Page 7

VICTOR

I opened the passenger door of my car and gestured for Barbara to slide into the luxurious leather seat.

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes wide. “This is yours?”

I grinned, rocking back on my heels. She ran a gloved hand over the sleek lines of the chassis. The pale cream paint stood out from every other black and dark green car in the garage. “It’s an Aston Martin.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

I nodded. “Not surprised. It’s an import. Cars are one of my…indulgences.”

Her eyes flickered with uncertainty before she gathered her skirt and slipped into the car. I couldn’t help but appreciate the graceful way her hips swayed, accentuating every curve of her body.

As I rounded the front of the vehicle and slid behind the wheel, her perfume enveloped me—a soft, floral aroma with just a hint of spice. It was refreshing—so different from the cloying, heavy fragrances favored by the women who usually found their way into my orbit.

“Do you have many?” she asked, neatly folding her gloved hands in her lap and crossing her ankles. Such a lady.

“Cars?”

“No. Indulgences.”

I glanced at her, expecting her to avert her eyes down to her lap in a coy play, but her piercing blue eyes met me head-on. I held her gaze for a long moment, the corners of my mouth curling into a smile. “A few.”

The engine roared to life as I turned the key in the ignition, then settled into a low, idle purr. As I eased out of the parking garage, I felt Barbara’s eyes on me. Since she arrived this morning, she’d been studying me with a wary curiosity.

“And what about you, Barbara? What are your indulgences?” I asked, glancing over at her as I merged into traffic.

She blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I don’t have any.”

“Come now.” I chuckled. “Everyone has something they enjoy. Something that makes them feel alive.”

Barbara shifted to face the window, her body—and eyes—turned away from me. “I’m not sure I’ve ever let myself have any.”

“Pity.”

I stopped at a red light, the pause giving me a chance to study Barbara more thoroughly.

The midday sun illuminated her profile, her delicate features bathed in a golden glow.

A strand of blonde hair had escaped from her neat chignon.

I had the sudden urge to reach out and tuck it behind her ear, to feel the softness of her skin beneath my fingertips.

Clearing my throat, I focused my attention back on the road as the light turned green. “Well, perhaps it’s time you start.”

“Start what?”

“Indulging yourself. Allowing yourself to experience things that bring you joy, that make you feel alive.”

She let out a soft, humorless laugh. “I’m not sure Frank would approve.”

The mention of her husband’s name sent a flicker of irritation through me. I raised an eyebrow. “And why does that matter?”

Barbara shifted in her seat, the leather creaking beneath her. She stared out the windshield, her eyes following the flow of traffic. “It’s not that simple, Victor. I have responsibilities, obligations. To my husband, to my son.”

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, considering her words. “And what about your obligations to yourself, Barbara? Don’t you deserve to pursue your own happiness?”

I glanced at her as she turned to look at me again, her eyes wide and searching. “I…I’m not sure I know how to do that anymore. Or if I ever did.”

I shifted gears and accelerated around a slow-moving truck. The Aston Martin responded beautifully, the engine growling with power. “Let me help you rediscover it then.”

“Victor, I’m married. Happily married.” But there was a momentary waver.

“Relax. I’m not asking you to run away. Just let me help you indulge in a hobby.” I parked the car in front of Perino’s and turned off the engine.

After a long moment, she looked up at me, her eyes sparkling with determination. “All right. On one condition.”

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “And what might that be?”

“That we keep this…arrangement…strictly professional. I’m your secretary, nothing more. I won’t do anything to jeopardize my marriage or my family.” Her voice was firm, unwavering.

I couldn’t help but admire her resolve, even as a part of me bristled at the limitation she was placing on our interactions.

“Deal.” I stepped out of the car and walked around the back to open her door for her.

She slipped a gloved hand into mine as I helped her out of the car.

“Have you ever been to Perino’s before?”

She looked up at the bright white building facade, her hand shielding her eyes from the sun. “Can’t say that I have.”

“Then you’re in for a real treat.”

As we stepped through the heavy wooden doors into Perino’s, the ma?tre d’ greeted me with a deferential bow.

“Mr. Cardello, welcome back!”

“Always a pleasure, Joseph.”

“Your usual table?”

I nodded, lightly placing my hand on the small of Barbara’s back as Joseph led us through the elegant dining room. The warmth of her skin radiated through the thin fabric of her dress, and a slight tremor ran through her at my touch.

Joseph pulled out a chair for Barbara at a secluded table in the back corner. The stark white linen tablecloth gleamed under the soft glow of the chandeliers. I waited for her to be seated before taking my chair across from her.

“Champagne?” Joseph asked me as he draped Barbara’s napkin across her lap.

“Please,” I answered.

“At lunch?” Barbara asked after Joseph left.

I shrugged. “Indulgence, remember?”

Barbara glanced around the opulent dining room, taking in the gold-and-crystal chandeliers, the gleaming white tiled floor, and the gold-leaf embellished walls. She looked like a deer caught in the headlights, her eyes wide and uncertain.

“I’m not sure I belong here,” she murmured, her fingers nervously smoothing the linen napkin in her lap. “I’m quite underdressed.”

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. “Nonsense. You’re stunning, and you belong anywhere you want to be, Barbara.”

