by Rebecca York
“That suits you,” she said.
“You too. Good choices. Let’s get some toothpaste and a few other things we might need.” He gave her a critical look. “Like a hairbrush. And we can make a stop at the restrooms to wash up.”
She wrinkled her face. “Thanks.” Another thought struck her. “I don’t have a purse. Maybe I’d better pick up a cheap one.”
“Yeah. You’d stand out without one.”
On the way to the drugstore section, he also bought a medium-sized suitcase.
After they’d cleaned up, he paid for their purchases in cash and was watchful as they returned to his car. So far, so good. He wished he could get some different license plates, but that would represent another kind of risk. And the car wasn’t going to be out where the thugs could stumble over it.
“Now what?” she asked.
“The perfect hiding place.”
She gave him a questioning look, but he stayed silent and headed for a strip of highway lined with tall buildings separated by tracts of manicured greenery. He turned in at a driveway that led to a large beige-colored building with towers at the corners.
Before reaching the building, he stopped along the driveway and stowed his gun in the suitcase. This wasn’t the kind of establishment where you came in with a weapon, and if he thought this place was safe, he’d better act like it.
Pulling into the drive again, he headed for the entrance. They passed a three-tiered circular fountain and pulled up under a porte cochere.
As soon as the car stopped, a young man in navy blue Bermudas and a white shirt came running over. “Checking in, sir?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll take care of the car for you.” The attendant gestured, “Leave it over there.”
“Where are we?” Francesca whispered as Zane came around to her side of the vehicle.
“The Ritz-Carlton.”
She gave him a shocked look. “Isn’t that expensive?”
“Yeah. It’s the top hotel in Naples.” When they were out of earshot, he added. “I figure this is the last place anyone is going to look for us.”
He got the luggage from the back seat and led her inside where he turned to the left past a round marble-topped table with a huge flower arrangement in the middle. A little farther on was a long marble counter where they waited for one of the clerks to free up.
When an attractive blond motioned them over, Zane stepped to the counter. “We’d like a room for the night,” he said. “On a low floor. My wife doesn’t like heights.
“Certainly. Credit card.”
He handed over a card, and the desk clerk ran it through the machine.
“I’ll get a bellperson to help you with your luggage,” she said.
“I can handle it. Can you give the parking attendant our room number?”
“Certainly, Mr. Montgomery. The elevators are to your right.”
“Thanks.”
Francesca’s head jerked toward him, and he took her hand, squeezing.
She pressed her lips together as they headed down a wood-paneled hallway toward the elevator. When they reached the third floor, he checked the signs, then turned left.
“What does it cost to stay here?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about it. I put it on my expense account.”
“You can do that?”
“In this case, yes.”
As they walked toward the room, he kept thinking—now what? He’d cleverly arranged for them to be alone together in luxury accommodations.
After locking the door behind them, he surveyed the room. It was elegant but decorated in very neutral colors. And there were two double beds, which was good. That made it look less like he’d brought her to . . .
Without finishing the thought, he set down the suitcase and crossed to the window. The room had a balcony, with another below it. Probably he could use that escape route if he had to. Would Francesca be up to climbing down? They had a partial Gulf view, with another set of rooms to their right and others facing them in a farther wing of the hotel.
He shifted his gaze to the blue water, which was separated from the hotel by what appeared to be a swamp crossed by a couple of boardwalks. At the far edge was a wooden building that could have been an old-time seafood restaurant. Probably it looked charming up close.
Behind him Francesca cleared her throat. “You probably think I fall into the arms of every guy . . .”
“Who rescues you from contract killers?”
“Is that what they are?”
He turned to face her. “Well, killers. Maybe mob hit men.”
“You’re trying to defuse the situation between us now that we’re locked up together in a bedroom.”
“Yeah, and trying to be realistic.” She was taking this conversation in a direction that was dangerous. If he could put some physical distance between them, he would, but there was a graver danger in leaving her alone.
He laid the suitcase on a luggage stand, pulled out his laptop, and walked to the desk across from the beds.
“I have to get some information.”
“How?”
“I’m starting with my office. They may have something for me.”
She gave him a long look. “I’ll let you work.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
She turned away and reached for the TV remote. He heard her turn on the set as he booted up the computer. When he gave her a quick glance, she had kicked off her sandals and piled up the pillows on one of the beds.
Thank God she was going to ignore him for the moment, he thought as he waited for his e-mail to come up.
