Not that it mattered, she reminded herself forcefully. She could admire him all she liked—it did not change what she must do, did it? She had known when she’d first approached him that this would be a terrible mistake. It had not stopped her then. And now it was much too late.
“Ah, Tristanne.”
The sneering, hateful voice announced his identity, making her stiffen in surprise and dismay, before she turned to confirm it. Peter.
“I see you have finally embraced your true heritage,” he continued.
She turned to face him fully, taking her time as if that might lessen her shock. Her brother stood before her, his dark eyes alive with malevolence. Could no one else see it? she wondered—and not for the first time. A well-cut suit could not hide the darkness in him, the bully he truly was. She had always seen it. She suspected he’d wanted her to see it, to fear it, from the start.
“Peter,” she said with a great and abiding calm she did not feel. She forced herself not to look down at her arm, where the bruises he’d left were almost completely faded now—only a smudge or two of yellow remained as testament to his violence, his utter disregard for her. “What a delightful surprise.”
“I asked myself what sort of trollop would parade through the Palazzo Pitti dressed like a two-dollar whore,” he said in his most snide voice, just loud enough to insinuate itself into Tristanne’s ear and make her feel dirty by association. “I should have known at once that it was you.”
“Do you not like my dress?” she asked. She raised her brows, allowing herself no other expression, no outward sign of how her stomach heaved, how her pulse raced in panic. “Of course, Nikos picked it out. Would you prefer I fight with him over something so small as a dress?”
Peter only glared at her for a moment, his gaze cold. Tristanne ordered herself to gaze back with every appearance of unruffled tranquility.
“You have outdone yourself, my dear sister,” he said after an uncomfortable moment, his lips curled. “I assumed Katrakis would use what you so blatantly offered him and cast you aside.” His gaze raked over her, and she knew, with a scorching sense of shame, exactly what he could see, and in what detail. It made her wish she could disappear into the stones beneath her feet. Instead she stood straighter. “And yet here you are with him, tarted up at his command. How enterprising and inventive you have turned out to be.”
She should feel triumphant, she realized as she looked at her brother. He believed she was Nikos’s mistress. Her plan was working, just as she’d anticipated. So why did she feel so hollow instead?
“I want my trust fund,” she told him flatly. She smiled then. “Wasn’t this what you wanted? Surely Nikos Katrakis is visible enough to suit you? I believe our picture was taken at least fifty times as we walked in.”
That had been his claim the night before she had boarded Nikos’s boat—that her liaison must be with someone visible. He had wanted to choose the man, of course, for reasons Tristanne would prefer not to investigate too closely. It was clear, he had shouted that awful night, that she would only make a fool of herself with a man like Nikos and then be ruined for his purposes. She’d suspected he’d simply wanted an excuse to put his hand on her and shake her. Hard. And so he had.
“Careful you do not overplay your hand,” Peter retorted now, his eyes cold. “What is his angle? Have you figured it out?” When she did not respond, he laughed in a way that made her skin crawl. “Surely you don’t believe that a man like Katrakis would find you quite so captivating, Tristanne. Perhaps he wishes to trade on the Barbery name himself.” He shook his head, his lips thinning. “A man can climb out of the sewer, one supposes, but he still walks around with the stench of it.”
Tristanne wanted to haul off and slap him for that, but she did not dare. Think of your mother! she warned herself. There was too much at stake. And Nikos did not need her to defend him to Peter, of all people. So why did she want to? She was not even sure where the urge to defend him had come from, nor why it lingered, making her stomach tense.
“He has not shared his ulterior motives with me,” she said icily. “Just as I have neglected to share yours with him.”
“You will need to keep him happy for the next few weeks, at least,” Peter said offhandedly, his attention on the crowd around them, as if he was searching for more important people. “Perhaps a month.”
“A month?” Tristanne clamped down on her panic, her anger. “Don’t be absurd, Peter. That is far too long. The pictures taken tonight should be all you need.”