Authors: Velvet DeHaven
A small smile, very similar to my own, I was sure, played on his lips as he curled his long fingers around my hand. “Sofia,” he said with slow firmness, “I know what I have said has probably left you feeling confused, not to mention fearful, but I assure you Colton is quite all right, and… this information I must impart to you does not change my feelings for you, nor does it place you in any danger where I am concerned.” A trace of wickedness filled his eyes. “I promise, I am not a member of the mafia.”
Regardless of the current awkwardness, a soft laugh fell from my lips.
“You are so beautiful.”
The sound was cut short, and I could only stare incredulously for a moment before finding my voice. “I… Thank you,” I said quietly, well aware of the heat beginning to stain my cheeks.
The emotion behind his smile shifted, and he looked almost apologetic. “Deplorable timing, no doubt, but nevertheless true, especially when you laugh.” His free hand rose, the back of his knuckles stroking my burning face. “Your eyes, like a deep amaretto, glitter with unbridled joy and,” he carried on, his voice bright with teasing, “even when you are not embarrassed, your cheeks bloom like the fairest carnation, usually when you laugh.”
Merda!
I knew Simon Treviso had a masterful grasp on the English language, but I’d be damned if the way he employed it now was not the most eloquent and beautiful I had ever heard. I actually had half a mind to glance down at my own skin to see if I were, in fact, melting in the same manner I felt I was. I could only imagine how dark my face must have become.
"Il gatto ti ha mangiato la lingua?"
I blinked in confusion, feeling my face warm as humiliation filled me. I was third-generation Italian, so one would think I would’ve understood something he said. To my horror, though, I only understood a couple of words. “I’m not entirely sure what you said, but I’m guessing from
gatto e lingua
you were asking if a cat got my tongue? Your accents’ a bit different from my family’s.”
“I did, and it could be due to the differences in regional dialects. My family was from Treviso, obviously, which is a northern region near Slovenia. Your mother probably spoke a Tuscan dialect, which is the basis of most modern Italian.”
“Oh,” was my bland response. “I guess that explains why I couldn’t pin-point the accent.”
To my surprise, his smile dimmed momentarily, then returned more vibrantly than before. “I traveled,” he supplied, the hand caressing my cheek dropping to his glass of seemingly untouched wine. I tried not to notice the way his fingers stroked the glass rim. “Indeed, I traveled quite extensively when I was younger. After touring so many countries for so long, it begins to affect one’s accent.”
Well, that was unexpected. He couldn’t be more than forty-two. How much traveling could he have possibly done?
I was unaware I had voiced my thoughts aloud until I heard his laughter again. “Sorry,” I muttered, reaching for my white wine—I probably should not have been indulging in any alcoholic beverage, but who was going to know—and took a hasty swallow to cover my mortification.
“No, per favore. No.”
The tone of his reproach was one full of warmth and fondness rather than actual censure as he repeated in English, “Do not be.” An atypically smug smirk spread across his face. “I am quite a bit older than I appear,
cara mia
.
”
Considering how wide I felt my eyes go, I was sure I looked practically bug-eyed, but I wasn’t sure what affected me the most: his questionable age or that he could call me beloved.
I chose to focus on the former for the time being, as I had been of the unspoken belief that Simon Treviso could only be in his late thirties to very early forties. His statement was leading me to rethink that belief, and I frantically began to recalculate numbers I was too uncomfortable to solicit.
Just looking at him made me question his words. Surely, he was teasing me? Because in all actuality, he looked unbelievably youthful. I only placed him at such an age due to his holding of multiple degrees, as well as his interests and knowledge in both his own fields and others. He had, after all, claimed to be a child prodigy. With that being the case, surely, he was not much more than forty-two or forty-three! It seemed almost impossible.
He beamed. “I can practically hear the gears in your head turning,
cara mia.”
“You can’t be,” I argued half-heartedly. “You just… can’t be. You look too young.”
“Well, I do thank you for that compliment,
amore.”
“Really.
Amore? Tu amore?
”
He seemed amused. “Actually, it would be
tuo, e solo se sei d'accordo.”
“Tuo,”
I repeated the correct pronoun with a roll of my eyes. “I don’t really speak Italian, remember?
E inglese, per favore.”
“Certo.
Certainly,”
he said with a snicker at my cheekiness of asking him to speak in English in Italian. “And… only if you are in agreement.”
I was most definitely in agreement, and I tried, as fluently as I could, to express that in something other than English. It sounded less formal that way.
“Io…d’accordo?”
I cringed. “Honestly, you’d think I would pay more attention to my father when he talks, not that he speaks it often. Sorry, I’m rambling.”
“I agree is s
ono d’accordo,”
he instructed gently, his eyes taking on a contented glow. “Why does your father not speak his language?”
Once more we were interrupted, this time by both Barsettis carrying out multiple dishes of food, and I battled between feeling relieved and annoyed.
“Well, he did,” I continued once alone with my date—wait, could I consider this a formal date? “But he stopped speaking very much of it after my
nonna
died. He still lets loose with the occasional expletive, particularly when he’s having trouble on a project, but… Well, I’m well-versed in Italian cursing, but not much else,” I said with a wide grin.
He chuckled. “Of course.”
“Infatti.”
He arched an eyebrow, and I decided to rib him further.
“
Well, it is your favorite word.” I popped a dissected piece of chicken parmigiana into my mouth, and tried not to look self-satisfied.
“Oh, you exaggerate,” he scoffed before grinning devilishly at me. “Your ears would burn right off that pretty, little head if I,
indeed,
told you my favorite word.”
I nearly choked on my chicken, and my eyes narrowed playfully when I recovered from my coughing fit. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”
He just continued to smirk.
