Learning to Trust

by Lynne Connolly

  Immediately she subsided, but her heart hammered against his. She’d landed on her back, so if they needed to run he’d better drag her up fast. “Wait for a minute.”

  He counted slowly until three minutes had passed with nothing further happening. They couldn’t stay here all night. “When I say go, get up and run straight inside the café. I’ll cover you.”

  “What if it’s not me they’re after? What if it’s you?”

  He’d hoped she wouldn’t think of that. “If you run fast, so will I. It’s our only chance. Otherwise whoever it is will pick us off when he’s refocused.”

  “Or she.”

  “Yeah.” This so wasn’t the time for political correctness, but yeah, women could shoot just as well as men. “On my mark. Ready?” She nodded. “One, two, three, go!”

  As one, they stood and ran. He reached past her to shove open the door of the now ominously lit café. They stumbled inside, and fell to the neatly black-and-white-tiled floor.

  Several heads turned in query, a few smiling as if they’d done something funny. Perhaps they had, but they were still alive.

  Franco hurried up to them as they got to their feet, keeping close to the wall for any kind of protection. Jon wanted to get Lina upstairs and out of sight, so the delay annoyed him, but Franco stood in front of them, his bulky body partially concealing them, forcing him to pause. He kept a good hold of Lina, kept her to his left side, so his body blocked her, too.

  Franco jabbered a string of words he didn’t understand, but pointed at Jon and then waved his hands around. If Jon wasn’t sweating with tension, the display would have amused him. As it was, it annoyed him.

  “He says you must go.”

  That jibed with what he was thinking. “Tell him to come upstairs.”

  Lina answered and Franco nodded. At least Jon could understand that. After Franco gave the waitress serving at the bar some sharp orders, he gave a jerk of his head, indicating he was ready. Jon let Lina lead the way upstairs, keeping his body between hers and Franco. At this stage, he didn’t trust anybody.

  When they got into her apartment, he crossed to the window, intending to draw the drapes, but Franco became agitated, his “No!” easy to understand.

  “He says if you do that, they’ll know you’re up here. They could aim at the window blind.”

  Jon swung around, careful to keep away from the window. That made sense, but something else didn’t. “How did he know someone just shot at us? Ask him, Lina.”

  With Lina interpreting, he got the message clear enough. “The Colleghi paid me a visit this afternoon,” Franco told them, wringing his plump hands together. “They are not happy that a seller of fake goods has moved into their territory.”

  Shit, that had been Jon’s cover story. He’d seen the sellers down by the harbor, selling everything from handbags and belts to electrical equipment. The idea had come to him, and it seemed like a good cover for his being here, explained why he’d turned up that first day in designer gear.

  Fuck, he came from New York. He should have known someone owned the rights—someone working outside the law, or perhaps with its connivance.

  Franco continued to give them the bad news. “They want you gone. If you go, they say they will leave us alone. I pay my protection and I haven’t had any trouble in the last ten years. I want it to stay that way. You have to go.” Even without Lina interpreting, he would have understood that last remark from the glare Franco gave him. “What they did tonight was a warning. If they had wanted to hit you, you’d be bleeding on the pavement.” Lina stopped and Jon hauled her close, feeling her shiver.

  He sighed and leaned his cheek against the top of her head. “I’ll go. But I want you with me.”

  “Will you be safe?”

  He nodded, letting the silk of her hair caress him. “I gave a false name to the guys downstairs. I’ll go to a good hotel and give my real name, make use of the suit I’ve been hauling around. Make a fuss when I arrive. They won’t connect me with the American at the little café, if they inquire.”

  “They’ll follow you.”

  The answer came fast. “I can dump my luggage if I have to.”

  “But that’s Louis Vuitton!”

  Her gasped protest made him smile. She’d never have thought that way five years ago. “If it saves my life, it’ll have earned its money.”

