That evening, the sun was not as good as Naples.
The air after the rain was a little warm, and the sheets and clothes hanging on the street swayed in the wind in the window, like a row of secrets hung high.
Leah came out of a narrow alley and stopped at the door of an inconspicuous cafe.
There is no plaque on the door, only an Italian word is written in handwriting on the glass. She checked that it means "pause".
It's very suitable.
She pushed the door in.
The light in the room was dim, and only a few embedded lights behind the bar were on, shining out a row of glasses and wine bottles on display. The cafe during the day is more like a small bar that wakes up early at this moment.
There is only one person inside.
He sat in the inner booth, with one hand on the back of the chair, half-held the cup in the other hand, and looked out of the window.
The dark shirt was changed to white, the sleeves were rolled up to the forearm, and the exposed skin had a vague sense of lines - not the exaggerated muscles deliberately piled up in the gym, but the long-term lack of eating and irregular sleep, but always maintaining the alertness.
The first button on his chest was unbuttoned, and the fabric pulled out a little arc along his slightly back posture. The sitting posture is lazy, but it occupies the aura of the whole booth.
As soon as she pushed the door, he looked up.
Those eyes look a little deeper in the dim yellow light, and the ends of the eyes are slightly down. When they smile, they will look gentle, but when they don't smile, they look a little cold and sharp.
"You're late, diplomat."
He took a look at his watch. The pointer just points to the position seven minutes after the agreed time.
"Traffic." She said, "Also, the store you chose is not easy to find."
"This is an advantage."
He raised his hand to signal her to come over, "Sit down. I'm not used to talking about art in crowded places.
The last word obviously stopped for a moment.
Leah walked over, put the bag on her side, and sat opposite him. In the middle is a small table with two cups on the table, one for coffee, and the other with a circle of unmelted ice hanging on the wall of the transparent cup.
"What do you want to drink?" He asked.
"Coffee." She said, "It's dark."
"Aren't you working overtime?" He raised his eyebrows and said, "If you drink black coffee at night, you won't be able to sleep."
"Just right." She took off her coat and hung it on the back of the chair, revealing the light-colored shirt that was tailored inside. "I don't need to sleep much these days."
Her figure was revealed more clearly at this time.
She does not belong to the dramatic curve type, but has smooth lines and sharp proportions: her waist is very thin, her shoulders are flat, her collarbone is clear, and her legs are long and straight. When sitting down, the skirt naturally slides over the thigh. There is not much exposed part, but it is enough to make people instinctively realize--
This body is fully adult, mature and neat, but it is not deliberately displayed.
On the contrary, it is more attractive because of restraint.
He glanced at her and stopped on her shoulder and neck for half a second.
"You get to work," he said slowly, "I'm more... more serious than I thought."
"Is this a compliment?"
"This is observation."
He gestured to the bar. The boss over there raised his chin and habitually added a cup of coffee for them.
"You asked me out today," Leah went straight to the point. "Is it just to sit here and pose for each other?"
He smiled.
"I'll leave the pose to someone else to do." Luca said, "I want to know what exactly you want from me."
"What do you think I want to take?"
"Usually, a woman like you--" he paused, "will want answers, evidence, or a story that you can give to your boss."
She took the coffee cup she had just brought in her hand and looked down to smell it.
"Your understanding of 'a woman like me' is more stereotyped than you imagined."
"Then tell me which one you are."
She looked up at him.
"You won't like listening to the real version." She said.
"Try it."
His hand was still on the back of the chair, and his body leaned slightly towards her. This posture made him look casual, but in fact, he completely locked her into his sight.
His figure is a little taller than she imagined, and she can see the sense of existence that occupies space while sitting. The shoulders are broad and the legs are long, the fingers are slender, and there is a faint thin cocoon at the knus, as if he often grasps something rougher and more dangerous than a coffee cup.
If he stands up and gets closer to her, he can press her completely between the seat and the wall with just a forward-leaning action.
She suddenly knew this very well.
And he seems to know that she knows.
"What about you?" He asked, "Which one?"
"I'm just working." She said lightly, "I need to know the situation of the art gallery that day."
"Then you've come to the wrong place."
"Why?"
"If you need to know the situation, you should go to the police station." He said, "Instead of going to a cafe where a criminal might appear."
"'Maybe'?" She repeated, "You admit that you are a criminal?"
"In this city," he spread his hands, "many definitions are relative."
His palm was up, and his fingertips were facing her. The action almost seemed to be inviting something, but it didn't really reach out the table.
Lia looked at the hand and didn't take it.
"You asked me to come," she said, "do you want to play a logic game?"
"I'm just curious."
