I scramble to my wardrobe and pull on clothing, choosing a shirt with a collar, hoping to somewhat hide the bruise on my neck. The only other people here at Chessarae are servants, except for Luca’s mother in her lonely wing. But she is locked in so she never comes into the main part of the house. No one will see me but the staff. And they are used to seeing strange things.
I rush through the house, through the extravagant corridors and over the marble floors, the rich and polished surroundings that I would never have dreamed I would find myself in. I don’t notice it now though. It has faded into an insignificant corner of my mind. All that matters now is Luca.
I make my way out the back of the house, through the gardens, through the English maze that is perfectly manicured and challenging to maneuver. I manage it with ease, however. I memorized its twists and turns on a happier day.
The weather is stormy today and the normally cheerful and bright Maltese sky is gray and thunderous. I can feel the electricity in the air, snapping the ends of my long hair with static. This day looks as foreboding as I feel, which I hope is not a sign.
I search through the maze. I search the beaches as my feet sink into the cool sand. I search the gardens with their exotic and sweet-smelling blooms and then I search the garage. His car, a shiny black Jaguar, is still in its slot and its hood is cool to the touch. Luca has not driven it today. I search the front lawns and the back. And just when I begin to panic, to fear that he has not returned to Chessarae after all, I search the stables.
As I walk through the heavy wooden doors, the smells of the horses and the hay and the saddle-soap and leather assail my nose and I breathe them in. I’ve always loved this place. It is peaceful here. And I suddenly know, because I can feel it, that Luca is here.
I walk quietly down the main corridor, staring into each stall as I pass.
And finally, finally, when I come to the very last stall on the left, Luca is there and my breath hitches in my chest, freezing on my lips.
Luca is slumped on the ground, in the corner, his expression desolate. He is beautiful even here, even in this condition, and I cannot help but stare down at him as tears fill my eyes.
He is dirty and his clothing is torn. There are smears of blood on his shirt, dried now to a rusty dark brown. I swallow hard, trying not to imagine where the blood has come from.
Luca’s face is tortured as he stares up at me, his head in his hands. There is blood on his fingers.
“It happened again.”
His words are low and husky and rough, yet elegant at the same time. He is always refined, always perfect, always Luca.
His self-loathe is apparent and it breaks my heart.
I nod mutely because there are no words for this moment. I bend to help him to his feet. At 6’3”, he towers above me. He is slender and strong and masculine. He is lithe and powerful, beautiful and graceful.
And sometimes, on his very darkest days, he is a depraved killer.
But I have gotten ahead of myself. I should begin at the beginning. If I don’t, you will never understand.
Chapter One
From the Beginning
Eva
As I step from the ferry onto the pier, the first thing I notice about Malta is the smell in the air. It smells of sand and sea. Everything about this small island nation revolves around the shimmering blue water surrounding it. Fishermen have been born and bred and lived and died for thousands of years here. The sea is everything.
As a testament to that, ships and boats and dinghies are everywhere around me. There are fishermen, sailors and dockhands. There are fish mongers, there are fish markets and there are crusty old Maltese men who creep out to the piers at the crack of dawn to fish just for the pure enjoyment of it. The saltiness of the sea is in their blood.
Romans used to call Malta the Land of Honey. And as I stand here in the early evening light, I can see why. The sun is just starting to sink over the horizon, over the edge of the sea, and everything here is bathed in radiant gold. The buildings created from sandstone and ancient rock appear to glow in the light. And even though the name truly stems from Malta’s ancient history of honey production, I prefer to think it is because Malta is continually bathed in a honey-colored glow from the sun.
I make my way down the wooden planked pier, taking care not to trip over the uneven boards. I have been traveling for thirty hours so I am definitely inclined to stumble. I can’t remember when I’ve ever been so exhausted.
“Dr. Talbot!”
A voice with a Maltese accent calls for me and I turn my head to find a stooped older man in a white floppy fishing hat making his way to me through the throng on the pier.
I smile and hold out my hand.
“You must be Tomas.”
The man shakes his head. “No, my name is Alanzo. Tomas was detained, but he sent me to drive you to your summer cottage.”
I nod. “Thank you. I appreciate that very much.”
Immediately and unbidden, I form an opinion about this man.
Loyal, Kind. Trusting and open. An inherent need to please.
I can see all of these things in his eyes. Since my doctoral dissertation involves studying the decisiveness of the first meeting while assessing the personality traits of strangers, I cannot help but do it myself whenever I meet anyone. It can grow annoying. But it is why I am here; to continue my research over the summer and wrap up my project so that I can begin a Psychiatry practice.
