Dangerous Passion

by Lisa Marie Rice

  But he needed Grace like he needed water and air. Ferociously.

  Where the hell was she?

  He rolled over in bed, relishing the small surge of strength he could feel returning to his body, and that was when he saw it.

  The trolley, lying by the left-hand bedside table.

  Open.

  She hadn’t even bothered to close it.

  Drake’s heart gave a sharp blow in his chest. Pure, lancing pain, such as none he had ever felt before, exploded inside him.

  She’d left him.

  Of course.

  He was a hunted man. His enemies had almost killed her twice, had killed a dear friend and driven her out of her home and out of her life. She must have thought his enemies would eventually get her, too.

  And there was the trolley, full of enough money to support someone like Grace for two lifetimes.

  He didn’t even blame her. Any other woman would have done the same. If there was anyone in the world who understood the imperatives of self-preservation, it was Drake. Grace would have to be crazy to stay with him, a hunted man, a criminal. Wounded, perhaps dying, for all she knew.

  He understood, completely.

  So why did it fucking hurt so much?

  It was a pain unlike any he had ever felt before, more than torn tissues and broken bones, much more. Something essential in him felt broken, blown apart—something at the core of his being, something that medicine couldn’t help and that would never heal.

  Grace had left him and he felt completely adrift, untethered to the world. Even in his darkest days as a homeless boy on the streets, he had never felt this…hollow. The life force that had sustained him forever had somehow vanished.

  He was probably capable of sitting up, even of getting up and walking. He needed stitches and some antibiotics, but he could function. He’d managed to get out of bad situations before in worse shape than this.

  He knew what he had to do. Lack of money right now meant nothing. He had his cell phone and could start the process of accessing his funds. It would take a little time and a little trouble, that was all.

  Grigori was waiting for him. The plan was a good one. Foolproof, almost.

  Grigori would be waiting close by the Gulfstream 4, in a small, private airfield not far from the Tampa airport, which had heavy traffic in cargo flights. Grigori had access to all the flight plans out of Tampa. He’d fly them out at night, within 800 meters of a cargo flight headed for Eastern Europe, keeping directly below the jet blast of the engines with the collision lights off, completely invisible to radar.

  They would fly across the Atlantic tailing the cargo flight and no one would ever know. It was standard operating procedure for Drake’s flights.

  They’d land in Montenegro, where the deputy premier was one of Drake’s best customers, be carried over by boat to Apulia, the boot heel of Italy, where a car would be waiting to drive them to Rome. Grace had wanted to go to Rome, and by God he wanted to take her there.

  That had been his plan—a few days in Rome, showing her the sights, then they would take their jump to the final destination—Sivuatu, a thousand miles from Fiji and a million miles from nowhere.

  Even without Grace, the plan was good. He actually needed to go to Rome, where the second-best forger in the world lived. He’d had to run without any documents, and Signor Caselli could get them for him. A Belgian passport, a Maltese passport and perhaps a Croatian one.

  But then again—if Grace was gone, why leave the country at all, why seek a new life? He was shedding his old life and creating a new existence to protect her. If she was gone, he could go back to his old life.

  So okay, his security had been breached. He’d just tighten it. Put stainless-steel plates behind the windows, shuffle his bodyguards, hire new ones, upgrade his videoconferencing facilities.

  Find the fucker who’d betrayed him and make him pay.

  Hole up. Hell, he could do most of his business over a webcam connection, no need to ever leave his premises again.

  Drake lay on the filthy bed, counting the cracks in the ceiling, telling himself to get up, get going, yet he lay unmoving on the dirty bed. Why did the thought of going back to New York and living under enhanced security conditions make him feel already dead and buried?

  He couldn’t get his muscles into gear. He had the strength, but not the heart. For the first time in his life, he had no desire to get going. His chest felt hollow, empty, as if his heart had been ripped out, leaving a gaping hole.

  Whatever he decided—move forward to the new life or fall back on the old—he needed to decide fast.

