Dark Vengeance (The DARK Files Book 4)

by Susan Vaughan

  “Fine. Are we going to the safe house now?”

  “The safe house isn’t so safe after all. Vadim knows about it.” He flicked toggle switches and examined dials.

  “Oh. Of course.” How did Vadim find it? But she said nothing.

  “That’s it? ‘Oh.’ Don’t you want to know about that or where we’re going?”

  She smiled at his trademark scowl. He questioned everything. “I do. I suspect you don’t know how Vadim knew about the safe house and you’ll tell me where we are going soon enough.”

  “You always so amenable?”

  His cynical tone said he wondered if she’d gone along with whatever Vadim had asked of her. She wondered too. Questions ate at her. Sometimes they crushed her chest, the hidden answers ticking away in a memory time bomb. “I’ve given you my trust and I’ll do all I can to solve the mystery of my lost memory.”

  He regarded her for a long moment, then nodded. “I’ll try to merit that trust. I nearly blew it today.” He lifted a hand as if to reach for her, but instead gripped the steering wheel. “We have some time before Vadim can regroup. As far as we know, the explosion eliminated his only agents.”

  “There, you’ve just used that word, agents. And you’re an officer, not an agent. Explain your spookspeak, please.”

  His mouth quirked. She swore he almost laughed but couldn’t see his eyes to be sure. A laugh was probably too much to ask.

  “An agent isn’t official, someone outside the government paid to do a job for an official operative, like me.”

  “Ah, an agent might be a spy inside a terrorist cell or a foreign government.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Why are the FBI called agents then?”

  He wasn’t smiling, but when he turned her way, his gaze softened. “You got me there. But they are ‘special agents.’ You’ll have to ask a Feeb sometime.”

  “The very next time I meet a Feeb, I will.”

  As if wiping off a grin, he swiped a hand across his mouth. He slid the map to her. “Think you can direct us back to the mainland?”

  “Assolutamente! If you trust me to do it.”

  “Go for it.”

  A hedged answer. Sophie wanted him to trust her for more than that, but she’d take what she could get. She hardly knew if she could trust herself. She scanned the map. Ah. Jack wouldn’t mind a tiny detour. She hoped. “Go back the way we came a little bit. We can follow a smaller rio south to the Canale della Giudecca. It leads to the lagoon.”

  They followed the Canale Grande to the rio she’d chosen. The narrow waterway passed a church on the left and then approached another palazzo.

  One red-gold eyebrow shot up. “More sights to see, Sophie?” He cut the motor to an idle.

  There were, but not this one. She felt the heat of embarrassment on her cheeks. “No, I didn’t know about this building. Oh, but look at that staircase!”

  Constructed of tan bricks and accented with white arches and balustrades, the spiral staircase curved up the side of the palazzo in an open tower. A sign on the dock said in five languages that the staircase was open to the public.

  Sophie’s gaze rose to the fifth story of the staircase. “Oh, look, a family up there. The children are waving to us.” She waved back, but Jack looked away, his mouth tight. His hands gripped the steering wheel with equal tension. Was he thinking about their ordeal earlier?

  “Got your guidebook? You might as well tell me about it.” He flexed his fingers.

  His gruff tone meant the stern fed had returned. How would he react when he saw where she was taking him? She gave a mental shrug. Too late now.

  After flipping some pages, she found the entry. “ ‘Palazzo Contarini del Bovolo with a snail-shell staircase,’ ” she read. “Bovolo means snail.”

  “A major feat of engineering.”

  “Engineering, boh. Venetians love decoration. It’s way cool and beautiful.”

  He shifted to forward, and she directed him to turn left. “Keep going straight. Sempre diritto.”

  “Now you sound like a native Veneziano. Go straight, go straight.”

  Sophie grinned. “Then you know we won’t get lost.”

  “But isn’t that only on foot?”

  Off to the right, above the buildings, rose a distinctive tower. If he saw the Campanile, he’d know where she was taking him. So far, his eyes stayed on the waterway.