The old man stoops to pick up my suitcase. I put my hand on his. “Please, there must be someone I can hire to bring my bags. I have quite a few more.”
I motion behind me at a large stack of bags and sealed plastic crates. Alanzo’s eyes widen and I can’t help but smile.
“My research,” I explain. “It takes up a lot of space.”
“I see that,” he agrees. “It’s no matter. Come with me, bella mia, and we will arrange for your bags to be delivered to your flat.”
Alanzo leads me to a small rickety counter where he speaks fast and fluent Maltese to the girl standing there. He scribbles something on a paper and hands it to her with his gnarled fingers and she nods. Then he pays her. I try to hand him US Dollars, which is all I have at this point, but Alanzo shakes his head and clucks.
“No, no,” he waves his hands. “Tomas instructed me to care for you. It’s all right.”
I’m too tired to argue.
He whistles and holds his hand in the air and hails a taxi.
I am surprised for just a moment. I guess I thought that Valletta was small enough to walk from place to place. Yet even now, I realize that was silly. There are 400,000 people on Malta and half of them live in Valletta. To be honest, the only memories I have from this place are from when I was small, when I spent a summer here with my gypsy-like father. The memories from my ten-year old self are probably distorted as hell.
I remember Italian ices, shell-hunting by the sea and long periods of boredom during which I entertained myself as my father played poker. Poker is, and always has been, Eric Talbot’s life’s blood. It is how he makes his living, how he gets his blood flowing. It also allows him to be very, very mobile. Each summer that I spent with him was in a different place, from Portland to Taiwan. But I remember Malta as being my favorite, because of its easy way of life and happy people. It is why I am here now.
Alanzo and I slip inside the air-conditioned interior of the car. I lean my head against the seat for a moment. I am so tired. Tired enough, actually, that I find myself waking up as the taxi comes to a stop outside of a little bungalow.
I blink the sleep from my eyes and open the door.
“It’s perfect,” I breathe as I step from the car.
Alanzo beams. “You like it?”
“Of course,” I nod.
The small flat is made from stucco and is situated on a bluff overlooking the sea. I can see for miles and miles here and the beach below us beckons to me. The sand is pristine and perfect, the sun beautiful and cheerful and ther
e doesn’t appear to be anyone else for at least a mile. I have surely found paradise. I will have to watch myself to make sure that I don’t succumb to the temptation of lying on the beach all day. I have work to do.
“Come, Dr. Talbot,” Alanzo beckons.
“Please,” I call from behind him. “Call me Eva. Everyone else does.”
He smiles. “Alright. Come, Eva.”
I follow him up the winding path to the door. Green vines and fragrant white flowers are tangled on each side of the little walk and I pass a motorized scooter leaning against the house in the shade. I raise my eyebrows.
“It’s for your use,” Alanzo explains. “You can ride it almost anywhere that is too far for you to walk and for other needs, you can ride the bus.” I nod as I file the information away.
He unlocks the door and hands me the key, then steps aside so that I can enter.
“One bedroom, one bath, kitchenette,” he says. “Just as you asked for.”
It is clean, cozy and efficient.
I nod. “It’s perfect.”
“Linens and towels are included. You will have a cleaning lady come once a week. You will not need to care for the house. If you require something or if something breaks, call Tomas and he will contact your land lord.”
I nod again.
I don’t bother insisting that I can take care of it myself. Malta is a very patriarchal society. The men enjoy being caretakers. I don’t wish to intrude on that. I only wish to study their behavior when I meet them.
I walk through the small flat, taking note of the cozy furnishings, the open back doors that lead to a little patio area surrounded by a garden and the very small bed. I cringe.
“Not what you are used to?” Alanzo guesses.
I shake my head. “I haven’t slept in a twin bed since I was a kid,” I tell him. “But it’s okay. I’ll make do.”
Because I definitely don’t want to sound like a spoiled, self-entitled American
Alanzo looks at me kindly.
“You seem very tired, Eva,” he observes. “You should rest. Tomas will be along in the morning to welcome you.”
I nod again. “You’re right. I am tired. Thank you so much, Alanzo. It has been a pleasure meeting you.”
He smiles, a wizened old grin, and then he is gone and I am alone.
I look around at the quiet little cottage with the dusk settling in and I know that I won’t be able to hold my eyes open for much longer.
I curl onto the skinny little bed and close my eyes. I have a scant few minutes to appreciate the ocean crashing outside of my open window before I drift into a dreamless sleep.
***
It is dark when I wake.
I lie still for a moment because I know that something has woken me, but I don’t hear anything out of the ordinary in this unfamiliar house. Shadows fall in angular slants against my wall but nothing is moving. The silence is still.
