A Madness Most Discreet (Brothers Maledetti Book 4)

by Nichole Van

  A knife’s edge of existence—

  Ah, hell.

  I was still brooding.

  Ugh.

  I needed to get a grip. I strolled into the piazza, intent on the road opposite, heading down to the parking lot.

  A break in the houses at one end of the large city square afforded a panoramic vista of the surrounding countryside. Of course, the view came with a steep drop down a cliff to houses below.

  Without telling my feet to move, I stopped at the metal railing and peered over the edge.

  Instantly, images of me hurtling through the air flooded my mind.

  One drop and the chain will snap. The thought blasted through. You will be free.

  I shook my head.

  No. It was a lie.

  The chain did not exist—a falsehood fed to me by the darkness.

  I swallowed.

  Turn around, I ordered my feet.

  I had to leave the railing and the drop and obsessive thoughts behind, scuttle back to my safety net of isolation—

  “Are you going to jump?” a voice asked at my elbow.

  I startled, whirling around, the bag of baby clothes rising like a shield. My heart raced, my underutilized fight-or-flight reflex blasting to life.

  A woman stood beside me, motioning toward the railing and the drop below. Dark wavy hair. Caramel skin. Heart-shaped face.

  No!

  Not just any woman.

  My woman.

  Hell no!

  Not today.

  Panic reared up.

  I wasn’t ready for this.

  I wasn’t ready for her.

  I slowly lowered the bag, sternly telling my jittery muscles to stop freaking out.

  But . . .

  It was her. She was here.

  Breathing. Living.

  Talking.

  “Well? Are you going to jump?” English. American. She pointed to the cliff and the drop to the houses below.

  “What? Jump?” My head swung between her and the iron railing. Finally, her words caught up with my addled brain. “Why would I do that?”

  “I can’t say. You just had that look.” She took a step forward and peered waaaay over the edge. “Though I think there are better ways.”

  “Better ways?” I was seriously struggling to follow the thread of this.

  Did she know? Did she know about me?

  “Yeah. Personally, I’d go for sleeping pills. You fall asleep and never wake up. Easy peasy.”

  “I’m not going to . . . well, not today at least . . .” I waved a hand toward the drop off.

  That got her attention. “Not today? But some other day you . . . might?” She trailed a finger down, mimicking something falling.

  I mentally winced.

  Way to go. Announce your dysfunction. Throw her into the deep end.

  But . . . I was so flustered.

  Though I had never seen us meeting, I had assumed it would be more normal. An introduction through a mutual friend. An online message. Something.

  Not dark humor in a public piazza.

  “Sure.” I grinned, like this was some joke. “If Italy chokes again in the World Cup finals this year, there’s no telling what I’ll do.”

  “Well, that’s good.” She bopped up on her tiptoes, looking down. “Because I’d say the drop is maybe thirty feet and the only thing worse than falling thirty feet and dying, would be falling thirty feet and not dying.” She turned back to me. “Just think, you could drink everything through a straw for the rest of your life.”

  Damn.

  I smiled. I couldn’t help it.

  This was awful. Terrible.

  She was funny. And offbeat. And . . . and . . . interesting.

  I was such a goner.

  She smiled back. Her entire face springing to life.

  The expression was . . . transformative.

  I took a step backwards but still got lost in her.

  She was average in height. Curvy body in a scoop neck white t-shirt, expensive fitted leather jacket, skinny jeans and knee-high boots. Bright jewelry clustered around her neck, washing her in vivid color.

  And her eyes . . . wow. Every bit as incredible as I had thought—a light gray/gold/green hazel against her skin. Had I ever seen eyes that color before? I pulled off my sunglasses, tucking them into the top button of my shirt, in order to get a better look.

  I liked what I saw. I liked it a little too much. More than just her physical appearance—which . . . yeah . . . I liked that, too—but the bounce in her voice, the random quirkiness of her words.