  “On foot, by boat, sí. But they don’t go straight. Not the streets. Not the canals,” he protested. “Look at this canal, a jig here, a jog there. Nothing diritto.”

  The next sharp right made by the rio proved his case. When the boat pulled even with the massive gray-stone basilica set back in a broad square, he stared in disbelief.

  “Piazza San Marco. Remember, all roads lead to St. Mark’s.” She held her breath and waited for his reaction.

  Jack did something she never expected to witness. Tiny lines formed around his blue eyes. His mouth twitched. A great fountain of laughter gushed from him as if it had been bottled up since birth. He tilted back his head and let the laughter flow.

  Enjoying the deep timbre of his delight, she too laughed at her joke on him. This interlude kept her fears at bay and gave her strength for what might come. She’d coaxed to the surface the man she could talk to. She wished they had time to walk around the piazza. Lighting a candle inside the basilica might bring her another piece of memory, but she wouldn’t ask.

  As if he’d read her mind, he said, “We need to reach Mestre and a car before dark. It’s getting late.”

  “Do you know? Have I visited St. Mark’s?” She couldn’t help the plaintive tone.

  “Tell you what. When this is all over, I’ll bring you back here. You can stay as long as you want.”

  Ignoring the twinges in her sore body, she turned to reach across the space between them. She curled her fingers over his scarred ones on the steering wheel and felt his strength and heat surge into her. And more. A rush of awareness that surprised her.

  She withdrew her hand. “Thank you. It’s a deal.”

  His frown told her he might regret his offer, but he merely nodded.

  As the boat continued on, she glimpsed the two gruff red lions that guarded the basilica’s left flank. It was said that St. Mark’s was the soul of Venice, and she felt the power of its spirit as her gaze followed its silhouette.

  “Where are we going, Jack?”

  “I thought you’d never ask. A place I believe Vadim won’t suspect. A place I hope will help you remember. Tuscany.”

  As they reached the car park in Mestre, dusk turned the sky myriad shades of pink and mauve. Driving west on the A4 Autostrade in the subcompact Fiat assigned to them, Sophie had to close her eyes against the glare of the setting sun.

  Did she imagine it or did her hand still tingle from contact with his? Attraction to Jack Thorne? He did have the bluest eyes, a brilliant blue that seemed to burn from within. When he’d laughed, his deep voice resonated through her.

  She opened her eyes and squinted at his hands. He wore no wedding ring, but that meant nothing. “Are you married? Do you have a family?”

  His hold on the wheel slipped, and the car lurched to the right. He gained control fast and righted their direction.

  “Jack?”

  “No. I have no family.”

  The dispassionate and deliberate way he said it broke her heart. She yearned to know more, to know what had happened to him. But the amber light of the setting sun cast his features in a hard mask and stifled more questions.

  A bump in the road jarred her senses. What was she thinking? Sophia Constanza, this man is not for you.

  Some past tragedy had wounded him deeply and hardened over all softness. He suspected her of working with a criminal. Without her memory, she couldn’t be sure of the truth. Of the woman she really was deep inside. Of anything.

  Even if her memory returned tomorrow, she had no time for a man
. Figuring out a direction for her life took priority. An identity separate from other people who would depend on her, a life of her own.

  And she certainly wouldn’t choose a man like Jack. No strong, silent types for her.

  Well, strong was good, but she needed a man who would share more than a few words with her. A man who would share his dreams and delights and disappointments.

  Definitely not a man immured inside a thick shell. Definitely not Jack Thorne.

  ***

  Jack’s throat tightened. He should never have offered to take Sophie back to Venice. Her wistful tone had yanked on his heart, and his mouth opened before he could think. Once he had the information he needed, he ought to get far from this woman. Personal involvement with her or any woman was impossible.

  Vadim would die one way or another. Jack would take no chances on the scum escaping into yet another alias. He would forfeit his future, his life if he must. If the takedown resulted in a firefight with a righteous kill, well and good. In that case, even if he survived to continue in DARK, he had no business putting another woman in jeopardy.

  Danger in the job spilled over. The ones you loved could get killed in the crossfire.

