Fate Book Two

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  Because all he got was a woman with wild red hair who burned easily and he had to worry about protecting all the time.

  He brushed a stray lock of hair from my face. “You’re smart, resilient, and goddamned gorgeous. And you’ve given me something I never thought I’d have: hope.”

  I knew Paolo had it rough growing up, but he’d done a damned good job of bouncing back and making something of himself—graduating at the top of his class in six semesters with a degree in science, technology, and international affairs, speaking a gazillion languages, and working for one of the most powerful people in the world: my father. Of course, he’d left that all behind for me. His biggest hurdle now was letting go of the past—something he’d said he’d done, but I suspected wasn’t true. From time to time, I caught the subtle look in his eyes when his mind drifted off somewhere unpleasant. Like now.

  I beamed at him. “You know I’m here for you whenever you want to talk.”

  He shook his head and then those sensual, full lips—bordered by several days of thick black stubble—formed a smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sour the mood.”

  “You didn’t. I just want you to know that—”

  “Oh. I get it,” he said teasingly. “You just completed your first semester of college and now you want to play with my brain.”

  “Well,” I shrugged, “I do plan to be a child psychologist.”

  He laughed and shoved my shoulder, tipping me over.

  “Hey!” I snickered. “That was dirty.”

  He quickly grabbed my hand and yanked me back up, swiftly taking the opportunity to steal a kiss.

  The feel of his supple lips moving over my mouth was an instant turn-on. He was a man who knew how to control every muscle in his body with the utmost discipline but would let it all go when he was with me. Only with me. And when we made love, it was like free-falling through a sky of sensual bliss. Even better was how lost he seemed to get in us, and how he enjoyed my body (and I, his). He especially reveled in how quickly I now responded to him. With the slightest touch of that little spot just under my earlobe or even brushing the back of his hand across the tip of my nipple, my body exploded with uncontrollable flutters. Right now, however, he began slowly sliding his hands up my bare inner thigh, triggering an eruption of ravenous sexual need.

  I placed my hand on the side of his face, enjoying the roughness of his prickly stubble on my fingertips, and kissed him deeply. I felt his hands sliding up my arms to my shoulders, and just when I thought he was going to push me down on the blanket for a little sunset-beach makeout session that would leave us sprinting home to our bed, he broke the kiss.

  “What?” I asked.

  The corners of his delicious lips curled into a devilish smile, and two little dimples made an appearance. “I’m not some floozy, Dakota. You can’t just show me those hard little nipples peeking through your little pink shirt and expect me to drop my pants.”

  I huffed and rolled my eyes. “You are a total man-floozy. Don’t deny it. And don’t work me up if you’re not going to deliver the naughty sausage.”

  He burst out laughing and shook his head. “Naughty sausage…you do have a way with words.”

  “Stop talking and start kissing me, you little tart,” I said.

  He held up his index finger. “Ah. But then you’d miss the surprise.”

  “You’re taking off your shirt so I can lick your six-pack?” I said in jest.

  “Better.” He twisted around and grabbed his vintage army-green backpack, the one he always carried with him on hikes.

  “Ha. Right,” I said. “As if anything could possibly be better than—”

  He whipped out a very expensive Chianti from Italy, the same wine he’d once treated me to on the day he proposed. Paolo had said it was like velvet sex in a glass and, of course, me not being a drinker, I didn’t know anything other than it was a yummy wine.

  “I thought we’d toast to your accomplishment. A full, completed semester,” he said.

  Awww…I so love this guy. “Can I lick your abs after we toast?”

  “Maybe,” he said in a deadpan manner and then began digging through his bag. “Dammit. I forgot the corkscrew.” He quickly hopped to his feet. “Be right back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To that store around the corner.” It was a small mom-and-pop that sold sodas, beer, chips, and stuff right next to our favorite café less than a block away, down the beach. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “Nope. You just sit there and enjoy the view.” By now, the sky, which was lit with shades of lavender and deep orange, was beginning to darken as the sun set behind us.

  I shrugged as Paolo jogged down the beach and then took a right, disappearing behind some palm trees in the direction of the store.

