I Want You To Want Me. Kathy Love
Orabella he’d known she was far from harmless.
But thus far instead of getting answers, he was just finding more questions. What was Orabella up to? Who was this Vittorio, and why was Maksim’s petulant little lover so obsessed with him? Oh, Maksim was fully aware that Orabella was the one obsessed despite her claims otherwise.
Maksim wondered what he should report back to Orabella tonight. He wasn’t stupid or conceited enough to believe that Orabella was just using him for his body. Well, he was conceited enough—but definitely not stupid. She wanted him for other reasons, reasons beyond tailing Vittorio.
He, on the other hand, suspected she was conceited, or at the very least self-absorbed enough, that she wouldn’t discover he was using her too. He just had to keep up the game of being her smitten lover. A game he enjoyed in its deceit.
She wasn’t the only one who excelled at using her lovers. But, if her motives for following Vittorio didn’t yield any answers about Ellina, he didn’t want her little mystery interfering with his own quest for answers.
The truth about Ellina was out there somewhere.
Maksim smiled to himself. How very Fox Mulder-ish of him.
He pushed away from the wall, whistling the theme to The X Files as he headed down the street to find some air-conditioning and a cold beer.
This was so ridiculous. Erika paced at the bottom of the stairs that led to the second-floor apartment. She hadn’t even made it up them yet.
Okay, she had managed to walk up to the first landing, but once she got there, she’d turned around and headed right back down. There was something even more pathetic about that than just standing here.
Philippe couldn’t be right about this. Or he was misunderstanding his own reading. Yes, Vittorio did fit all the specifics that the psychic had told her. Except the whole attraction thing, which seemed to be the key part of the prediction.
She placed a hand on the banister of the stairs that went straight, turned at a narrow landing, and disappeared overhead. And beyond those hidden steps was Vittorio.
She released the banister and fiddled with the plastic wrap covering the plate of cookies she’d made as a peace offering. Okay, “cookies” was generous. They were Rice Krispie treats, which was about all she could manage. She wasn’t a good cook, nor did she particularly like to cook. She fiddled with the plastic wrap again. She wished she had something better to offer him.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, just go up there,” she muttered to herself. The worst thing that could happen would be that he’d act as he had the previous night.
And she had gotten easily and uncharacteristically irritated by his rudeness. Which hadn’t been fair, on her part. He’d been injured, and annoyed. Justifiably so, really.
At the very least she owed him another apology. He was Maggie’s brother-in-law, and Maggie was one of her best friends. So she’d kill two birds with one stone. Smooth things over, and just see if maybe he was attracted to her—when he wasn’t bleeding profusely from the head.
Her reasoning was sound, but still her feet remained planted on the worn wooden floor, the plate gripped in her cold fingers. What was making this so darned hard?
She pulled in a deep breath.
Okay, here was the truth of it, and she needed to be truthful with herself—if no one else. She was insanely attracted to him. An instant, undeniable attraction, a shock wave rippling through her like a hit on the Richter scale measuring beyond anything previously recorded.
That reaction made it a lot more difficult to face potentially encountering the same cool disdain she’d gotten last night. Dislike was something she never dealt well with—especially from a man whose mere presence sent her blood pressure rocketing out of the atmosphere.
But she had to. She knew she did. She had to know if Philippe was somehow miraculously right about this, and last night had just been Vittorio’s pain making him seem so totally uninterested. And at the very least, she wanted to show him she was normally a polite, even-tempered person.
Staring at the staircase a moment longer, which was getting more daunting as shadows from the setting sun darkened the corners and cast strange shapes on the walls, she gripped the banister and took a step. Then another.
The hallway outside of Vittorio’s apartment was murky, the waning light through dirty windows giving the whole corridor an unsettling air.
She fought the urge to glance over her shoulder, hairs rising on the back of her neck. Instead she focused on the door, rapping on the solid oak twice. She waited. No noise sounded from inside. No footfalls, no “just a minute,” not even a shuffle.
Great. She went through that whole pep talk, and he wasn’t even there? Crap. She’d have to get her nerve up again—and she didn’t know if she could do that.
Okay, just one more knock. She couldn’t do this again. He had to be there.
Just as she raised her hand to knock again, the door jerked open, her fisted hand coming close to bopping him in the nose. In the dim light, Vittorio grimaced at her through sleep-heavy eyes. His long hair was tangled and shoved haphazardly back from his face. Bare, muscled chest and flat stomach appeared over sweatpants slung low on his narrow hips.
“I’m sorry,” Erika immediately said, even as her heart skipped wildly. An image of him lying in bed filled her mind, quickly morphing to a picture of her in bed with him. “I—I didn’t think you’d be sleeping,” she managed to mumble.
He frowned, blinking, then peered over her shoulder at the evening sky, which now nearly left them in darkness.
“I keep weird hours.” His tone was flat, yet his voice still lent the words a beauty with its deep baritone timbre.
Erika stared at him, unable to keep from studying the shadows emphasizing the muscles of his chest and stomach. Chiseled and perfect. She immediately wanted to capture that perfection with her art.
But she managed to stop gaping and move her gaze up to his face, which was also a study in shadows and beauty.
Clearing her throat, she managed a smile. “I keep odd hours too.”
He lifted an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. Instead he leaned on the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement caused his muscles to come to life. Erika’s fingers twitched with the longing to shape over them like she would the smooth clay of one of her sculptures.
“I’m guessing you didn’t come up here to discuss our sleep habits.”
Erika’s eyes returned to his, as did the sense of dread she’d been experiencing at the bottom of the stairs. Cool disdain—that was what she was getting. Crap.
“No.” She offered him another small smile. “No, I came up to see how your head is.” She reached forward to brush aside his hair to see the wound, but he caught her wrist, stopping her. His fingers cool, curled a tad too tightly on her skin.
“It’s fine.”
Erika nodded at the clipped response that didn’t invite further questioning. Yet she didn’t move, nor did he release her. Although his hold loosened and she could have sworn his thumb slid on the outside of her wrist like the briefest, faintest caress.
Crazy. She made a small noise in the back of her throat at the silly notion. The soft sound seemed to make Vittorio aware that he still held her, because he promptly dropped his fingers away from her.
Erika fought the urge to touch the place where his hand had been. Instead she stepped back from him. She should leave.
“Okay,” she said feeling disoriented. “I just wanted to check.” Check Philippe’s theory, but as before she seemed to be the only one affected by Vittorio’s nearness. Vittorio’s expression was still remote, hardly filled with overwhelming attraction.
“I guess I should go, then,”