  But he couldn’t move. He lay on his back, watching the lights of the passing cars outside the window, flumes of water thrown up by their tires, listening to the sleety rain pounding at the thin window pane, and tried to find it in himself to care enough to get going.

  Nothing worked. He lay, thinking of nothing, feeling nothing, wanting nothing, hardly breathing as the clock in his head marked half an hour, an hour.

  A heavy vehicle braked recklessly outside the motel room in a shower of gravel. A door slammed. A few moments later, the motel room door opened and Grace rushed in, arms full of packages.

  She was pale, exhausted, completely soaked. Dumping the packages on the chair, she rushed to his bedside, placing a hand on his forehead.

  “You’re awake. Thank God. I hated leaving you unconscious, but you needed medicine and we needed warm clothes and some food.”

  Drake angled his body up on his elbows.

  Grace. By some miracle, Grace was here. Tired and bedraggled and worried looking and more beautiful than ever. Oh God, she was here.

  “Came…back,” he managed to choke out through a tight throat.

  She threw him a wry glance, hands busy pulling things out of paper bags. Gauze, disinfectant, bandages, cheap warm clothing. From one paper bag came the enticing smell of hamburgers. “Yes, I made it, without killing anyone, too. I know I’m a lousy driver, you don’t have to rub it in. I’ve never owned a car and—” She stopped, sucking in a shocked breath, turning her head to study him, a frown between her eyebrows. “Oh my God. You don’t mean that. Oh, Drake.” She sat abruptly on the bed, as if her legs wouldn’t support her anymore, hand cupping his jaw. “Oh, my darling, you thought I wasn’t coming back at all.” She studied his eyes and he dropped his. “You thought I’d abandoned you.”

  He couldn’t speak. He could barely breathe. Tight bands constricted his chest, clutched his heart, squeezing.

  Now that his head was higher, he could see that the trolley was still completely full of money. She’d only taken enough to make the purchases.

  Oh God. Surely she would leave now. He’d just dealt her a monstrous insult, how could she stay? He couldn’t even open his mouth to beg her forgiveness, because every muscle he had was locked down in pain and sorrow. He could barely breathe through the constriction in his chest.

  The room was utterly silent except for the pinging of sleet against the panes and the far-off hiss of tires on the wet road.

  “My darling,” Grace whispered, her other hand cupping the back of his head. She bent forward until her forehead touched his. “Know this. I will never leave you. I couldn’t. I love you.”

  Drake turned his head, nestling against her, nose in that glorious hair. She smelled of woman and smoke. He wanted to clutch her to him, but his hands wouldn’t move. They were shaking.

  He was shaking.

  A huge ball of something, some violent emotion, was working its way up his chest and throat, like sharp knives slicing him open from the inside out. He opened his mouth to let it out. It sounded like a sob, but that couldn’t be.

  Except his cheeks were cold. Something was making them wet.

  His battered brain took several minutes to realize that, for the first time in his adult life, he was crying.

  Rome

  December 2

  Grace leaned against the stone balustrade of the luxurious apartment at th
e top of the Spanish Steps, drinking in the glory of a Roman sunset. Though it was December, the evening was balmy, the setting sun somehow bigger and redder than any sun that had ever set over Manhattan.

  From Florida they’d flown to Montenegro in a luxury jet that was like a boutique hotel room. During the flight, Drake started healing right in front of her eyes. Almost hour by hour, he improved.

  She’d been so frightened on the horrific drive down to Tampa. Drake had been barely conscious, bleeding from multiple wounds and, worst of all, dazed and disoriented. For a horrific moment, she had thought he might actually die.

  And yet, by the time they’d landed in Montenegro, been taken across the Adriatic in a speedboat to land north of Bari with a Mercedes waiting, he felt well enough to take the wheel. Grace had made a token protest, but he’d simply looked at her with a crooked smile, holding the passenger door open. She’d slid inside with a sigh of relief. She hated to drive. The nightmare journey to Florida through a storm with a wounded man beside her had been horrible enough. Driving in Italy? No thanks.

