The next day, I was wearing my second-best suit when I met Dominic Petruzelli, the family attorney. Tomasso drove me down to the police headquarters in his Alfa-Romeo, remarking that he was glad the seats cleaned so quickly. When I asked him what he meant, he told me that he'd spent a half-hour scrubbing the headrest of my seat after I'd bled on it the day before, which did cause me to feel a little bit guilty, even though I obviously couldn’t have controlled it. Dropping me off, he said he'd go wait a little distance away, where the police weren’t so interested in people with the last name of Bertoli.
I didn't have to wait long to meet Dominic. He was waiting in the middle of the plaza outside the police headquarters, and he recognized me immediately, probably from my height and my blonde hair. Even in America, there are not too many six foot blondes running around. "Miss Mendosa? I'm Dom Petruzelli, the Bertoli family attorney."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Petruzelli. And how are you?"
"First, actually, can you give me a quarter?" he asked. I thought it a strange question, but I found a coin in my purse and handed it over, which he quickly pocketed. "Okay, now you've officially hired me. American legalities—the attorney-client privilege didn't apply until you actually hired me. Anything the Don said is clear under his umbrella, but you were uncovered until just now. As to your question, I'm doing fine. Shall I brief you on how to approach things?"
I smiled at the interesting sharpness of his mind and put my purse back under my arm. "I've dealt with the police before, but please. In general, I was going to give my statement, and if they asked about anything outside what this man looked like, have a sudden bout of not understanding any English."
Dominic chuckled and gave me an admiring look. "Miss Mendosa, you have as good a plan as any Bertoli man I've helped with the police before. Yes, if they stray at all from a description of the man or him running into you, then you clam up, and I'll take over. There's going to be at least one cop whose whole job is to try and get some leverage on the Bertoli family. I know it’s a conflict of interest, but I think it’s in both of our best interests to protect the Don as well as your family."
"Agreed. Now, let's not keep the good public servants waiting," I said, smiling. "After all, we wouldn't want them to get upset with us too quickly, now, would we?"
Inside, I was introduced to a Detective Turner, as well as a Detective Fritz. Fritz seemed to know Dominic and cursed under his breath as Dominic followed me into the questioning room. "For fuck's sake, Petruzelli, she's not even a Bertoli!"
"She's my client, and has paid me a mutually agreed upon retainer," Dominic said evenly, repressing his smile even as he was taking out a digital recorder. "Now, shall we?"
The questioning lasted only about an hour, with most of it being a videotaped statement as to who I saw. In the twelve hours since I'd told the Don, no one matching that description had popped up on the Bertoli network, but perhaps the police had access to things they didn’t. "You say his left eye was blue, and the right one brown?"
"No, Detective. The other way around," I said for what felt like the third or fourth time. "His left eye was brown, his right eye blue. And the scar started above the left eye, in a sort of arc that curved down almost to his mouth. He had a beard, not too well kept, but short, maybe a few weeks at most."
Detective Fritz nodded and tapped his finger on the table. "And why you were walking into the convention center with Tomasso Bertoli?"
"I don’t think that’s relevant to this interview," I said. "What do you think, Mr. Petruzelli?"
Dominic smiled and shook his head. "Me too. In fact, Detective, I would say unless you're going to name Miss Mendosa a person of interest in this case and read her her rights, this interview is over."
The other detective, Turner, glared at Fritz while I gathered my things. "Miss Mendosa, there might be a need for you to give a video deposition," Detective Turner tried at a last gasp as I was leaving the room. "Would you at least agree to stay in town?"
"For now," I said, "until the man is caught, I hope. I wish you luck with your search, Detective."
Outside, I found Tomasso leaning against a planter, his arms crossed over his chest and his feet cocked in front of him. "So how'd it go?"
"I thought you were saying you wanted to stay away from the police," I remarked with a surprising smile. "Or are you turning over a new leaf?"
"I already did that—found out the new leaf wasn't as good as the old leaf, so I went back," Tomasso replied. "How was Detective Taguchi?"
