Blessed are the Meek by Kristi Belcamino Page A

not taking my eyes off his face.
    â€œDo you know her work?”
    â€œI only just met her. I’m writing an article about Sebastian Laurent.”
    I watch him carefully. Nothing unusual crosses his face this time. Instead, his eyes grow somber.
    â€œHis death was a damn shame.”
    L A TER, AFTER THEY’VE served dessert, I try again.
    â€œYou said Sebastian Laurent’s death was a shame. Were you friends?”
    â€œNo, not at all,” Grant says, pushing back his plate of raspberry torte and taking out a thin, silver cigarette case. He’s obviously immune to the city’s antismoking laws. A waiter materializes by his side with a crystal ashtray. I guess if you’re the mayor, you can pretty much do whatever the hell you want in your city. But I think it is brave of him to light up in front of a group of reporters who all have the means to spread negative publicity. Maybe just arrogant.
    He exhales before he answers. “Sebastian was the jealous sort and resented my friendship with Annalisa. Despite that, I don’t believe anyone deserves to die a violent death.”
    â€œHe was jealous of you? So I shouldn’t interview you about my profile piece on him?” I eye his cigarette case, secretly sending him vibes to offer me one. He doesn’t.
    â€œProbably not, but my press office might be able to come up with a statement about his death and the loss to the community as a result. He brought a lot of business to the city with his company.”
    I nod. He changes the subject.
    It’s late, and everyone else has left. Grant and I have talked for hours about everything—­except Annalisa or Sebastian Laurent again. I’ve run out of time and have nothing to show for my evening except some champagne and good food in my belly.
    Grant walks me to the elevator. His staff members wait in the doorway behind us.
    â€œI’ll be right there,” he tells them.
    I press the DOWN button and turn to him, looking up into those blue eyes.
    â€œIt’s been such a pleasure,” he says, and gives me a slow smile that sends shivers down my bare arms. “I don’t want it to end. I have an idea, and it might help with your story—­do you have plans tomorrow?”
    I blink. “Uh, the usual Sunday routine—­Mass, then supper at my grandmother’s house with my family.”
    His hand reaches out toward me, and for some reason, I hold my breath. A current of electricity zips between us. Our eyes meet. Then his gaze drops, and I feel the slightest brush of his hand in the hollow beneath my neck as he pulls my necklace out of my dress and holds my Miraculous Medal between his fingers. It’s light blue with a small silver etching of the Virgin Mary in the center. He caresses it between the pads of his fingers. His fingers grazing my neck combined with the suggestive gesture sends a thrill of desire through me that startles me and suffuses me with guilt.
    â€œI saw this earlier and knew you were a good Catholic girl,” he says. “Would you have to do penance for missing Mass tomorrow?”
    I blush and look away.
    â€œI’m sorry if I offended you,” he says.
    â€œYou didn’t,” I say, looking up at him again. The moment is gone, and I feel a surge of relief, thinking of Donovan.
    â€œWould your family be terribly heartbroken if you skipped this Sunday?” he asks, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. I notice it is a Dunhill blue, like Annalisa Cruz smokes. He exhales before he finishes. “I commissioned Annalisa a few months ago on a larger piece for my house in Napa. The installation party is tomorrow, and I’d love for you to be there. Have some wine, food, and fun.”
    I try not to hide my excitement. The chance to see Annalisa Cruz and him together is too good to pass up. Maybe, if one of them killed Sebastian, they’ll let something slip. Maybe they were in on it together. I’m