  Trust Drake to find the most sumptuous apartment in Rome, across the street from the Hassler Hotel, at the top of the Spanish Steps. She’d gasped as they walked in, the Roman skyline glittering just beyond the enormous terrace. The travertine-stone lintel over the huge one-story carved wooden street door had had a coat of arms with 1537 engraved on it. A Renaissance palazzo, with a penthouse apartment that seemed to be theirs, frescoes and all.

  She’d been worried about the toll all this travel was taking on Drake. The evening they arrived in Rome, Drake had come naked out of the huge marble bathroom, having taken the stitches in his shoulder out himself. He put a finger to her lips before she could say anything. “It’s okay, my love,” he’d said. Then kissed her.

  A naked Drake kissing her…she could barely remember her own name after that.

  She’d wanted to see Rome and he’d taken her, everywhere she wanted to go. Dressed in a long cashmere coat, which managed to mask his unusually strong physique, and a black watchcap pulled low over his forehead, with wraparound sunglasses and dark stubble blurring the line of his jaw, he passed unnoticed in the crowd, almost unrecognizable even to her.

  This was her time, he made that clear. They did what she wanted, went where she wanted, saw what she wanted. She lost herself so much in Raphael’s La Fornarina at the National Gallery that the guards had to shoo them out at closing time. When with a start Grace realized she’d kept Drake standing for over three hours while she mooned over a painting by Titian at the Borghese Gallery, she started to apologize.

  “Did you enjoy that, duschka?” he asked. “Did it make you happy?”

  “Oh yes,” she breathed.

  “Then I’m happy, too,” he said simply.

  He stood quietly by her side as she spent an entire morning at the Sistine Chapel, his dark eyes taking everything in. Though he knew very little about art, Grace wouldn’t have been surprised if he were now able to describe from memory each and every one of the hundreds of paintings she’d dragged him to see.

  It was all so…liberating. All her life, she’d had to disguise how passionately she loved classical art. Most people could get a little worked up about modern art, the trendier and more expensive the better, but classical art…bleh.

  And of course, conversely, she had to feign an interest in the things most people were crazy about—money, fashion and gossip.

  With Drake, Grace didn’t have to hide any aspect of her nature. After a couple of days, she was surprised to find that she was even unconsciously standing straighter, and realized she had lived her life slightly hunched, waiting for disapproval. Not with Drake. She could be herself, completely, and he loved it.

  He loved her.

  Exactly the way she was.

  He loved her. It was there, in his touch, in his rare smiles, only for her, in the way he looked at her.

  He rarely left her side, and then only to take care of business. Like now. And she knew, like she knew that the sun setting in a blaze of glory before her would rise again in the east tomorrow, that he would come back to her.

  Behind her, a light switched on inside the sumptuous living room fit for a prince and she smiled.

  Drake was back.

  In a moment, he was at her side, strong arm around her waist. She leaned her head against that massive shoulder and sighed. The sun was disappearing behind the glorious golden cupola of St. Peter’s, turning all the buildings a luscious, deep red. The Spanish Steps, below them, were full of people—tourists, students, families enjoying the warm evening, their voices a soft hum on the gentle evening breeze. Grace waved an arm, encompassing all of Rome. “This is so beautiful, Drake. Thank you for showing it to me.”

  He turned his head to look at her. “Your pleasure has been mine. But our time here is drawing to a close, duschka. I wish it weren’t true, but it is. Europe is too dangerous for us. Soak everything up and commit it to memory, because the sad truth is that we can never return here again.”

  She knew that. It had been made clear to her, which was why she’d been so greedy to see all the artwork she could.

  He pulled something from his overcoat pocket, then tossed the overcoat onto a wicker chaise longue. “Here.” Two burgundy passports. “These are our new identities.”

  Intrigued, Grace opened them. She and Drake were now Maltese, she saw. Victoria and Manuel Rabat. She fingered the identity page, covered in plastic, touching her new existence. “Victoria,” she murmured. “It’s a pretty name.”

  Drake shrugged. “I like Grace more. But she is now gone.”

