Surrender

by Elisabeth Naughton

  “Porca troia.”

  “Are you okay?” I called, trying to be quiet, desperate to know if he was all right.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.“ He suddenly appeared below me and looked up. “Come on. Your turn. They’re gonna realize I’m not getting dressed any second.”

  I glanced back into the suite, my heart racing. I really hated heights. But I hated the idea of being executed for something I hadn’t done even more. Careful not to snag my pants, I climbed over the railing and braced my feet on the outside of the bars.

  “Don’t look down,” Marco called below me. “Just start shimmying. I’ll catch you.”

  “Oh God...”

  My hands started moving. When I got as far as I could without releasing my feet, I paused.

  “Step off,” Marco said.

  I was going to die. My heart thundered in my chest and my hands grew so damp, I was terrified I’d slip right off. “I...I can’t.”

  “You’re almost there,” Marco called. “Step off with your feet so I can catch you. I won’t let you fall. I promise.”

  I barely knew this man. I had no idea if he was lying or telling the truth. And this wasn’t the moment for me to try to decide.

  “No. I can’t.” I started to climb back up.

  “Felicity—”

  The door to the bedroom suite jerked open, and two men with guns rushed into the room, spotted me, and started shouting.

  “Oh fuck.” My foot slipped. Gunshots echoed above me. Pinged off metal. I screamed, and my hand slid down the railing, sending pain all across my palm. “Marco!”

  “Drop!” he yelled.

  There was nothing else I could do. The heel of my hand hit the base of the railing, and the force of the strike shot my hand open. Air whooshed around me, and before I could even scream, I was falling.

  Falling to my death in the middle of London with a man I barely even knew.

  Chapter Five

  Marco

  I caught Felicity around the waist.

  Her body weight knocked into me, sending me sprawling across the small balcony. Pushing quickly against me, she scrambled up and said, “Oh my God. Are you all right?”

  Gunshots echoed above us, followed by angry voices screaming in what I was pretty sure was Italian.

  I grasped her hand and lurched to my feet. “We have to hustle.”

  Reaching for the sliding door, I pulled, expecting it to be locked, but to my surprise it slid right open. At least one thing was going right tonight. Pulling Felicity after me, I entered the suite and hustled through the bedroom toward the living room and front door. A shadowy figure sat up in the bed and mumbled, “Who’s there?”

  I gripped Felicity’s hand tighter and picked up my pace. In the entryway, I pried the door open and peeked into the hall. Finding it clear, I pulled her after me and made a beeline for the stairs at that end of the corridor.

  “French,” she mumbled at my back, looking behind us but still gripping my hand. “They were speaking French.”

  “Which makes me think this was a total set-up by someone in House Richelieu.”

  “Were they chanting in French on that video? I couldn’t tell.”

  No, they’d been chanting in Italian, which was the only part of this I didn’t understand. Somehow House Salvatici was involved as well.

  I pushed the stairwell door open. Finding it clear, I dragged her with me and skipped steps to get to the ground level as fast as possible. The lobby was empty when we rushed into the space. Hustling for the front doors of the hotel, I said, “Do you have a car?”

  “In Hyde Park. I wasn’t sure what I’d find here, so I thought it’d be wise to park away, just in case.”

  “Smart thinking.”

  The street was quiet and dark at this time of night. I tugged her across the three-lanes heading north, the grassy divider lined with trees, and the other three lanes heading south, and didn’t breathe easier until we were in the park and heading toward her car a quarter mile away. As we stepped under a streetlight she looked down at the ground then up at me and gasped. “Oh my God. Are you bleeding?”

  She pulled me to a stop and reached for my other hand. A gash I hadn’t even felt was dripping blood.

  “Merda.” I didn’t have anything to wrap it in, and it was too freakin’ cold to take off my shirt.

  She glanced at the wound then pushed my arm up. “Hold it above your heart. I have gauze in my car. Come on.”