  She began to translate for Franco, who grinned and nodded. Jon wasn’t too happy she’d told him, but at least he didn’t hear his own name. By his own admission, the café owner was in touch with the Colleghi. “No, Lina. Don’t tell him.”

  He spotted a spark in Franco’s eye. Suspicion rose in his mind. “You speak English, don’t you?”

  Franco sighed and glanced away. “A little. Not much.”

  “Why didn’t you say?”

  He paused before he answered. “It is useful. And I speak—bad. Not many—words.” His vocabulary was poor. But Jon wouldn’t assume that he wasn’t lying this time. The bastard could be fluent, could have been listening to everything he and Lina said.

  Franco spread his hands. “You go.”

  Jon nodded. “I go. But Lina comes with me.”

  He’d bet his company that the alarm he saw in Franco’s dark eyes wasn’t feigned. His eyes opened so wide Jon could see the whites above the dark irises. “They will follow for sure. Not safe.”

  No, it wasn’t. Two people were far harder to conceal than one, but he didn’t want to leave her alone. “Will she be safe here?”

  Without hesitation, Franco nodded and spoke in Italian once more. Lina translated. “He says he’s paid his dues so they won’t hurt us. All they want is for you to leave. They assumed I picked you up, and they want to see that I’m left behind. That will prove that you were a casual pickup.”

  So that they could hold her hostage, no doubt. That would not happen, but he couldn’t see any way around leaving her here, at least temporarily. He spoke in English, but he watched Franco carefully as she translated. “I am not without influence. If any harm comes to Lina, I will ensure you personally suffer. Is that clear?”

  That seemed to get the message across. Franco nodded, but Jon was pleased to observe the reassurances weren’t effusive. He wouldn’t have trusted that. “Okay, I’ll go. Lina, remember the hotel you recommended?” She nodded, but he was relieved when she didn’t say the name aloud. “I’ll go there. Follow me, you hear? If you don’t, I’ll come back. And if for some reason I can’t stay there, I’ll leave word at the desk for you. For—Cassie Francis.” Not her real name, not her assumed name. One he’d just made up.

  “Okay. Just go.” He hated the way she looked, hesitant, afraid. He never wanted to see that look in her eyes again. And for that, for her, he’d go.

  He pulled out his cell phone and hesitated, before shoving it back in his pocket. They could trace him. It’d have to go. Franco handed him his, a well-worn Samsung. He’d owned that model three years ago. Jon called the taxi firm that had taken him from the airport to his hotel his first night. They asked him to repeat the address, no doubt surprised to find him there. He obligingly repeated it.

  By the time it arrived, he’d shoved some clothes in the sports bag and dragged the suit carrier out from the shelter of her little curtained closet. Shit, he hated this. Before he put his toilet bag away, he hesitated and glanced inside. Nothing he couldn’t afford to lose.

  He grabbed five hundred euros from his wallet and shoved it inside. Then he gave the bag to Franco. “Give this to them. Show them. Say Lina became suspicious when I told her not to look inside. Then I said this was my stake. With any luck they’ll think I’m small potatoes, if all I had was this. Tell them she stole it from my luggage.”

  Franco gave him a tight grin, and touched his fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. “Good. I will tell them. I am sure this will help.”

  Either that or the five hundred would help him to keep his mouth shut. Jon didn’t much care as long as it worked one way or the o
ther.

  A sharp blare of a car horn outside alerted him but he didn’t go to the window to discover if it was the taxi. It might not be. He wouldn’t tell Lina he could be riding to his death, but he knew enough to realize that if he called the police, they were all dead. The gangsters in this part of the world didn’t take prisoners. But they wouldn’t want to kill him if he obeyed them and cleared out. He was banking on it. This would have to work.

  He dragged her close and took a kiss from her. She gasped and opened her mouth, even now so sweet he could have lost himself in her. If not for the danger to Lina, he’d never be doing this. Never leave her alone. But from what he understood, if he took her now they’d chase them both. Hunt them down. And he couldn’t protect her like he wanted to until he was safe. That he’d do. He drew away from her reluctantly to find that Franco had left them, probably to clear the way.

