“How nice. Dinner music,” she said, sounding completely relaxed. Santo must have slipped in and soothed her mind, Raffaele realized, and wasn’t sure if he was glad or not. He didn’t want Jess upset, but he was starting to dislike the other men slipping in and out of her head as he knew they were doing. She was his woman, his life mate, and they had no business messing about in her thoughts.
“Humph, that’s gratitude for you,” Zanipolo muttered, and Raffaele looked at him just as he turned a concentrated gaze toward the stage. Zani focused on the band members briefly, and they began to play a slow ballad for their first song.
“Zani,” Raffaele growled in warning as his cousin then turned his attention to Jess. He gave up scowling at him to glance at her in question, though, when she placed a hand on his arm.
“I think you owe me a dance,” she said chirpily when he met her gaze.
Raffaele stared at her blankly. Zanipolo hadn’t had enough time to take control of her mind and make her say that. The request was all Jess, he realized, and supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. She’d made him promise her a dance in exchange for her silence on appreciating Zani’s choice of the resort for their vacation as they’d approached the restaurant. He just hadn’t expected to have to carry through on the promise. He’d thought the whole exchange just teasing banter. But it seemed she was going to make him keep his promise.
“If you owe her a dance, you should really give it to her,” Zanipolo said earnestly. But Raffaele didn’t miss the emphasis on “give it.” The bastard knew exactly how dancing with Jess would affect him, and that it was why he’d hoped the promise was a joke of sorts.
Opening his eyes, he glared at his cousin briefly, and then glanced to the side with a start when Jess stood up and took his hand, sending a shock wave of sensation through him. “Come on. Before the song ends.”
Casting one last scowl at his cousin, Raffaele reluctantly stood and followed Jess to the small empty space that made up the dance floor.
Seven
When Jess led Raffaele to the center of the dance floor and turned to face him, he didn’t pull her close as she expected. Instead, he held her in a proper dance stance, with his left hand at her right hip, and his right hand lifting her left until their entwined fingers were at about shoulder level. He also left a good eight inches or so of space between their bodies as he started to move, leading her with the hand at her hip and his hold on her hand.
Jess followed his lead wide-eyed, rather amazed that she could follow. She had never danced “properly.” Most of her experience came from high school dances when she was younger, and dancing at bars or nightclubs once she was in university, and most of that was fast dancing. When it came to slow dancing in those environments, it had always come down to the guy just putting his arms around her waist, and her resting her arms across his shoulders while the pair of them leaned into each other as they shuffled around, or at least swayed back and forth until the music ended.
Jess had seen older couples dance like this, though. With this proper hold and the distance between them. Still, it felt odd and even awkward doing it. Not that Raffaele wasn’t a good dancer; he was. He was leading her with his hands, a little pressure on her hip, or by pulling her hand one way or the other. She found following him easy. But Jess didn’t know where to look. He was taller than her, his chest directly in front of her face, but she didn’t want to tip her head and look at his face; she was afraid she’d just blush and feel foolish. In the end, she turned her head to the side and stared at the other couples on the dance floor, and then out at the dark beach when they slowly turned and it came into view.
The night was shades of black out there beyond the deck lights, a world of shadows. Most were stationary—the huts and lounge chairs and beach umbrellas that were all still out. But some of the shadows were moving as couples drifted down to the beach for privacy, she noted. And then her eyes landed on one dark shape among all the others and Jess felt fear leap in her chest. It was a man, which was no surprise; there were a dozen or so of them on the beach, most with a partner, but some alone. This one, though, cut a rather distinctive figure, and then a second figure joined him.
“Jess?”
Turning her head reluctantly, she peered up at Raffaele in question.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “You stopped moving . . . and you’ve gone pale,” he added with a frown.
Jess hesitated, and then turned to peer out at the beach again, searching for the two men she’d thought she’d seen the first time, but they were gone. Did that mean Vasco and Cristo had never been there? Or that they had been there and had slipped away? Because that was who she thought she’d spotted down there on the beach. There was just no way to mistake Vasco’s hat, and she was quite sure the second figure had been Cristo.
“What did you see?”
Jess turned to find him searching the beach now, his narrowed eyes scanning the dark shadows and people. When he turned back to her, there was grim concern on his face.
“What did you see?” he repeated, his voice hard this time.