  We picked up our pace. Her Audi was parked under the lights in an empty parking lot. She unlocked the passenger door, pulled it open, then pushed me into the seat. “Wait here.”

  “I’m fine,” I said as she rummaged around in the trunk, feeling like an idiot. “It’s just a cut.” My gaze slid back toward the Dorchester. I was more concerned about someone following us than I was about my stupid hand.

  “Here.” She shoved a wad of gauze at me. “Wrap this around it. I’ll stitch it up when we get to the flat.”

  She slammed the passenger door, then hustled around to the driver side.

  “What flat?” I asked as she started the ignition and backed out of the space.

  “I’ve got a friend with a flat in Notting Hill. She said I could use it anytime I was in the city. She’s not there right now.”

  “Where is she?”

  “A medical mission trip to Africa.”

  Her family’s main residence was in Scotland, but her family also split time at their estate in Wales. “Would anyone think to look for you there?”

  “No. We actually haven’t seen each other in several years. Went to different medical universities. She left me the code.”

  That was good enough for me. I wrapped the gauze around my hand several times, ignoring how the blood was already seeping through the thin fabric, and said, “Lead on.”

  Felicity’s friend’s flat was a third floor garden-view one bedroom unit in a white stucco period building in the heart of Notting Hill Village. The living room was cozy with vaulted ceilings and bookshelves that lined one whole side and ran all the way to the ceiling, but the room itself was small. In fact, everything was small—the kitchen, the bathroom, even the one tiny bedroom that was just barely big enough for a king-sized bed and two night stands—and as Felicity maneuvered me around the white-painted walls and pushed me to sit on the end of the bed, I felt ginormous. And completely out of place.

  “I don’t want to get blood all over this white comforter.” I held my hand out in front me, not caring much about the hardwood floor. At least that could be cleaned.

  “Wait right here and I’ll get some towels.”

  She was back as quickly as she left, laying towels over my lap and the bed, even underneath my feet, just in case.

  “Mindy’s got a suture kit in here somewhere, I just have to find it. Don’t pass out on me while I’m gone looking.”

  I snorted. As if that would ever happen.

  While she was searching for what she needed, I glanced at the books on the shelves in the bedroom. The owner of this place clearly liked to read. There were travel books from all over the world, lots of medical research books, and fiction books scattered throughout.

  I grabbed the closest paperback with my good hand and glanced at the cover. It featured an attractive couple kissing.

  Felicity moved back into the room with what looked like a plastic fishing box. “Planning to fry me up and eat me for dinner?”

  “Very funny.” She knelt on the floor in front of me, placed my hand on the towel over my thigh, and began carefully unwrapping the gauze. As soon as the wound was visible she said, “That needs stitches.”

  “It doesn’t look that bad. Just wrap it up.”

  She rolled her eyes and pushed to her feet. “Don’t be a baby.”

  I frowned as she left the room once more. When she came back she had a bottle of whisky in her hand. “Here. Drink this. “It’s not Laphroaig or Macallan. But it’ll do in a pinch.”

  I took the bottle with my good h
and. It was some off brand I’d never heard of. “Trying to get me wasted so you can take advantage of me, Ms. Harrington?”

  She smirked. “No, I’m trying to get you drunk so you don’t pass out on me. I couldn’t find any lidocaine, so we’re going to have to do this the old fashioned way.”

  “Porca puttana.“ I cracked the top and took a deep drink. When I lowered the bottle she said, “No, take a few more gulps. It’s not going to feel too good once I start stitching. The more relaxed you are the better.”

  I did as she said, not because I particularly liked the taste of the cheap stuff, but because I was not a fan of needles. My head grew light pretty fast. Either I hadn’t eaten much today or I’d lost more blood than I’d thought. “Mind if I lie down? Less distance to fall when I pass out.”

