by Addison Fox
“And I wasn’t casting my reel.”
“So what’s your point?”
“You’re a beautiful woman with a wicked intellect to round out the package. If a guy’s cutting and running after a handful of dates, then he’s the one with the problem.”
She had no idea why she was pressing the issue, but a retort was out of her mouth before she could even think to hold it back. “Conventional wisdom would suggest my career ambitions are the problem.”
“Most people who spout conventional wisdom don’t have all that much of it.”
“Thanks, Mark Twain.”
“You’re welcome.” He snagged the wax paper that had wrapped his sandwich. Casually, he wadded it up, his gaze speculative from across the table, and she suddenly felt like one of those diamonds he’d inspected with the jeweler’s loupe.
Her mind raced over the events of the morning. The flowers. His visit to her office. The trip to the jeweler. “What do you really want from me? I’d wager a rather large sum you don’t spend your days traipsing through Manhattan with your other professional enemies.”
“I never traipse. And I’d hardly call you an enemy.”
“We’ve been up against each other for several jobs. I’d hardly call us compatriots.”
He snaked out a finger and ran it down the top of her hand, tracing over each knuckle with exquisite care. The sensation was wicked in the extreme, and a tight ball of need centered low in her belly. “We’re not enemies. Especially not after what we discussed this morning about the job in Rome. I want your help with the ambassador.”
“What makes you so sure I’m your girl?”
“You’ve got the talents I need. You already know the job and the players. You’re smart and you pay attention.” He ran that long finger once more over her hand. “And if I play my cards right, there may be a lot more kissing.”
She snatched her hand back, unable to bear that seductive touch a moment longer. “This is a job, not a flirtation.”
“Can’t it be both?”
She bit down on a retort, well aware her actions in the next few minutes would determine the course of their professional—and personal—relationship moving forward. “I don’t take assignments because they’re fun.”
“Why work then?”
“Because it’s my job. My livelihood.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the process.”
* * *
When Kensington said nothing, he pressed a bit harder, his curiosity growing stronger. He could still feel the softness of her skin imprinted on the tips of his finger, and a strange need to understand her better gripped him. “Why were you the one to end up with all the responsibility?”
“In my family?”
“Yes, but professionally, too. The House of Steele’s reputation is tied to all four of you, but you’re clearly seen as its public representative. I have to imagine that has carried over to the more personal side of your family dynamics.”
“At times.” She nodded slightly, as if deciding something, before she pressed on. “Do you have siblings?”
“Two sisters.”
“How do the three of you get along?”
He thought of the two women he loved to distraction, both of whom were happily married and raising children in the Seattle suburb where he grew up. They’d saved him—ensuring he had a soft place to land no matter how far he roamed—and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for them.
“Really well. They’re both older than me. They wanted different things but are happy with their lives. And other than constantly pressuring me to settle down and do my duty to populate the world, we’re close.”
“So they live normal lives?”
The word normal caught his attention, and he thought of the unpleasant childhoods he and his siblings had endured. Sidestepping the thought, he kept his voice even and ignored the whispers of the past that skittered around his ankles. “As much as anyone can claim that description.”
“My bigger point is, they have families. Regular jobs.”
“Sure.”
“That is so not my family.”
Jack couldn’t dismiss the feeling that some answer—some clue to who she was—danced just out of his reach. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not bad—it’s just different. We’re different.”
“Do you support each other?”
“Of course. We drive one another crazy but we support each other without question.”
“Sounds like a family to me.”
The warmth that briefly tinged her features as she talked about her family faded. “Yes, a family I’m responsible for.”
“They’re all adults. Successful, accomplished ones. Why are you responsible for them?”
“I need to hold us all together.”
“No. You feel the need to be in control, and there’s a difference.”
* * *
A heavy chill that invaded the bones wrapped Giuseppe DeAngelo’s body like a tight blanket. He added as much urgency to his steps as his old bones would allow as he walked from the main farmhouse to the vineyard.
The grapes.
Per favore, Dio.
The prayer was a litany in his head, over and over as he shuffled toward his beloved fruit. They hadn’t had a winter this cold in years and he was increasingly concerned their methods to keep the vines insulated weren’t going to work.
His gaze scanned the rows of grapes, their slender vines covered by geotextile fabrics to stave off the cold. He abstractly wished for one to wrap around himself as he plodded determinedly onward.
Giuseppe bent over the first row he came to, lifting the fabric to touch the vines underneath. His breath came out in heavy puffs and his back ached as he bent forward, but all he cared about was ensuring his vineyard stayed safe. The pain was worth it to protect his grapes.
He ran his fingers over the thick vegetation, his knotty hands trembling as he considered the vines. They’d worked through the previous afternoon to put the blankets into place. The cold vine bent pliably in his hands and he took his first easy breath as he resettled the covering in place.
