After settling in, Jack decided he approved of the room location. His window had a clear view of the small square.
Two women chatted with the fruit and vegetable vendor at Fruttivendolo Conti as she closed up shop. The butcher swept the pavement by his doorway. Boys kicked a soccer ball around the fountain. No obvious strangers in sight.
That evening he and Sophie walked to the restaurant, Trattoria da Paolo, across the square. The host, Paolo himself, greeted Sophie like long-lost family and brought them his family’s best Chianti. He seemed to remember her, but Sophie replied only in monosyllables.
Over aromatic spaghetti with a porcini mushroom sauce, she informed Jack that Paolo said she’d taught his young daughter to make an origami bird. She had no memory of the man or the village.
This woman who could converse with the wall restrained herself per his orders. Hunched over her plate, she seemed more ethereal and fragile than ever.
The waiter brought her marinated grilled chicken and his bistecca fiorentina—a huge cut of T-bone—both grilled.
Jack didn’t know what to say, so he picked up his knife and fork. He didn’t wear emotions outwardly. Or handle others’ emotions comfortably. Sophie’s laughter or tears were never far beneath the surface.
But not temper.
She hardly ever stood up for herself. Her casual obedience and subdued acceptance confounded him. He almost wished she’d rebel and converse away with everyone in the place. Almost.
Unwarranted or not, guilt turned the grilled beef from tender to tough in his mouth.
The next day, Sophie felt as if lead weighted down her Gucci sandals as she trudged across the square from the bar where they’d just eaten lunch. She was tired and her shoulder ached. Quiet blanketed the square as shops began to close for siesta.
She sighed as they approached the inn. “You’d think there’d be at least one Rinaldi alive in this town.”
That morning they’d searched town and church records for Rinaldis. The only ones they’d found had lain in the cemetery. The elderly priest had informed them the last Rinaldi family had moved away twenty years ago.
“Give it time, Sophie. Rest a while. Then we’ll walk around and see if anything looks familiar.”
“Sounds like a plan.” She forced a sanguine tone but had little hope. So far in this town, no scent or object or person had fished out a memory from the deep pool of Sophie’s brain. She had only a few glimpses of her missing memory, and Vadim’s face tainted those.
This morning, unwinding the silk scarf from the saint statuette had triggered the sensation of him kissing her hand. Did he do more than kiss my hand? Could I be wrong that he wasn’t my lover? Anxiety made the panini she’d eaten for lunch grow heavy in her stomach.
“One more night here ought to be safe enough,” Jack continued. “Putting off bending myself into a pretzel to bounce around mountain roads in that damn can suits me fine.”
Relief washed over Sophie like a balm. Her bruised body could use the day, too.
The siesta’s peace was broken as a refrigerated truck clattered into the square. The words Vianello e Figlio and cartoons of lambs, pigs and cows decorated its sides. With a squeal of brakes the meat truck stopped as its driver consulted a clipboard.
“No noise-abatement laws here, I guess,” Jack said, shaking his head at the disturbance.
She was about to comment when she saw a small figure in bright yellow dart past them. The girl, about three years old, ran from the fruit-and-vegetable shop. Dark curls bobbed and chubby legs pumped as she chased a gray kitten back and forth.
The meat truck began backing toward the butcher shop.
Unaware, the toddler pursued her pet as it darted back and forth.
Directly in the path of the truck.
Chapter 8
Sophie stiffened. Adrenaline pounding her pulse in her ears, she started toward the child. “Attenzione!”
The truck’s clattering and grinding drowned out her warning.
The girl scurried back and forth after the kitten.
Before Sophie could take a second step, Jack raced across the square. His long legs ate up the distance.
Distracted by a blowing leaf on the paving stones, the kitten put on the brakes as the child reached it.
Jack scooped up girl and cat together. Two more strides removed them all from harm’s way as the oblivious truck driver kept backing toward the butcher shop.
