Our Secret Summer(18)

I’m doing her a favor, placing her here, but Isabel doesn’t see it that way. She scowls down at where my hand is wrapped around her small biceps until I drop it. I’m surprised I don’t feel the burn of her glare.

“What’s your name?” I ask point-blank.

Her attention snaps to me and her gaze narrows, but she doesn’t answer. In fact, her lips flatten into a line as if she’s locking them shut.

“You don’t like that question? Let’s try another. How did you manage to become employed at Aura?”

I watch the delicate muscles in her jaw tense before she swallows and forcibly relaxes. She’s looking away, playing aloof when she responds, “You make it sound like I did something wrong…”

“Did you?” I taunt.

I know my temper is rising, but I can’t seem to control it. I didn’t plan to have this conversation like this, but she’s provoking in the most maddening way.

Even now, she’s still not looking at me.

“Respóndeme. Answer me.”

My stern tone startles her, and instead of goading her cooperation like I hoped, I only succeed in antagonizing her further. Anyone else would be cowering by now, but she looks ready for battle.

“If you’re going to interrogate me, you could at least introduce yourself. Am I supposed to know who you are?” She asks the question with more bite than I anticipated. I didn’t think she had it in her with that button nose and those perpetual dimples. Not that I’ve seen the dimples up close; they disappeared along with her friends.

Am I supposed to know who you are? The question almost makes me laugh. It’s been a long time since anyone on this island was unaware of who I am.

“I’m the person signing your paychecks. How’s that? Now, should we go find your name on your work visa in Hugo’s office, or—”

“Elle.”

Her reply is quick, a rubber band snapping back into place.

“Elle. Is that the name I’ll find on your visa?” I ask impatiently.

Her eyes dart to the sidewalk, then back to me, like she’s looking for an escape route. “Wh-why does it matter?”

I sigh. “What’s your full name?”

After a beat of silence, I move like I’m going to drag her back inside the club, straight to the office. She jolts, and some of that hard exterior crumbles.

“Isabel,” she answers through gritted teeth. She knows she’s lost, but she doesn’t want to hand me the win easily.

“Why are you going by Elle, then?”

She scowls. “Why do you care?”

I tease her with an arched brow. “Isabel De Vere is a pretty enough name. I think you should use it.”

With this revelation, her expression turns menacing once again. “I see you already looked through my file in Hugo’s office. You could have just said that and saved us both the trouble of having this conversation.”

I bristle at the accusation. I don’t snoop around on my employees. They’re not usually that important.

“You look just like your grandmother,” I admit drily, throwing her a bone.

Shock steals her annoyance in an instant. Anger morphs into intrigue. “You know Caterina?” Her gaze roves over my face as she studies me with fresh wonder. Then her eyes snap back to mine and her dark eyebrows pinch together. “How?”

I don’t feel like answering her question yet, not until she answers mine.

“Why the nickname?”

She’s disappointed that I won’t make it easier for her. She looks away, preparing a lie, I’m sure. “I don’t want people to know who I am while I’m here for the summer.”

“Why?”

“What does it matter to you? Does it affect my job at Aura?” She looks back to me with fire in her eyes. “Are people not allowed nicknames?”

I can feel the tension rising between us before I take another step toward her, forcing her back up against the wall.

“How’d you get a job here last minute?” I demand.

Her hands curl into mutinous fists. “Why don’t you take three steps back and I’ll tell you? You’re pretty tall, you know that? You shouldn’t try to intimidate people with your size. It’s rude.” She points her finger past me to some distant point on the sidewalk. “Better yet, stand over there. That way I can actually think.”

This isn’t going the way it’s supposed to. I rake a hand through my hair and turn away, drawing in a deep breath.

“Tell me how you know my grandmother,” she insists.

I glance at her over my shoulder. “Cristiano Moreno Winthrop. Ring a bell?”

Recognition lights up her features. “You’re Dolores’s son?”

“Son?” I bark out a laugh. “I’m her grandson. How old do you think I am?”

“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head, chancing a quick glance down my body. “You have me flustered. Of course you’re her grandson. I can see it now. Your coloring and your eyes. Although she was polite, so maybe that trait failed to get passed down…”

I’m helpless but to laugh, surprised by her wit, even if it is at my expense.

“Plenty of people say I’m polite,” I counter.

She arches one fine brow. “Under duress?”