by Elle James
“I don’t think you could be any more perfect.” He rose to his feet and looked around. “I don’t suppose there are oars?”
Isabella laughed, the sound musical and light. “The boat masters use a pole to maneuver the waterways.”
Ronin frowned. “If I’m poling, how romantic will that be? And don’t ask me to sing. Whatever might be starting between us will quickly end.”
She smiled. “Just pole. I’ll let you know where to turn.”
“Not the fastest getaway vehicle,” he muttered. “We’d better hope we aren’t chased by the water police, driving their jet boats.” He located the long black pole moored to hooks affixed to the side of the boat, raised the point up in the air and dug the end into the water until the tip touched bottom. The gondola moved forward.
“Slow where the waterways cross,” she warned him.
As he familiarized himself with the movements needed to propel the small craft through the canals, Ronin relaxed.
In the distance, perhaps on another watery street, the deep rich sound of a man singing echoed off the centuries-old buildings.
Soon, Isabella hummed in tune with the song. Then she whispered the words, her Italian soft and achingly beautiful.
Her words and her song flowed like the boat, past docks, doors and alleyways, filling the darkness with a haunting melody. She fit directions in English between the lilting Italian. When the song came to an end, she said, “Stop at the next pier.”
So caught up in her melody, Ronin almost missed her instruction. He dug the pole into the silt at the bottom of the canal and brought the little boat to a halt a couple feet past the dock. In seconds, he backed up and brought the gondola alongside the pier. While he once again stowed the pole on the hooks along the side of the boat, Isabella tied the line on the mooring of the pier.
Ronin lifted her out of the boat onto the wooden dock then leaped up beside her and looked at the shadowed building in front of them. “What is this place?”
She shrugged. “I think it’s an old apothecary. But this isn’t the place I wanted to take you. Let’s go before anyone sees us.” Slipping her hand into his, she turned toward an alley.
He held her back, digging in his heels. “Who are you afraid will see us?”
She didn’t look him straight in the eye. Instead, she stared at the alley, as if willing Ronin to blindly follow, no questions asked. “Why the police, of course. You don’t want to get caught with a stolen boat, do you?”
Ronin chuckled. “Now, she worries about getting caught with stolen goods.” He started toward the alley, his hand curling tightly around hers. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise,” she called over her shoulder.
“Probably taking me to her pimp to have me stripped of all my money and credit cards,” he muttered.
“I heard that. I don’t need your money or credit cards. Now, be quiet and hurry.”
Soon she stopped in front of an old building with brass handles on dark-stained doors and a third-floor balcony with wrought iron railing, overlooking the street.
“Where are we?” he asked.
She smiled and pushed open the door. “Welcome to Hotel Eden.”
Ronin vividly recalled everything from that night. From dancing at the masquerade ball, the gondola and her voice—and making love for the first time in Eden. The following three days passed like a dream. They’d spent the days holed up in Hotel Eden, making love in the sunlight streaming through the window of their room and most of the way through the next night. They didn’t leave the tiny hotel, preferring to have a nearby restaurant deliver their food.
By the time his vacation had come to an end, Ronin was head over heels in love with the beautiful Isabella. He’d even considered leaving the Navy to stay in Italy with her. But when he’d broached the matter of the future, she’d changed the subject, kissed him, or took off another item of clothing. His leave came to an end and he was due to fly back to Virginia the fourth afternoon.
They’d had lunch in the Piazza San Marco at the little bistro café. She’d worn a tie-dyed sundress, a broad-brimmed hat and sunglasses she’d picked up from a street vendor on one of their few outings the day before.
He’d asked her to remove the glasses so he could see her beautiful blue eyes.
She’d refused, claiming she didn’t want him to see her cry.
Now, two years later, he stood in the crowded Piazza San Marco, desperately searching for that broad-brimmed hat, her coal-black hair or her ice-blue eyes.
The café was still where it had been. The name had changed, but the same tables stood outside the little shop, two years older, but the same.
Tourists wandered around the wide-open square, feeding pigeons and coaxing them to land on their arms and hands in exchange for a treat. A jumbo-tron media screen had been erected on one end of the square for the Carnival festivities as it had been two years ago.
On the surface, nothing had changed.
But Ronin had.
He’d been deployed several times. The buddy he’d come with to Venice had been killed during one of the operations, and time had passed.
He’d come to put the ghost of Isabella and their magical time together to rest, once and for all.
First, he had to find her. As he stared at the bistro tables filled with tourists, he searched for a flash of blue eyes or long black hair, hanging over one shoulder.
The number of tables outside the café had increased to at least double what had been there on his last visit. He took his time, running his gaze over every guest of the café, praying luck would be on his side.
As his gaze slipped over every occupant, hope faded. No one even came close to resembling her. The crowd in the square was too thick to allow him to find anyone. Why he’d thought he could just waltz into Venice during Carnival and find one woman… He shook his head.
He’d just about given up and turned to walk away when a movement in the far corner of his eye caught his attention. The jumbo-tron had been turned on, displaying images of the people milling about the piazza.
