“Where am I, exactly? I mean . . . what is this place?”
He smiled. “The Palace of Portici.”
“A palace?” I squinted, then flipped the hair off of my face.
I was Ann Leigh, wasn’t I? Ann Leigh, strawberry blonde, five-foot-four, dreadfully allergic to cats. I grabbed the ends of my hair again and looked down at it. It wasn’t yellow-red at all but more like brown butter pecan. My head hummed. Martino was still grinning, as if he was more amused by me now that he was sure I wasn’t dead. He spoke again.
“Si, yes. Ana, ora andiamo? La Pasticceria Tartoni?”
“Yes. We’ll go to the pastry shop now.”
And I went with him. Even though, for all I knew, he could have been one of those freaks who got his jollies from attacking innocent young girls. But then, for all I knew, I wasn’t an innocent young girl.
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