Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Her grin wide, she turns to face me, and she looks far too pleased with herself.
I chuckle, open the passenger side door. “Well, I guess we’re both full of surprises today.”
“Wait. Don’t you have a bag?” She asks before getting in.
“I have an apartment there.”
“Oh. Of course you do.” She climbs into the car and can’t hide her enthusiasm as she peers closely at everything. Weirdly, it pleases me.
I close her door and walk around to the driver’s seat. When I climb in, she’s looking into the back. It’s a two-seater.
“No soldiers hiding back there?” she asks, running her fingers over the red leather piping of the seat.
“They’ll follow.” I glance in the rear-view mirror to see Enzo and several others filing into the SUVs. I start the engine and head out.
“What year is it?” she asks.
“1966.”
“Nice,” she says, caressing this and that with a tenderness that truly surprises. “Can I drive?”
I turn to her, curious because this is possibly the first interaction we’ve had that isn’t somehow fraught.
“Can you actually drive?” I ask.
“Rude. I am an excellent driver.”
“Well, you’re not used to a car like this, I’m sure.”
“You’re wrong and besides, I’ve never hit anything,” she qualifies, sitting up as we pick up speed and I’m sure that what I’m seeing now is pleasure on her face.
I smile. “Well, then, if you’ve never hit anything…” I trail off, giving her what amounts to an eye roll.
“Come on. I’m serious.” She touches my arm, and I look down at her hand. She must realize what she’s doing the moment I do and pulls back. She clears her throat. “Really, I’m a good driver. I’ve driven my dad’s cars.”
“Have you?” I know Alaric Moretti had a collection of antique cars.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, liking this conversation. Liking not fighting with her. I look at her as I shift gears accelerating once we’re on the main road. She seems to relax and inhales deeply of that particular smell that clings to old cars. It’s not exactly pleasant, but it’s a thing.
We fall silent for a while, each of us lost in our own thoughts and I admit I’m showing off a little when we lose the procession of soldiers, driving well over the speed limit which has Allegra holding onto the sides of her seat and smiling wide with pleasure.
“You like speed,” I say, weaving through traffic smoothly.
She glances at me and it’s as if she realizes she’s enjoying herself, so she wipes that smile off her face and shrugs a shoulder.
“Don’t do that,” I say.
“What?”
“Don’t stop smiling.”
She is caught off guard and I see the blush creep up her neck before she turns her face to look out of the side window.
“My mom loved tinkering with old cars. My dad bought them for her.”
I glance at her, watch her smile fade as a line forms between her brows. Her father was out on a pleasure ride when he was killed. He was driving a car older than this one. The brakes had failed.
I think about her father’s accident. It was convenient for Malek. For Michael too, maybe? It wouldn’t be hard to arrange on an older car.
“Everyone thought Dad was the collector, but it was my mom’s passion.”
“Oh? That’s unusual.”
“She was unusual. And I guess it was one of her two passions. Although I think it gave her more joy than music did.”
I know her mother was a gifted pianist although she didn’t play publicly after marrying Alaric Moretti.
“Why do you think that?” I ask.
“She only played the saddest tunes. I think she liked the way they made her feel, but when you saw her smile when she was tinkering with the cars, she glowed. She was alive and amazing.” She turns her face away, and although I can’t see her, I hear the loss she feels in her words.
“You were close.”
She shrugs a shoulder, rolls the window down a little then puts it back up. She reaches for the glove compartment and opens it before I can tell her to stop. She looks at what’s inside, then at me. It’s my Glock.
I reach over to close it. She folds her hands on her lap, any openness in her face gone. “My father had a rule about guns at the house.”
“I’m sure his soldiers all carried guns, Allegra. Maybe he was careful you didn’t see them, but I can assure you, they were there.”
“You’re probably right,” she says. Did she really think they had no guns in the house?
“Tell me about school,” I say to change the subject.
“There’s not much to tell.”
“You’re in college. That’s something. Tell me about that” I say, wanting her to continue. Wanting to lift the mood again.
“You want to hear about my education?” she asks like she doesn’t buy it.
“Humor me. School was never a priority for me.”