“You remember that gun I had earlier, right?” he said in his snarky British accent.
“Look, if you need to shoot me, then do it, because if I don’t find Gil my life is over anyway. He’s the only family I have left.” I choked back the lump in my throat that was forming because my body wanted to cry. I had gotten this far. I couldn’t start falling apart now.
He shoved his hands into his pockets as he took me in and sighed resolutely.
“Well . . . why don’t we start over?” He held out his hand to greet me officially. “My name is Ian Hale. And I’m a friend.”
Chapter 5
I shook Ian’s hand hesitantly, and we stood there for a moment evaluating each other. Now that we had been formally introduced, and Ian’s gun was tucked away, I wanted to believe that he was an ally of Gil’s. I had started this venture flying solo, with almost no leads. I certainly wouldn’t say I trusted this Ian Hale, but I couldn’t deny that discovering him might make finding Gil much easier.
“You’ve had a long trip and you’re probably getting hungry. Why don’t you let me buy you dinner?” he offered with a crooked smile. “There’s a place not far from here.”
“That’s very nice of you, but unnecessary.” It’s true, I was starving, but I wasn’t about to go anywhere with this guy quite yet.
“We can walk there,” he said.
“Um, okay then.” Walking was good. I had a better chance of escape on foot if Ian decided to wield his gun again. But mostly, I had a ton of questions, and a public place felt like a better location to get them answered.
I grabbed my bag, Gil’s journal tucked safely inside. Ian held the door for me as we walked out of the building. It was a nice evening. Clear skies and a cool breeze. The streetlights were on the opposite side of the street, making our walk a bit too shadowy for my taste. We walked a block in silence before Ian spoke.
“Why did you come all the way to Italy just because you couldn’t reach Gil? That seems pretty extreme.”
“How was Gil working for you?” I replied.
“Do you answer every question with a question?” He smirked with a cocked eyebrow.
I gave a nervous laugh. “Only when I’ve traveled thousands of miles to find my missing brother.”
“What makes you think he’s missing?”
“Because I know Gil. He . . . did something very out of character. Something that I interpreted as a call for help. When I tried to find him, I discovered that he hadn’t been entirely honest with me. I have no idea where he is and I’m pretty sure he’s in some sort of trouble. I knew I had to do something; I’m not a sit-around-and-wait kind of girl.”
“I can see that. What did he do?” Ian asked.
I didn’t answer, but instead looked at Ian over my nose as if to say, You think I’m really going to spill everything?
“You’re smart not to trust me. Not because you can’t, because you certainly can, but it will serve you well to not trust people you’ve just met.”
The hostess began to seat us near the center of the small, crowded restaurant, but I requested, with some awkward pointing and head nodding, the back corner table instead. Once we were settled, our waitress came by and took our drink orders.
“Vino rosso, per piacere,” Ian said in perfect Italian.
“Proper English and Italian? Impressive,” I teased.
“If I wanted to impress you, I’d make sure you knew I also spoke Russian, German, and French.” He flashed another crooked smile.
I didn’t want to be so disarmed by Ian’s charisma, but his piercing blue eyes gazing into mine was making it difficult—and his strong jaw and day-old beard weren’t helping. His thick, messy hair told me he couldn’t be any more than twenty-six, if that. I knew he was dangerous, but he was hot, distractingly so. Less than an hour ago, he’d held a gun to my stomach and now he was buying me dinner—and flirting.
“Mission accomplished,” I said softly as I looked over the menu.
Although there was a hotel down the street, the restaurant clearly did not cater to tourists. Every word on the menu was in Italian, and I couldn’t read a stitch of it.
“I think you’re going to have to do some translating here,” I said sheepishly.
“Are you a picky eater?” he asked, not looking up from his menu.
“Not really. I’m not a fan of weird things, but I’m pretty open to almost anything.” French food had some adventurous dishes like escargot and foie gras, and most Scottish dishes were based on a dare. Italian food, though, seemed safe.
“Good. I’ll just order for you,” he said. I nodded in agreement.
When the waitress came back, she had a bottle of red wine and two glasses. She set the glasses down, poured each of us a glass, and left the bottle on the table. After a quick conversation with Ian, she walked back to the kitchen.
“Okay,” I muttered.
“So,” Ian said before he took a sip of his wine.
“So?” I countered.
“The wine is good. You should have some,” he told me.
“I’m not old enough,” I told him. Not that Tiffany and I hadn’t enjoyed a drink or two, or more, in my apartment. It’s just that I had never dared to drink out in the open.
“You don’t look under eighteen,” he said, taking another sip.
“I’m twenty.”
“Then have a sip, Victoria.”
“It’s Vic,” I corrected.
Ian twisted his mouth as he considered my name. “I like Victoria better.”
No one had called me Victoria since I was twelve years old. When I turned thirteen, I told my mother that Victoria was too proper, and Tori was too preppy, and from that point on, I wanted to be called Vic. To me it was a stronger, more commanding name.
“Who are you?” I said as I took a sip of wine. It was better than any wine that Tiffany and I had ever had, which wasn’t saying much since the wine came in a box.
