you want a cup of tea?" I asked, filling the kettle.
"I'd prefer coffee, if there is any."
I chuckled, putting the kettle on the stove and lighting the burner beneath it. "Don't hold your breath." I opened the cupboard and took out a stainless steel kettle, big enough for several cups, and found the tea bags. There was sugar sealed in a plastic container, and powdered milk in a matching one. "Sorry, no coffee."
"There never is in the UK. I have never had a decent coffee here. Ever. It all tastes as if someone has put five grains of instant in the bottom of a cup and poured in three cups of water." He shuddered. "Awful."
"Right." I chuckled, and was rewarded with a quirk of smile. "May as well go for tea, then." As I waited for the water to come to a boil, I gathered up the scissors and tape and bandages and tucked them back into the kit. Individual packets of aspirin were nestled next to the iodine, and I pulled one out. "Headache?"
"It is unmanly to admit it," he said, but he held out his hand. I gave him the pills and a glass of water, then leaned on the counter as I waited for the kettle.
Again, I remembered the phone messages I hadn't heard and pulled out the phone to see if there was service here. The screen showed a little bear turning backward on the screen—success. "Finally," I said. "Isn't cell phone reception weird?"
I punched in the voice mail numbers, and wonder of wonders, it worked.
The service said, "You have three new messages," and I took the phone away from my ear to punch in the number to let me hear it. Luca stood, put his hand over mine.
"Wait," he said.
"What?"
"Check later," he said, and bent down to kiss me. He put the warmth of his palms exactly where I needed to feel them, flesh against those tight, tired muscles.
And it was just…. so much simpler to be kissed, so pleasant to taste the richness of his mouth and breathe in that clove and orange scent—I half expected some cordial flavor to be on his tongue, like the syrup inside a chocolate bar.
I turned my head, angled my mouth to fit him better, and he made a soft noise, took a step closer, put his body against mine. His chest, his hips, our thighs touched. I felt his jeans on my bare knee. His hands slid from my shoulders to my hair, still damp in its braid. He just touched my scalp, shaped his palms to it, and moved his hips against me.
And there I stood, small of my back against the counter, cell phone forgotten in my hand, mouth open and drinking.
The kettle whistled. Luca slowly—reluctantly, it seemed to me—let me go. For an instant, he looked down at me, a soberness in his eyes I had not seen. Again I thought of the post-war industrialism of Bucharest, the grimness of an eastern European nation that had spent so much time struggling to hold its own.
Stop it.
He was a thief who'd stolen one of the most valuable diamonds in the world, double-crossed the man who'd no doubt paid him handsomely to steal it, then set me up to take the fall for him and carry the bloody—literally—gem across the continent to his homeland.
"How," I asked, snagging the screaming kettle, "did you get the jewel through security?"
He lifted one jet-black, glossy brow. "I say it is a bauble for my child."
I nodded. Because who would believe such a big stone was actually a real diamond?
"I'm going to find some warmer clothes," I said. "I'll be back in a minute."
In the bedroom, I pulled open drawers until I found some jeans. My cousin Alan wasn't a lot taller than I, and although they'd be baggy, they'd be a lot warmer than bare legs. As if to reinforce my decision, a gust of wind blew into the caravan walls. Rain came with it, falling in sideways sheets. I shivered and buttoned the jeans, then found a warm sweater to put on over the turquoise linen shirt I'd taken from Luca's bag.
Then, in the quiet of the bedroom, by myself, I took out the diamond and held it in my hand. She filled my palm, clear as water except that small, piercingly
"I'd prefer coffee, if there is any."
I chuckled, putting the kettle on the stove and lighting the burner beneath it. "Don't hold your breath." I opened the cupboard and took out a stainless steel kettle, big enough for several cups, and found the tea bags. There was sugar sealed in a plastic container, and powdered milk in a matching one. "Sorry, no coffee."
"There never is in the UK. I have never had a decent coffee here. Ever. It all tastes as if someone has put five grains of instant in the bottom of a cup and poured in three cups of water." He shuddered. "Awful."
"Right." I chuckled, and was rewarded with a quirk of smile. "May as well go for tea, then." As I waited for the water to come to a boil, I gathered up the scissors and tape and bandages and tucked them back into the kit. Individual packets of aspirin were nestled next to the iodine, and I pulled one out. "Headache?"
"It is unmanly to admit it," he said, but he held out his hand. I gave him the pills and a glass of water, then leaned on the counter as I waited for the kettle.
Again, I remembered the phone messages I hadn't heard and pulled out the phone to see if there was service here. The screen showed a little bear turning backward on the screen—success. "Finally," I said. "Isn't cell phone reception weird?"
I punched in the voice mail numbers, and wonder of wonders, it worked.
The service said, "You have three new messages," and I took the phone away from my ear to punch in the number to let me hear it. Luca stood, put his hand over mine.
"Wait," he said.
"What?"
"Check later," he said, and bent down to kiss me. He put the warmth of his palms exactly where I needed to feel them, flesh against those tight, tired muscles.
And it was just…. so much simpler to be kissed, so pleasant to taste the richness of his mouth and breathe in that clove and orange scent—I half expected some cordial flavor to be on his tongue, like the syrup inside a chocolate bar.
I turned my head, angled my mouth to fit him better, and he made a soft noise, took a step closer, put his body against mine. His chest, his hips, our thighs touched. I felt his jeans on my bare knee. His hands slid from my shoulders to my hair, still damp in its braid. He just touched my scalp, shaped his palms to it, and moved his hips against me.
And there I stood, small of my back against the counter, cell phone forgotten in my hand, mouth open and drinking.
The kettle whistled. Luca slowly—reluctantly, it seemed to me—let me go. For an instant, he looked down at me, a soberness in his eyes I had not seen. Again I thought of the post-war industrialism of Bucharest, the grimness of an eastern European nation that had spent so much time struggling to hold its own.
Stop it.
He was a thief who'd stolen one of the most valuable diamonds in the world, double-crossed the man who'd no doubt paid him handsomely to steal it, then set me up to take the fall for him and carry the bloody—literally—gem across the continent to his homeland.
"How," I asked, snagging the screaming kettle, "did you get the jewel through security?"
He lifted one jet-black, glossy brow. "I say it is a bauble for my child."
I nodded. Because who would believe such a big stone was actually a real diamond?
"I'm going to find some warmer clothes," I said. "I'll be back in a minute."
In the bedroom, I pulled open drawers until I found some jeans. My cousin Alan wasn't a lot taller than I, and although they'd be baggy, they'd be a lot warmer than bare legs. As if to reinforce my decision, a gust of wind blew into the caravan walls. Rain came with it, falling in sideways sheets. I shivered and buttoned the jeans, then found a warm sweater to put on over the turquoise linen shirt I'd taken from Luca's bag.
Then, in the quiet of the bedroom, by myself, I took out the diamond and held it in my hand. She filled my palm, clear as water except that small, piercingly
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