She met my gaze, a tentative smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “It’s just…all of this”—she gestured around the room —“is so different from what I’m used to.” She paused as she glanced down at the table. “At least, it is now.”

Joseph returned with a bottle of champagne nestled in a silver ice bucket. He popped the cork with a practiced twist and poured two glasses.

I watched Barbara take a small sip of the champagne, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. When she opened them again, there was a spark of something new—a glimmer of excitement.

“And what were you used to before?” I asked, taking a sip of my champagne. The bubbles danced on my tongue, crisp and effervescent.

Barbara traced the delicate stem of her glass with her fingers as she considered my question. “A different life,” she said softly. “One filled with dreams and ambitions that seem quite foolish now.”

“Says who?”

“Frank. My mother. Society, apparently.”

I took another sip. “They don’t matter,” I said with a wave of my hand. “Did you want to keep doing films? Or ‘lensing,’ as they say?”

Barbara smiled. “You have a good memory.” Her expression turned wistful. “Maybe. I enjoyed acting. The modeling too, but…”

“But what?”

She glanced up at me through her eyelashes, considering.

“I really wanted to be a designer. I love clothes and fashion. And so much is changing right now. I actually design and make a lot of my own outfits.” Her eyes sparkled as she spoke, but she paused, and that light dimmed.

“But it’s not sensible for a wife and mother. ”

I shook my head, a spark of anger igniting in my chest. The very idea that Barbara’s dreams and ambitions were somehow less important or less valid because she was a wife and mother infuriated me.

I leaned forward, holding her gaze. “Barbara, listen to me. Your dreams matter. Your passions matter. Being a wife and mother doesn’t negate that. If anything, it should fuel it. What kind of example do you want to set for your son? That he should settle? Give up on what makes his soul sing?”

Barbara blinked, clearly taken aback by my intensity. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, her brows furrowed in thought. “I’ve never thought of it that way before,” she admitted softly, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap.

Joseph returned, interrupting the charged atmosphere with a polite clearing of his throat. “May I take your order?”

I watched Barbara, her eyes darting to the menu she hadn’t touched. She seemed lost—adrift in the sea of options she wasn’t accustomed to navigating alone. Her gaze flicked back to me.

“Would you care for some recommendations?” I offered, my voice low and soothing.

Barbara hesitated and then nodded appreciatively. “Yes, please. I…I’m not quite sure what to choose.”

I turned to Joseph. “What would you recommend for the lady?”

Joseph bowed his head slightly. “May I suggest the piccata di vitello , signora . It’s a tender veal dish, lightly breaded and sautéed in a buttery lemon and caper sauce. An authentic Italian classic that’s both delicate and flavorful.”

“That sounds delicious, thank you,” she said with a nod.

I held up my hand. “Are you sure? You only heard one recommendation.”

She nodded quickly, sliding her menu toward Joseph. “Yes, it sounds lovely. Delicious, in fact.”

I studied her for a moment before I let it go. “The spaghetti bolognese for me, please, Joseph.”

“Absolutely, Mr. Cardello,” Joseph said with a curt nod before rushing away.

As he departed, I turned my attention back to Barbara. “Why do you find it so difficult to order your own meal?”

Her cheeks flushed a soft rose. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Sure you do. When the four of us went to dinner last month, you let Frank order for you. I don’t think you even picked up the menu.”

“You really do have a good memory,” she mused with her head cocked to the side.

“And you’re dodging the question,” I pressed.

Eventually, Barbara sighed and admitted, “Frank likes to order for both of us when we go out. I suppose I let him because it makes him feel…important.” She took another sip of champagne, taking a moment before continuing, “It’s just easier that way. No fuss, no arguments.”

I leaned back in my chair, studying her thoughtfully. “But what about what you want?”

Barbara’s eyes met mine, a quiet determination flickering in their depths. “You served in the war, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Then you’ll understand choosing your battles. Sometimes, it’s better to keep the peace than to fight for what you want.”

I laughed softly. “Then you don’t understand much about being a soldier. Not that I’d expect you to. There is no option to ‘choose your battles.’ Your battles are chosen for you by people you’ll never meet. People who don’t give a damn what happens to you because they’ll never see those battles.”

She held my gaze—a thousand questions swimming just beneath the surface—but said nothing. After a moment, she took a delicate sip of her champagne, the bubbles in the glass twinkling like stars under the light.

“I’m sorry. Of course, you’re right,” she conceded softly. “I’ve never thought about it like that before. That was stupid of me.”

“No harm done.”

“What I was trying to say is that I’ve just been…comfortable, I suppose. It’s easier to go along with what’s expected of me rather than fight for what I truly want. Don’t rock the boat, as it were.”

I leaned forward, captivated by the melancholy in her voice. “But that’s not who you really are, is it, Barbara? I see the fire in your eyes, the spirit that refuses to be contained. I think it’s high time you let that part of yourself shine. Before that beautiful light is snuffed out completely.”

Barbara’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink, but she didn’t look away. “You…you truly see that in me?” she asked, her voice small and vulnerable.

“I do,” I replied, my gaze steady. I reached across the table, lightly brushing the back of her hand with my fingertips.

She looked down at the contact but didn’t pull away.

“So, you want to be a designer?” I smiled, letting it warm my voice. “Fabulous.” I took her hand fully into mine and grazed my thumb over her knuckles. “What would it take to make that real?”