  Her jaw trembled but her eyes remained steadily fixed on his. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

  “You’d better be.”

  He left without looking back but couldn’t resist a glance up at her window as he climbed into the waiting taxi. To his relief she didn’t stand there and wave him off.

  At the airport he got out of the taxi and tipped the man as generously as he could, considering he only had a hundred and fifty euros left. Enough to do what he had to. He went straight to the desk and bought a ticket for Pisa. It had to be an internal journey, otherwise they’d demand his documentation, and he wanted to leave as clean a trail as he could.

  It would take the occupants of the gray car that had followed him from the café to the airport a while to discover that he didn’t intend to get the plane. He made his way toward the gate, but ducked aside before he got there and visited the restroom. He did it again and again until he didn’t see anyone he recognized from the car, and was as sure as he could be that nobody was following him. Then he visited a cash machine and topped up.

  As he browsed in a luggage store, he watched the people coming and going. By the time he’d bought a new leather case he was almost sure he’d headed anyone off. He made the assistant bag up his purchases, which caused some muttered curses, but he didn’t want a chance of anyone seeing it before he was ready.

  He crossed to the restroom close to the luggage store and waited five minutes, taking his time washing his hands. Two men entered and left. He’d better get on with this before someone accused him of loitering.

  Only then did he get into a cubicle and strip out of his jeans and T-shirt. At last he could use the Armani suit he’d dragged around with him. With the help of navy pinstripe, only slightly crumpled, a crisp white shirt and red tie, he turned himself back into a sharp businessman. Or as sharp as he could manage in an airport restroom. He pulled the shoes out of their bag at the bottom of his holdall, gave them a quick rub and put them on over black socks. It would be far too hot once he got out of the air-conditioned airport, but he’d cope.

  As he left the cubicle, he glanced in the mirror over the sinks. Checking his appearance, he realized it felt like years since he’d looked at that particular reflection instead of less than a month. He’d been through so much, learned so much.

  He needed to smell good, but he’d left his aftershave in his toilet bag. Hotel receptionists tended to notice things like that. A machine in the corner provided the answer, but what came out of the spray didn’t appear to be the one he’d selected, but a cheap substitute. Even here the gangs had sway, he guessed, substituting the real thing for a knockoff.

  He went over the plan he’d formulated in the cab, sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. Shit, but this stuff would be exciting if he wasn’t worrying himself stupid over the woman he’d left behind.

  He dipped his hands in cold water and brought some order to his hair, brushing it back from his forehead instead of keeping a heavy lock falling forward, bad boy style, using the new set he’d bought at the luggage store. Brush, razor, comb and nail file. He filed his nails down from the ragged edges he’d somehow let them grow into, and gave them a perfunctory buff. Businessman? He frowned at the reflection. Yes, that would do. Like this he didn’t look like the tousled tourist who’d left the café that morning. He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. Better. Then he lifted his chin and finally recognized the arrogance he sometimes used to quell the paparazzi or a woman coming on to him too strong. An arrogance he’d once used thoughtlessly, so accustomed to deferential treatment and respect. That had finally ended at the university, when only academic excellence and the ability to stand up after a few pitchers of beer earned respect. That and sports, of course. In his first year his fellow students had destroyed any pretensions he’d started out with. He could only feel gratitude toward them.

  Now he needed that attitude, the supreme self-confidence of his early years. Only that would carry him through. The suit was only as good as the man inside it.

  He dragged his empty suit carrier and sports bag to a corner of the snug area and left them there. He’d stuffed the new case and the briefcase with his other clothes, loath to leave anyone still pursuing him any clue. Someone would pick up those pieces of luggage. He couldn’t risk the people following him identifying the distinctive Vuitton luggage. Hopefully it would be someone who could use them, and not the disposal staff.

  Whatever.