  She helped me stretch out on the bed and cleaned off the nightstand so I could lay my hand over the wood and she’d have an easy space to work. As I clutched the bottle to my side and stared up at the peaked ceiling while she started cleaning the wound, I thought about that book again.

  “Your friend likes to travel.”

  “Huh?”

  “Lots of travel books on the shelves.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  “Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Like to travel.”

  “I suppose.”

  She supposed. Wow, she was really easy to talk to.

  “She also likes kissing books.”

  “What?”

  When she glanced over at me, I pointed toward the paperback I’d dropped on the foot of the bed. “All kinds of those on the shelves.”

  She smirked and went back to cleaning my hand and inspecting the wound. “Those are called romance novels. And yes, Mindy’s a hopeless romantic.”

  “A hopeless romantic.” I looked back up at the ceiling, slowly moving above me. Or maybe I was moving. I wasn’t quite sure which. “As in the fairytale happily-ever-after kind of hopeless romantic who believes the prince rides in on a white horse to save the young maiden and remains faithful to her forever after.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she glanced my way with a mischievous look. “Yes. That kind of hopeless romantic. She’s doomed.”

  “What if she’s not?”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “What if that kind of love actually exists?”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “It did for my parents.”

  “You’re telling me your parents are still happily married and faithful to each other after all these years.”

  “No.”

  “See?”

  “They died when I was a kid. Car accident.”

  “Oh.” She paused whatever she was doing and softly said, “I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago. But they were madly in love, right up until the moment they were taken from me. They were married for thirteen years.” A smile tugged at my mouth as I thought of my mother sitting in the kitchen of our farmhouse, telling me how she and my father had met. “It was love at first sight. Bam. Hit them both like lightning. They were married three weeks later.”

  She frowned and reached for something at her side. “Then your parents are the exception, not the rule.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Take another swig of your alcohol, Marco.”

  I did and relaxed even further into the bed. It was soft. Softer than it had been before.

  “All I know is that when that lightning hits me, I’m gonna go for it and not hold back. Lightning never hits twice, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know. Deep breath now.”

  Those were really weird words. Deep and breath. I opened my mouth to tell her that only to gasp out “Porca puttana!” when she stabbed me with her freakin’ needle.

  “Drink!” she said, not stopping what she was doing.

  Motherfucker, that hurt. I ground my teeth against the pain, then lifted my hand and and guzzled the whisky.

  I wasn’t sure how long it took her to stitch up my hand. I was already drifting by the time she finished. But I was still coherent enough to feel her lips skim my forehead when she said, “Good job, tough guy. It’s all done. Now you can sleep.”

  I smiled and let my eyes slide close.

  Then I dreamt of masquerades and ballrooms and dangling off balconies and being hit by lightning. Lightning so sudden and electrifying, it changed everything.

  Including me.

  * * * *

  It was still dark when I opened my eyes. Blinking, I looked up at a vaulted, rustic white ceiling and a fan in the center, circulating the air with a slow rotation of its blades.

  For a split second, I couldn’t remember where I was. Then I rolled and caught sight of Felicity sound asleep on her side on the big bed, facing me. Her hand was up near her face on the pillow, her dark lashes skimming creamy skin, her shoulder-length auburn hair fanned out around her like a blanket.

  Heat spread through my body. A heat I didn’t want to bank. All kinds of electrical images flashed in my brain, the strongest of which was lightning striking me square in the chest, just as it had in my dream.

  I sucked in a steadying breath and shifted to my back once more. More than anything I wanted to touch her, to drag her my way and wake her with my hands, to thank her for stitching up my wound with my lips and mouth and entire body. But I could still feel that lightning charge rippling through my limbs, and even though I wanted the sexy little Brit with an unquenchable fire, I was also smart enough to realize I barely knew her.

  She was the heir to a rival House. Her ultimate goals, though similar to mine, went against everything I represented in public. If I had any hope of instilling real change within House Salvatici someday, I had to keep up the ruse that I was one hundred percent committed to my House and had no other affiliation. And that meant getting personally involved with someone well known for supporting the resistance was not a smart idea.