And then I feel it again, a tickling on my arm. My stomach sinks with dread as I brush at my skin and come into contact with something moving; something thin and fleshy.
I scream and leap from the bed, fumbling for the light switch on the wall.
There, sitting on my bed atop twisted sheets, is the largest, scariest looking spider I have ever seen in my life. Its hairy leg-span must be four or five inches. It is black and white striped and has a huge bulbous abdomen with some bright yellow stripes thrown in. I scream again just looking at it. It is so horrifying that I’m too terrified to even squash it with a shoe. I don’t want to get my hand that close.
I stand still, breathing harshly as I try to decide what to do. There’s no way that something that terrifying isn’t poisonous. Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god. I hate spiders. I’m not thinking clearly now. I’ve barely woken up and I’m faced with this spawn of Satan sitting on my bed. I’m all alone in a strange and foreign place and there is a killer on my bed.
And then there’s a voice.
“Miss, is everything alright?”
A deep voice is calling from outside of my house. And before I can think about it and remember that I don’t know anyone here and that a stranger really shouldn’t be outside of my house, particularly in the middle of the night, I answer.
“No. I’m not.”
In a scant moment, a man bursts into my bedroom.
He looks startled to see that I am alone.
And I am startled because he’s alarmingly handsome.
So it appears that we are both startled as we stare at each other.
He’s dark haired, tanned, and has dark eyes. His bangs are hanging artfully in his eyes, although the hair on the back of his head is a little shorter. It’s a style that works for him. He’s got broad shoulders, slim hips, chiseled yet graceful features and Sweet Merciful Mary, he’s beautiful. He’s dressed in jogging shorts and running shoes and a bead of sweat trickles down his temple. I don’t even have time to wonder why he’s out for a run in the middle of the night before I notice that he’s also got that sexy, day-old stubble that I so love on a man.
I swallow and realize that my mouth has gone dry.
“Are you alright?” he asks, his eyes skimming over me, assessing the situation. It’s a valid question. I had been screaming bloody hell, after all.
I nod. Then shake my head.
“Spider,” I whisper.
His dark eyes widen and he follows my pointing finger with his gaze.
Then he laughs, husky and rich.
“Spider,” he confirms with a nod, his dark eyes sparkling in amusement. “It looks like you’ve got yourself a perfect specimen of the Writing Spider.”
“Writing Spider?” I repeat, watching it nervously, making sure it doesn’t try to run across the bedroom floor and up my leg. “Is it poisonous?”
Handsome Running Guy nods solemnly.
“Oh, it’s a known killer, alright.”
I gasp and lurch even further away from the hairy creature on my bed and Handsome Running Guy laughs.
“I’m sorry. I’m only joking. I couldn’t resist. It’s not poisonous. I think its scientific name is Black and Yellow Argiope, or something like that. They are all over here. But you wouldn’t know that because you’re not from here, are you?”
I shake my head again, trying not to be overly enthralled with his charming accent.
“Is it that obvious?”
He smiles and suddenly it seems like all natural sources of light are pouring into my room, originating from this man. He’s got such a strong presence that it makes my spine tingle. And my stomach is fluttering in a way that it hasn’t fluttered since high school. Interesting.
He shakes his head and then holds out his hand.
“Luca Minaldi,” he tells me and his fingers are cool as he shakes my hand.
“Evangeline Talbot,” I answer. “But my friends call me Eva.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” and his eyes agree with him as he stares at me. “The question now is would you like for me to kill your uninvited guest or should I release him into the wilds?”
“Kill it,” I say firmly. Slight disapproval passes over Luca’s face like a shadow.
“Are you certain?” he asks. “It’s an amazing specimen and they do eat bugs. Bugs can get pesky here in Malta, Evangeline.”
“You can call me Eva,” I answer. “And if we release it into the outdoors, he might come back in.”
I shudder again at that thought.
“True,” Luca agrees. “And so might anyone else. Your door wasn’t locked. And I can’t call you Eva. We’re not yet friends.”
There is disapproval on his face again and I find his manner of speaking intriguing.
Rich, formal, gentleman, I list in my head as I stare at his manicured hands. Then I add jaded to the list. There’s also something else about him, something that I can’t put my finger on yet. I make a note of that. It’s a little discouraging since my thesis is based on the notion that an intuitive person can peg someone on the first meeting. However, o
ur first meeting isn’t over yet and I return my attention to him.
“I was so tired when I got here that I barely remember walking through the house,” I admit to him. “It doesn’t surprise me that I left the door open.”
If You Stay Page 26