Chapter Seven
Zane found a message from Frank Decorah, authorizing him to do what he already had done. Although he’d expected it, he couldn’t hold back his feeling of relief as he composed an answer, starting with an update on what had happened since their last communication. He’d initially thought the safest place for Francesca was Decorah headquarters. Now he told Frank they needed to stay in the area to get more information. But he also wanted some help from headquarters. After describing what had gone down this morning, he said,
“The uncle’s name was Angelo Lucci. The father went into the witness protection program about twenty years ago as Glen Turner. Presumably his last name was also Lucci. And Francesca thinks he was mob connected. I’ll check up on Angelo from this end and also on the Web.” He finished by switching to his phone and sending the pictures he’d snapped of the men who had come after him and Francesca. “These are the guys who tried to kill us. If you can get a line on any of them, I’d appreciate it.”
After checking his other mail, he prowled around the Internet looking for anything else that might be helpful. Apparently Angelo Lucci had kept a low profile after arriving in Naples. Property records told Zane that Lucci had moved to his current home fifteen years ago, but there was nothing else about him online until his house had burned down the night before. As far as the authorities knew, he was missing. Which meant they hadn’t found a body in the ashes of the house. But Francesca had heard the men talking about disposing of the body. What had they done with the uncle—weighted him down with rocks and left him in the water somewhere? Or had they used a bone saw to dismember him—Saudi Arabia style.
The grisly thought made him glance up at Francesca. Apparently she hadn’t read his thoughts because she was still pretending to be absorbed by whatever was on the TV.
He swivelled toward the window, noting that the sun was low in the sky. He’d managed to spend a lot of time avoiding the woman a few yards away. When he swung toward the bed where she was camping out, he found her looking at him.
“Are we going to stay in this room ignoring each other for the rest of the evening? Or can we go downstairs and have something to eat?”
He considered the request. They’d been cooped up in a confined space for hours together, and ordering room service was only going to prolong the togetherness. But he’d chosen this hotel because nobody was likely to
wander in off the street, and the kind of guys who had showed up at his rental in the morning would stand out here like a dogcatcher at a fancy dress ball.
“There are a couple of restaurants downstairs. We’re probably dressed well enough for the more moderate one.”
She might have come back with some kind of snappy remark. Instead she just shrugged and said, “Okay.”
The restaurant was along a covered walkway that looked out toward the pool. Since it was early, they had no trouble getting a seat at a table for two.
“Can I have a drink?” Francesca asked.
He considered the question. “You can. I’d better not.”
“Then I’ll just have iced tea.”
When the waiter came, she asked for the tea. Zane stuck with water. For dinner she ordered a seafood risotto. He got an expensive dry-aged-beef burger and fries.
Despite his assessment that having a meal outside their room was safe, he kept scanning the dining room but didn’t see anyone who looked like a threat.
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Finally, he asked, “You like Italian food?”
“My mom liked to cook it. Luckily, Italian is a fairly standard American ethnic cuisine. Nobody thought it weird that Mrs. Lisa Turner made it a specialty.”
“Uh huh.”
“And you’re a burger kind of guy?”
He shrugged. “It seems easiest.”
Again, the conversation lapsed. He heard her drag in a breath and let it out before saying, “In the car we reached for each other. Now you’re working to keep your distance.”
He answered with a tight nod.
“Why do I feel so drawn to you?”
The blatant question was the crux of the issue between them, and just her asking it made his skin feel hot and cold at the same time.
He should keep his mouth shut, but he heard himself saying, “A genetic trait in my family.”
“Oh come on. What’s that supposed to mean? You give off some kind of pheromones that attract Italian women?”
Now what was he going to say? That when a werewolf met his life mate, there was no escaping the relationship? Right, she’d love to hear that she’s fallen into the arms of a wolf.
He was saved from answering by the arrival of the food. When the waiter had left she said, “Well?”
Automatically, he took a bite of the burger and chewed. The meat was a lot more done than he liked, and he wanted to throw away the bread, but he chewed and swallowed before saying, “The men in my family click with a certain kind of woman?”
“What kind? Loose women?”
Was he really having this conversation in a restaurant? Maybe it was safer than in their room.
“I didn’t actually mean a type. I mean, when we meet the woman who’s right for us—we bond.” Just saying it made his throat constrict and his heart start to thump.
The silence stretched between them as she focused on her risotto for a few moments.
Finally she said, “Are you talking about some kind of mystic connection?”
“I guess I am.”
He didn’t know how he had expected this conversation to go, but when she made a dismissive sound, his reaction was sharp. “When we kissed—you didn’t feel like lightning struck you?”
“No,” she shot back, her expression defiant.
“You’re lying.”
Chapter Eight
Zane saw Francesca look around the restaurant to make sure nobody was close enough to be listening before she said, “You say we’ve bonded—so you can take my emotional temperature just like that.”
He hadn’t intended to get into any of this. But the words and the sarcasm in her voice were too much for him.
Their eyes locked. If they’d been alone, he would have crossed the space between them and folded her into his arms to prove his point. But not in a public dining room. Still, his gaze burned into her, and he saw her flush, then lower her head and go back to her food.
Neither of them said much as they finished their meals.