Ian crossed his legs and sat sideways in his chair like an old movie star. He leaned on the table with his elbow and looked at me intently. I wanted to believe Ian was a good guy. Gil wouldn’t have worked with him if he didn’t trust him. If everything Ian had said was true, then he was my only hope of finding my brother.
“What would you like to know, Victoria?” he asked slyly.
“Really? You’re going to answer any question I ask? And answer it honestly?”
“I didn’t say that. I asked you what you wanted to know. But if you’re really Gil’s sister, and you’re anything like him, I’m fairly sure I can trust you with the truth.”
“That’s not very guarded of you, Ian,” I said. He raised his eyebrows and wineglass to me before taking another sip.
“My job is to read people. I have to know within a matter of seconds whether I can trust them or not,” he explained.
“So at what point in time were you fairly sure you could trust me? Was it before or after you had a gun to my chest?”
“It was in the hotel room, when my gun didn’t stop you from asking questions, and every moment since then.”
The waiter brought our food, giving me the perfect excuse to unlock our gaze and regain my composure. I had a sneaking suspicion that his endgame was to seduce me into jumping onto the first flight back to Miami. But if he thought that a cute accent and a gorgeous face was enough to make me leave the country without my brother, then it was time to look for another job, because he was reading me all wrong.
But that could wait. On the table in front of me was possibly the most incredible-looking bowl of pasta ever made. Just the aroma wafting from the dish made my stomach growl with anticipation. A rich, meaty sauce on a bed of ribbons of pasta. It looked delicious, and I wanted to eat it more than I’d ever wanted to eat anything. I gaped in a carb-induced frenzy.
“It’s traditional Bolognese. Buon appe
tito.”
“Thank you,” I smiled softly. I pierced the pasta with my fork and blew on it for a moment before I put it in my mouth. I began to compare it to Sam’s spaghetti sauce—the recipe I swore no one could ever hold a candle to—and immediately felt bad because it wasn’t even a contest. The flavors exploded in my mouth, and I involuntarily let out a little moan.
“Well!” Ian responded with a sexy smile. “That’s definitely a good sound.”
I blushed, embarrassed. “Yeah, it’s really good. I can’t afford to eat like this at home,” I admitted.
“Yet you can afford to fly to Italy,” Ian challenged me. I put my fork down and took another sip of wine, which made the food taste even better. I didn’t know if I should tell Ian about the airline settlement, but then decided that he probably wouldn’t care. Ian didn’t come across like the type who was out for the money; I got the feeling that his MO entailed something much larger. And perhaps telling him would assure him of my ability to finance my own journey to find Gil?
“Well, I choose not to eat like this at home.” I paused, carefully choosing my words. “Do you remember the crash of Northwest flight eight-fifteen?”
“Was that the flight that crashed on the runway six years ago?” he asked, a worried look crossing his face.
“Five. My parents were on that flight.” Throughout the years, the responses after hearing that my parents had died in a horrific plane crash varied from apathy to tears. I was curious what his would be.
“I’m really sorry, Victoria. I know that must have been very difficult for you,” he said. His face was soft and compassionate, but not condescending. His eyes connected with mine, and I knew the next thing out of his mouth wasn’t going to be another suggestion of how going gluten-free or doing tai chi in the park would change my perspective on life.
I nodded. It always seemed strange to say thank you. “The crash was a pilot error. Turns out the airline let him work too many shifts in a row. So, along with the other one hundred and seventy-four families, we received a settlement from the airline that was more money than anyone really needs.”
“And so it’s been just you and Gil then. No wonder you’re here.” Ian leaned forward. “That’s . . . That’s really something.” He looked like he wanted to say something else, but then he shook his head slightly and picked up his fork.
“I wasn’t asking for your sympathy. I just wanted you to know that if me sticking around is a matter of money, I can carry my own weight,” I told him resolutely.
“Money is not an issue, Victoria,” he replied without looking at me.
There was an awkward silence, so I turned back to my food as well. In between bites, I took in the restaurant, admiring the simple decor. There were paintings hanging on the taupe walls and two marble statues of women draped in robes flanking the entrance to the kitchen. There were also decorative maps of Italy featuring different regions along the wall behind Ian. Families told loud, animated stories, emptying bottle after bottle of wine as they laughed. Couples sat close, kissing and holding each other while deep in deep conversation. Public affection like that would get lots of stares back home, but here, no one but me gave them a second look. Dining out in Europe did not appear to be a quick experience. Sam would kill me if I let a table sit as long as these servers did.
“So, what did Gil do that was so out of character?” Ian asked as the waitress cleared our plates.
I made a hard line with my lips, still feeling the need to keep the existence of the journal under lock and key.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask for details, Victoria. It doesn’t really matter. You’ll be gone tomorrow, and as soon as I find Gil, I’ll be sending him home, too,” Ian said matter-of-factly.
“I already told you that I’m not leaving without him,” I replied defiantly.
“And I already told you that you’re not staying.”
“What was Gil doing for you that you granted him permission to stay?” I countered.
“Trust me, I would have sent him home in a flash had he been honest about having a family.” Ian’s voice turned hard and almost angry.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, confused.
