Page 117 of The Enslaved Duet
And she hadnotbeen very kind.
I pursed my lips in a mirror image of hers as we took each other in.
“Cosima Lombardi,” she said slowly, dredging up my name from the depths of her memory. “Intimissimi campaign, if I’m not mistaken?”
“You’re not.”
She eyed me, then her son, though clearly not biologically as he was red-haired and only lightly tanned. “If you are attempting to sleep with my son to get me to patron you, you’ll be sadly mistaken.”
“Willa,” my new friend protested, partially standing to glower at her. “Sit down and be silent if you don’t have anything kind to say. I ran into this…I ran into Cosima.” He tasted the name, rolling it properly the way Italians do and then did his lip twitch smile before continuing. “She was outside in the rain, and I offered her a coffee to warm up. Neither of us had any idea of our ties to you, and frankly, I still doubt either of uscare. Really, Mom, you think too much of yourself sometimes.”
My mouth gaped a little at his strong tone and audacity, but surprisingly, Willa sat down on the chair he pulled out for her and accepted his kiss on the cheek with only a mild sniff.
“Go get us those coffees, will you?” she asked him, patting his cheek and inciting a grimace from him.
A little giggle escaped at seeing them interact. This man was older than me, strong and sure in his movements and actions in a way that spoke of inherent confidence and unflappability.
He reminded me, in small ways, of Alexander.
And those small ways were both just not enough and enough to make me feel comfortable around him.
“Now, what’s a girl like you doing out in the rain looking like a drowned rat?” Willa asked me pointedly as she unwound her Hermes scarf and opened her sleek designer raincoat.
“Enjoying my freedom,” I told her honestly because I didn’t know her, and I had nothing to lose.
Not anymore.
“Is freedom a euphemism for unemployment?” she asked me pointedly, scraping her scathing brown gaze over my seated form. “I haven’t seen or heard of you in any circles in months.”
“I was living abroad for a while,” I hedged.
“Modelling?”
I shook my head but didn’t explain even when she shot me a frustrated look to continue.
“Career suicide to be gone so long. Models age quicker than dogs, my dear. You’re what now, twenty?”
“Nineteen,” I told her as her son returned with three lattes.
He frowned at me as he handed over the small warm mug. “Jesus, you are young.”
“How old are you?”
Willa pinned me with a glare. “I thought you were not trying to sleep with him?”
I shrugged one shoulder indolently, completely unnerved by her rudeness.
“Stop it, already. The mama bear act was old when I was seventeen,” he told her.
Willa pressed her lips together.
He shot her a fond, slightly exasperated look and then turned to face me as he pushed back his rapidly drying hair. “I am nearly as rude as my mother. My name is Daniel Sinclair, but please call me Sinclair. It’s lovely to meet you, Cosima.”
“French?” I asked, identifying his accent much more easily when he spoke English.
He inclined his head slightly. “Mais, bien sûr.”
“I don’t speak French, but I do understand that. How many languages do you speak?” I asked.