He slowly withdrew his hand and pinched the edge of the cup with two fingers. "You helped me once in the rain. I want to see if it was impulsive or not so obedient in your bones."
"Do you like others to be disobedient?"
"I don't like 'others'." He whispered, "I'm only interested in showing real curiosity to very few people."
The sentence "extremely few" fell on the table between them, faintly bringing out a little weight.
She brought the coffee cup to her lips.
The dark brown liquid shook gently in the cup, and the bitter taste first hit the tip of the tongue, and then slowly spread out.
"What about you?" She asked, "Do you want to ask me to answer me or create more questions for me?"
"Answer," he looked at her lips, "sometimes it's much more dangerous than the question."
His vision is too straightforward.
He didn't stare at her chest or skirt, which would be rude.
He only looked at her cup--the slightly upward curve of her lips, jaw and neck, which was difficult for any adult man to completely ignore.
"You see it too clearly." She put down the cup, but the tone was not really reproaching, but just stating the facts.
"You allow me to sit opposite you and watch you drink coffee." He shrugged his shoulders, "Then this should be a kind of... welfare."
"Do you provide benefits for many women?"
"I usually only treat you when we talk about cooperation."
"So we are talking about cooperation?" She raised her eyebrows.
"If you are willing." He said slowly, "You can regard me as a source of information, a key figure in the case, or even a pass to your boss's office."
"It sounds like you are also familiar with my boss?"
"I am familiar with most of the power relations in this city." He didn't dodge, "including those who stood far away but reached in."
"For example, England?"
He didn't say anything and smiled. The smile is not bright, but it is dangerously beautiful.
His face is three-dimensional and pleasing to the eye, with a clear jaw line, a straight nose bridge, and slightly thin lips. When he smiles, the corners of his mouth will be raised first. This is a typical appearance that is easy to be mistaken for "easy-going".
But as long as you look carefully, you will find that there is always something sharp or even cold in his eyes, which does not exactly match the smiling curve.
This kind of inconsistency is more attractive.
"You asked me out," she turned the cup between her fingers, "is it just out of curiosity or because you need me?"
"What do you think?"
"You have so many lawyers, friends in the police station, and connections in the city council." She said, "I don't see that you will lack a diplomat."
"I don't lack diplomats." He admitted, "But I need someone who can say 'he didn't do it' for me at some point."
She smiled.
"I thought you didn't care whether others thought you did it."
"There are some cases that I didn't do."
He tapped the table with his fingers at a slow pace.
"For example, that painting."
She looked up at him.
"You didn't steal it?"
"What if I say, no?"
"Then should I trust you?"
"You can pretend to believe it first." He suggested, "Trust until you find evidence to refute."
"Are you used to being trusted first?"
"No." He shook his head, "I'm used to being underestimated first."
The topic was gently brought away by him.
They were silent for a while. Very light jazz was playing in the cafe. The sound of the saxophone seemed to seep out of the wall. It was not clear, but it just filled the gap.
"In the rain that night," he suddenly said, "you can call someone."
"I know."
"You didn't shout."
"I know." She repeated.
"Why?"
She raised her eyes and met his eyes.
His eyes became more serious. It's a kind of attention away from frivolousness, like listening to an answer that is very important to you.
"Professional habits." Leah said, "I don't like to do 'choice questions' until I know the whole situation."
"So you postponed the question."
"It can also be understood," she slowly moved the cup away. "I gave you a chance."
"Opportunity?" He repeated softly.
"Prove that you are not the one I have to hand over myself."
There is a hidden sharpness in this sentence.
He looked at her quietly, his eyes slid from her eyes to the corners of her mouth, and took her slightly raised and depressed expression into his eyes.
"What you gave me," he whispered, "is it an opportunity or a test?"
"Can you tell it out?"
The two of them were not close, separated by a table, a dim yellow lamp, and a half-cooled cup of coffee.
But the atmosphere is obviously different from the ordinary "talking about the case".
It's something hanging in the air - like a painting hanging on the wall. At first glance, it's just a decoration, but in fact it can open a secret door at any time.
"You think you're in control." He said suddenly.
"Isn't it?" She returned.
He smiled.
"You are so confident," he leaned forward and put his elbow on the table. "Then let's try a small experiment."
"What experiment?"
"From now on," he said, "you look at me."
She frowned, but still raised her eyes.
"And then?"
"I ask, you answer."
"Isn't this an interrogation?"
"You can refuse at any time." He whispered, "It's just that if you refuse too quickly, I will be disappointed."
"Why do you think my task is to 'please you' instead of 'finish the work'?"
"Because you are still sitting here." He replied, "Instead of telling a detective at the police station how guilty I have."