Sophie exhaled her pent-up breath. Dizziness threatened, and she had to steady herself.
Jack marched up to Sophie and handed off the wide-eyed little girl to her like a football. Sophie clutched the child with her one good arm, and when she saw his face, she nearly dropped her.
Color had drained from his cheeks. His tan looked gray. When he turned away, his hands were shaking.
“Fabiana! Mi bambina!” Shrieking with terror for her baby and waving her arms, the produce vendor ran to them.
As soon as little Fabiana saw her mother in such a state, her chubby face puckered and tears filled her blue eyes. She joined the panic, crying for her mamma.
Sophie handed her over, and the woman clutched the child so desperately that Fabiana bawled harder.
The kitten yowled and clawed its way to freedom. It tore across the square to home and safety in the fruttivendolo.
All the while the woman babbled her thanks to the kind stranieri—foreigners—who had saved her daughter’s life. Amid tears and smacking kisses on her daughter’s cheek, she called Jack her hero. She began to settle down, but when people came out of other shops to investigate the commotion, her hysteria mounted again.
She wailed. The child bawled even louder.
Jack stood apart, gray-faced and stiff as the paving stones underfoot.
Sophie’s heart bled, but what could she do for him? Nothing at the moment. Calming the child came first, poor baby. Her only injuries were a few claw scratches. Fabiana’s face grew redder and redder with every exclamation from her mother’s mouth. She gasped for air, close to hyperventilating.
Sophie shooed away the spectators and, crooning soothing words, escorted mother and child back to the shop.
She glanced back to see Jack trudging along behind them. His mouth was tight, his eyes not cool and assessing but filled with the weary dullness of a grief-stricken parent.
“You okay?”
Jack stopped short of closing his door on Sophie.
They’d just returned from the fruttivendolo, and he ducked into the sanctuary of his room. Rude, he knew, but he needed time alone to regroup. He reeled from the near calamity. Judging from her words, she knew that.
Stepping aside for her to enter, he said, “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
A knowing but sad smile blossomed. She closed the gap between them and wrapped her good arm around him. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder.
She fit him perfectly, the exact height for her head to fit beneath his chin. He kept his hands away from her, his body rigid so he wouldn’t succumb to the pleasure of her body against him. He damn near didn’t breathe so he wouldn’t inhale her scent. An impossible challenge.
“Saving that child was heroic. I could see it hit you pretty hard.” Her voice muffled against his chest, she held him tightly. “I was terrified. I shudder to think what could’ve happened.”
He didn’t want a hug. He didn’t need a hug.
Damn it, what was she doing? Her warm tears wet his shirt. He felt her tremble. Ah, the aftermath of danger.
The woman had deep strengths, for herself and for emergencies. When Vadim’s men had chased them, she’d hung tough, hadn’t fallen apart then or afterward. Today, when the child and her mother had needed help, Sophie had taken charge. No shock for herself, but plenty for a little one. And a huge, warm heart that included everyone.
He melted. How could he deny her? What the hell. If she needed comforting, he could handle that. Careful with her sore shoulder, he curved his arms around her.
They st
ood quietly, wrapped around each other. He could feel the fine bones of her spine through the thin T-shirt, the plump fullness of her breasts against his chest.
Getting the stretchy cotton over her head that morning had made him sweat until she’d finally tugged it down over her barely covered breasts.
He was sweating again.
Gradually her tears dried and her trembling stopped. Her scent and her softness seeped into him, giving the comfort he’d denied. One part of Jack hardened, but his muscles relaxed and the band around his chest eased.
Sophie tilted her head to regard him oddly, as if considering what to say. A few remaining tears beaded her thick lashes. One fell, trickling down her dampened cheek to the slight indent by her mouth.
He shouldn’t touch—any more than he was already. But that single tear pulled his finger up to swipe it away. Her cheek felt unbearably tender, a damp petal. And her mouth—he ached to run his finger across her full lower lip, to kiss her again. To do more than kiss.
