by Kym Roberts
“Where were you?” He accused.
“I was dealing with our special dignitaries.”
The special dignitaries were a few senators on vacation that didn’t need protection, but demanded it anyway. If they hadn’t given him the opportunity to test the systems he’d put in place, he would’ve told them no. As it was, their presence had given this ridiculously young group of agents some additional experience—which they desperately needed.
“Give me your flex cuffs, McClary.” One set was not going to work on Stefan’s large frame.
“I like a man who takes charge,” Stefan’s eyes twinkled as he looked over his shoulder.
Holy mother of…
Before Stefan could say anything else, Khaos yanked one set around of cuffs around the first wrist, looped it through the second set and then secured Stefan’s other meaty wrist.
Stefan groaned.
“I think those might be a bit too tight,” Megan interjected. Her voice was level and unemotional. The exact tone she used when she was laughing her ass off at him.
Stefan looked over Khaos’s shoulder to the agent with a golden glow to her complexion decorated by a smattering of freckles across her nose and checks. He knew the man would see the inescapable beauty marks that gave her an impish look even with her deep auburn hair pulled back severely from her face.
By the time he stood Stefan on his feet, Megan’s false no-nonsense facade dropped. Khaos wished it hadn’t. Then he wouldn’t have to see her gleeful smile.
“Honey, I’ve dreamed of this moment for two years,” Stefan said with that twinkle in his eyes lighting into a flame.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph. He was going to be ill.
He turned Stefan away from him and started to march him toward the Italian officers waiting at the barrier when the crowd cheered. He wasn’t sure when he’d become their focus, but figured it was about the time he took Stefan down to the ground, and that in and of itself was a sign he’d let the man get under his skin. Phone cameras aimed in his direction had undoubtedly documented the entire incident live on the Internet. It would be available for anyone to see from now until the end of eternity.
Shit.
Had he done anything that could be construed as over the top, or brutal? It didn’t matter if he hadn’t. Taking Stefan to the ground would look horrible on tape and he’d have to answer to his boss for that one. He may be the Assistant Special Agent in Charge, but his boss was in D.C. at this very moment and would surely get wind of this mess. She’d want answers ASAP.
It was a Goddamned goat fuck when an ASAC, instead of an agent, had to take down an overzealous fan. He’d have to explain the agents couldn’t have known Stefan was a security risk—because he hadn’t passed on Stefan’s photo, or any warnings in the morning brief. He would’ve, if he’d realized Stefan’s obsession had increased to the level of overtly breaking the law to get to him. Yet besides the Internet incidents, the man had never overstepped the boundaries of propriety in public before today. Stefan had been at several Vice Presidential events; waving and calling out to Khaos, but that had been the extent of his unacceptable behavior. Khaos hadn’t seen the need to make a big deal of it.
Ignore him, and he’ll go away, had been the wrong approach.
Shit. He couldn’t afford this kind of screw up right now. If anyone else had been Stefan’s object of obsession, he would’ve handled it differently. He would’ve expected his agents to handle it differently as well. He should’ve shared Stefan’s picture ahead of time with the Italian Polizia di Stato and the Carabinieri, along with his own agents. He just hadn’t seen the need.
He’d also wanted to avoid questions as to when and why Stefan had fixated on him. The giant question hanging over his head, the one he had no idea how to answer was if the situation was as bad as all this, why hadn’t he informed his superiors?
Fuck. His business was his own, that’s why. The last thing he wanted anyone to know was how he’d actually come to know Stefan Asher.
“Find out how he got past the first barrier. Someone needs to answer for that,” he ordered as he passed Stefan over to her.
Megan’s smile disappeared and her expression turned to business as they reached the barrier. “I’ve got him, sir.”
Agent Gilham joined them and the young agent with his haircut shorter than any military standard, told Megan, “Ma’am, that package you asked about at the food bank arrived at ten hundred hours.”
Damn it.
