right eye, didn’t you?” I ask.

“Some of it?” he replies, quite cheerfully. “Damn near all of it. Third period of an away game in New York. My first game back after getting sidelined for two weeks thanks to a concussion and I take a fucking stick to the eye.”

Some of Tye’s good humor fades and the shadow of anger that crosses his face is a glimpse into how swiftly his moods can change.

“The shot was a cheap one,” he says in a more solemn voice layered with fury.

“At least I made him pay by cracking his head on the ice. Now neither of us plays the game anymore but he’s got a fentanyl habit and occasionally works at his father’s Long Island car wash.

For now I think his daily life is punishment enough. I might change my mind.”

A glass dessert bowl containing two scoops of purple gelato garnished with fresh blackberries lands in front of me.

A man’s beefy hand withdraws and I look up into the lantern-jawed face of one of the members of what Julian calls ‘the security team’.

He’s probably in his thirties with an ugly scar running the length of his right cheek.

As something of an expert in scars, I’d say his scar isn’t more than a year or two old.

Mostly I’ve seen Enzo’s kitchen assistant, Jory, and Mel serving the meals. But sometimes one of these grim-looking Mafia footmen gets pressed into service.

“Thank you,” I say to the ‘waiter’.

He nods and wastes no time passing out the bowls. Then he nervously glances over his shoulder before fleeing the room.

“How many employees do you have here?” I ask. “I can’t keep track.”

“Neither can I.” Tye takes a heaping spoonful of gelato and deposits it in his mouth. “You should take that question, Jul.”

“Four members of the household staff,” Julian says.

“All under Mel’s direction. As you know, Miguel is the ranch foreman.

He has seven full time men to manage. That number increases in the spring and summer.

For the estate, Sonny is in charge of six permanent members of the security team and more than a dozen associates who come and go as necessary and provide backup for our assets elsewhere. ”

“And you really trust them all?” I ask, carving out some gelato with my spoon.

When he doesn’t answer right away, I turn my head to find an expression I haven’t seen on him before. It’s too uncertain to be anger.

“Occasionally we find out we’ve misjudged someone,” says Fort as he intently watches his oldest brother. “Then we’ve got no choice but to let him go.”

“Effective immediately,” Getty chimes in with a grin that’s inexplicably sunny.

I get the feeling I’m being left out of an important aspect of the conversation. I’m not sure I want to know what that aspect is.

“Hey, Cecilia.” Tye pokes my forearm with a thick elbow.

When he’s got my attention, he places his dessert spoon over his left eye. His right eye squints. “I can hardly see you with just my bad eye. Test me.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?” The answer is zero.

“Four,” he guesses.

“Close, but not quite.”

“Huh. Maybe if you give me something really cool to look at my condition will be cured.”

“What do you consider ‘really cool’?”

“Bet your tits would work,” he says without missing a beat. “Go ahead. It’s for science. I swear no one else will look.”

“Not true,” Fort declares. “I’ll look.”

“Shut up, junior,” Tye says.

“And to think my breasts might have cured you,” I say.

Tye pouts. “Is that a no?”

“That’s a very definitive no,” I say to Tye and bring a spoonful of gelato up to my mouth.

Enzo is a food genius. The smooth texture is perfect and the flavor is impeccable.

Tye lowers the spoon from his face. He laughs and smacks his knee.

Getty has been quieter than usual, only piping up a couple of times with smartass comments. At the moment he’s steadily shoveling gelato into his mouth. The second he’s finished, he pushes his bowl away.

“I think we can let some rules slide while Dad is gone,” he says.

“What rules would you like to break, Gaetano?” Julian asks.

Getty leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his chest as he thoughtfully considers the ceiling. “I’d be in a better mood if I had some entertainment.”

Julian sighs. “Is it really impossible for you to get through dinner without checking your phone?”

“It’s not my phone I’m dying to get back to. It’s my book.”

“Your what ?”

“My book.”

“Since when do you read for fun?”

Getty looks at me. “Our houseguest has inspired me to try out some new hobbies.”

Julian eyes his brother with suspicion and stirs his melting gelato.

“Check this out.” Tye elbows me again. He tosses a blackberry high in the air and catches it in his mouth.

Getty starts to clap, loud and slow. “Perfect. That is exactly what I would expect an oversexed circus bear to do.”

OH. SHIT.

“What the fuck?” Tye wipes berry juice from the corner of his mouth.

“Shouldn’t you be laughing?” Getty says. “You’re always laughing at things that aren’t funny.”

My face burns as I hear my own words being repeated. By now I’m unsurprised when Getty reaches under his chair and pulls out a thick spiral bound book with a pink and white striped cover.

My journal. The one I left sitting on a desk in a room that I can’t lock when I leave.

“Now what the hell is that?” Fort asks as Getty opens the book containing my very private thoughts.

Getty licks the tip of his finger and turns a page. “At first I thought it was just a really boring story about a girl who collects fountain pens and inventories her pantry shelves on Saturday nights but then I got to the interesting parts.”

Julian catches on that his brother is up to no good. “Let’s go in the hallway for a chat. Now.”

“Don’t blame me.” Getty flips through the pages of my journal. “I can’t help the fact that I’m just chaos in a human form. Totally deranged.”

“I’m not oversexed,” Tye announces. “And when I laugh, it’s because shit is fucking funny.”

Getty pauses his inspection of my journal long enough to look up. He’s thrilled to find me staring at him and likely resembling a rabbit trapped in the headlights of an oncoming garbage truck.

What does he think I’m going to do? Cry? Run away? Break his nose with my crystal gelato bowl?

All these options are tempting.

Getty isn’t the only one looking at me. Julian is watching me too.

He’ll stop his brother if Getty goes too far. However, he’s also waiting for my reaction to Getty’s taunts, another test of sorts.

“Julian pulls all the strings. He has every situation under control.”

This is true. He’s orchestrated every outing, every event. And I have no doubt he has been keeping a private scoresheet since my arrival.

Alice’s advice was to take the unexpected route. Since Julian expects to be in control, then Julian should be forced into a situation that’s out of his control.

“We should all go out,” I say. “We can forget about deals and marriage arrangements for one night. What’s the best spot for music and drinks?”

“Hell yes!” Tye, forgetting all about the insults, pounds a fist on the table in hearty agreement. “Let’s do it.”

“Count me in,” Fort says.

Julian’s brow furrows. “We’ll get a drink in Vigilance. The Alibi is the best spot.”

“Bo-ring,” Tye complains. “On a weeknight there will only be a handful of ancient geezers comparing prostates and playing fucking darts.”

“Laramie won’t be as dead,” Fort suggests. “I think the semester is almost over. No doubt the bars will be full of college girls trying to blow off steam.”

“I vote for that plan,” Tye says. “The college girls. The blowing. All of it.”

I glance at Julian. The creases in his forehead have deepened. I get an odd little thrill from knowing that Julian Tempesta has been outmaneuvered and he can’t think of a way out.

“You’re coming, right?” I lay a hand on his arm.

His muscles flex beneath my palm and his jaw is tense. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

I smile. “Good.” Then I turn my attention to Getty. “How about you? Are you coming with us or would you rather stay here all alone and read?”

Poor Getty. He’s torn. His silly prank didn’t go as planned. Now he can throw a fit and miss out or meekly swallow his pride.

“Can’t think of anything else to fucking do,” he says with a shrug.

I hold my hand out. “And if you don’t mind, please return the book you borrowed.”

Getty can’t seem to come up with an argument. He hands over my journal without a word.

And maybe I’m kidding myself, but I like to think that the simultaneous spark in his eyes counts as a sign of respect.