  I leaned back on my hands and watched as the sky swirled with vibrant colors while the sun made its final retreat. It truly was a magical place. Quiet, rustic, charming.

  After a few minutes, Paolo hadn’t returned, and I wondered if the little store didn’t have corkscrews, so he’d decided to jog back to our condo. A minute’s run for him.

  My mind drifted for a moment, watching two large blackbirds swooping down to the ocean’s surface, scooping up fish.

  “¿Qué haces aquí?” I heard a deep voice say from behind me and felt a pair of hands grip my shoulders.

  Thinking it was Paolo goofing around, doing one of his many accents, I swiveled my head. “What took you…” My voice trailed off when I realized it wasn’t Paolo. This guy was in his mid-forties, and his face looked like he’d washed it with motor oil.

  “Oh shit.” I twisted my body and jerked forward, away from the man, but when I attempted to scramble to my feet, he caught my wrist and jerked me back. Losing my balance, I fell to my side in the sand. That’s when I saw the guy holding a shiny something in his hand.

  Yep, a knife.

  On my side, I pushed up. “¿Qué quieres?” What do you want?

  “Tu dinero.”

  He wanted my money, but I didn’t have any. I had no purse, no wallet, nada. I didn’t even have a key to the condo because Paolo said he’d take his.

  I shook my head and told him he was out of luck. That’s when he decided to stick the knife out toward me, and that’s when I spotted Paolo jogging toward us from the corner of my eye. It took every ounce of willpower I had not to look over the man’s shoulder and alert him that my fiancé was coming up behind him, especially when I noticed Paolo had stopped, pulled something from his pocket, and then started running fast.

  “No tengo dinero, señor. Te lo juro.” I don’t have any money, I promise. I pulled my shorts pockets inside out to show him.

  Just as the man stepped forward to do whatever to me, Paolo was there, pressing the corkscrew to his neck. “Suelta la navaja o te mato.” Drop the knife or I’ll kill you.

  I could tell from the hard, cold look in Paolo’s eyes that he wasn’t necessarily thinking, instead relying on his training that was like second nature to him. It was as if he had a place inside his head where emotions and doubt didn’t exist, allowing his focus to zero in on one thing and one thing only: remove the threat.

  “Wait.” I held out my hands. “Don’t kill him. We don’t want any problems with the police. And we don’t want to have to explain why we killed someone.” Paolo looked at me and—holy crap—I could tell he was pissed. He really wanted to put a corkscrew in this guy’s neck. “We’re getting married in a month. I don’t want to have to run. Let’s just call the police.” I pointed to our favorite café, where they knew us and had a phone.

  “Fine. But hurry,” he grumbled.

  I ran as fast as I could down the beach toward the café and told the barista what had happened. He quickly dialed for the police and then followed me outside along with a few tourists who wanted to see the situation for themselves.

  When we stepped out onto the back patio that butted up against the
beach, there was Paolo. He had the man facedown in the sand, the guy’s arm shoved behind his back in one of those painful police holds.

  Paolo pushed his knee into the base of the man’s spine, and the man screamed.

  That’s gotta hurt. Serves him right. It was certainly better than death by corkscrew.

  Funny, though, Paolo no longer looked like he was in “kill mode.” In fact, he almost looked…well, kind of bored. Maybe irritated, too.

  When the police finally arrived, Paolo told them what happened and that we’d come by a little later to make a statement.

  As they drove off, Paolo looked at me and shook his head.

  “What?” I barked defensively.

  “Nothing.” He laughed bitterly. “I swear, Dakota, you’re a damned danger magnet.”

  I swatted him on the arm. “That was so not my fault.”

  He laughed. “I’m calling you Dakota Danger from now on.”

  “Shut up.” I tried not to smile, but couldn’t help it. It was kind of true. Trouble seemed to seek me out.

  “Maybe I should rethink marrying you,” he said. “I’ll never get any rest.”

  I tipped my head to one side. “Funny. Harhar. Can we have that toast now?”

  Paolo’s dark eyes locked on my lips, and his smile melted away. “I think I’d rather take you home. The moment was a little ruined by some asshole trying to stab my fiancée.”

