“People in a relationship kiss!” he finally said.
Ferrara’s forehead wrinkled. “No one would expect me to kiss you in front of everyone during serious business negotiations. That would be just tasteless and immature.”
Nate had to admit he was right. “Still,” he said. “I don’t like lying to people.”
“You wouldn’t have to lie to anyone. Just keep your mouth shut, stick close to me, and smile. It’s not hard.”
Nate frowned. “And that’s all I’ll have to do? You promise?”
Something shifted in Ferrara’s expression.
Nate tensed up. “You are not telling me something.”
“It would be helpful if you build good rapport with Luke Whitford, Demidov’s lover,” Ferrara said at last, clearly carefully choosing his words. “He will likely be more honest and straightforward than Demidov.”
“Why me? Why can’t you do it yourself?”
“He won’t talk to me. But you… everyone talks to you. You seem—honest.”
“Honest?” Nate said, torn between laughing and rolling his eyes. He settled on doing both.
“Kind,” Ferrara said, looking like he’d swallowed a lemon. “Friendly.”
Nate snorted. “Right. No one would call you kind or friendly. So what, you want me to spy for you?”
The look Ferrara gave him was distinctly unamused. “Not spy. Just do your usual thing. Smile. Look approachable and friendly. Steer the conversation toward Demidov and me. I hear Luke Whitford is pretty talkative.”
“But wouldn’t Demidov know that you’re actually straight? You’ve never been seen with a man.”
Ferrara shook his head. “It doesn’t mean anything. Demidov allegedly dated only women too until his relationship with his Englishman.”
“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?” Nate said with a sigh. He didn’t know why he’d even bothered to argue—his demon of a boss never changed his mind once he made a decision.
“Fine,” Nate said, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes.
His hand was still in Ferrara’s when he fell asleep.
Chapter 14
Roman Demidov’s villa was breathtaking.
They arrived just as the sun was setting over Lake Como, and Nate stopped, in awe of the sheer beauty of it. The water glittered like diamonds as it reflected the sunset, and the tall mountains surrounding the picturesque lake made him feel incredibly small.
“Damn,” he whispered, all the tiredness after the transatlantic flight gone.
He turned his head and found Ferrara looking at the lake with a very strange expression, his hands in the pockets of his suit pants. Was that wistfulness in his gaze?
“Did you miss it?” Nate said before he could stop himself.
“America has beautiful places, too,” Ferrara said without any inflection in his voice.
“But it isn’t home,” Nate said quietly.
Ferrara said nothing.
Nate eyed his hard profile. He hadn’t missed the shift in his boss’s mood ever since they’d landed in Milan. There was something… different about him, in the way he held himself. Even his voice sounded a little softer, more melodic when he spoke in Italian, and Nate found himself fascinated, wishing he understood the language.
There was another difference—and one that unnerved Nate a little. Two bodyguards in dark suits were now following them everywhere, their faces grim and blank. It made Nate feel a little jumpy and ridiculous, as if he’d ended up in some gangster movie. Ferrara barely seemed to notice them, completely ignoring their presence.
When Nate grabbed his suitcase, Ferrara said shortly, “Leave it. Alessio and Paolo will take care of our baggage.” Then he laid his hand on Nate’s nape and steered him toward the beautiful villa.
Two men emerged out of the house. The older man was about Ferrara’s height and age, or maybe a little older, his blue eyes assessing and sharp as they flicked between him and Ferrara.
“Welcome,” he said, his voice neutral as he stretched his hand out for Nate to shake. “Roman Demidov.”
Nate shook his hand, a little surprised that he was being greeted first. He’d thought he’d just be ignored. “Nate Parrish,” he said, shooting a confused look at his boss.
Ferrara’s face betrayed nothing, his hand still on Nate’s nape, heavy and familiar.
“We weren’t aware you were bringing someone,” Demidov said in the same carefully neutral tone, his gaze shifting to Ferrara. He finally shook his hand.
“Is that a problem?” Ferrara said, his voice equally reserved.
“Not at all!” said the guy beside Demidov, his British accent obvious. “The more, the merrier.” He was a young man, likely in his early twenties, with a mop of curly, dark gold hair that made him look even younger than he probably was. He was dressed kind of flamboyantly, his floral shirt and shorts a stark contrast next to Demidov’s blue dress shirt and dark pants. The guy gave Nate a friendly smile. “I’m Luke Whitford, by the way. It’s just… It’s a pretty small villa—there isn’t a free room for you I’m afraid. All the other guests have already arrived and they’ve taken all the best rooms.”
“It’s not a problem,” Ferrara said before Nate could say anything, putting his hand back on Nate’s neck, his touch more caressing than it normally was.