Megan’s eyes shot to Khaos and he nodded in confirmation that he’d received the message loud and clear. It was Stefan he was worried about. Khaos watched him and tried to detect any sign of interest in the information. The last thing he needed was for Stefan to know about the food bank.
Megan glowered at Gilham. Good. He wouldn’t have to chew Gilham a new asshole. She would take the man to task for releasing information, any information, in front of a suspect. Nothing was given away—ever. Luckily for him, Stefan appeared to be interested in passing on his own message to Khaos.
“I’ll be waiting with bated breath for our conversation in the holding cell, Agent Artino.” He wagged his unibrow, and Khaos wanted to cast up his lunch.
“Oh, honey. I hate to disappoint you, but it will be me visiting your cell.” Megan pulled on Stefan’s arm and guided him toward a police cruiser where two Italian officers waited.
As they walked away, Stefan immediately began quizzing Megan about Khaos. It was obvious the man felt like he had the upper hand with the small-statured agent at his side. She was being polite and professional. Once they got in the interrogation room, however, it would be Megan who would be enjoying dessert served on a platter, not Stefan. The woman knew how to turn the tables on seasoned criminals. Stefan was a toddler in diapers to an agent with Megan’s skill. Pretty soon, Stefan would know the power behind her soft voice and how well her gamin grin deceived.
Khaos pulled out his cell phone and dialed his boss before the images caught on camera made their way to her computer. Day two in Rome officially sucked.
Chapter Three
Bubbling marinara with the sweet bitter tang of oregano filled the kitchen as the sizzling sounds of garlic sautéed in the skillet. Every last sound and scent brought back memories of her mother teaching her to cook. The good-natured teasing between the employees of the food bank made the moment more magical than she deserved.
“He’s here.” A soft feminine voice whispered in her ear.
“Who’s here?”
Strong, stout fingers bit into Téa’s arm as Sister Francesca pulled her away from the ten-quart pot of pasta she stirred on the stove. Eight months ago that would have freaked her out, but he’d changed that. She wasn’t sure how, but he’d given her the ability to tolerate the touch of those she knew—to a point. It wasn’t as if he performed a miracle, but he’d performed something on her psyche.
“Good heavens, are you practicing your grip for the children at the scuola primaria?” She asked as she handed the spoon to Anna, another volunteer who didn’t bat an eye at the nun’s antics. If Anna wasn’t concerned about Sister Francesca’s insistent behavior, Téa didn’t see any reason why she should be either.
“Uno, due,” Anna said. She grinned as she eyed two deliverymen attempting to avoid the nun’s path.
Téa glanced around the kitchen and spied a new volunteer adjust himself as he caught sight of the nun. “Tre,” she said to Anna. She was rewarded by a glorious giggle from her friend.
Following Sister Francesca’s light blue habit and dark veil through the kitchen, Téa began to laugh. Another gift he’d given her. “Are we on a tocca ferro mission?” She asked.
When she’d first arrived in the city, she’d been stunned to learn that many Italians believed passing a nun on the street was as bad as having a black cat cross their path. Instead of knocking on wood, as Americans would do to ward of bad luck, the Italians opted for tocca ferro, or touching iron. Since there was
little iron within most people’s reach, the men of Italy had a habit of surreptitiously rubbing their balls.
Two months ago, Anna had been the one to point out the behavior to Téa when Sister Francesca had come to call on her. Many of the men in line for food had actually touched their iron, and it’d been a game ever since. Although Sister Francesca hadn’t heard the conversation, Téa suspected the nun, ten years her senior, knew exactly why she and Anna were counting every time the nun came to call.
“If you two are attempting to show off your skills in Italian to our new workers, you should be reciting scriptures not counting. You obviously can’t count past five.” Sister Francesca said. “Besides, the scriptures would help everyone with their fear.” The nun eyed some of the men who visibly cowered.