  He left the restroom, dragging his new case and carrying his new briefcase. Taking the long way around the airport, looking suitably bored and arrogant, he headed for the exit.

  His heartbeat increased when the automatic doors swished open and the August heat of Italy hit him like a wall. He hailed a taxi but he saw nobody he recognized, and couldn’t see anyone staring at him. Not that he stared or glanced around. Like the king of the world, he stepped into the backseat of the taxi and gave the driver terse instructions to take him to the Romeo hotel.

  Strange how different Naples could look. He’d seen the back streets, the litter that only the gangs could control—and only then when they felt like it—the beggars and the run-down buildings. Now the driver took him the pretty way. He got a beautiful view of the bay and the not-so-distant peaks of Vesuvius and Etna brooding over the city. He’d hardly noticed them while he’d been with Lina, looking for Byron, except for that first day, when he’d taken her out to eat. Now they appeared to dominate everything. And empty, so empty, despite the tourists, the sellers of various goods, including the inevitable knockoffs. He gave a wry grin. Nearly killed for a fake Chanel purse.

  The hotel proved aggressively modern, lights glimmering from it in the darkened city. With a shock, he realized it was nearly eleven o’clock.

  Ten minutes later he gazed around the suite he’d acquired, with its wide, comfortable bed and glorious view over the bay. And knew where he’d rather be.

  It wasn’t here.

  Chapter Eight

  Lina turned over and punched her pillow again, growling in frustration. She wasn’t sure how such a small bed could feel so wide, so empty. She had a whole day’s work ahead, working from nine until eight, trying to make up the hours she’d lost during Jon’s visit. It was over now. She’d see him once more, just to make sure he was okay, then get back to her real life.

  After another hour of tossing and turning, she got up and made a coffee. She might as well get on with some studying. The last thing she needed to do was to go over the nights she’d spent here with him. Nights when they never got enough of each other, when he woke her to make love to her in the small hours. When he laughed and joked with her during the day. But he belonged to the life she’d left behind and just because she’d met with him again didn’t mean she had to change the direction she’d chosen. Or that she should.

  All through the day she told herself that the fling would do her good, that her depression would pass in a few days. Today was Monday, and on Wednesday, Jon would take Byron’s ashes and return to New York. Once he’d assured himself that she was okay, and created a false trail for himself. After that, she could settle dow
n.

  At the end of the day Franco took her aside and told her not to visit Jon. The Colleghi had let him know they were satisfied with Jon’s exit. But visiting him might create a link and put him in more danger.

  She knew she shouldn’t go, but she wanted to know he’d gotten to his hotel safely. And she had Tuesday afternoon off. One more time, she told herself. Just one more time.

  So Tuesday found her walking into the Romeo as if she owned it. She didn’t look right or left, but headed for the information desk and told them to contact Jon. She left the fake name he’d given her. While she waited, she reflected on the last hotel she’d been in with him. The only things different about today were her attitude and her dress. She’d left the café in her ordinary clothes, and then ducked into one of the big department stores in town to change. Nobody was watching her and nobody followed her.

  She’d not dressed expensively; she’d just made it look that way. Good fake gold jewelry worn in moderation, a simple loose-fitting sundress in pale yellow and her hair smoothed and confined under a matching scarf. And huge sunglasses, knockoffs as it happened. She’d made her face up for the first time in years. Once she could have afforded the real thing and not thought twice about the price. She’d thrown that away with her old life. No doubt her mother had spent it all by now. She didn’t care. Much.

  “Go straight up,” the receptionist said and bestowed a professional smile on her. Perhaps the Romeo was just a better hotel than the George, but nobody gave her a sideways glance, or insinuated in any way that a woman visiting a man alone in his hotel room was suspicious.

  All glass, metal and leather, the Romeo stood out from the other hotels in Naples and after a couple of years still had that “new” vibe. Lina would have chosen somewhere else, but the masculine aura would suit Jon well. Anyway, she was only visiting.