  “I’m okay, Paolo.”

  He grinned. “I know. But I’m in the mood for that ab licking you mentioned. I hear it can be very therapeutic.”

  I laughed. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  As we walked back to the condo, I couldn’t shake the gnawing sense of dread in the pit of my stomach. Was this always going to be our life? Something bad happening to me, and Paolo coming to my rescue? I didn’t want that. Not for him. And not for me.

  I wanted us to have normal lives.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Present Day

  Up until about nine months ago, when our identities were exposed to the dodgier half of the world, my mom had been the head ER nurse in our small suburb outside of San Francisco. Gunshot wounds, broken bones, and heart attacks didn’t even trigger a dewy forehead on the woman. But as we sat in that dingy trucker motel situated on a dusty road on the outskirts of Cahuita, I noticed a look of forlornness in her eyes. And a lot of sweat. Of course, it was June and hotter than hell, but she was definitely freaking out in her own quiet way.

  I sat next to her on the edge of the bed and gripped her hand. I wanted to tell her that everything would be all right, though we both knew that wasn’t likely. Paolo wouldn’t simply up and leave on his own.

  Images of him being dragged off from the church’s men’s room and thrown into the trunk of a car drilled holes into my soul. I felt so helpless. I needed to be out looking for him, combing the airport or…crap. I didn’t know. I just needed to be doing something other than sitting in my wedding dress, crying.

  Ohmygod. Ohmygod. This is bad. How did they find us? Not that I knew who “they” were. My father had countless enemies reaching every corner of the world.

  Staring at the bolted door, my mom let out a heartbroken sigh. “I never wanted this for you, Dakota. I did everything I could to keep you insulated.”

  I thought she’d done a pretty good job. Except for having a mom who worked constantly and a father whose profession as a “photographer” kept him globe-trotting, I had a fairly normal childhood. Normal meaning I didn’t have a clue about this secret world. It was only last year that I learned the truth, including the fact that some of the faculty and student body at my high school worked for my father. Bodyguards. Can you believe it? My mom couldn’t. And she’d been peeved—seriously peeved—when she’d found out because she didn’t want any of my father’s world bleeding into ours.

  “I know,” I said quietly, staring at that same grimy motel door, “but you did your best. And I couldn’t have asked for a better mom.”

  “Thanks.” She nodded absentmindedly. And watching her big blue eyes—the same color as mine—filling with giant crocodile-sized tears nearly launched me into a sad little tailspin to hysteria-land.

  “I’m never going to see him again, am I?” she whispered to herself.

  I was thinking the same thing about Paolo. “I’m sure Dad will be here any minute, Mom,” I said with a shaky voice.

  “No, baby.” She looked at her watch. “Before we came to Costa Rica, your father and I went through his contingency. He told me if anything went wrong to wait one hour, then get on the next bus to SJO.”

  SJO was a few hours by car and not the nearest airport. Yes. That was on purpose.

  She looked at her watch again.

  “How long has it been?” I asked.

  “One hour.”

  “Maybe we should wait a few more minutes.” Or another hour, I thought.

  She wiped away a tear with a muted growl. “I can’t risk losing you, too.” She stood, reached under the bed, and pulled out two black backpacks. She opened one and tossed a light-blue knit dress and matching flip-flops next to me. “Put these on.”

  “Mom, I’m not leaving.” I’d get her to the airport, but I was staying put until I had some news.

  My mom’s normally pale face turned an angry red. “Paolo is gone, baby—not dead gone, but, you know, gone.” Her words were frantic, and her hands shook like a caffeine addict’s as she rifled through the other backpack, checking the prepaid phones and cash on hand. “He’s somewhere that’s not here. And whatever happened, staying will not help us find him.”

  Damn. I knew she was right. I’d gone over the backup plans a thousand times with Paolo. It had been an almost daily discussion after we’d first arrived. He drilled me on how these people operated, snagging one person to get to the others. The worst thing a person could do was go in with guns blazing on a crazy rescue mission; something “they” would be hoping for. Second worst was staying put when your identity was blown. Likely, at this very moment, there were thugs camped outside my condo, at the bank I used, and around my university.

