“Domenika, no matter where the evidence leads us on the Shroud, I assure you my life’s already been turned upside down by you,” Bondurant said.
Domenika only blushed. She had never expected him to be so forward.
“In vino, veritas,” Bondurant said. “I know I need not translate it for you.”
“In wine, the truth,” Domenika said. They toasted each other once again, and Bondurant began to fill the decanter with their third bottle of wine.
“In the end, it’s only the truth that matters, right?” Bondurant said.
“I can hardly believe my ears,” Domenika said. “Everything is on the line for you here. Your reputation. Your credibility. Yet you act like you take it so lightly.”
“Not so, really,” Bondurant said. “I care very much about what we’ll learn here. I still think I might be right about what I’ve said about the Shroud all along. But it’s not like your faith, Domenika. It’s not the end of all things if I’m wrong.”
“I see,” Domenika said. “My life is built on faith. If I doubt my faith or lose my faith, I have nothing left to stand on or to live for. Is that it?”
“It’s a little different for me,” Bondurant said. “I stand on the truth and go where it leads me. But if I deny the truth or ignore the truth, then I too am lost.”
Domenika took a large sip of wine. She reached for her purse and pulled out an envelope. She handed it across the table to Bondurant.
“What’s this?” Bondurant asked.
“Just something I thought you might like to take home with you,” Domenika said. She looked on as he opened the envelope.
Bondurant’s eyes grew wide as he took out a photograph. It was a picture Bondurant had never seen before, one that must have been taken by a Vatican photographer during a break in the past two weeks. It was a photo of both Bondurant and Domenika, caught in a casual moment together between work sessions. Both of them were smiling. Domenika could tell Bondurant was pleased.
“I don’t know what to say, Domenika,” he said.
“Then don’t say it,” she said. “You’ve already got one of me on my own. I thought maybe you’d like one of us together.”
“That’s how I’d like to remember us, Domenika,” he said.
“Remember us?” Domenika asked. “So that’s how you want to leave it? We’ll remember each other?”
“No, no, no. What I meant was that—”
Domenika cut him off by placing a hand over his mouth. Then she slid her chair next to his and put her hands in his.
And then, against all good professional judgment, she kissed him.
CHAPTER 28
Turin, Italy
June 2014
Come. Come into the church,” Domenika said. She playfully waved her hand back and forth before Bondurant’s eyes as if she were attempting to hypnotize him.
She took him by the hand and urged him up the worn marble steps of the Duomo di Torino, the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist, where the Shroud had been safely returned now that Bondurant’s team had completed their work. It would be weeks before all the results were analyzed, but their work in Turin was done. It was one o’clock in the morning, and Bondurant, certain that the well-lit cathedral had been closed for several hours, laughed at the futility of her quest. The piazza in front of the famed cathedral was completely deserted except for the shadows of the trees, slightly swaying in the glow of the streetlamps that surrounded the square.
“You’re determined to drag me into the light one way or another, angel,” he replied, reluctantly letting go of her hand as he took a seat on the timeworn steps facing the deserted piazza. Only a couple of pigeons zealously pecking away at a scrap of bread a few steps below joined them so late at night. The city of Turin was sound asleep.
Domenika tried the brass handles on the cathedral’s enormous rear wooden doors, only to find them locked tight. She rapped on them in earnest, sending a loud echo across the piazza.
“Shh. Quiet. We’ve already spent one night with the police,” he pleaded.
She was clearly drunk, and he was not far from it. With the work of the investigation complete, he was free to break her prohibition, and his first taste of scotch in two weeks had brought about its intended effect. Bondurant was feeling high. The nearly three bottles of wine they’d shared over dinner had loosened up Domenika as well. She gave up on the church doors and sat down beside him. Then she fully reclined against the smooth steps, which were still slightly warm from the day’s hot summer sun.
Bondurant followed her gaze up at the stars framed in part by the cathedral’s imposing spire. His head spun slightly, and he looked instead at Domenika’s long, shapely athletic legs stretched out beside him.
