Burned Dreams (Perfectly Imperfect #7)

A beat, a breath, and I break eye contact. I give a slight jerk of my head toward the nearest doors and usher her out of the room.

When we reach the coat check, a staff member approaches us, carrying our jackets. He passes me mine and turns toward Mrs. Pisano, holding her black coat out for her to put on.

I yank the coat from his hands. “Back off.”

Mrs. Pisano glances at her coat in my hands, then meets my gaze with a question in her eyes.

“Security precaution,” I bite out.

She arches one perfect black eyebrow, turns, and slips her arms through the sleeves. The moment her coat is on, I head toward the exit, absolutely refusing to analyze my behavior. The man was an unknown element. He presented a possible threat. Case closed.

The wind blows in my face as we step outside and trudge toward the parking lot. Mrs. Pisano is on my left, trying to keep up with my long strides while her unfastened coat flaps with each strong gust. My car is less than three hundred feet away. It’s not that cold, but I stop and wrap my hand around her upper arm, turning her to face me.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, looking around.

Ignoring her question, I start buttoning her coat. There are only three buttons and the fabric is too thin. Stupid fancy shit—good for nothing, especially not for keeping a person wearing it warm. When I’m done with the buttons, I raise the lapels so her neck is covered.

“Security precaution, as well?” There’s a barely detectable trace of amusement in her voice.

“Yes,” I mumble and resume my tracks toward the car.

I try to keep my eyes glued to the ribbon of road beyond the windshield as I drive, but they still drift to the rearview mirror every few seconds. Mrs. Pisano is sitting in silence, clutching her coat to her chest. I blasted the heat the moment I got into the car, but it seems she’s still feeling cold. My grip on the steering wheel tightens, turning my knuckles white. Idon’t care, I tell myself and look back at the road.I. Don’t. Care.

She sneezes.

Shit. I steer to the right and park at the curb. Vehicles zoom by as I exit and walk around to the back, yanking open the passenger door.

“Shoes. Off,” I say.

Ravenna Pisano raises her eyebrows in surprise, probably thinking I’ve lost my fucking mind. I’m afraid she might be right. I bend and, holding her ankle, lift her leg a bit so I can remove her heels. First the right, then I do the same with the left.

“Legs under your ass.”

I wait for her to rearrange herself, then take off my jacket and lean in to drape it over her lap. Her forehead is just a few inches from mine, and I can feel her breath on my face. The subtle powdery scent envelops me, urging me to inhale a lungful of it. I tuck the sides of the jacket around her and meet her gaze.

“Next time we go on one of your shopping sprees,” I say, glaring at her, “you’re buying a proper coat, or I’ll buy one for you. Understand?”

The corners of her eyes twitch, and a small smile pulls at her lips. “Congratulations.”

I furrow my brows. “For what?”

“That was a beautiful, complex sentence. You’re doing great.” Her smile widens.

Is she teasing me? I narrow my eyes at her, expecting her to stop smiling under my mean glare.

“Are you trying an intimidation technique on me, Alessandro?”

“Yes,” I bark.

She tilts her head up a bit and the tip of her nose touches mine. Her lips are so close that only a minuscule move would be needed to taste them. Fuck! I lean away abruptly and slam the door shut, hurrying back behind the wheel.

When we reach the mansion, I escort Mrs. Pisano to the front door without a word, then turn around and head back toward my SUV. The light over the garage illuminates the metal bay door hiding Pisano’s precious vehicles from view. I’ve been here for two weeks and still haven’t put my plan in motion. I could lie to myself and say that I just want to be fully prepared before I take the next step, but I’m well aware this delay has nothing to do with readiness.

It’sher. Ravenna Pisano and this damn fixation I seem to have developed for her. I’m disgusted by the fact that I’ve started to care for the woman who is married to Natalie’s killer.

I get in the car and head down the driveway, promising myself that whatever spurred me to care about Rocco’s wife, ends now. And I purposely ignore the fact that, for a fleeting moment, my eyes flicked to the rearview mirror and the reflection of the window on the left side of the house.

The slam of a door wakes me from my sleep. I sit up and listen to the steps echo through the hallway, getting closer, and then stopping just on the other side of my door. My pulse jumps into a gallop. Everything remains eerily quiet for a couple of moments, then I hear the door to Rocco’s room open and close, and a sigh of relief leaves my lips. He went to sleep. I lie back down, but five minutes later, the sound of Rocco’s door opening causes every muscle in me to tense.