"It was Fritz today," Dominic replied, holding out his hand. "Good to see you, Tomasso. When I heard you were back in town, I was hoping to come say hello. Sorry it had to happen like this."
Tomasso shook the offered hand while shrugging. "It always happens like this, Dominic. That's why your son gets to go to prep school and you only have one client. You earn every penny though."
Dominic chuckled, then looked at his watch. "Actually, I have more than one client, and I’m due for a meeting with another in about an hour. I'd normally let my secretary handle it—it's nothing but a probate technical issue involving a will—but I figure that you've got no problem with helping Miss Mendosa back home.”
"That's my job," Tomasso replied, waving at Dominic as he walked away. Turning to me, he flashed his cocky grin again. "So you survived the American police. Good to know. Now, where to?”
“Anywhere but back to your father’s house," I said. “I’m going to be stuck there enough as it is."
“I guess we don’t have to go back right away. Tell you what, let's go see the Space Needle."
"Really? Isn't it a little touristy?" I asked, still smiling. There was a certain rakish charm to Tomasso when he wasn't trying to come off as totally cocky.
“Maybe, but I bet you haven't been there yet, and it does give you one hell of a view from up there," he commented with a laugh. "Come on, it's not going to be that bad. And it'll keep you out of the house for a while."
I thought about it, then nodded. "Fine. Go on, American man. Show me around your city."
Tomasso grinned his little twisted, cocky grin that sent a thrill down my neck while at the same time irked me, and led me to his car. I climbed in, buckling my seat belt. "By the way, what is it with your family and Italian cars?"
“That’s all we drive,” Tomasso said. “Only the best. What do you have back home?"
I chuckled and looked out at the weather. "A TAC, actually."
"A what? Seriously? I would have taken you for a Porsche or Lambo girl," Tomasso said. "Lots of power, lots of curves."
I felt heat rise in my cheeks at his compliment and glanced over at him to see if he was making fun of me. His eyes were on the road, and his face seemed honest and open, which made the heat in my cheeks go up even more. “Nice try. But like you, my family likes to stick to cars in our heritage. TAC is a Brazilian company, not a subsidiary of someone else. They only make a single model, and it looks a lot like a Jeep. There are lots of roads outside Porto Alegre that make four-wheel drive and high clearance a necessity, so I drive that. I've gotten out of ruts and mud holes that would have gotten a Ferrari or BMW stuck to the rims."
Tomasso smirked and looked over. "You know, you continue to surprise me. I'd never have pegged you as a person who goes for practicality."
“Says the man who wears a thousand-dollar suit to do pickups," I noted, then shook my head. “I’m sorry. I'm not trying to be mean. I'm just saying that there’s more to me than meets the eye.”
"That goes both ways," Tomasso said softly, as if I'd touched a nerve. He found a parking spot and shut off the engine. "Shall we?"
Walking through the park that surrounded the Space Needle, I was taken with the prettiness of the day. As opposed to the previous day's gloom, the sky was clear, and the warmth of the sun felt like a taste of home. "This is nice," I said, stopping and facing the sun. "There are days, back home, when I use to do this over and over."
"When I first got to Alabama,
I spent so much time outside that I turned a dark tan," Tomasso said. He sighed and looked up at the Needle. "There were a few years there when I could have stayed that nut brown and bummed my way around the South. I'm sure Dad would have cut me an allowance until I made something of myself."
"Why didn't you?" I asked, curious. "You just . . . you still seem to not be fully committed . . ."
He shook his head. "I am. I was looking for something when I went down South, and to be honest, I'm still kind of looking. But I learned that I didn't have to leave Seattle to find it and that my family is an important part of my life. To not have my family . . . that would be nearly as hard as not finding what I'm looking for."
I tilted my head, curious. "And what are you looking for?"
He chuckled, shaking his head. “The same thing we're all looking for, I guess. Dozens of grandchildren, full control of any business I set my sights on, and for all my enemies to die in highly unlikely accidents that can’t be connected to me. What about you?"
"About the same," I said with a laugh. I stepped closer for some reason, and he turned to me. Reaching out, he took my hand.