The grapes were all right.
Grazie, Dio. Grazie.
He puttered down several rows, his actions the same as he lifted the blankets, checking the vines underneath. His breath puffed out in hard, heavy bursts but he paid no attention as he continued to walk the neat, even rows.
The vineyard had been in his family for generations. He’d already made plans to give it to his grandson, his own son off in London having his life’s adventures. Adventures that didn’t belong on a farm. His Gianni had never been tied to the land, but his grandson, Marco, loved it as much as Giuseppe.
Grazie, Dio. Again, his prayer of thanks and gratitude flooded his mind. His vineyard would live on.
Heavy shouts, muffled through the thick morning air, pulled him from his morning prayers. Had Marco come to help him?
Giuseppe walked toward the sounds, the heavy air distorting them. When he finally reached the end of a row, three down from where he’d begun, he saw he was right. “Marco!”
His grandson hunched over, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black leather coat. “Nonno.” Grandfather.
“The grapes are fine. The fabrics worked.”
“It’s too cold out here for you. Go back inside and pour the coffee and I’ll join you. I’ll be in shortly.”
“Bah!” Giuseppe waved his hand and moved closer. Why had he heard raised voices? Marco was alone. “I’ve been walking these vineyards since I was small. A bit of cold air won’t chase me inside.”
“Nonno. Please go back in.”
Giuseppe shook his head, suddenly aware of the strange urgency that gripped his grandson.
Marco shifted from foot to foot, his dark eyes flashing like those of a scared horse. He took the last few steps to the edge of the vines and nearly fell to his feet. “Marco!”
Another man stood a short distance away, a gun wavering in his outstretched hand.
“I asked you to go inside, Nonno.” Marco’s voice broke before the man holding the gun stepped forward.
“I don’t think so. Not anymore.”
Giuseppe’s mind raced as he took in the scene before him. He’d been so worried about his precious grapes, he’d never realized there was a threat to them far greater than the cold. “What is this about?”
The man with the gun waved it in Marco’s direction. “You really don’t know? You can honestly tell me you have no idea what’s going on?”
“I want to hear it from my grandson.”
“I failed, Nonno.” Marco lifted his head, his eyes filled with tears. “I failed you and I’m sorry. So sorry.”
They were the last words Giuseppe DeAngelo would ever hear.
* * *
Kensington pulled the small bowl of oatmeal from the microwave and padded to the drop-leaf table that filled the corner of her kitchen. She added several scoops of blueberries to the steaming oats, then took a sip of her coffee as her breakfast cooled.
The thoughts that had filled her mind, leaving her tossing and turning until three, didn’t fade as she stared at the kitchen without really seeing it. Instead, she saw the hard lines of Jack’s face.
You feel the need to be in control, and there’s a difference.
Was it true?
On some level she knew that it was, but it wasn’t the entire story and it was unfair to paint her with that one-dimensional brush.
Their conversation had spun out from there, each of his questions more probing than the last. She’d made a valiant effort to defend herself, but in the end, none of it had mattered.
None of it had erased that small moue of sympathy that curved his lips in an understanding—and, to her mind, pitying—smile.
“You don’t understand, Jack. Do you and your sisters regularly put your lives in danger?”
“They don’t. I do.”
“My point is, that element isn’t a part of your family dynamic. Isn’t a part of how the three of you interact in your relationship with one another.”
“So you think your family dynamics have some influence on your life?”
“I think everything has an influence on our lives. And I think four adults who consistently put their lives in jeopardy have a funny way of looking at the world.”
“You fix the world. And you understand that need in each other. What can be so wrong about that?”
That question had hovered between them for a few moments before she’d managed to excuse herself and grab a cab back to the office, unescorted.
There wasn’t anything wrong with how she lived her life. And she was proud of the work they did. Proud of what she, Liam, Campbell and Rowan had created.
But none of it changed the fact that they lived lives outside the mainstream. Campbell and Rowan had both found their way to love, despite the rather evident dysfunction in their lives, but it didn’t mean she and Liam were guaranteed the same.
And it certainly didn’t mean questioning the shortcomings of her life with a total stranger over lunch was even remotely productive.
“So why are you giving him the satisfaction of giving it one more moment of your time?” She muttered the words to herself before digging into her oatmeal. She’d gotten through only a couple of bites when her apartment doorman buzzed her. She snagged the small phone—connected to her lobby—from the counter. “Good morning, Mike.”
“Ms. Steele. I know it’s early but a Jack Andrews is here to see you. He said it’s urgent.”
The urge to say she wasn’t available was strong, but it wasn’t Mike’s problem she was frustrated and annoyed with Jack. Mike dealt with threatening visitors, not ones who simply didn’t know how to use a damn phone at six-thirty in the morning. “Please send him up.”