“Do we have to go right back to the room?” she asked when they stepped outside. “Or can we enjoy this fancy place a little bit?”
He’d like to take her back there for safekeeping, instead he let her lead him on a stroll around the manicured grounds, then across the boardwalk that led to the Gulf.
He couldn’t call the walk companionable. As they stepped onto the sand, tension radiated between them, and he wondered if it was going to flair out of control. He pictured himself dragging her into the sand dunes for some intimate body contact.
Instead he clenched his teeth and turned back toward the hotel.
When he’d closed the door of the room, she gave him a long look, which was like a spark hitting dry tinder. For a long moment, neither of them moved.
“Have it your way,” she murmured as she turned on the television again—to a channel which seemed to be focused on home remodeling.
With a deep sigh, he booted his computer. He’d put himself in this situation, and it was his own damn fault. What would be wrong with showing her what the two of them were going to mean to each other? The images of naked bodies entwined on the bed flashing in his mind were very tempting. But his duty was to keep her safe, not give in to his wolf nature.
When he opened his mail, he found an interim report from Teddy Granada at Decorah saying that he hadn’t yet gotten anything on the father. But there was an arrest record for the uncle. He’d been brought up on money laundering charges, but a skilled lawyer had gotten him off.
Sometime during the evening, Francesca went into the bathroom, took off her pants and got under the covers wearing her tee shirt and panties. He hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the outside of the door and slipped into his own bed, similarly dressed.
He told himself the best thing was to get some rest, and to his surprise, he drifted off pretty quickly.
A noise woke him sometime in the night, and he was immediately on alert, reaching for the gun that he’d wedged under the pillow on the other side of his bed.
With the Sig in hand, he lay in the dark, listening for more sounds—like the doorknob turning, or footsteps crossing the room. But he heard nothing—besides a muffled sob coming from Francesca’s bed.
He whipped toward her, softly calling her name. She didn’t respond, and he didn’t know if she was caught in a dream or if she was deliberately not answering him.
He waited for several moments. When he heard her moan, he figured it was the former.
Easing out of his own bed, he laid the gun on the nightstand and crossed the space between the two beds. His eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and now he could see her thrashing around as she moaned and called out, “Help me. Please help me.”
The sight of her in distress tore at him,
He called her name again, and when she didn’t answer, he slid onto the side of the bed, cupping her shoulder. She woke instantly, her body jerking and her arm striking out at him, and he had to catch her hand to keep from being hit again.
“Francesca, it’s me, Zane. You were having a nightmare.”
Her head came up, and she looked up at him in confusion.
“Zane?”
“Yes. Are you okay?”
Her voice shook as she said, “No.”
He heard the gritty quality of his own voice as he asked, “What was the dream?”
“I need you to hold me.”
Not a good idea, he thought. But what he had told her downstairs was true. They had bonded, and the anguish in her voice wrenched at his heart and he couldn’t stop himself from pulling aside the covers and slipping into bed with her.
She was trembling, and her skin was icy. He pulled her into the warmth of his body and stroked his hand over her back and shoulders and into her hair. Neither one of them was wearing much, and he was all too conscious of his bare legs tangling with hers.
By small degrees, she stopped trembling.
“Better?”
“A li
ttle.”
“What was the dream?” he asked again.
She swallowed hard. “It was the same stuff that happened yesterday. A lot of it was pretty realistic. I was back in Uncle Angelo’s house. I was hiding in the closet, listening to the men beating him up. Then I heard them running around the house, opening and closing drawers and cabinets, shouting my name. They went quiet, and then the fire started. I got out of the house and I ran toward the fence. The gate was open, and I saw the big dog down the beach. Yesterday he saved me from the men. In the dream he was different. I called out to him begging him to help me. In real life he did. In the dream he just stood there, staring at the men as they grabbed me and dragged me off.”
That was too much for Zane.
“He’s a wolf. The wolf would never do that.”
“A wolf? How do you know?”
He silently cursed himself for saying that. Now he was stuck with making something up. “I saw him. Your mind just made up his reaction because it was a nightmare, and you were scared.” That could be the truth, but was it more? Was she unconsciously reacting to his putting distance between them all day?
“It was pretty real.”
“I’m so sorry.” He ached to tell her that he was the wolf, and he would never let anything happen to her. But he couldn’t say that. And he couldn’t say that maybe the dream was his fault.
Now the frustration of keeping silent was too much to bear.
All he could do was show her the wolf’s true feelings. Without giving himself time to think about it any longer, he lowered his mouth to hers. He had intended the kiss to be gently and reassuring. Instead it was searing, a kiss that said all the things he couldn’t say out loud. There was a dark moment when he thought she didn’t feel the same things he did. Was he wrong about the two of them?
No. He felt her response, and his uncertainty evaporated like mist burned away by the Florida sun.