Anna’s musical laughter was heard throughout the kitchen. Téa blushed and expected a lecture about prayer and proper behavior. Sister Francesca smirked as she turned toward the hallway and Téa followed.
Who would’ve thought a nun would get a kick out of two women making fun of men touching themselves? Of course, who would’ve thought a man would be so afraid of a nun he’d believe his balls would save him. They were, after all, the weakest point of the male anatomy.
Téa was fairly certain it was the sister’s way of making herself relatable to the female volunteers of the food bank when she ignored the implications of the conversations. The women who filled the kitchen every day had been subjected to the depravity of mankind in ways the average person couldn’t comprehend. Yet Sister Francesca had never acknowledged their background, or the ridiculous male ritual.
Téa often wondered how empowering it would be to make men cower from her presence. Even if it was only the clothes on the nun’s body that caused men to reach, and rub while running in the opposite direction, it had to make a woman feel a little bit like the queen of the hill.
As they rounded the corner in the hallway, Sister Francesca grabbed Téa’s wrist and picked up her pace. They ran until they reached the powder room. Sister looked both ways down the hallway, then pushed Téa inside, as she closed the door swiftly behind her. Sister leaned against the door, her small frame blocking Téa’s exit as her chest heaved.
Concern for her friend made Téa forget about getting the upper hand over a man. “Do you need your inhaler?”
Sister shook her head as if her breathing was the last thing she was worried about. Her light brown eyes held none of their normal humor. “No.” She reached out and clasped Téa’s hand as if she was preparing her for bad news. “The man who came looking for you eight months ago… he’s back.”
Back? He couldn’t have come back. He’d been a nice guy. He’d left without giving away her secret. She’d seen the moment he’d recognized her, and yet she’d also seen the promise within his gaze. She’d suspected he was a private investigator her grandmother had hired. The photo was from her grandmother’s phone. She’d firmly believed whoever he was, he wasn’t going to give away her secret. He’d given her the gift of touch. If he was back, then he wasn’t everything she wanted him to be. If he was back, the comfort she’d begun to feel…was a lie. A deception so great, only someone like her uncle could be behind it.
Dear God. What had she done?
Despite the warmth of Sister’s grip, Téa felt her life slipping from her hands. The small amount of control she’d felt with her new life was a distant thing of the past. Her very existence on the planet was at risk if he was back. She tried to school her features and wipe the fear from her face. It belonged in the pit of her stomach where she could hide it—control it before it took hold and made her push Sister out of the way and run like hell for the hills.
Honestly, though, where could she go? She’d thought she was free of the past, but if he’d returned to Rome, then she may as well go to Father Petra right now and ask for her last rights.
She glanced toward the door, that ever-persistent fear threatening to take control. “Is he here? In the food bank?” Thoughts of leading him away from the nuns, the volunteers, and the poor who sought nourishment and refuge in the bank’s meager accommodations ran through her head as she waited for Sister Francesca’s response.
“He hasn’t been to the church, the abbey or here.” She reassured as she gave Téa’s hand one last squeeze before she released her. “I saw him on social media.”
Before she could ask what Francesca meant, Sister, who seemed as strong as a mighty gilded lions adorning the buildings of Venice, retrieved her cell phone from the pocket of her habit and pulled up a social media site with a post from earlier that morning. Sister pushed play on the video.
Larger than life itself, he dominated the screen as no one else could. He was scary with his expertise, and the precision of his movement. Yet the violence that roiled under his skin and deep within his eyes as he looked up at the videographer’s lens, shook her to the core. He was capable of bringing all of her walls crumbling down. His gaze held that much power. That much command of the environment surrounding him, and the viewer caught in his sights. The video ended abruptly and Téa knew it was the potency of his gaze that made the person behind the camera turn it off. Whoever filmed that short clip, had captured his very essence.
“What’s he doing here?” She asked, her voice warbling and barely able to function.