"Come on. Let's check out the view." During the wait in line for the elevator, we kept our conversation going, like two new acquaintances learning about each other. There was a pleasant tension building between us, unlike the hostility that we started with. "So why did you go to Brown? I mean, I know your father wanted some of his family to be internationally educated, but Brown's Ivy League, and you don't strike me as too pleased with being up here."
"Actually, Brown is what caused a lot of it," I admitted. "Before that, I thought that I'd love it in America all the time. Instead, I found Rhode Island dreary and cold far too often, and the students were too whiny and spoiled for my liking. I'm sorry, but listening to trust fund girls complain about the unfairness of life when I came from a city that only has sewer systems in about eighty percent of the houses and air quality that is worse than everywhere in Brazil except Sao Paulo . . . they have nothing to complain about."
Tomasso smiled at my rant and reached over again to give my hand a squeeze. "I knew there was a reason I liked talking to you. Come on. We're getting in the next car."
The elevator was busy but not packed, and I could feel the strangely comfortable heat of Tomasso's presence close to me as we rode the elevator up. He let go of my hand to rest his fingers on my back—not too low, still above my waist—and I nudged in closer to him as a grandmother suddenly sneezed. "It's been years since I've been up this thing," Tomasso whispered. "I hope we've got a good view of Rainier."
Even I had to admire the rugged natural beauty of the Cascade mountains. "It's been a long time since I went to actual mountains," I said, taking his hand again. For some reason, the simple gesture was what both of us wanted, like we were quickly becoming something more than just acquaintances. "That would be fun to do some time."
"It would,” he said. "I'd just need someone to go with. Camping alone is boring and dangerous."
He let go of my hand and brought his hands to my waist again. Turning to him, I could see in his eyes what he wanted, and I felt myself being drawn closer, so close as I felt my desire build.
"No," I said softly, pushing away. "I'm sorry, but we can’t. That can never happen."
He stopped, then swallowed his words and looked out the window. "Apologies."
He stayed next to me while I looked out the window, trying to find words to say, to explain why, and failing. We took the elevator down in silence, and back on the ground, he kept a respectful but watchful distance from me.
"Tomasso," I said, stepping closer so that I didn't have to yell, “Say something.”
He blinked and shook his head. "Not much to say. I thought you were interested—you weren't. My mistake. I’ll stick to my job . . . what I should’ve been doing anyway.”
I shook my head, frustrated. "It's not that. Of course I’m flattered by your attention. But . . . can we just talk in private? I feel like I’m in a stupid movie, standing here talking with you about this while tourists walk by!"
He looked around and pointed. "The fountain. About as private as it’s going to get around here, and at least we can sit."
We walked the distance to the fountain, and I spent the entire time trying to put what I wanted to say into English. It was difficult—there’s a difference between talking business and talking emotion in a foreign language. We found a bench near the fountain, and I sat down, Tomasso next to me. "Tomasso, I guess what I'm trying to say is . . . you said it yourself—you need your family. And as crazy as mine is, as fucked up as Porto Alegre is, that's where my family is. You know that we can't—my father wants an alliance with your family, but you aren't Brazilian. He’s proud of the heritage we have, and, well . . .”
"Norte Americanos need not apply?" he asked with a harsh chuckle. "I've heard something like that before. Different word, same sentiment. I know what you mean. Another time, another place sort of thing. Just . . . never mind. Come on. We should get back before my father wonders what's going on."
The ride back was quiet, and after making sure I was comfortable in my room, Tomasso left. I could hear heavy hip-hop music start a few minutes later from down the hall in the gym, and I listened for a bit as he worked off his frustration.
What I didn't tell him was that part of the reason I pushed him away was because of my own personal history. My time at Brown hadn't been unpleasant for the most part. Sure, the weather hadn't been like Brazil, but my first winter had been memorable and quite picturesque. I'd even gone skiing, even though I was terrible at it.