Ronin looked up in time to see a woman wearing a pale blue Pashmina scarf around her face.
Though her face was hidden for the most part, there was something about the way she held her head, and the way she kept turning, that caught his attention. Her glances darted, as if she was expecting someone to show up, perhaps someone she didn’t want to see.
His pulse pounding, his throat clenching, Ronin glanced at the jumbo-tron and the buildings displayed in the background. Could it be her? Could she really be in the square full of people? The chances were one in a million, but he had to know.
Keeping an eye on the huge display screen, he worked his way through the crowd. There was the jester on stilts and the woman in the flamboyant purple dress. But where was the woman with the pale blue scarf?
A tall man, Ronin could see over most people, most of the time, but this was Carnival. The costumes were outlandish and bigger than life. Hats blocked his view. If not for the large screen with its view from above the crowd, he’d be searching for a needle in a brightly colored haystack.
Finally, he found a woman in a light-colored scarf and pushed his way through the crowd to get to her. Out of breath from excitement more than exertion, he touched her shoulder. “Isabella?”
The woman turned, her face coming into focus.
Ronin’s heart plummeted to his knees.
“Scusami?” The woman had white hair, tucked beneath the blue scarf. Wrinkles lined her face, and her eyes were brown, not blue.
“Excuse me.” He cleared his throat. “My mistake.”
She smiled and waved her hand, encompassing the crowd. “Nessun problema. Buona giornata.”
Ronin stepped back, the excitement of moments before drained from his body and soul. He was crazy to think he’d find her here. With so many people crowding the city, he’d be lucky to find his hotel, much less one woman whose last name he’d never learned. He turned towa
rd one of the piazza’s exits, intent on finding his way to his hotel.
“Ronin?” a familiar voice said behind him.
He spun and stared into the face of the woman who’d haunted him ever since the last time they’d met.
2
Isabella Pisano had spent the past hour, trying to lose her bodyguards. How did she tell her father she knew how to take care of herself, and she didn’t need bodyguards to follow her around? What she needed was space away from the oppressiveness of the constant supervision she’d endured since her return to Venice.
Because her father was a very wealthy man, he felt compelled to keep his family safe from kidnappers. Isabella was a prime target for those who would dare to capture and use her in trade for a hefty ransom.
She missed the freedom she’d had over the past year away from Venice, away from her life as a debutante and spoiled little rich girl. Isabella craved the independence and purpose she’d gained in her year away from Venice.
Slipping free of her bodyguards hadn’t been too difficult in the crowded streets. With so many visitors in Venice for the annual Carnival celebration, she’d easily switched her bright red scarf for a pale blue one and tucked her hair beneath the folds.
Alone at last, she wandered the streets, remembering another time, two years ago when she’d slipped free of her father’s men in order to spend time with a man who had made her blood hum and her heart race. Two years ago, she’d made the mistake of letting a man into her heart and bed, knowing nothing could ever come of it. She had been on the verge of an entirely different path in her life. Having taken a female refugee into the Pisano household, she’d learned of the plight of women and children in Syria, and had vowed to make a difference.
She hadn’t had time to follow her lover, nor had he offered to take her with him. Had he offered, she knew she wouldn’t have left, until after she’d at least tried to do something to help.
When she’d gone to her father to discuss her desire to help the women and children of Syria, he’d forbidden her to go there, fearing for her life in the war-torn nation. He’d suggested she go to Africa and help the poor women and children there.
His suggestion had given her the idea of how she could leave Venice with her father’s permission and blessing.
While he’d been busy running his businesses, she’d left Venice on a mission to help all right. But not the poor children in Africa. Instead, she’d gone to help the women of Syria and Iraq who’d been raped, abused and killed for no other reason than they were women, and ISIS considered them lesser beings than sheep.
The injustice of their plight had pulled Isabella out of her sheltered life.
Meeting Ronin, the American Navy SEAL, and learning about all he’d gone through during his training, left her even more convinced she should do something. She was young and strong and could learn how to defend herself and others, much like Ronin had.
Their time together during Carnival was like a dream. Before Ronin, she hadn’t believed in love at first sight. But their meeting at her father’s masquerade ball had been nothing short of magical. He’d swept her off her feet with his dashing pirate costume and relentless pursuit of her hand in a dance.
Her decision to leave the ball with him had been spontaneous and reckless, but she’d never regretted it, not even for a moment. Her father’s bodyguards had taken the brunt of her father’s ire over her escape, but she couldn’t regret the time she’d spent with the American.
He’d taught her more about making love and following her dreams than she’d learned in all of her twenty-six years as Marcus Pisano’s daughter.
When he’d left her in the Piazza San Marco, she’d missed Ronin terribly and had thought about following him back to the States.
However, he hadn’t promised her forever with him, nor had he invited her to be with him in Virginia. Ronin had made it very clear he had an important job as a SEAL, and he took it seriously. He traveled the world in an attempt to end terrorism and help others regain control of their own countries.
