chuckle echoed over the line. “You don’t trust her to anyone else. Are you sure you trust yourself with her?”
God, he hated how easily Salvatore could read him.
“With all due respect, sir, the word games aren’t necessary. I would do anything to keep her safe. Anything.” His eyes scanned the small patio garden beside her carriage house with flowers blooming in splashes of purples and pinks. He recognized the lavender she used to love. His mother would have known the names of them all. Some were planted in the ground, others in pots. A fountain had been built into the stone wall, a wrought-iron chair and small table beside it. One chair. She sat there alone.
He didn’t have any right to wonder about who she saw. But he couldn’t deny he was glad she hadn’t added a chair for her principal buddy yet.
Salvatore pressed, “What if I decide you’re needed elsewhere?”
“Don’t ask me to make the choice,” he snapped.
“Apparently you’ve already decided.”
“I have.” Celia’s safety would come first, even if it meant alienating Salvatore. Malcolm just hoped it wouldn’t come to that. “Sir, I’m curious as to why the reports on Celia were incomplete.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he answered evasively.
“I respectfully disagree.” Malcolm held his temper in check. Barely. “You’re just trying to get me to say what I found out on my own in case I didn’t learn everything. Then you can continue to hold back.”
“We can play this game for a long time, Malcolm.”
“Are you for or against me? Because I thought we were supposed to be on the same side.”
“There are more people on your side than you know.” When Malcolm kept his silence, Salvatore continued, “Celia’s father did you a favor in getting you sent to my school. Without his intervention, you would have gone to a juvenile detention center.”
Whoa. Hold on. He’d always thought the judge had pulled strings to get him out of Celia’s life. The thought that her father had actually had a hand in helping Malcolm avoid jail time … He wasn’t sure what to feel. He didn’t want special favors. An important part of his life now consisted of helping to make people pay for their crimes.
After resenting Judge Patel for so long, this felt … strange. But then, because of his own dad, his gut made him naturally suspicious of other father figures. Which brought him right back around to the fact that Salvatore hadn’t told him everything.
“What about this guy Celia’s been seeing? The principal at the high school?”
“It didn’t appear serious, so we didn’t include it in the report. Apparently it is important to you, and that should tell you something.”
“There are any number of ways that information could be important. What if he’s the jealous type?” Um, crap, he could understand that too well. “Or if someone else is upset over the relationship. Details are important. Did you think I would go after him? You should know I’m not a headstrong idiot teenager anymore.”
“You never were an idiot. Just young.” Salvatore sighed, and Malcolm could envision the guy scratching a hand over his close-shorn salt-and-pepper hair. “I apologize for not including the principal in my report. If I find out anything else, I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, whatever you need for protection, just ask and I’ll make it happen.”
Malcolm’s temper inched down a degree. “Thank you, sir.”
“Of course. Good night and be careful.” The line disconnected.
Malcolm tucked his phone away but didn’t go inside. Not yet. He couldn’t avoid the truth staring him in the face. He’d just vowed he wasn’t a headstrong idiot—yet he had acted like one in snapping at Salvatore, the man who had power and resources Malcolm needed. He’d all but proved the old man right, and all because he’d been knocked off balance by just the simple possibility of a kiss.
Except, nothing with Celia was simple.
It never had been.
His hands braced on the railing, he hung his head, staring down at that little garden grotto. He wanted to bring Celia down there and have a moonlit dinner together. The scent of those purple and pink flowers filled the air, while the music of the fountain filled the silence.
But he couldn’t run the risk of someone seeing them. Not the bastard who’d been tormenting her. And not the press that hounded him.
Rather than regrets, he needed to focus on what he had. He had Celia to himself for the rest of the night. And by morning, he would have her rock-solid promise to come with him to Europe.
And he would keep his hands to himself.
Dinner together had been surprising.
Celia tucked the last of the dishes into the dishwasher while Malcolm checked the window for the umpteenth time. She’d expected him to press the issue of how close they’d come to kissing each other. She’d expected a big scene with oysters and wine and sexy almost-touches.
Instead he’d ordered shredded barbecue sandwiches that tasted like none she’d had before, served with Parmesan French fries and Southern sweet tea. There had even been pecan pie à la mode for dessert. The differences in their lifestyles didn’t seem so big at moments like this.
She closed the dishwasher and pressed the start button. No busywork left to occupy herself, she had no choice but to face Malcolm—and the simmering awareness still humming inside her at the thought of kissing him again, touching him, taking things further. When they were teenagers, they’d spent hours exploring just how to make the other melt with desire.
Her face went hot at the memories.
“Thank you for ordering in dinner. That beat the dickens out of a warmed-over panino.”
He turned away from the window, his deep blue eyes tracking her every move. “I hope you don’t mind that I indulged myself in some selfish requests. I travel so much that I miss the tastes of home. Next meal, you choose. Anything you want, I’ll make it happen.”
Anything?
Best not to talk about exactly what she wanted right now. She’d already let her out-of-control attraction to him embarrass her once this evening.
“What a crazy concept to have whatever you want at your fingertips.” She curled up in an overstuffed chair to make sure they weren’t seated close on the sofa—or piano bench—again. “Are you one of those stars with strange, nitpicky requests, like wanting all the green M&M’s picked out of the candy dish?”
“God, I hope not.” He dropped back onto the piano bench, sitting an arm’s reach away. “I like to think I’m still me, just with a helluva lot more money, so I get to call the shots in my life these days. Maybe I should take a Southern chef with me on tour.”
She hugged a throw pillow. “You always did like pecan pie.”
“And blackberry cobbler. God, I miss that, and flaky buttermilk biscuits.”
“You must have picked up some new favorites from traveling the world.” Even in his jeans with a torn knee, he still had a more polished look with his Ferragamo loafers and … just something undefinable that spoke of how much he’d accomplished. “You must have changed. Eighteen years is a long time.”
“Of course I’m different in some ways. We all change. You’re certainly not exactly the same.”
“How so?” she asked warily.
“There. Just what you said now and how you said it.” He leaned back against the piano. “You’re more careful. More controlled.”
“Why is caution a bad thing?” Her impulsive nature, her spoiled determination to have everything—to