When Carlo spoke that name, though, the feeling it gave her was not distaste. Far from it. The sound pleased her. As she considered it now, she understood. It was like he was overtaking James’s hold on the name.
It was dangerous, the feeling she had around this man. Everything about him was dangerous, although he’d been kind only, although she felt sure he was kind truly.
She took a sip of her beer. It was nice. Much better than she’d expected. She took another, deeper drink. “I’m trying to understand how to say this. I want you to know that I am grateful for your kindness. So grateful.”
“It was nothing special.”
“It was. You don’t understand. You could not.”
“I’d like to try to understand.”
She sighed, still not sure how to proceed. After more beer, she followed her instinct and said the words that came to her. “You know my husband.”
“I know who he is. Of course.” He looked like he meant to say more, but he stopped.
“He is not a man who…who accepts things to go another way. Another way than his way.”
“That’s his reputation, yes.”
“I think that his reputation has the soft focus. You understand?”
“You’re saying that he’s worse than people know?”
“Yes.”
Surprising her, Carlo reached across the table and took her hand. He turned it and brushed his thumb over the inside of her wrist, where the bruising was deepest. His touch was gentle, as always, and it made her feel a way she hadn’t felt in a long time. She closed her eyes.
“Bina. Why do you stay?”
His hand around hers felt too good, and she pulled away. With her eyes on his again, she said, “James is not a man so easy to leave. He has many people. He keeps track of me.” There. That was the way toward the thing she needed to say. “I’m sorry, Carlo. I think he is having someone watch me now. Following me. He might know that you helped me. I think it is likely that he does.”
“What? Is he threatening you? Is there a way I can help you?”
“No—you don’t understand. You must help you. I’m sorry. He knows you. He did not like what you did at the gala. He will not think what you did for me last night is so harmless. He…he is vindictive. And very powerful. If he thinks…I’m so sorry. I wanted you to know quickly, so you could help yourself. Maybe not be in such trouble. I’ll go now.”
She rose, and he did as well. “No! No, Bina. Stay. I can’t let you go off if there’s trouble out there for you. Talk to me about this.”
Her hackles went up a little at his statement that he couldn’t ‘let’ her, but his expression softened those words so that she didn’t take too much offense. In fact, she felt calmer in general than she’d expected, and her joints felt oddly warm and tingly. She’d finished her beer. Could it be that? No, that was silly. She’d had one beer only. “There’s nothing to be done. It’s not a concern for you, Carlo. I’m only sorry if I cause you trouble. Thank you for being kind. Goodbye.”
She turned and headed back toward the building. Carlo was right behind her; she could sense him. But instead of grabbing her, he simply brushed his fingers down her arm. Gooseflesh rose in the wake of his touch. “Bina, wait. Please.”
He’d said her name, that name, often enough now that when she called the word to mind, she could hear it in his voice. She stopped and turned. “Why? Why do I wait?”
Now he took her hand, and he led her back to their table. “I don’t know. But you’ve made me worried. And you’ve made me care. I would like to talk some more, if you will.” This time, after he coaxed her to sit again, he sat on the same side, straddling the bench and facing her.
“You should not. We should not.”
“Should not what? You feel it, too. Right?”
No. That was the word she should say now. But he was still holding her hand—she’d forgotten to take it away from him. And he was sitting so close, staring at her with such a face that she couldn’t tell him no. She didn’t want to tell him no.
She wanted him to kiss her.
But that was absurdly stupid. Or was it? Did it matter? Yes, it did. Not for her, but for him. Her fate was likely sealed already. But James would not rest until Carlo was at least ruined. Possibly dead. No one took James Auberon’s things from him, whether he wanted them himself or not.