  Dammit. Why is this happening? I’d clung to the hope that someday this crazy life of ours would come to an end and Paolo and I could settle down—kids, house, career.

  It’s never going to happen for me, is it? Not that it seemed to matter at the moment, because Paolo was gone and I didn’t know what to do.

  I remembered telling him once how the thought of losing him really got to me. The fear felt like a crippling knot of terror in the middle of my stomach. He’d responded by looking at me with those sharp, intensely dark eyes and possessively cupping my cheek. “If they ever take you, I will find you. I promise. And God help them if they do. But if something ever happens to me, you just run, Dakota. Run and don’t look back.”

  As I’d thought then, I thought now: Like hell I will. Nevertheless, my mom was right; we needed to get someplace safe, with resources, and where we could figure out what to do next.

  I stood and gave my mom my back. “Unbutton my dress?” She did, and I slipped it off. Carefully, I rolled my wedding dress into a tight ball and shoved it into my backpack. I was not giving up on Paolo or my father. I was not going to let this happen.

  And this dress will be worn again.

  We gathered up our things, inspected the remaining contents of our backpacks—four credit cards, two prepaid cell phones, one thousand in cash, and new passports. I was now Mayra Preble from San Antonio and my mom was Kim Mikalauskas from Cleveland.

  “I think Buenos Aires is pretty cold in June. We’ll need to buy coats.” My mom held up her open-ended airline ticket.

  “We’re not going south. We’re going to my safe house in Chicago.” Paolo had taught me well, and with the millions my father had stashed away for me in offshore accounts over the years (yes, another contingency), I had enough cash to build my own network of contingencies. Which I’d done. I’d learned my lesson about leaving my fate in
the hands of chance or a bunch of macho guys—Paolo and my dad—despite my loving them.

  I reached for the door, and a nightmare of a thought slammed into my already stress-wacked head: If Paolo had been taken at the church, why hadn’t any of us seen something? Why hadn’t “they” tried to take us, too? Or my father? In all honesty, he was their target. Yet…

  We all walked away, and now my father is nowhere to be found.

  Scorching, red-hot rage bubbled in the pit of my knotted stomach. There were no passports for my father or Paolo in those bags. No extra clothes either.

  My father had planned this?

  No. No. He wouldn’t do that to you, Dakota. On the other hand, my father, as much as I loved him, was the sort of man who placed his beliefs of what was right above the feelings of others.

  I looked at my mom and pasted on my poker face. She couldn’t know. It would break her heart, and with that hot head of hers, she’d only hunt my father down to confront him. But if my father had gone to such horrible, shady lengths to take out my fiancé, a man he didn’t approve of, he wasn’t about to come clean. A man capable of doing something so horrid to his own daughter was not to be trusted.

  “Ready, Mom?”

  She smiled sadly. “Yes.”

  ~~~

  One week later, Chicago

  From the high-rise view of my blandly furnished apartment (everything gray or khaki), sublet through a third party under a false identity, I stared out the window and watched the rain come down in dime-sized drops, flooding the mid-afternoon city streets. The peppy newscaster chatting away on the TV declared it the heaviest summer rain since 1967.

  What a mess, I thought. Still, funny how the logjam of drowning cars, nineteen stories below, felt symbolic of the thoughts inside my head: stuck in a messy, unmovable tangle.

  From the moment we’d arrived in Chicago, I got to work and began checking Paolo’s bank accounts—the ones I knew about, anyway.

  No activity.

  I then placed an ad in the online Kansas City PennySaver. “16-yr-old, one-eyed, Oregon Rex needs loving home for golden years. Pedigree papers.” I included the number for my prepaid cell and a Gmail account for good measure. For the record, an Oregon Rex is a domesticated house cat that hadn’t been bred since the ’50s. Anyway, the ad was what Paolo called a “flare” or signal for him to call me. Aside from an insane person with a heart who wanted to care for a dying, one-eyed cat, no one would answer the ad, and only Paolo would know to look for it on Pennysaver.com. I could only hope that whatever happened to him, he would find a way to contact me.