“What, you want more pictures?” I cock my head to the side, fold my arms across my chest. “Not enough material to jerk off to?”

He chuckles. “Plenty, actually.” He winks, his eyes are practically glowing, the look inside them telling me he means exactly what he said.

I clear my throat and look away, embarrassed.

He mistakes my silence for an invitation and next thing I know, he’s hanging his coat up beside all the others.

“You have a lot of coats,” he says, looking through the collection.

“They’re not mine. I’m house-sitting for friends of my parents while they spend the winter in Florida.”

“Ah. Makes sense. I didn’t imagine a university student could afford one of these houses.”

“What I can or can’t afford isn’t any of your business.”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Just an observation.”

“Are you really not going to go until I give you a tour?”

“And coffee.”

“Why?”

“I’m thirsty and I want to see the house.”

He can’t be serious. “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“No strings?”

“No strings.”

A voice in my head tells me that’s not quite right. That there are strings. That there will always be strings with him. But I shove that voice aside. There’s something about Sergio Benedetti. It’s not that I like him. I don’t. You can’t like someone after they do what he did to me. I don’t know what it is, though. I don’t know why I’m not really scared he’ll hurt me, even though I know who he is. He won’t. And there’s something else. Something about him that makes me want him to stay, as little sense as that makes. I wonder if it has to do with before, with the robbery. When he was the hero, not the villain.

“I want the pictures back,” I say, knowing it’s a long shot.

He shakes his head. “Can’t do that.”

“You can’t ever share them. It’ll hurt my parents if they ever thought—”

“Keep your end of the bargain and you have my word no one will see them.” He picks up the phone. “Just a tour and a cup of coffee. No tricks. No hidden agenda.”

I need the phone. I can’t afford to buy a new one right now.

“Okay.”

He puts the phone on the table and slides it toward me.

“This is the kitchen.” I’ll keep it short. I walk past him, my shoulder brushing against his arm when I do, feeling the solid mass of muscle. It makes my belly flutter. Makes me remember the feel of his hand on my bare hip last night. Makes me think of how he looked at me, and I swallow hard, feeling my face flush, grateful my back is to him.