Jess opened her mouth to answer, but suddenly couldn’t remember what she’d seen. Frowning with confusion, she looked out toward the beach again and then shook her head. “It was nothing.” Sighing, she turned back to him and forced a smile. “I think I’d like to sit down now.”
“Of course.” Maintaining his hold on her hand, Raffaele wrapped his arm around her and ushered her back through the dancing couples to the table. Jess didn’t miss the irony in the fact that he held her closer to walk her to their table than he had while they were dancing. She also didn’t miss her body’s response to being so close. But then they were at the table and he was releasing her and pulling out her chair.
“Is everything all right?” Santo asked, eyeing the two of them.
Jess forced a smile. “Of course. I’m just hungry,” she assured him, and then reached for her wine, surprised to find the glass empty. She hadn’t realized she’d drank it all.
“I’ll order you another,” Raffaele murmured, turning to search for their waitress.
Jess opened her mouth to ask him to order her an iced tea instead, but he’d already caught the waitress’s attention and was gesturing to her glass. Shrugging, she let the order stand. Two glasses wouldn’t hurt her, she thought as she glanced over the food on the table. There was still a lot of it there. Oddly enough, though, her appetite was gone. But the gravy was there now, she noted, and since Zanipolo had only ordered it because of her, she felt she had to eat at least some of it, and so pulled one of the bowls closer to dip the fries in.
“So,” Zanipolo said after a moment, “you know we work for our family’s construction company. What do you do?”
“Oh.” Jess smiled faintly, and then paused to thank their waitress as she arrived and set a glass of wine next to her. Once the woman had left, she said, “I have two part-time jobs.”
“Two?” Raffaele asked with interest as she dipped a fry in the gravy and popped it into her mouth.
Jess nodded as she chewed and swallowed, and then took a drink of her wine before explaining, “I’m still a student, which kind of messes with the hours I can work, but my employers work around my classes.”
“What do you study?” Raffaele asked as she picked up another fry and repeated the dipping and eating.
Jess swallowed and picked up her glass again, but merely held it as she answered, “Well, originally my major was psychology and I planned to be a clinical psychologist. But now I have a double major, psychology and history. I’ve decided to teach history instead.”
“Why the switch?” Raffaele asked with interest. “Didn’t you like psychology?”
“Oh, yes. I enjoyed it a great deal,” Jess assured him, and then admitted with wry amusement, “And I was very good at it. My test scores were always in the top percentile, often even one hundred percent, and I got my master’s.” Pausing, she grimaced slightly and then added, “But books are wholly different than reality, and my part-time jobs helped convince me I might do better in a different field.”
Raffaele raised his eyebrows with curiosity. “And what are your part-time jobs?”
“I work part-time at a counseling center where I . . . well, I counsel,” she said with amusement.
“And the other job?” Zanipolo asked.
“I sling drinks at a local bar . . .” she said wryly, and then lifted her glass and grinned at them before downing the rest of her drink.
“Another?” Raffaele asked attentively when she set the empty glass down.
“Yes, please. But iced tea this time. Two is my limit for alcohol. I get wonky after that.”
Nodding, Raffaele turned to search for their waitress, and found himself staring at the woman’s bosom. She’d apparently approached to see if they needed anything and now stood next to him.
“You want something, sí?” the woman asked brightly as Raffaele jerked his eyes to her face.
“Sí,” he said at once, offering an apologetic smile. Raising his voice a little to be heard over the murmur of the crowd, he added, “My lady friend would like an iced tea, por favor.”
“One Island Iced Tea,” she said with a smile. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s it, gracias.”
She nodded cheerfully and hurried away, and Raffaele turned back to the table as Zanipolo commented. “So, Jess, counseling and bartending. As jobs go, I don’t think you could choose two more polar opposites.”
“Not really,” Jess said with a grin, and assured them, “In truth, bartending is really just more counseling, but with people who are liquored up and more honest and forthcoming with their issues.”
Raffaele smiled faintly, but thought it was a shame they couldn’t do that with Santo—get him liquored up so he’d relax and discuss his issues. A grunt from Santo drew his attention to the fact that his bald cousin was staring at him, narrow-eyed. He’d probably heard his thoughts, Raffaele realized, and grimaced, but quickly turned his attention back to Jess as Zanipolo asked with amusement, “And counseling people, both sober and drunk, convinced you that you shouldn’t counsel people?”