  Images of twisted metal and mangled bodies rose in his mind as if he’d come on the horrific scene yesterday. Claws raked pain deep inside his chest. Nothing would interfere with what he must do.

  Not even a beautiful and vulnerable woman who touched him as no one had for a long time.

  In the meantime, he would remain professional. Her scent teased him, not perfume but a heady brew of shampoo, soap and Sophie. Her voice and low laughter were a siren song. Her dark mane invited touching.

  Professional control was a tough job in the confines of a roller-skate-size car that crimped his knees up around his Adam’s apple. Fate and De Carlo had thrown them together for the foreseeable future. Alone.

  Jack gritted his teeth and drove. On the Autostrade the drive from Venice to Tuscany would take only three or four hours. Speed didn’t matter. Disappearing was his aim.

  He stayed on the four-lane major highway as far as Padua, where he exited onto a secondary road. “In the mountains ahead, my tablet will find iffy connections, so we go old school. There’s a road map in the glove box. Think you can navigate?”

  The urban sprawl of Padua was disappearing behind them, and rolling green hills led into the central mountains.

  “You bet.” Sophie retrieved the map and a small flashlight. “After Venice, highways are a piece of pizza.”

  The exhaustion lacing her voice punched him in the chest. But her words lightened his mood. She always made him smile. “Pizza? I thought the saying was ‘piece of cake.’”

  “But we’re in Italy, silly man.”

  Chuckling, he helped her open the map.

  She quickly found their location. “So if we’re headed to Tuscany, why take this country road? More sightseeing?”

  No reason to hide his strategy from her. “Off major routes and away from cities, we have more options. Places to hide.”

  “Didn’t you say we had some time?”

  “There’s no sense leaving a clear trail. Vadim’s connections make recruiting more lowlifes, even a pro, easy. I want to make finding you as hard as possible.”

  He cut a glance her way. In the fading daylight he could tell from her tight expression she’d grasped what he meant by pro. She seemed to collect herself, then suggested he turn right at the next intersection.

  They wound through picturesque mountain villages, back and forth on switchbacks and narrow roads, but always heading in a southward direction.

  In one town the central square contained a fountain and bronze statues. A fortress-like medieval castle dominated another. And each boasted a majestic church, some medieval, some Gothic in style.

  As Sophie guided and commented on the sights, Jack could tell from the increased strain in her voice that they needed to stop for the night soon. The day’s drama had taken its toll on her. She needed rest. So did he.

  In the next village — one of many with castello in its name whether or not its castle was still standing — he said, “I see a restaurant ahead. We’ll have dinner and ask about a place to stay.”

  He chose a parking place on a side street. Nobody should know the car, but he’d take nothing for granted. He pried himself out of the driver’s seat, then opened the door for her.

  She moved more stiffly, the binding on her injured shoulder seeming to drag on her. Should he offer his arm in support? Given the awareness that had sparked between them, he kept his hands to himself.

  The trattoria was small and basic, with a short selection of menu items posted on a white board by the doorway. Outside, two young couples nursed espressos at postage-stamp-size tables. Inside the long, narrow room, diners at white-linen-covered tables along the side walls turned to stare at the strangers. Family groups, couples, a few single men. All appeared to be locals.

  Ceiling fans stirred aromas of brewing espresso and spicy foods that made Jack’s mouth water. The hostess, a well-fed woman swathed in a snowy-white apron, hustled toward them.

  “Buonasera. Per due, per favore,” he said, requesting a table for two.

  The woman’s plump countenance widened in a broad smile. She launched into Italian too rapid and too wordy for his phrase-book knowledge.

  Without missing a beat, a smiling Sophie greeted the woman and apparently answered her question. A conversational stream flowed from one to the other as the woman led the two of them to an empty table in the back. Sophie helped Jack interpret the menu, and the hostess left with their order.

  He would have to rely on her for more than map reading. “What was that long dissertation about?”

  “Only that foreigners hardly ever stop in this village, and she was honored to serve us.”