  She was here. My woman.

  This was happening.

  My skin prickled with awareness.

  This was bad. This was very bad.

  Do not engage.

  I needed to leave.

  Now.

  But my feet stubbornly refused to listen and longing left me foolishly tongue-tied, which could be the only explanation for what I said next. “Do you always begin conversations this way?”

  “What way is that?”

  “Through morbid speculation?”

  She paused, tongue darting out to lick her lips, hands scraping down the front of her jeans.

  The motions were so damn cute. My heart tugged on its leash, an eager dog desperate to explore everything about her now, now, now.

  “Uh . . . not usually.” She looked away. As if something made it hard to look at me too long. “Only when I’m nervous.”

  “Nervous?” I parroted back. “I make you nervous?”

  Pleasure shot through me at the thought of her nervousness, the feeling all my own. It meant she wasn’t indifferent to me, right?

  And why did my mind instantly jump to wanting her affection?

  But my mouth wouldn’t stop. “How do you begin a conversation if you’re not nervous?”

  She shrugged. “I usually lead with, ‘What do you think about cheese?’”

  A beat.

  “Seriously?

  She nodded.

  I angled my head.

  I still couldn’t tell if she was serious or not.

  So, naturally, I said the worst thing possible:

  “I, uh, think cheese is Gouda.”

  Yeah.

  I said that.

  To my woman.

  Who didn’t even know she was my woman and—if I was any sort of kind, decent human being—would never know that she was my woman.

  But let’s face it, she probably would never be my woman, even if I wanted her to be—which I didn’t, I really didn’t—because I clearly had NO game when it came to flirting.

  Nada. Zilch.

  Not that I was going to flirt with her.

  I was going to leave. Any second now.

  But then she smiled and shook her head at the pun.

  “Well, I’m hardly one to diss-a-brie.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

  Annnnnnd I was so in love.

  Her flirting skills were just as bad as mine.

  I took back my earlier assessment.

  She was more than interesting.

  Fascinating. Captivating. Unique.

  Help! I mentally waved a flag of distress.

  I was sinking fast.

  The admiration I had anticipated. The attraction.

  But I hadn’t counted on the painful ache blooming near my third rib, right behind my heart. The profound sense of affinity, of finding that essential missing puzzle piece of yourself. That ache snatched my breathing and tightened my chest.

  How could I leave her? How could I walk away?

  But . . . how could I not, knowing the end from the beginning? If I cared about her at all, I would leave.

  She shifted, obviously unsure as to my silence and, undoubtedly, creepy staring.

  “We can go a more traditional route, if you’d like.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Olivia.”

  Olivia.

  Her name was Olivia.

  I swallowed back the pain of it. The hosanna that lingered on my lips.<
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  “Tennyson.” I fit my palm against hers, shaking her hand.

  Warmth flooded at her touch. Electricity. Connection.

  She had beautiful hands. Fine-boned fingers, neatly trimmed nails, incredibly soft skin a shade darker than my Italian olive.

  I smiled, broad and genuine for the first time in . . . forever.

  “Olivia,” I repeated her name. Did anyone call her Livy? She looked like a Livy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  I didn’t let go of her hand. Awkward. But I wasn’t completely unsure what to do next.

  When you always knew how someone felt, and women universally seemed to find you attractive, you didn’t have to hone your pick-up skills—

  WAIT!

  Everything smashed together in one breathless bolt of understanding.

  The fact that she had surprised me.

  Her declared, over-the-top nervousness.

  Her obviously uncomfortable appraisal of me.

  My clear sense of my own feelings while being so close to her.

  I felt nothing from her.

  Not a whiff of emotion.

  Niente. Nulla.

  Olivia of the magnificent eyes—my Olivia—was completely blank. An emotional black hole.

  SEVEN

  Olivia

  Whoa.

  I drew in a deep, fortifying breath.