She didn't refute.
"The first question."
He opened his mouth slowly.
"When you held my hand that night, were you afraid?"
She was stunned for a moment.
Memories emerge: rain, police lights, his palm, her outstretched hand.
"I'm calculating the risk." She said.
"This is not the answer."
"For me, this is the same answer."
"Ask the second question again."
His tone seemed to be playing a game, but there was no real smile.
"Are you curious about me?"
She looked at him.
After getting closer, she could see the very shallow scar on his face more clearly - near the left eyebrow arch, almost covered by the eyebrow. It should have been very serious before, but now there is only a faint mark left.
"From a professional point of view, I need to collect information."
"I asked from another angle."
She didn't speak immediately.
He didn't urge her. Just get a little closer.
This time, he deliberately lowered his voice.
The tone is originally low. When it is close to the ear, it is almost a slight vibration, sliding from the auricle along the nerve line into the deeper body.
"Lia."
He called her name for the first time. There is no "Miss Cole" and no title.
Only two syllables made her shoulders tighten imperceptibly.
"I'm asking you," he said slowly, "as a woman - are you curious about me?"
The air obviously became a little sticky at this moment.
She tightened her fingers holding the handle of the cup a little.
She can say "no", she can say "it doesn't matter", and she can even stand up and leave to prove that she does not intend to participate in the "game" he set up.
But she didn't say anything.
Silence is an answer in itself.
He hooked the corners of his mouth slightly.
"The third question." His tone was a little higher, "If I get closer to you, will you avoid me?"
She didn't expect him to be so direct.
"You can have a try." She heard her voice, which was more stable than she thought.
"Is this an invitation?"
"This is control."
He suddenly laughed out loud.
The laughter was light but real - as if he had finally found something that made him feel "interesting".
"You think you are controlling the distance." He whispered, "Very good."
After saying that, he got up and came out of the booth.
The steps around the table were not fast, but each step made the atmosphere tighten little by little.
Leah didn't turn her head, but only caught his movements in the afterglow of her eyes.
The next second, he stopped beside her.
The booth was against the wall, and he stood between her and the exit.
Instead of sitting back to the opposite side, he sat directly on her side - on the same bench as her.
The distance between the two is only a little more than a fist.
The leather seat was slightly sunken, and there was a common slight vibration.
His legs were longer than hers. When she sat down, her knees naturally turned slightly outward, so she had to close a little to her side.
The small space squeezes, so that the sides of their legs occasionally rub slightly against each other.
"Is this 'a little closer'?" She can clearly feel the temperature in his body.
"It's not enough."
He said, putting one arm on the back of the chair behind her.
With this action, he made her half a circle into his arm. I haven't met her, but I have invaded her "personal domain".
"What about now?"
He was close enough for her to smell the familiar but clearer smell on his body than last night - a little woody fragrance, the faint smell of smoke, and the clean body temperature of the skin exposed to the sun.
Her breathing unconsciously lightered.
"What are you planning to do next?" She asked.
"Let's see if you can hide."
His eyes fell on her side face.
Her facial features are not the typical beauty, but durable and clear: the tail of the eyes is slightly raised, the bridge of the nose is soft, the lips are very good, slightly thick, and the color is only very light.
From this distance, there is a small mole on the side of her neck, which is just near the upper edge of the shirt collar, and the position is too ambiguous.
It's a very suitable place to be "stared" at.
She seemed to feel the landing of his sight.
"It's impolite to stare at you." She said lightly.
"I'm trying to remember you."
"Do you need to keep an eye on what you remember?"
"Some details are."
He raised his hand and gently stroked his fingertips in the air, stopping near the small piece of skin on the side of her neck - without touching it, only staying in the gap less than a finger away from her.
"For example, here."
She didn't retreat.
But her throat knot rolled slightly.
"You look too carefully." She said.
"When you study the case," he asked back, "isn't it the same?"
Of course she is.
When she analyzes a photo, a piece of surveillance, and a phone record, she always counts other people's hesitation, pauses, direction of gaze, and even the breathing gap in a sentence.
It's just that now, she has become the one to be analyzed.
"Now tell me the answer." He lowered his voice a little, "The third question."
"You're so close," she said. "I haven't hidden yet."
"So what?"
"So you can draw a conclusion."
He stared at her for two seconds and suddenly smiled.
"You are so dangerous."
"You are the one who has a gun."
"The gun won't talk like that." He whispered.
His hand on the back of the chair moved forward a little.
Fingers gently touched the fabric on the back of her shoulder.
The action is extremely light, but it is real.