  Needing space to clear my head where her warmth and that sexy gardenia scent couldn’t distract me, I rolled to my side, slid my feet to the floor, and stood. The room spun a little, and I reached out a hand to steady myself on the mattress. I’d probably overdone it with the whisky but I didn’t care. I had a serious aversion to needles—thanks to two weeks in the hospital as a kid I’d just as soon forget. Passing out drunk in front of Felicity had been way better than passing out screaming like a little baby when she came at me with a needle.

  I was still a little light-headed from the whisky, and I hobbled more than walked my way into the bathroom, something I was glad Felicity didn’t see. After using the facilities, I splashed water on my face with one hand so I didn’t get my bandages wet. In the medicine cabinet, I found a new toothbrush and tube of toothpaste, which I helped myself to since my mouth tasted like a still. As I was putting everything away, I also noticed a box of condoms.

  I reached for the box and opened it. The twelve-pack hadn’t even been broken into. All kinds of dirty images filled my brain, shoving aside every bit of common sense I’d been trying to hold on to.

  I pushed the box back in the medicine cabinet, closed the door, then made my way out into the dark living room. One glance at my cell phone told me my contact at Interpol whom I’d emailed from my hotel suite had tried to call me earlier.

  It was close five a.m., but I wasn’t worried about waking him. Patrick Delaney was a night owl.

  I dialed and waited. The line picked up right after the first ring, and a familiar voice filled my ear. “Are you up here causing trouble for me, Marco?”

  I couldn’t keep from smirking. Patrick and I had gone to school together at Cambridge ages ago. He occasionally kept me filled in on what Interpol was investigating, and I kept him up to speed on anything serious the Entente was doing. “Always. I got your message.”

  “Thought it’d be easier to chat instead of type it all out. This line secure?”

  “Yeah. You know I can cover my ass.” I sat on the couch and perched m
y elbow on my knee as I held the phone. “What can you tell me?”

  “You’re not the first one to bring that to our attention. We spent a lot of time investigating that video. The Frenchman featured at the end is Bastian Gautier. He’s a high-level banker we were able to track down thanks to face recognition software.”

  “Guy was an idiot not to keep his face hidden.”

  “Agree. But he claimed it was a prank. A video created for an event in which no one was harmed.”

  “Were you able to confirm that?”

  “As best we could. He gave us enough information to track down the girl. A...” Papers shuffled over the line, then he said, “Margaux da Silva, also French. She’s a model and actress. She confirmed his story.”

  I frowned. “And you’re sure that was her?”

  “Look, I’ll be honest with you. We can’t be a hundred percent sure of anything. It looks like her, but the girl on that video never lifted her face toward the camera so we don’t have enough to go on facial recognition. And the video does not actually show any kind of assault or murder.”

  I knew it didn’t. But in my world I also knew nothing was as it seemed.

  “What about the French guy? Gautier? You questioned him and just let him go?”

  “We didn’t have enough to hold him. Didn’t have enough to refer him to local authorities either.”

  I understood that, but the fact Gautier had been transporting that video tonight at that party told me he was dirty. “And Merrick?”

  “Well, that’s where I’m confused. The video you sent me shows Merrick turning that video over to an Interpol agent.”

  “Yeah. I recognized the agent’s face. I know I’ve had drinks with him when I was with you. Tall guy, kinda sandy-colored hair. Broken nose.”

  “Morris. He’s on medical leave right now. I already have a call in to chat with him about this, but here’s the thing. According to the records we have, Merrick wasn’t the one who delivered that video to Morris.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. Whoever it was gave us a fake name—Charles Merrick would have as well, but we’re all well aware of Merrick’s description. This guy wasn’t nearly as tall, was thicker around the middle, and had a Cockney accent.”