“You called me an angel. That’s silly. You don’t believe in angels, Jon,” she said as she looked up at the heavens. She let out a loud hiccup and began to giggle softly. “So much for your angel,” she murmured.
“I meant ‘angel’ in another sense, Domenika. As in the fifth level.”
“What do you mean by that?” she asked, turning toward him curiously. She slurred one of her words a little, which he thought was cute. “Is this another story from one of your silly books?”
He wondered whether it was wise to explain what he meant when both of them were a long way from thinking clearly and she’d probably remember little. But the slight hint of orange blossoms from her perfume and the smell of wine on her breath as she exhaled lightly was an intoxicating mix for him. He turned toward her and, quietly, so she wouldn’t take notice, inhaled.
“Maybe I’d better not get into it right now,” he said as he turned away to stargaze again as well. “Maybe another time, when we—”
Hiccup. She laughed quietly at herself again and held her hands to her mouth. He noticed for the first time just how small and delicate they were.
“No, please. Please, Jon. Tell me all about your angels,” she said as she kicked off her heels. One of them tumbled down a few steps and sent the pigeons into flight.
“The last woman I made the mistake of explaining this to slapped me so hard I felt it for hours,” he said. “She didn’t appreciate where I placed her on the scale.”
“I haven’t slapped a man in hours, maybe days,” she pouted. “Now you’ve got me curious.”
“Just remember, you’re the one who insisted,” he warned as he reclined next to her, close enough to feel the warmth of her bare shoulder. She didn’t move an inch. The stars above him seemed to drift.
Hiccup. “Class is in session, Professor.”
“All women, aesthetically speaking, can be placed in one category or another on a scale of beauty, from one to five,” he said.
“All women?” she asked dreamily.
“Well, not all women. By my calculation, there are a lot who don’t make it to the first rung. It’s at this point in the story where you are free to slap. This is your chance.”
“I’m listening,” she said. She yawned and rubbed her tanned bare feet together.
“All right, bear with me. The first level, the first rung on the ladder of beauty, is ‘cute.’ You know cute. Everybody does,” he said.
“I do?”
“Sure. A cute girl was probably a tomboy when she was young. She almost always has short hair. Eyes are her striking feature. Not much makeup. Always petite. She is the girl you can’t wait to bring home to meet your family. She looks good in a baseball cap. She’s smart, funny. Likes sports. She’s one of the guys. Your best friend or your brothers all have a crush on her but won’t say it. She’s adorable, and your mother wants you to marry her before she gets away.”
“I like ‘cute.’ Go on.” Hiccup.
“All girls do. Cute’s not threatening to other women. Old-school, think Audrey Hepburn.”
“I just love her.”
“Now, the next level up the scale is ‘pretty.’ Pretty usually has long, lustrous hair. Pretty knows how to dress. She knows clothes. She’s mastered the art of makeup. S
he’s well put together. You like when she stands next to you because she somehow makes you look better. She’s smooth. She looks good in every light, without trying. She’s photogenic. Never takes a bad picture. When you see her, you have to do a double take. You’re still thinking about her five minutes after she walks by. Modern-day, she’s an Angelina Jolie type.”
“You’re sure there are three more levels?” Domenika asked.
“Just wait. The third level of beauty is ‘beautiful.’ This one’s a big step up. Several rungs up the ladder. She looks stunning 24/7. She could wear a burlap bag and still be a knockout anywhere she goes. She could wake up in your bed completely hungover, having slept in her own vomit, and still look like a million bucks. When this woman walks into a room, you don’t just look. You stare. Everybody does. You’re forced to. And women are looking at her as much as men. Magazine looks. A Sophia Loren. A ‘cover girl.’ ”
“I know one of those,” Domenika said wistfully. “What could be more beautiful than that?” Hiccup.