That all changed during my sophomore year when I met Travis, who'd shattered my trust in love and in Americans in general. Heartbroken, I told my father, which just catalyzed his distrust even more. For me, since then, I'd never let myself get serious with anyone. And certainly not with an American. Men were for rubbing an itch that needed rubbed, and nothing more. I didn't need them for anything else.
But Tomasso was handsome and driven in a way that I hadn't seen in a man my age before. He'd also been through his time of indecision, and while he was hiding something from me, it wasn't something I thought was anything more than what we all hide from people we don't know that well.
I flopped down on my bed, frustrated. The way he smirked, like he was God's gift to women, the way his strong hand felt in mine when he reached out, and the twinkle in his eye when he looked at me, I could feel his desire as he pulled me closer . . .
I didn't realize that I was stroking my stomach with my fingers until the warmth had already spread up to my breasts and down between my legs. It’d been a long time, and I smiled as I let my fantasy play out in my head. After all, there was nothing wrong with a little fantasy, and my body needed some sort of way to release the stress that I felt within me.
My right hand came up, cupping my breast and kneading the soft flesh through my bra, which was beginning to chafe in a maddeningly pleasant way. The satin was rubbing against my nipples, while at the same time, I wanted more than the pleasure a mere fabric could provide.
Sitting up, I shrugged off my blouse and slid my skirt down my legs, leaving me in just my bra and panties, the cool air conditioning causing goosebumps to break out over my skin. Stroking the tops of my breasts and thighs with my fingers, I smiled, lying back again.
Bringing my right hand closer to the smooth fabric of my panties, I shivered as my fingers rubbed in small circles, finding the edges of my mound and sending little ripples of warm tension up and down my legs. Oh, it had been so long. With getting ready for my trip to America and being caught up in my work, even playing with a man had become too much time, and today with Tomasso was really my first chance to have some down time in weeks. Teasing the outer edges of my lips, I sighed softly, seeing Tomasso in my mind's eye. His muscles rippled as his fingers rubbed, and the smirk on his face was both cocky and tender at the same time. His lips were sensuous and powerful as he brought them to my breast, li
cking and sucking at my nipple until I was moaning, my eyes fluttering closed. "Mmm . . . so delicious."
"Please . . .” I whispered, running my fingers through his hair. "Don't hurt me."
"Never," he promised, his fingers slipping inside my panties to rest on the hot flesh of my pussy. His finger slipped between my lips, stroking up and down, gathering my moisture before rubbing, feather light, over my clit.
My hips surged, and I couldn't believe how amazing it felt. I wanted more, and I reached for him but couldn’t quite reach him.
I looked into his beautiful hazel eyes and gave my trust to this man, whose fingers and lips feasted on my flesh, stroking and touching until I was nearly sobbing in pleasure. I was begging, needing him to push me over the edge, and he took his lips from my nipple to look me in the eye. "This is mine."
He stroked his fingers up one more time, and I felt my orgasm crash over me, my thighs clenching around the fingers that were stroking me. "Yes, yours," I whispered, blinking as my fantasy slowly started to fade away, leaving me shaken.
What the hell was I thinking? Playing around with Tomasso? No way in hell. First, I could see in his eyes that he wasn’t the relationship type. That normally meant little to me—there was nothing wrong with mutual play, in my opinion, but I wasn't sure about myself. He was the sort of man that I wanted to have in my life. He was untouchable and something that I could never let myself indulge in. If I did, I'd too quickly give away my heart, and that was something I couldn't risk breaking again. Finally, since Travis, I was the one in charge again. Men fell to their knees to worship at my feet and pledged themselves to me, not the other way around. How could my fantasy have me so quickly pledging myself to him?
Sighing, I wiped at my eyes, feeling a strange tear trickling down my cheek. Pissed off at myself, I sat up and yanked off my soaked panties and bra, storming over to my suitcase and pulling out some fresh underwear. I looked at the casual clothes that I'd packed and pulled out a t-shirt, pulling it on before deciding against the pants I'd packed. Looking around, I saw the shorts that Tomasso had given me the day before. I felt a sense of warm comfort come with pulling them on, and I was startled when a knock came at my door.
Reckless (Bertoli Crime Family #2) Page 5