What had Leoni said? Enjoy the scenery, but don’t touch.
On a deep breath Jack dropped his hand and stepped back.
Sophie did not. Her hand went to his forearm. “That awful scare must’ve reminded you of your son.”
Seeing that little girl in danger had stabbed him in the heart. Fear had galvanized him. No parent should suffer the senseless tragedy of losing a child.
“I don’t need reminders.” He cleared his throat and crossed the room, away from her touch.
No more consolation. No softening. He wanted to relish the sharp, fresh pain, to stoke the ruthless, relentless need for revenge.
“I didn’t mean you could ever forget.” She pivoted and grasped the doorknob. “If you ever want to talk, I’m here.”
He should let her go. Hell, he should push her out the door. But he said, “What was all that babbling the mother did before you calmed her down?”
A tender smile dancing on her lips, Sophie released the knob. “I didn’t understand everything Chiara said. That’s her name. She spoke in fast-forward, and the Tuscan accent changes the c and ch sounds. What I gather is that Fabiana got up from her nap and slipped past Mom. Probably to follow the kitten.
“Chiara blames the butcher—he’s her brother-in-law—for not coming out to supervise the trucker. She called him some colorful names. Creative ones, involving the animals whose meat he sells, and definitely insulting.”
“You were amazing, the origami and all.” He’d stood by in mute shock while Sophie had distracted the child by making an origami swan with pink and green tissue paper from the fruit display. The project had calmed both mother and daughter. And intrigued Jack. “You’re a natural teacher.”
Sophie laughed. “Maybe. I learned origami from an art teacher. I used to do crafts with the Donati kids when we couldn’t go to the park. We made all kinds of things.”
“You just proved my statement. Natural teacher.”
She shook her head. “A variation on nanny. Not in my plans.”
“Isn’t there some saying? ‘Life is what happens while you’re making other plans.’”
“When I get my memory back, maybe I’ll know.”
Before he could respond, she slipped out the door.
Their afternoon tour of the town and environs produced no memories for Sophie. As dusk approached, they returned to the inn to change for dinner.
Jack took the time to check in with Leoni. He reported their location and that they planned to move on the next day. “Any developments?”
“Not much. Vadim owns several properties under his various aliases. Some in Italy, some in Cleatia, one on Cyprus. We’re tracking them down, but it’s slow going. The Cleatian authorities don’t want to cooperate.”
Jack could almost hear Leoni’s shrug. He made himself comfortable on the bed. “And the courier Dobrich? Autopsy results yet?”
Sophie knocked on their connecting door and opened it. He waved her in, and she crossed to the window. In preparation for dinner, she’d changed from cropped pants into a short skirt, something she could manage one-handed. The scoop-necked top was the same. He should be glad she hadn’t needed his help, but he was no saint.
When she sat to observe the square, he had an excellent view of her trim legs. She would people watch, and he would Sophie watch.
“Funny you should ask,” said Leoni. “Damaged spleen, low blood count, lungs shot. Doc said radiation poisoning. If they hadn’t shot him, he’d have died in a matter of days anyway.”
“He opened the package.”
“That’s my take on it. Makes sense. He didn’t know what he had. After his boss was picked up, he was on his own, curious. And you know what they say about curiosity.”
Jack emitted a long, low whistle. “If radiation was released, whoever has the package now could be in trouble.”
Wide-eyed in alarm, Sophie stared at him, but he mouthed okay, and she returned her attention to the square.
“Vadim’s no dummy. He would’ve had it secured again.”
“I hope you’re right.”
They ended the conversation. Jack related Leoni’s update to Sophie.
She nodded absently. “You might want to look at this man sitting outside the trattoria. I don’t think he’s local.”
He joined her at the window and immediately knew what she meant.
Thirties, short dark hair slicked back, black polo and shiny trousers, predatory look. Drinking a glass of something, he sat apart from the other patrons, who glanced nervously his way from time to time.