When I agreed to join Simon for dinner at his home, I’d assumed he would own a relatively nice-sized house at the base of one of the mountains in Georgia’s foothills. Instead, what I was faced with was an expansive estate of approximately fifteen hundred acres, on which was a two-floor—at least, above ground—Spanish-style mansion, stables, and a separate, multi-car garage.
I sat in my old car and took a few moments to ponder fleeing, because I was clearly out of my league. I mean, sure I grew up with parents who had money, but it was nothing like the scale on which Simon Treviso apparently lived. My home had only three bedrooms and two-point-five bathrooms, and this palatial-like house looked as if it would have a good ten bedrooms. I had only one car to my name, and it was an old, used Ford. God only knew what sort of foreign luxury cars Simon had hidden away in that monster garage.
I muttered darkly to myself as I climbed out, more self-conscious now about how I looked than I had been ten minutes ago.
I glanced down at my outfit.
I’d thought when I paired some simple but pretty jewelry with my strappy sandals and my silky, teal top with a pair of jeans that I looked rather nice. I didn’t look quite casual, nor did I look too fancy. I looked… nice. Pretty. Attractive. Or so I thought.
Glancing back up at Simon’s home, I felt my stomach sink even further toward my feet. “Definitely out of my league.”
What the hell was I doing here anyway? What the hell was I doing still seeing Simon Treviso in general? What could I have
possibly
been thinking those couple of months before, when I agreed to continue having any connection to a man who, it seemed, had to be in his fifties, despite looking like he was only thirty-five. What possessed me to think I, a simple college student, could possibly measure up to
this
man?
I was beginning to lean toward the idea of hopping back in my car and getting the heck out of Dodge when the front door opened to reveal the person who currently occupied my thoughts. I cursed inwardly and blinked back the tears that suddenly, and ridiculously, seemed determined to mist my vision. I would
not
cry like a silly, little child in front of this man, and I
needed
to end this tonight, because I obviously did not fit in a world like this. Yeah, it looked like Simon was wearing jeans, but God only knew what expensive designer they came from. Mine came from Target.
I willed my feet to move forward, to meet him halfway as he descended the stone steps to make his way to where I stood. Unfortunately, they seemed to be rooted in place, and I had the distinct feeling that if I even moved one toe, I would burst into humiliated tears.
“Cara mia, che c'è?
What is the matter?” he asked when he was within arm’s length, repeating in English, “What is the matter, Sofia? You look…sad.”
My throat went dry. “I’m just a little surprised. This—” I gestured to the manor and the adjoining grounds— “is a lot to take in, and I’m, well, I’m not sure. I’m beginning to think all of this really was not a good idea. I don’t think I would ever fit into this world.”
“I see.”
His gaze dropped to the ground, and when he did not say anything for several long moments, I figured it would be best for me to leave. He, however, did not agree, and caught me by my upper arms, pulling me back to stand directly in front of him.
“Sofia,” he began in a soothing tone, “in all the time since we met, have I ever once given you reason to believe that I, in any manner, look down on you? That I see you as someone less than perfectly equal to myself? Have I even once made you somehow feel beneath me? Have I ever claimed or indicated, in any small way, that my status makes me superior?”
Overall, I liked to think that for the most part, I acted like a mature person; however, given that I was only in my early twenties, I occasionally found myself reverting to teenager. “No.” My voice practically reeked of petulant chagrin, and I loathed my tone even as the words spilled out of my mouth. “But I’m—”
“What? You’re what?” He pulled me closer and released one arm to catch my chin in his grasp, tipping my head back to look into his eyes, now a deep purple in the disappearing sunlight. “I will tell you what you are,
cara mia.
You are a beautiful young woman in whom I have found a marvelous companion. You are intelligent, but do not flaunt it, and you have a wit you do not often show to those beyond your comfort zone. You are caring and compassionate, loyal to those who treat you with respect and kindness. Your acquaintance has brought me the greatest happiness, and there is nothing about you,
amore,
which I do not adore.”
Yet again, Simon Treviso rendered me entirely speechless, and I felt somewhat foolish standing there with my mouth open as I blinked in disbelief.
"Il gatto ti ha mangiato la lingua? Di nuovo?”
I was pleased that I was able to successfully restrain my innate reaction to apologize, instead pulling a face at his asking about the cat having my tongue again and earning a bemused chuckle for my efforts. “Funny. Really.”
My lips relaxed into a small smile, and despite my best attempt, the words slipped out. “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to any of this, and by any of this, I don’t mean just—” I waved at the now-dark estate. “I haven’t had anyone speak to me the way you do, and certainly not treat me like a lady the way you have. I’m just not used to it.”
“Well, I can assure you I have every plan of making you ‘used to it’,” he said in a gruff, but gentle, baritone. “Such a charming young woman deserves nothing less than to be treated like a queen.”
“A queen? That’s a bit much, don’t you think?”
“Non.”
He was as somber as I had ever seen him be.
“Oh.”
“Indeed.”
I lifted my eyebrow with a grin at the familiar word. “Not your favorite, huh?”
“Not my favorite.”
I hummed my disbelief and allowed him to guide me away from my car and toward his house, not that I really considered it a
house
. And it did not escape my notice that as we walked, he rested his hand against the curve of my lower back.
“You look lovely,
cara mia,”
he said admiringly. “How you could ever believe that a creature as divine as you could not, as you say, fit in my world is beyond my comprehension. You are, in fact, as perfect as any human being could possibly be.” He paused on the steps, just one below me, and his eyes flittered over me from head to toe.
“Sì, veramente bellissima.
Absolutely beautiful.”