“In my line of work, there can be no family or friends to whom you matter, because your death can’t matter.” Seeing the pained look on my face, Ian leaned back in his chair and calmed his tone. “I’m sorry. That was . . . That was brash.”
Ian continued with a softer approach. “When I asked Gil if he had anyone to go home to, he said no.”
Gil was passionate beyond reason about law. He would go days without sleep during a research streak. He once dug through 130 years’ worth of archives to find a precedent that would convict a defendant—for a case study. It didn’t shock me that he denied my existence. Gil could be so single-minded and goal-oriented that the rest of the world disappeared. And based on what Ian said, it was clear that Gil had gotten himself into something pretty deep.
“It doesn’t matter,” I began.
“It does matter! Do you know how many people would love to have someone to go home to?” Ian’s reply was passionate.
“Then help me. Help me find him and bring him home,” I pleaded. “What was Gil doing that could get him killed? And what is it that you do? Please, Ian. It’s your turn to explain. I need answers.”
Ian watched me for a moment, considering his options. I stared back at him, willing him to make up his mind and let me help find Gil. He bit his lip and ran his fingers through his hair.
“I don’t know if you can handle this, Victoria. I wasn’t sure Gil could, either, but he was already in deep and there was nothing I could do.” He sighed. “I want to help you. I just don’t know if—”
“Shut up,” I snapped. Ian creased his brow in surprise and confusion at my cutting him off. I rested my cheek in my hand and pulled my hair down from the ponytail it had been in, letting my long hair fall to shield me from the rest of the restaurant. “The guy at my nine o’clock has been at my twelve and one since we got here. He keeps moving closer and hasn’t had a bite to eat,” I whispered.
Ian’s eyes got bright and a surprised expression came over him. He probably thought I was overreacting and nervous, finding everyone suspicious. But then the faintest smile appeared on his face.
“I take back what I just said.” The smile on his face widened, confusing me.
“I don’t understand,” I replied.
Ian turned toward the guy and motioned for him to come. He nodded and pulled up a chair at the end of our table. “Victoria, this is Damon Pazzia. Damon, this is Gil’s sister, Victoria.”
“Piacere di conoscerti,” Damon said as he took my hand and kissed it. If there was a poster boy for the classic Italian male, it was Damon. He had dark hair and eyes and rich olive skin. He was just like Rudolf Valentino in all those old movies my mom used to watch.
“He’s very pleased to meet you,” Ian laughed.
“I can see that. Does he speak English?” I asked.
“He does. He likes to lead with the Italian, though, don’t you, Damon?”
“The ladies, they like the Italian,” he answered with a smoldering look. “Wait. She is Gil’s sister? Gil has a sister?”
“Yes,” Ian answered.
“That is not good,” Damon said in his Italian accent, his eyes turning dark.
“No. Why don’t you go back and see if we’ve got anything new? I’ve got to figure out what I’m going to do with Victoria,” Ian instructed him.
“I know what I’d like to do with Victoria,” Damon said in a sultry voice that made me blush.
“Go!” Ian demanded. Damon kissed my hand again and exited the restaurant.
“You have to figure out what you’re going to do with me?” I questioned him, annoyed by the implication that I was something to be done with.
“Yo
u surprised me. Damon is a chameleon, a shadow. He’s followed the pope into the Vatican and gone unnoticed.” Ian looked around the restaurant and then back at me. “They were going to seat us in the middle of the room. But you preferred the corner. You like the vantage point it gives.”
“Yeah,” I said in a short breath.
“What else have you noticed?” he asked curiously.
I paused. “The couple to your back right is having relationship problems. Every time she gets up to use the restroom, he checks his phone.”
“That’s not unusual. Maybe he’s looking for the latest football score,” Ian proposed.
“Does the latest football score cause a bead of sweat to form on your upper lip, or cause you to adjust yourself?” I said confidently.
“Go on.” He smiled.
I leaned back in my seat and narrowed my eyes.
“The slight limp tells me our waitress is nursing a blister on her right foot. The man eating alone at your nine o’clock lost his wife not too long ago. He keeps spinning his wedding ring and rubbing it like a genie’s lamp in hopes of bringing her back. You shoved the capers in your dish to the side, which tells me you like the flavor they add, but not the taste of them directly, otherwise you would have requested they make the dish without them.” I smirked at him triumphantly.
“Is that it?” he challenged.
“No. You suck at Candy Crush.”
“What? No I don’t! I mean . . . How did you . . .”
“Were you, or were you not, playing Candy Crush on your iPad when I saw you in the lounge at the hotel?” I leaned forward and rested my forearms on the table.
Ian huffed a smile and licked his lips as he looked away from me for a moment. “Well, Victoria Asher. You may not be headed back to America as quickly as I thought.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s what I’ve been telling you,” I countered.
Ian asked for the check and paid for our dinner. I knew it hadn’t been a date, but it was nice to be on the receiving end for a change.
The night air had turned chillier by the time we began our walk back to the hotel. It was only a few blocks away, but I was kicking myself for leaving my hoodie in my room.
Oxblood Page 6
