Page 22 of Steal My Heart
“Not exactly. I know your brother is a businessman and philanthropist…” And polite kidnapper and amazing kisser, but I leave out those parts.
Alessandra considers me.
“Oh, come on, tell me,” I beg.
She shakes her head. “My brother would be pissed; I’ll save that discussion for you and him.”
“Why is everyone in this family so mysterious?” I playfully huff.
“And you haven’t even met Fabien yet,” she says with a little laugh.
“Who’s Fabien?”
“Our older brother. He’s currently a resident of a gated community,” she says.
“Like a golf community?” I wonder.
“Like a federal penitentiary,” she corrects me.
“Ooohhh,” I comment, my own legal situation causing unease to unfurl in my chest.
“Yeah, it doesn’t make for the best ice breaker,” she says ruefully.
“What’s he in for?” I ask, placing a hand on my heart, subtly trying to massage away my worries.
“Bullshit,” she says angrily. “There are always two sides to every story. Angelo forgets that sometimes.”
“What about your dad?” I wonder, changing the subject away from Fabien and prison and outstanding warrants…
“Passed away when I was eight. Both he and Mama died of the Calvani curse.”
“What do you mean?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Cancer got them both.”
“I’m so sorry,” I tell her.
“Thanks. But I don’t think it’s a curse; more just shitty statistics. But Angelo’s super health-conscious because of it. Me, I figure you can’t fight statistics, so I’m going to eat, drink, and be merry.”
“Laissez les bon temps roul. My Cajun heart agrees.” Examining Alessandra, I wonder, “How old are you?”
“Seventeen, so don’t mention to Angelo the drinking part,” she says in a rush. “He’s already crazy strict.”
“I could see that. And this conversation is between us,” I assure her. God knows I was doing things no seventeen-year-old had any business doing.
She nods. “Well, I’ve blabbed enough. I’m going for a swim. Why don’t you join me?”
My hands become sweaty, and I nervously rub them on my dress. “I would, but I don’t know how to swim,” I whisper, embarrassment creeping up my neck.
“Really?” she eyes me curiously.
“I took a few lessons as a kid, but they didn’t stick. And then my dad and I moved to the city, and there was never really an opportunity,” I say, probably a bit too defensively.
“Come on. I’ll teach you how not to drown.”
“I don’t know…”
“I’m captain of my swim team. Certified in CPR,” she reassures me. “If I can’t teach you to at least doggie paddle, then my former Olympian swim coach is a fraud.”