  Tennyson had gone intensely motionless. Breathless. He stared and stared, his impossibly blue eyes pinning me in place.

  The online photos and following him through town had not prepared me for the jolt of his direct scrutiny.

  He still held my hand, his palm engulfing mine, warm and strong. Electricity hummed along the contact. Prickly, aching awareness that made my skin flush and feel so very alive.

  It was a torrent of intense, overwhelming attraction that was as unexpected as it was unwelcome.

  This was a colossal problem.

  A man could be good-looking without me feeling anything more than generic admiration for him. Not every Hot Guy automatically got the whole heated-zing-of-connection-and-butterflies-of-yearning rigmarole.

  But, of course, my stupid hormones decided that Tennyson ‘Completely-Out-of-My-League’ D’Angelo needed to be their man.

  So though awkward to hold our handshake for so long, I chose to pretend like this was normal. Just holding hands with an Armani catwalk model in the middle of a romantic Italian city. No biggie.

  As a connoisseur of awkward, I tended to savor it in other people.

  I met his gaze as best I could, but it was hard because . . . Holy Hotness, Batman.

  Was he getting a read off me? Was this what his ‘psychic’ mode looked like?

  If so . . . curses. It was kind of a turn on. But . . . he didn’t appear to be in a trance.

  No. His eyes roamed over me, probing, dissecting. He looked like he was trying to understand me. Or place me. Had he recognized me then?

  My breathing quickened, remembering his first startled look. I could have sworn there was a double-take flash of recognition there, but then it had morphed into something . . . else.

  But if he had recognized me, it could be a problem. My face wasn’t too well-known, but it wasn’t outside the bounds of believability that he would know me by sight.

  Knowing who I was could explain his friendliness. I honestly had expected him to be warier and more hesitant. His bumbling, almost flustered, aw shucks flirtiness was not normal Hot Guy behavior. At least, not around me.

  Until said guy knew who I was. Then it was anyone’s guess how things would play out. People often saw me as a tool, a footstool to be used. I had certainly found that out over the years. And if any of this got back to my mother . . .

  That tiny breath of reality blew self-preserving sanity through my brain. I tugged my hand away, firmly telling myself not to squirm under his scrutiny.

  I could do this. I could talk to him like he was a normal person.

  He was a regular human being, underneath all the handsome and the gorgeousness and the hot-personness. People were people in the end, oftentimes selfish, seeing others as a means to an end. That had been the absolute story of my life.

  And I was about to do the same thing to Tennyson. But selfish motives aside, I could at least be as honest as possible.

  “I actually know your name, Mr. D’Angelo.” I was proud that my voice was steady and professional.

  Tennyson stiffened, all the lovely openness of his expression instantly shuttering, eyes becoming wary and cautious.

  “Do you, now?” He spoke with careful enunciation. And then nothing else.

  I could practically see the whirring red alarm bell going off above his head.

  He stood impossibly still, waiting.

  All the water had evaporated from my mouth, my throat dry and scratchy while something rolled and pitched in my stomach.

  What to do?

  I hadn’t articulated a game plan for this particular scenario.

  I mentally snorted. Honestly, I hadn’t created a solid game plan for any of this. I was flying by the seat of my pants, as usual.

  Ruthlessly pushing back the creeping panic, I pressed on.

  “I heard about you from General Weymount, who is a long-time family friend.”

  Tennyson didn’t react to the news other than to nod his head. “General Weymount is well known. Your family keeps illustrious company.”

  Hah! Did he recognize me then? And if so, what should I do about it, if anything?

  Tennyson D’Angelo was impossible to read.

  He shuffled his feet, face impassive, eyes raising to look sightlessly behind me. He took in a deep breath, as if warring with himself or upset about something or . . . I had no idea.

  He swallowed and clenched his jaw. “Look, Olivia, it’s been nice to meet you, but, uhm, I should get going.”

  He tossed a thumb over his shoulder, taking a step back, the bag in his hand swinging.

