The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(91)

“Basta, Luca,” Nonna commanded. “You deserved it for breaking his other pencils as you did, and I think Michael has suffered enough for one evening. Let’s speak of pleasant things.” Her spoon clattered into her bowl. “Such as when you plan to bring that young woman to see me. The one who keeps writing you those lovely letters. It’s time I met her. You know I’m not getting any younger, Luca Grimaldi.”

Luca guffawed, choking around a mouthful of ribollita. “I thought you wanted us to discuss pleasant topics, Nonna.”

“She meant pleasant for herself,” Michael interjected.

Nonna harrumphed. “I will resort to all manners of shame if it means I get to hold my great-grandchildren before I die.”

“What about you, Michael?” Luca eyed his cousin with a devilish smirk. “Didn’t you tell me only last week that a young lady had caught your attention?”

Celine expected Michael to glare at his brawny cousin in response. But he merely glanced back at Luca with a look of unchecked annoyance.

“Who has caught your eye?” Nonna demanded, her outrage clearly feigned. Far too dramatic to be real. “And why am I only learning of this now?” Her tiny hand slapped the edge of the desk. “Rispondetemi.”

Luca laughed softly, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair while Celine stared into her bowl of soup, praying for someone to change the subject.

Michael wiped his mouth with a linen handkerchief, his words measured. “I haven’t told you about her because I’m still trying to prove I’m worthy of her notice.” He leveled his gaze at the clock along the wall with a determined stare.

Celine refrained from squirming in her seat.

“Any young woman who fails to see what a wonderful man you are must be a fool,” Nonna said, her words pointed. “My Michael has always been the smartest boy in the room. So hardworking. And handsomer than any young man has any right to be.”

The color rose in Celine’s neck with unbridled ferocity. A part of her wished to say something to disrupt the course of the conversation, but she lacked the right words. No matter what she said or how she said it, she was bound to offend someone.

And Michael’s family had been so kind to her. Kinder than she deserved.

“She isn’t a fool,” Michael said with great care. “Far from it, in fact. She’s sharp and quick-witted. Notices details others would miss. Despite her own difficulties, she manages to be warm and selfless. Moreover, she refuses to bow at the altar of money,” he continued. “But she is stubborn, and a bit distracted.”

Celine’s jaw almost dropped. She’d never heard Michael speak of anyone so highly, least of all her.

“Well, you’ll simply have to get her to focus,” Nonna said, the side of her hand slicing toward the table as if it were a knife. “Turn your charms on her.”

Luca laughed. “His charms? No young lady wants to be inundated with useless facts, or be forced to contend with starched collars and ungodly hours of work.” He slid his attention to Celine, his expression shrewd. “Might you have any suggestions for my cousin, Miss Rousseau?”

“Pardon?” Celine sat up straight, her spoon jangling to the desk, the delicious broth splashing in its wake.

“You’re a young woman,” Luca pressed. “What would a young man need to do to catch your attention?”

The outlandishness of his request nearly unseated Celine. Only the daftest fool would fail to see what Luca and Nonna were trying to do. When she peered in Michael’s direction, he looked just as uncomfortable as she felt. “Perhaps”— Celine firmed her tone—“Detective Grimaldi should start with a poem?”

“Do you hear that, Michael?” Luca braced both elbows along the desk, an eager spark in his chocolate eyes. “You should send the young lady a poem.”

Michael considered his cousin’s suggestion, as if nothing at all were strange about this conversation. Then he turned toward Celine, watching her intently while he spoke. “I’m partial to Blake myself. Or perhaps Byron?”

Celine swallowed. “I favor Shakespeare, though I do enjoy Blake on occasion.” She didn’t know what possessed her to say it. Perhaps it was Michael’s compliments still ringing in her ears. But even if he recited her favorite sonnet by memory, it wouldn’t give life to a sentiment she did not hold for him. What she felt for Bastien was not yet love, but it was . . . something. A feeling Celine could no longer ignore.

“Shakespeare.” Michael nodded once, his brow resolute. “It’s worth a try.”





A THOUSAND TINY CUTS




Now was her chance.

The booted footsteps outside Michael’s office faded as they turned the corner. If Celine made a dash for it, she could sneak down the corridor and make her way outside.

The clock on the wall began to chime, tolling the midnight hour in dulcet tones.

One. Two. Three.

With a steeling breath, Celine removed her shoes. Unlatched the door. Twisted the knob.

Seven. Eight.

She glided down the hall, careful to walk on her stockinged toes. When the guard posted near the necessary looked in her direction, she ducked in an open doorway, her eyes peeled for the moment he turned back.

A battle charge drumming through her veins, Celine flew down the shadowed steps, careful to pause at each landing, ensuring not a soul was within sight. The moment she reached the ground floor, she stole a glance at the portly sergeant manning the front desk. Watched while he took a sip of coffee from a stained mug. Listened to him cough and clear his throat before he poured a splash of whiskey into his cup.