She glanced down at her oh-so-attractive flannel button-down pajamas and hightailed it to the bedroom. A pair of jeans and a cashmere sweater lay on a small chair where she’d left them the night before, and she quickly changed into them. A glance in the mirror had her cringing—seriously, did the man not know you didn’t just drop in on a woman?—before she threw up her hands at the loud knock on her door.
Less than a minute later, Jack was barreling into her apartment, his face set in grim, determined lines.
“What’s the matter?”
“Have you made your decision on Rome?”
“I told you yesterday I’d think about it.”
He moved in, settling his large hands on her shoulders. “Can you speed up the decision?”
“What’s happened?”
“Something big and I can’t tell you if you’re not in. All the way in.”
The light flair of flirtation and humor she associated with him had vanished from his face. In its place was a formidable bear of a man. Strength carved itself in the hard planes and angles of his body and she fought the light frisson of anxiety that skated over her skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake.
“Why is this so important to you?”
“You’re the one, Kensington. You know the job. You know the players. You know how to play the security detail to maximum advantage.”
“I’m not the only professional out there.”
“You’re the one I want and I don’t have time to get anyone else up to speed.”
She fought the delicious rush at his words. He wanted her for a job, nothing more, she reminded herself.
And when had she begun thinking otherwise?
In for a penny...
Her grandfather had used that adage so many times that Kensington had adopted it as her own. With one last glancing thought that her sanity must have abandoned her around the time she put the damn ring on the day before, she lifted her head and nodded. “Fine. I’m in. Now will you tell me what happened?”
“The agent the Italian government has in place was shot this morning.”
“Was he killed?”
“Almost. It was set up execution-style. The only thing that saved him was a last-minute burst of speed and quick thinking from his grandfather, who had a heavy pair of vine clippers in his pocket.”
“And the grandfather?”
“Died before the paramedics arrived.”
“Is the agent coherent?”
“Barely. He’s been in and out of consciousness all day. We need to get to Italy and find out what he knows, from him if at all possible. Are you with me on this?”
“Sì, Signor Andrews. It looks like we’re headed to Rome.”
Chapter 4
Kensington leaned her chair back and settled into her first-class seat. The day had sped past in a blur—arrangements for the company and her apartment, postponing some meetings, shifting others to Campbell and Rowan, double-checking details and packing all seen to with frenetic motion—and it was only now, nearly midnight by her body’s clock, that she’d finally slowed down. Her half-drunk glass of Chianti sat on her tray table next to an unopened book.
Her gaze drifted to the window, the Atlantic nearly forty thousand feet beneath them like a dark abyss.
“You going to get some sleep?”
Jack’s words distracted her from her thoughts and she turned away from the window. “Eventually. I don’t sleep well.”
“You get a remarkable amount accomplished for someone who must be perpetually tired.”
She shrugged, not quite sure how they’d drifted—yet again—to one of the odd facets of her personality. “I get by. And coffee’s a dear, dear friend.”
“Have you trie
d massage?”
“Yep.”
“Aromatherapy?”
“Yep.”
“Acupuncture?”
“Not in this lifetime.”
His smile was quick and immediate, even as his words were surprisingly gentle. “People swear by it.”
She fought the shudder and reached for her wine. “And they’re welcome to it.”
A wicked gleam lit that dark brown gaze, adding a new dimension to the smile. “Have I discovered something the great and powerful Kensington Steele is afraid of?”
“I’m fine with needles for basic health reasons. To voluntarily have them stuck all over my body? No way.”
His gaze drifted, a lazy perusal over her shoulders, and she fought another shiver—this one far more delicious than the last.
How did he manage to do that?
What should have seemed lascivious—or at the least a bit inappropriate—instead made her feel attractive. And, funny enough, cherished.
As if catching himself, Jack’s gaze snapped back to his own wineglass as he lifted it from his tray. “I wouldn’t go anywhere near it, either.”
“Yet you think I should?”
“Hey. I’m the idea guy. You need to relax, so I offered up a few suggestions.”
“I don’t need to relax.”
“When was the last time you got eight hours straight?”
“I don’t need eight hours.”
“Modern medical wisdom would suggest otherwise.” He paused and shifted in his chair, that gaze once again direct and all consuming. “So when?”
“I haven’t slept straight through the night since I was fourteen.”
She saw the question in his gaze—and the ready awareness he’d somehow overstepped—but still he pressed on. “Why is that, Kensington?”
“My grandmother woke me in the middle of the night to tell me my parents had died. I’ve never slept fully through the night since.”
* * *
Jack cursed himself a million times the fool for this stubborn line of questioning. He knew he was a ruthless bastard when he got his teeth around something, but even he respected a certain degree of personal privacy.