  My heart plunged to my ankles. Of course he would blow me off.

  He was a Hot Person. That’s what they did with Not People.

  Before he could turn around, I grabbed his arm. “Wait. I know they call you The Prophet.”

  He paused.

  I let go of his arm because . . . just, ya know, lots of unnecessary feels going on with touching him.

  No touchy the hotty.

  I continued, “They say you see things before they happen. You can foretell the future.”

  “So they say?” His voice dry.

  He slipped his sunglasses back on, muting the intensity of his incredible eyes—every line of him saying he was done talking.

  Now what? How to convince him to help me?

  All my rehearsed arguments had scattered to the wind. The butterflies in my stomach swarmed, eager to escape and join my thoughts.

  I swallowed convulsively.

  Focus. You can do this.

  “You saved lives in Afghanistan,” I replied. “I’m hoping you can help me, too.”

  He said nothing.

  He continued to look beyond me, expression shuttered. He shook his head again. Once. Twice. And then let out a long, slow breath.

  “I’m sorry, Olivia. I’ve liked meeting you, but trust me, you’re better off not knowing me.” He turned to leave.

  Grrr! No!

  I darted in front of him, hands outstretched. “Please help me.”

  “I can’t.” He moved to pass me.

  “Please. Don’t go.” I went around, jumping in front of him again. “You’re my Obi-Wan.”

  That stopped him, his head pulling back, the bag in his hand rocking back and forth.

  “What?”

  “You’re my Obi-Wan Kenobi. My only hope.”

  That flummoxed him for a second. “Isn’t that a little dramatic?”

  “Not really.”

  His shoulders sagged. “Olivia,”—genuine, desperate pleading in his voice—“please. For your own sake, I need to leave. I don’t want to hurt you.”
>
  Ooookay.

  Hurt me? What did he mean by that?

  He took my momentary silence as permission to walk around me.

  Again.

  I pivoted with him.

  “But I’m dying.” The words tore from me, practically hurled at his back.

  He froze. Completely still.

  A second passed. Then two.

  A harsh sound escaped him, like a quick kick to the diaphragm. Like I had winded him somehow.

  “I’m dying, Tennyson,” I repeated, voice anguished, staring at the back of his neck. “You can’t hurt me any more than I’m already hurting.”

  I should have stopped there. I knew this and yet my stupid brain couldn’t seem to stem the verbal diarrhea.

  “Please. I’ve traveled so far,” I continued. “I desperately need the help of someone who can commune with the supernatural world. I know I’m a stranger, and you probably have a strict I-don’t-adopt-needy-stray-women policy—which I totally understand because that’s actually a good life rule and you shouldn’t abandon it in the future because of me—but I am dying and if you have to hurt me a little in order to save my life, then I suppose I don’t mind. I mean, as long as it’s not super hurty cause that would sorta negate any other help you might offer, but . . . uhm . . .”—Stop! Stop talking!—“just . . . help?”

  The last bit came out plaintive.

  Forget about dying anytime in the future. I was pretty sure the blush currently scalding every last inch of my body would finish me off any second now.

  Tennyson stood there, turned away from me, stock still, unmoving for at least half a minute, his free hand opening and closing, clenching over and over. His chest heaved.

  He shook his head, a sharp slice. Left. Right.

  Another gust of air left him.

  I got the distinct sense that he was warring with himself.

  And then his shoulders went back, as if resolved.

  He turned around to face me, brows drawn down into a solid line above his sunglasses.

  “You’re dying?” His words sounded . . . angry.

  That seemed like the wrong emotion. Concern. Pity. Apathy, even. But why anger? He didn’t know me, did he?

  Did he?!

  I was so confused.

  It didn’t help that he took two steps forward as he spoke, stopping just shy of actually touching. I was an average height, so Tennyson had over half a foot on me. He used those extra inches to loom.

  I stared up into his nostrils.