Page 53 of Steal My Heart
Nola darts into the bathroom, looking at me expectantly. “What am I doing? I’m snooping every square inch of the apartment. But don’t act all innocent, because so are you.”
She doesn’t deny it as I place the lid back on the cologne and position the bottle exactly how I found it. “Come on.”
We move to Angelo’s closet; although calling this just a closet is like calling the weekend house just a house. It’s a huge room, with a seating area in the center. “Of course the man’s wardrobe is color coded.” Running my fingers along the fine Italian silk, I stop at the tuxedo in its garment bag. “Bet he wears this on his ‘date’ with Laurie.”
Nolameows.
“He’s supposedly not ‘with her’ with her, but I’d be a fool to believe that,” I argue.
Shemeowsagain, this time louder.
“You’re taking his side?” Rising to my tiptoes, I go to reach a large box on the top shelf, but it’s just out of reach.
“What do we have here?” Angelo appears in the doorway. “Upgrading from larceny to burglary?” he drawls.
“It isn’t burglary, because there’s no breaking and entering; I’m an invited ‘houseguest,’ remember?”
Nola darts over and rubs her head along Angelo’s ankles. So much for my sidekick.
“Traitor,” I gripe at my cat.
“She knows not to bite the hand that feeds her.” He turns his palm over, revealing a treat. Nola nibbles it right up.
“Anything in particular you’re hoping to find?” Angelo asks in a rather menacing tone as he takes a step toward me, and I take one back. Another step forward he goes, and another step back I go, and so on, until I’m out of closet space.
Angelo moves his hand, but to my unhealthy disappointment, it doesn’t wrap around my neck. Reaching over my head, he grabs the box and carries it to the seating area.
“Can I look inside?” I join him on the couch, eyeing the box.
He snorts a laugh. “A little late to be asking now, don’t you think?”
“Exactly,” I agree.
With a heavy sigh, he lifts the lid, and I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it’s a professional-looking camera and some stacked newspapers.
“I was a photographer for my school’s newspaper,” Angelo explains. “It wasn’t a practical extracurricular for my business major?—”
“Who says you always have to be practical?”
“Vitto Calvani, for one.” The words are out, and it looks like he wishes he could take them back.
“Your dad?”
He affirms with a nod.
I grab a newspaper from the top of the stack. “Is this one of your photos?” The cover story includes a lovely image of the fall leaves with some sort of important college building in the foggy morning background.
“Yes.”
“You’re a very talented photographer.”
“I’m not a photographer,” he corrects me.
“Says who? Vitto Calvani?” I raise an eyebrow. “Because the photo credit says ‘Angelo Calvani.’” My finger traces his name in small print.
“You want to know why I applied to the most prestigious business schools in the country?” His arm drapes over the couch, and I have to stop myself from scooting closer. “My father was the most successfulillegitimatebusinessman, and to one-up him, I’d become the most successfullegitimatebusinessman.”He laughs mirthlessly. “Of course, my old man had an ace up his sleeve and won the game between us.”
“Was it a game worth playing?” I wonder.