“Then there’s the fourth level. It’s ‘gorgeous.’ There’s a dividing line between ‘beautiful’ and ‘gorgeous’ that’s almost imperceptible, but it’s there. And it’s all about sex. Gorgeous is beautiful with major-league sex appeal. It’s beauty that’s inviting you to be bad. It’s Marilyn Monroe. Gorgeous says ‘I got it. Try to get it.’ Beauty is something you want to look at. Gorgeous is something you want to do something with.”
Domenika shifted onto her side, directly facing him. No more than three inches separated them. She closed her eyes.
“And the fifth level?” she whispered.
“Reserved for a handful of women. For good reason. Level five is ‘angelic.’ And just as the word implies, it’s a woman that looks like she’s not of this earth. Perfection. Untouchable. She walks into a room and it goes quiet. She takes the air out of it. Time stops. Beauty so stunning it’s sad because it is so rarified, like it’s in danger of extinction. It’s a reminder. Everything in this life, including beauty, is temporal. That’s why statues are sculpted to preserve it. It cannot be touched or had or loved. At least by no mortal. Someone like Princess Grace. Grace Kelly. That’s ‘angelic.’ ”
He turned toward Domenika. She looked to be sleeping. He took advantage of the moment and studied her face for almost a minute.
Hiccup.
“Then why have you called me an angel, Jon?” she asked as she opened her eyes. “I’m no angel.”
“Yes, you are,” he said, turning away. He could not look directly at her with what he was about to say. He summoned the courage to make himself vulnerable with a woman for the first time ever. “You leave me breathless every time I see you.” There, I said it, for better or worse, he thought.
With that, Domenika leaned in, pulled him toward her, and kissed him longingly, more softly and warmly than he thought possible. Their bodies touched for the first time, and her fingers moved delicately down his shirt to his waist. He always closed his eyes when he kissed, but he kept them open for a moment as if to see for himself it was really happening. She felt small in his arms.
“Jon, you said they cannot be touched, or had, or loved,” she said in his ear, close enough that he could feel her lips as she whispered.
He kissed her again and caressed her cheek. Then he turned away once again before he answered, unable to look at her.
“I did say that, didn’t I,” he said. “All I can say is that I know you have turned me inside out, and I know that I just love the thought of you sometimes.”
“Oh, my. I’ve always wanted someone to love the thought of me,” she said, and then giggled.
“That’s not what I meant. It’s just that you’re the closest I’ve ever come to filling the hole.”
“Now you’re just being fresh.”
He grimaced at how he had phrased it. “That’s not what I meant. I meant the hole inside me. It’s a little less dark when you are around. I don’t know how you do it, but you’ve bewitched me somehow,” he said.
She shifted her hips and crossed her leg over his, pulling him hard against her. Inebriated or not, Bondurant couldn’t help but remember where they were. Yet Domenika was tipsy enough that she seemed to be encouraging his advances. Bondurant was no expert on where sex between consenting adults on cathedral grounds fit in the grand hierarchy of sins in the Catholic faith. But he figured it must be high up the ladder of mortal sins, ones that required serious contrition and confession to a priest.
Bondurant didn’t want to be responsible for sending Domenika into a confessional to seek forgiveness for something he knew she would never ordinarily do. He pulled away from her embrace and stood up. He offered his hand, and while she tried to pull him down again toward her at first, she gently relented, stood, and wrapped her arm around his waist as they descended the cathedral steps.
They walked toward their hotel, a few minutes away. Each of them was as quiet as the night. They said nothing as they walked. Bondurant didn’t have a clue what Domenika was thinking as they strode along, but as he led her back to their hotel his own mind raced with a dilemma. He wanted nothing more than to spend the night with her if she genuinely wanted to be with him. But the question of how much of her sudden affection toward him came from the heart as opposed to the wine loomed large for him, and he couldn’t quite believe it did. He had been in countless similar situations with women in the past and hadn’t hesitated even once to take advantage. Yet now, when he finally found himself head over heels for a woman for the first time in his life, he had no idea what his next move would be.