  “Have you figured out where Victoria and Manuel are going?”

  He smiled. “Yes. An island called Sivuatu, a couple of hours’ flight from Fiji. It is very lush, warm, but in the path of the trade winds, so the heat is mitigated. I have already bought a home for us. It is very beautiful. One wing will be set aside as your studio. I hope you will like it there.”

  Grace met his dark gaze. “I’ll love it.” Her voice rang clearly with the force of her conviction.

  He nodded gravely. “I hope so, for we will rarely leave the island. It will be our new home, in every sense, for the rest of our lives.”

  “When will we leave?”

  “Soon, as I said. Everything is ready, just one more thing has to happen and then we go, as fast as we can. But before we go, there is something else we must do.”

  Grace watched, intrigued, as he pulled two small boxes from his pants pocket, holding them to her in the palm of his huge hand.

  Two shiny black lacquer boxes, with BULGARI embossed in gold on the covers. He put one in her hand. “Open this one first.”

  Smiling, she opened the box. Inside was a thick band of red gold inset with brightly colored gemstones. She lifted it out, the gemstones glittering with life and vivid color. Amethyst, topaz, aquamarine, peridot…she held the ring up to the light and drank in the glorious colors.

  “It’s beautiful, Drake. Perfect. It’s just perfect.” It was. The design was clean and exquisite, the gemstones bright and flawless. Exactly the kind of ring to appeal to her.

  “Open the other one,” he said quietly.

  “Two rings,” she smiled. “That’s a little extravagant, don’t you th—” She stopped and gazed, puzzled, at the simple, enormous gold band in the second box. “Drake, that’s much too large for my hand.”

  He smiled. “It’s not for you, duschka, it’s for me.” He extracted it from the velvet holder, placing it in the palm of his right hand. Intense dark eyes stared into hers. “Put it on me, my love. You know which finger.”

  She did. Her heart began a deep, excited thudding in her chest.

  With shaking fingers, she picked up the big gold band. It felt heavy and warm in her hand. She picked up his left hand and slipped it onto his ring finger. It fit, perfectly, just as hers had.

  Once the ring was on his finger, he caught her hand, lacing his fingers through hers.

 
; “We will arrive in our new home as man and wife, so we will never have a marriage ceremony. Therefore we will have our wedding now, and here.” He indicated the beautiful, terra-cotta-tiled terrace with the elegant wickerwork and iron furniture, the city of Rome laid out before them with its bustling crowds and elegant shop windows all lit up, the domes of the Renaissance churches rising up like dreams made of stone and tile from the forest of rooftop gardens. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. Grace nearly cried at what she saw in his eyes, blinking back the tears, because this was the most solemn moment in her life, a moment that would split her existence on this earth into two. Before Drake and After Drake.

  “Grace Larsen,” he whispered, “I promise to love you and protect you for the rest of our lives.” He swallowed heavily. His hard face, normally so impassive, showed signs of emotion, nostrils flaring white, deep brackets around his mouth, muscles rippling along his jawline.

  Grace was shaking all over. Deep down, she never thought she’d ever get married. She was too odd, too eccentric, too out of step with the modern-day world. At times she hadn’t even minded, because the thought of a fancy, expensive wedding with tons of drunken guests, followed by a marriage in which she had to constantly pretend to be someone else, was almost too much to bear.

  This was…perfect. So perfect for her. The man of her dreams in the city of her dreams. Just the two of them, vowing to love each other forever.

  “Viktor Drakovich,” she whispered, her throat almost too tight to get the words out. She waited for the trembling to die down, for her voice to steady. Such a solemn moment, it deserved the best she could give. A deep breath. Another. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm. “I promise to love and care for you for the rest of our lives.” She bowed her head over their joined hands. “We are now truly man and wife.”

  His hand jolted a little in hers and she looked up, startled. She barely had a chance to see his face, muscles tight, eyes ferociously fixed on hers, before he took her head in his big hands and started kissing her wildly. Eating at her mouth, tongue deep inside, breathing her in as if he were dying and her mouth contained the elixir of life.