Ronin’s dedication to his work, and the tales the Syrian refugee had imparted, helped Isabella come to the realization she couldn’t go on as the spoiled daughter of a multi-millionaire. She had to do something to help others.
From that moment forward, she’d immersed herself in the study of martial arts, not just mastering moves, but learning how to really defend herself against attack and how to take someone down who stood in the way of her goal. From Asaf, one of her father’s hired bodyguards, a former Israeli soldier and mercenary, she’d learned how to use an entire armory of weapons and how to construct explosive devices out of normal household items.
She’d completed her training and scheduled a yearlong trip to Africa to teach small children how to read and write. She’d sold the idea of the mission to her father on the understanding she’d be safe with Asaf and a contingent of bodyguards. And she’d promised to take along a female friend of hers from university.
From Venice, she’d flown to Uganda, spent a month there, teaching children and recording images she could send back to her father as proof she was still alive.
One starry night, she and Asaf had flown to Turkey and crossed the border into Syria. And thus, her mission began. Over the next year, she’d slipped into ISIS strongholds, freeing women and killing the men who’d horribly abused them.
On two occasions, she’d allowed herself to be captured in order to get inside and convince the girls and young women to escape with her.
The women she’d rescued called her their Angel of Mercy.
The men of ISIS learned of this Angel of Mercy and wanted her dead. So much so, they’d put a price on her head and threatened to kill anyone who harbored or aided her in her efforts to free the women.
Their threats hadn’t stopped Isabella. But when their threats turned to reality, and the women who’d aided and helped her along the way were tortured and killed in public as a deterrent to others, Isabella knew she had to leave. By staying in Syria, she put more people at risk than she was helping.
With Asaf’s help, she left the country in the dead of night, just like she’d entered. However, nothing ever went exactly according to plan.
The price on her head was too tempting. Spies lay in wait. They’d been ambushed. Since the price on her head was to deliver her alive, they’d no need to spare Asaf. He was killed outright.
Isabella returned fire, barely escaping with her own life. Under the cover of darkness, she’d traversed hostile territory on her own. Yes, she’d made it back to Italy. Yes, she’d found her way to her father’s house in Venice and resumed the life of the daughter of an Italian tycoon. But nothing was ever the same. She wasn’t the person she’d been when she’d left.
Her father never knew what she’d done. He’d never suspected she’d gone into enemy territory, rescued abducted women and killed ISIS murderers and rapists. All he’d learned upon her return, was that her bodyguard had died, and he needed to assign her a new one.
Isabella spent the first couple of weeks at home, her heart hurting from losing her best friend and mentor, Asaf. She hadn’t needed to go out. Servants brought her whatever she wanted.
But soon, the walls of her father’s mansion closed in around her. She longed to be out in the open. All the nights she’d slept under the stars, with no light noise to pollute the heavens, made her wish she could see past the lights of Venice.
When she couldn’t stand being inside anymore, she left the house and wandered the avenues, her bodyguards close beside her. Even the streets didn’t feel the same. Everywhere she turned were memories of the days she’d spent with a handsome Navy SEAL, before she’d set off on her personal journey to save the world.
She would have thought two years would have dulled the longing for the stranger who’d changed her forever.
She found herself standing in front of Hotel Eden, staring at the place she’d spent several fabulous days, discovering her own sexuality with a man who’d taught
her more about lovemaking than she’d known existed.
Isabella found herself wishing she could see him again. If only for a moment. Perhaps that time in her life had been nothing more than an exaggerated product of her memories and imagination.
From Hotel Eden, she moved through the streets, ducking into alleys when the bodyguards weren’t paying attention. Soon, she’d lost them in the crowds of tourists already partying.
Her meandering led her to Piazza San Marco, where she’d last seen Ronin. As soon as she entered the square, she viewed the sea of humanity, wondering why she’d bothered to venture out during Carnival. People jostled her, laughing and probably drunk. It wasn’t as if she’d really believed she’d run into Ronin there. It was just memories that had led her to the square.
Ronin would be somewhere saving the world, one terrorist at a time.
Her chest tightened, and tears stung her eyes. Nothing was the same. She didn’t belong in Venice. Isabella wasn’t sure where she belonged. She didn’t even feel like she belonged in her own skin.
She turned to exit the piazza when she saw a tall, dark-haired man, wearing a tight black T-shirt that stretched across broad shoulders. His hair was cut short, military-style.
Isabella’s breath caught in her throat. Her feet carried her toward him. People crossed her path, blocking her way. She struggled to see the man in the black shirt, ducking around a woman in a bright, royal blue dress. Then she was there, and he was right in front of her, reaching for another woman and calling out, “Isabella.”
Isabella’s heart skipped several beats and then raced on.
The woman turned and smiled. She was old and gray-haired.
After two years, Isabella wasn’t the same woman Ronin had known, but she had to know if this man was him.
“Ronin?” she called out, her voice soft, breathy, as if she couldn’t quite force air from her lungs. As he turned, she held her breath.
Joy surged into her chest and filled her heart. It was Ronin—not a stranger, not a dream.