They half stumbled together out of the elevator on her floor at the hotel. He watched as she fumbled for the room key in her purse. Domenika had clearly forgotten how to swipe the card so the door would open. Bondurant reached over and took the key card from her. After a few attempts by him, the door light blinked and the suite opened up before them. Before he could stop at the entrance, Domenika took him by the hand and led him through the low-lit room straight to her bed. Bondurant relaxed, laid his head on a pillow, and stared up at Domenika, who looked down on him from only inches away. She smiled at him and softly caressed his cheek. He turned onto his side and motioned for her to lie down beside him. When he reached out for her arms, she gently pushed his away. Domenika sat on the side of the bed as if to think for a moment, and then stood up to make her way to the bathroom. Bondurant closed his eyes and imagined what might come next.
When Domenika came out of the bathroom, she walked over to the bed and turned off the light on the nightstand. Bondurant could see by the faint glow of the clock beside them that she wore only a T-shirt. She slid under the covers and invited Bondurant to do the same. She leaned over and kissed him softly and then finally broke the silence that had lasted since they embraced at the church.
“I have three secrets. Would you like to hear them?” Domenika asked in a whisper.
“I don’t care. Tell me a hundred,” Bondurant said. He loved the sound of her voice, especially in the dark.
“Listen carefully. The first you may discard, okay? The second you must live with. You have to promise. And the third—well, the third is up to you to change, if you’d like,” she said. She rubbed her nose lightly against his and then stole a kiss.
“What’s the first?” he asked.
“My hiccups are gone. I think I lost them when we first kissed back at the cathedral.” He laughed, and she took his hand softly in hers.
“Okay. That one I’m supposed to discard. What’s the second?” he asked as he intertwined his fingers with hers.
“That I am falling for you, and at the same time I cannot stand you. Does that make sense, Jon?”
“Domenika—”
“No, please, Jon. You don’t have to say anything. Don’t,” she implored as she held his hand to her cheek. “Like I said, it’s something you must live with.”
Bondurant turned away from her and felt guilty that he hadn’t committed more deeply to her back at the
cathedral, given what she’d said. He gathered the courage to look back at her, this time directly into her eyes. It was then that he felt a sudden rush of anxiety.
“Domenika, I don’t think I want to know the third secret.”
“It’s too late. I’ve decided,” Domenika said. She removed his hand from her cheek and slowly moved it up her exposed thigh so that his fingers gently grazed the space between her legs. Then she rested her head on his pillow and closed her eyes.
“The third is that I am a virgin, Jon,” she whispered readily. “I swear it. And, as I said, this you can change tonight.”
CHAPTER 29
Rome, Italy
June 2014
Tweet, tweet, tweet . . . Tweet, tweet, tweet . . . Tweet, tweet, tweet.
Domenika didn’t even have to look at her phone. She knew whose name would appear on her caller ID. After three days of ignoring Bondurant’s calls from the United States, she thought he would get the message and leave her alone. But he didn’t.
Tweet, tweet, tweet . . . Tweet, tweet, tweet . . . Tweet, tweet, tweet.
Bondurant had called at least five times a day, but Domenika just could not bring herself to take his call. At least not yet.
There was the silly promise she had made to her sister to test him out. Was Bondurant smitten enough to journey all the way to Rome to sweep her off her feet? Not likely, she thought. He’d wasted days trying to call her when he could have been on and off a plane by now.
More important, it was what had happened in their last hours together. The way he’d simply left. He hadn’t even waited around to say good-bye, to say thanks. No parting words. Just up and left while she slept after what they’d done. She knew Bondurant was a pro at this game of one-night stands, if that’s what it was, but she clearly was not. She wasn’t ready to face him after the way he’d treated her, the way he’d used her.
Tweet, tweet, tweet . . . Tweet, tweet, tweet . . . Tweet, tweet, tweet.
The Shroud Conspiracy Page 20