  “That’s not good. If someone asks, she’ll remember us.” They’d blend into crowded tourist traps. But staying in villages on Sophie’s list might jog her memory. Tonight at least, he had no choice. “Anything else?”

  “She asked about my arm. I told her it was a car accident.” One-handed, Sophie spread a blue cloth napkin in her lap and looked up at him through lowered lashes as thick as a curtain. “I hope you don’t mind my jumping in.”

  “Mind? Consider it your job. Without your fluent Italian, we couldn’t hide away in remote villages. Good call on the car accident. Anybody should believe that, the way they drive in this country.”

  “And a car accident is sort of the truth.”

  He couldn’t believe his ears. Was she downplaying what Vadim had done? She was too kind, too sanguine to run around alone. No wonder that bastard had conned her. “It was no accident.” He lowered his voice. “Keep that in mind if you forget the danger you’re in and the criminal who put you in it.”

  Chapter 9

  A TEENAGE WAITRESS brought two glasses, a carafe of ruby-red wine and two bowls of steaming tortellini. She smiled shyly and said, “Buon appetito,” before ducking away.

  “Mmm, just smell that dish! Tortellini alla parmigiana, pumpkin-filled with a light cheese sauce.” Sophie spread her napkin on her lap. She stabbed her fork into one of the little pastas and popped it into her mouth. “Ah, homemade. Heaven!”

  He stuffed pasta into his mouth and forced himself to chew before swallowing. Her rapturous expression and small moans of delight were too orgasmic for comfort. She took such pleasure in everything. A woman with such gusto and emotion, what would she be like in—

  He choked on his tortellini and coughed to clear his throat and his brain. Don’t go there.

  “I think you need wine to wash down the pasta. The waitress has brought us un mezzo, a half liter of their family Sangiovese. Will you pour?” Sophie slid her goblet toward him.

  He peered at her for a moment but served them both. “But should you be mixing painkillers and alcohol?”

  Fire crackled in her luminous dark eyes. “Ou
ch, jabbed by the dreaded Thorne! Ease up, Jack. I need protection, not a keeper.”

  He held up his hands. “I’m concerned about you. No offense meant.”

  His abject tone seemed to dismay her. She sipped wine, then sighed. “Sorry. I guess I’m just tired. But for your information, I’ve taken my last prescription pill. From now on, aspirin or ibuprofen will do.”

  Soon the pasta plates were cleared away and replaced by the main dish. The young server delivered the dishes, but the hostess hovered nearby, pressing her hands together in worry.

  In Italian, Sophie thanked both women, and more. From her gestures, Jack inferred she was praising the new dish.

  The blushing teen made a small curtsy and the hostess beamed. When they left, Sophie said, “The waitress is the signora’s daughter. She’s just learning the family business.”

  The main course was slices of pork roast with a Parma ham stuffing. Sophie’s sensuous delight in the food enhanced his own enjoyment of the savory dish. The food and the full-bodied wine relaxed him, and he reflected on her earlier reaction. For the first time she’d spoken up for herself. He liked her biting retort more than her usual passive acceptance of events.

  Except he could do without more to like about Sophie. For his own good. And hers.

  Since his marriage ended, he’d kept his distance from women. His ex-wife’s manipulations and sulks had kept him guarded. He’d felt no strong attraction to any woman.

  But one look, one breathy sigh from Sophie made him as horny as a hormonal teenager. Now look at me. Hell of a thing. He concentrated on the pork and didn’t come up for air until the salad and coffee arrived.

  ***

  Sophie sat on the sagging bed and unzipped her suitcases. So much had happened that day, she welcomed time to herself.

  After dinner the trattoria owner had directed them to her sister’s bed-and-breakfast on the village outskirts. Jack paid for two rooms with an adjoining bath.

  She unwound the silk scarf from the saint. The figure was too heavy to lift out one-handed. Back at Vadim’s villa, she’d had to tip it over and roll it into the tote. “I don’t know who you were or why you’re a saint, Santa Elisabetta, but I pray you’ll watch over Jack and me.”