Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 100605 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100605 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“Anytime.” He sipped his espresso. “What time is your appointment?”
“Ten thirty.”
“Have you decided if you’re going to tell her who you are?”
I shook my head. “Not yet, but I do need to decide what kind of a business I’m pretending to start here in Italy. That’s what the consult is for. I was thinking I’d tell her I’m starting a winery.”
Matteo smiled. “A winery, huh?”
“I don’t want to say I’m an attorney. I’m probably being paranoid, but I look like my father, and on the off chance she knows what I do, I figured I shouldn’t make it any easier to guess who I am.”
“What if she asks you about the business operations?”
“I thought of that. I’m going to say that I own some land, I’m partnering with an experienced winemaker, and I’m going to run the business end of things—like keeping the books and doing marketing and advertising. So it won’t seem strange if I don’t know what types of grapes make different wines.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“If you don’t mind dropping me off, I’d appreciate it. I think I’m too nervous to drive.”
He nodded. “I was planning on it. And I wait for you outside, in case you need me.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“It will make me feel better.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Matteo.”
***
“Buongiorno.” The woman behind the desk smiled.
My heart thumped. “Buongiorno. My name is Al—” Jeez, I’d already almost messed up. “Cassie Norman. My name is Cassie, and I have an appointment with Camilla Bianchi at ten thirty.”
“Ah. I get to practice my Inglese today?”
“Yes, sorry. My Italian is a bit rusty.”
“No problemo. It is fun. You like some caffé?” She gestured to a seating area that had a coffee station.
But I was already jumpy, so I didn’t think any more caffeine was a smart idea. “I’m good. Thank you.”
“Okay.” She nodded. “I tell Signorina Bianchi that you are here. Please, you have a seat?”
It was strange to have someone else called by that name. I looked around the office while I waited. It was modern and clean, but nothing like the fancy firm I’d worked at. Though if I were here as a legitimate client, I would probably prefer walking into a law firm like this. It wasn’t ostentatious or intimidating, and I would’ve bet money that the hourly rates were a lot more reasonable.
A few minutes later, the receptionist called, “Signorina Norman.”
I jumped, and she smiled and waved.
“Come. I will take you back now.”
I followed the receptionist down a long hallway. She walked briskly, each click of her heels making my heart beat faster. I lagged behind, seriously considering turning around and bolting for the exit. At the end of the hall, we made a right, and then she stopped in front of a closed door and said something I couldn’t hear over the loud sound of blood swishing in my ears.
I held my breath as she lifted her hand and knocked, then pushed the door open. Completely unaware that I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, the receptionist held her hand out for me to enter the office.
Oh God. This is it.
Every instinct screamed to get the hell out of there, yet somehow, I forced one foot in front of the other, terrified, but I was too far into this to go back now.
The woman behind the desk stood as I stepped in, and my stomach dropped. She looked older than I’d expected, older than her twenty-seven years. Her dark hair was pulled back into a slick ponytail, and a stylish navy-blue suit hugged her shoulders.
“Buongiorno.” She smiled and came around her desk, extending her hand. “Ms. Norman?”
I couldn’t breathe. My palms were slick, and it felt like she could hear my heart pounding inside my chest. Yet somehow, I had the good sense to wipe my hand on my pants before putting it in hers. “Uh, hello.”
She gestured to the guest chairs. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
I had no idea how the hell I was going to sit down and act normal, but I managed to plant my ass on the seat. One step at a time.
Camilla opened her desk drawer and took out a legal pad and pen, setting both on the desk in front of her before folding her hands.
She smiled. “You speak Inglese. Are you British?”
I shook my head, studying her face. “American.” She had my dad’s brown eyes and straight nose, and if it were possible, that freaked me out even more.
“Ah. So sked-jool and not shed-yool.”
My brain seemed to be processing everything she said on a ten-second delay, so there was an awkward silence while she waited for my response. Eventually I nodded. “Yes, I say schedule.”
She gave me a practiced smile—one I’d given my own clients a thousand times when the jury was still out on whether they had any brains—then picked up the pen and clicked the top. “So, what brings you to a lawyer in Italy?”