“I don’t know. Whatever it is, he seems to be in an official protection capacity for the Americans.” Sister Francesca pocketed her phone. “Have you been in contact with anyone from the United States?”
She shook her head emphatically. Her dreams of traveling to America had vanished years ago when her parents died and left her in the hands of people she couldn’t trust. An uncle who’d promised one thing, and done another. He’d killed her mother in front of her, and Téa had learned not to challenge him. Then he’d broken another promise and she’d been—sold.
When the opportunity came for her to run, she ran as fast as she could to the Sisters of Mercy. A Secret Service agent had sent her there in order to escape. Sister Mary had risked everything to get her out of Mexico and she was forever grateful for the risks she’d taken. But Sister Mary had paid for Téa’s freedom with her life and she couldn’t expose any more people to the brutality she’d run from. Their lives were as good as over in a very gruesome manner, if she did.
“I need to leave.”
“You need to stay where you’re safe.”
“With him here, no one is safe.”
“We don’t know that he wasn’t fooled by our ruse last time.”
Téa did. He knew exactly who she was. She felt it then as much as she felt it now. He’d come back for her. “It’s not a chance I’ll take.”
Sister Francesca grabbed her and when she would’ve pulled her into a deep hug, Téa stopped her. Her bear like grip was a joy to the children of Rome, to Téa, however, she couldn’t let it happen. It would trap her. Jail her.
Sister sighed and released her grasp. “One day, you’ll be comfortable with another’s arms around you.”
She had begun to—
She smiled, what else could she do for this warmhearted woman who was the first true friend she’d ever had. “One day,” she agreed, but in her heart she had little faith in her capacity to trust anyone to that extent ever again. How could she, if even Sister Francesca hadn’t been able to break down the barrier to her fear?
“Where will you go?”
“I’m not sure.” She wasn’t. All of her emergency plans involved the sisters helping her go from one city to the next and to finally end up in Spain. Not France. He would search for her in France. Now, both plans seemed too dangerous.
“I have a friend—”
Téa shook her head. “You have many friends. All of whom I would be placing at great risk.”
“Not if he is only in town for work.” The hope in Sister’s eyes was false and they both knew it.
She’d never spoken of the agents in Mexico, Sister was aware of her fear,
but she wasn’t aware of the reasons. “Men are men world round,” she stated.
“Father Petra isn’t like that,” Sister argued.
Téa thought of the other man who wasn’t like that. The agent who’d stood up to his co-workers and friends to help her escape. She didn’t know his name or his friends’ names. Even now, she could only recall their raging anger, but she knew only one agent in the hotel room that night gave her the opportunity to escape. Without that stranger’s interference, she’d be dead like Sandra—a needle stuck in her arm and bruises covering her body.
Laughter from the kitchen traveled down the hall and made Téa’s heartsick. She loved working with the people at the food bank. The volunteers had good souls, and she knew the women, and men to be good people. Of course there were good men out there…just not any she could ever trust.
Sensing her moment of weakness, Sister pounced. “You don’t want to give up your life here if his visit has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with his job. Let me hide you until we know for certain.”
More laughter sounded from the hallway as Anna giggled outside the door right before the handle rattled. “Is someone in there?” she asked. Unlike Téa, Anna was home in Italy. She’d grown up on the streets begging for scraps and entering into a life of crime before she was old enough to know her actions were more than just a means of survival.
“I’ll be a few minutes if you want to go out and have your smoke break first.” Téa called back. As much as she liked Anna and respected her for changing her ways, Téa knew she couldn’t throw temptation in her face. The possibility of earning a couple hundred euros for information on a fugitive would be too tempting for a woman who’d never held that much money in her hands.
“Make sure you air the place out when you’re done,” Anna called back before they heard the sound of her shoes disappearing down the corridor to the back loading docks.
Sister scribbled down an address on a paper towel and handed it to Téa. “Do you remember where the hydrochronometer is in Villa Borghese?”