That little touch was like an extension from his whole body - it was obviously just a kinch, but she suddenly knew all the distance between herself and him.
She can understand this as a "threat" or as a "test".
It's okay... don't define anything.
She didn't move away immediately.
"What are you trying?" She asked.
"Try where you want me to cross the line."
"Do you often do this?"
"For whom?" He asked back.
His question is not specific, but it has an ambiguous and dangerous meaning.
"For 'women like me'." She said.
He smiled and gently rubbed his fingertips on the cloth behind her shoulder.
"Didn't I just say," he whispered, "I don't like 'others'."
The sentence "someone else" pulled her out of the vague classification.
The air is a little quieter.
She felt that her breathing rhythm began to synchronize with him unconsciously.
"You know," she said, "if this scene is filmed, it will be difficult for me to explain it."
"Explain what?"
"Why am I still sitting here?"
"You can say," his voice seemed to whisper in her ear intentionally or unintentionally, "you are carrying out a very dangerous task."
"Have coffee alone with a dangerous person?"
"With dangerous people," he paused, "reach a kind of... mutual understanding."
When the word "mutual understanding" fell, his hand finally moved half an inch forward.
The fingertips slid from the fabric on her shoulder to the position closer to the side of the neck.
This time, the touch is a little more real than just now.
He didn't touch the bare skin directly, but the temperature of the thin shirt was clear enough.
Like a small ball of cautious fire, pressed on her calm shell.
She inhaled gently with an imperceptible sound in her throat.
He heard it.
"Look," he smiled softly, "you are not much calmer than when you came out of the art gallery that night."
She finally turned her head and met his eyes.
At this distance, she could see all the subtle expressions in his eyes - including the possessiveness that passed at that moment.
She is not unfamiliar with that kind of look.
She has seen it at the negotiating table, at banquets, and in some secret occasions. Usually, she will step back at the first time and close all the doors that may be violated.
This time, she didn't close it immediately.
"What about you?" She asked back, "You seem to be more patient than last night."
"You misunderstood." He whispered, "I'm not patient at all now."
When he said that, his fingers slid forward a little more.
The fabric was pushed a little wrinkled, and his knuckles finally touched the small piece of bare skin on the side of her neck.
The temperature is instantly attached.
It's not a gentleman's handshake or a polite touch.
That's a more direct and private contact.
There was still no "kiss" or more obvious movement between them.
But this small contact on the skin is enough to cause a series of extremely subtle but real chain reactions in her whole body - the shoulders are gently tense, the back is imperceptibly straight, and the grip of the fingertips on the coffee cup increases.
"Lucca."
She called his name for the first time.
The voice was one point lower than she expected.
He didn't answer, but slowly withdrew the too deep touch at that moment, and returned his fingertips to the fabric again.
"Did you see it?" He said softly in her ear, "You are not good at 'retreating'."
"I just haven't decided which way to go."
"Then you can decide slowly."
He leaned back into the seat, slid his hand off the back of the chair, and landed on his lap again.
The distance is a little further away.
The breathing has not fully returned to the stability of when I first entered the door.
On the table between them, the coffee has cooled down.
"We can take what we need." He finally returned to the topic of "cooperation", "You need clues to the case, and I need... a person whose position is not completely fixed."
"Is that how you define me?"
"You are not entirely on anyone's side." He looked at her, "This is more interesting to me than any loyalty."
She smiled softly.
"Interesting is not a good word, Mr. Rosano."
"For people like you," he corrected, "'safety' is a good word."
"Do you think I'm pursuing safety?"
He didn't answer. He just looked at her, his eyes slowly moved from her eyes to the corners of her mouth, and stopped.
"You didn't dodge just now," he said, just for work?
"You can think so."
"That's good."
He picked up the bill on the table, glanced at it casually, and threw down a stack of banknotes.
"Because what I'm going to do next," he stood up, "Just take it as the first investment in cooperation."
"What's the matter?"
He leaned slightly and approached her.
The distance is compressed again.
He didn't touch her, but just put his lips close to her ear - so close that his breath brushed the small piece of sensitive skin on her auricle.
"Next time," he whispered, "I won't just stop here."
The sentence "here" did not specifically refer to it, but it naturally reminded her of the position where his fingertips had just stayed.
He straightened up.
"Wait for my news, diplomat."
After saying that, he turned around and left.
The door was pushed open behind him, and the sunlight poured in through the crack of the half-open door, spreading a bright square on the table in front of her.
She sat in the shadow and watched the light slowly move to her hand.
Only then did she realize that her heart was still beating fast.
And the place where the skin was touched just now - even if there is no longer his touch, there is still a residual heat that cannot be washed away easily.