The fine hairs on Jack’s nape rose. “Definitely not local. Not a tourist.”
He had hit man written all over him.
The distance fuzzed the picture, but Jack snapped three shots with his cell phone. Leoni could ask the techs to enhance them enough to ID the guy. Fifty euros said he was known to the polizia.
“Look, there’s Chiara, Fabiana’s mom, leaving the trattoria,” said Sophie. The woman glanced furtively at the stranger, then jogged across the square. “She’s coming here, to the inn.”
Jack kept his eyes on the stranger. At the man’s waist, beneath his shirt, bulged a distinctive shape. Armed. Unusual in Italy.
Excited voices rose from downstairs, then louder as the speakers mounted the stairs. There was a frantic pounding on Jack’s door. “Signore! Signora!”
“What is it?” Sophie rose from her chair and wrapped her good arm around her injured one as if for security.
Jack opened the door to Chiara and the innkeeper, who were talking in chorus. He stepped back and motioned Sophie forward. He listened to the excited exchange, punctuated with expansive hand gestures, but he understood little. Only the words stranieri, foreigners, and pericolo, danger.
When the rapid-fire conversation began to run out of ammunition, he could stand waiting no more. “Sophie, explain.”
Her eyes were bright, but her cheeks had paled. “Chiara says she was delivering peppers and mushrooms to the kitchen when the waitress ran in all nervous. The man out there was asking if any foreigners were in town. She says he’s a Southerner. That seems to be the local term for Mafia.”
He looked out the window.
The Southerner he preferred to call “Slick” sat sipping his drink and browsing the square with a hard gaze. The waitress, her eyes round as plates, brought him a pasta dish.
Good. Still there. Would be there for a while. “What did the waitress tell him?”
Sophie relayed the question to Chiara, who stood wringing her hands. Her eyes were still puffy from her earlier fright. Another volley of words, and Sophie said, “She told him he was the first stranger she’d seen in weeks.”
He was impressed, but somebody would blab soon. Slick was here for them. But he wanted to calm her. “Good, then maybe we’re okay.”
“Wait, Jack.” Not calmed, she gripped his arm. “He described us—a man and a woman with her arm in a sling. He’s looking for us!”
He nodded and turned to the ga
ping innkeeper and Chiara. “Grazie mille,” he said, thanking the women and shaking their hands.
To Sophie he said, “Please tell the innkeeper we’re checking out.”
After Sophie translated, the innkeeper dashed downstairs to prepare their bill. Sophie and her new fan exchanged cheek kisses, and then Chiara left.
“Chiara says Paolo will keep the Southerner occupied with food and a full wineglass.”
“Good, but I’m taking no chances. Get your bags.”
In a few moments, bill paid and bags packed, Jack hoisted his duffel on his shoulder and entered Sophie’s room. “Ready?”
She lifted the red tote from the bed. “I’ll carry this.”
“You sure you can handle it?” He lifted the larger one.
“It’s light.”
He snorted in disbelief. “The thing weighs a ton. What’s so heavy?”
Sophie gave him a wobbly smile. “Shoes, makeup. Stuff.”
There was no time to argue. If she’d healed enough so she could carry it, he’d let her. They made their way through the labyrinth of corridors to the back stairs that led to the parking area.
As darkness descended on the small town, Jack drove the Fiat into the hills. He remembered the roads well enough and headed for a crossroads where he turned farther south.
Since they would get no dinner, Sophie divided what was left of the pecorino and fruit to eat as they drove.
He crunched into an apple as he chewed on what had just happened. “Sophie, those people in that town saved our lives.”
“Yes. Yes, they did.” Her voice caught with emotion. “Chiara and Paolo and even Paolo’s little waitress.”
He’d admonished her not to chat, not to get involved in people’s lives, that calling attention to themselves was dangerous. As it turned out, their safety depended on that same involvement.
Was he too by-the-book, too harsh in his approach?
To everything?
Deadly Memories Page 10
