She nodded.
“Now I’m going to make sure there isn’t a bullet in the chamber. What that means is that I’m going to pull this gizmo back, then release it… Good. The chamber’s empty. Okay. Here’s what’s called the sight. Use it to line up your target. This is the trigger.”
“Even I know that.”
Was that a touch of indignation in her voice? He hoped so. He needed her to want to master this.
He held the Ruger toward her, handle first. If either Bianca or Alessandra had ever agreed to take a live spider from his, this was how she’d have done it. Slowly. Cautiously. As if it were certain to bite.
The LCP had resembled a toy in his hand. Not in hers. It looked like what it was.
A weapon designed to take a person’s life.
“You were right. It doesn’t weigh much.” She looked from the gun to him. “Now what?”
“Now, we walk up to that line on the floor.” He took her elbow, walked her to the toe line. “Stop right there. Good. Spread your feet apart. Not too much. Excellent. Look up. See that red bullseye? That’s what you’ll aim at. Okay. Lift the gun.”
“It wobbles.”
“Yeah. Bring up your other hand, if you can, and use your fingers to add balance.”
“No good. It’s still wobbling.”
“So what?” He touched the gun, brought the barrel up a fraction of an inch. “Didn’t you ever hear of One Hand Houlihan? That’s better. Now sight the target.”
She did as he’d instructed. The gun still shook, but not as badly.
“One Hand who?”
“Houlihan. More famous than Billy the Kid. Rode with Wyatt Earp. Steady. Steady. Great. If you haven’t heard of him, you’ve surely heard of One Hand Harriet.”
Ariel laughed. “You’re making this up.”
“Harriet taught Annie Oakley to shoot.” He stepped behind Ariel, put his arms around her and cupped one hand over hers on the Ruger. “She was a frugal woman. She figured using two hands when one would do was wasteful. Pull the trigger.”
“Pull the…?”
“No magazine. Nothing in the chamber. We checked. Pull the trigger.”
She pulled, with his help. Had she actually fired a bullet, it would have missed the bullseye, missed the whole dartboard.
That wouldn’t save her life.
“Do it again.”
She drew a breath, raised the gun, pulled the trigger, again with his hand steadying hers. Her aim was better, her hand steadier. The shot would have hit the dartboard, but not where it would cause the most damage.
“Again.”
Finally. The bullet would have found its mark.
“Once more,” he said, but he dropped his hand as he said it and when she pulled the trigger, she did it alone.
The shot would have nicked the edge of the board.
“Again.”
She glared at him, but she aimed and fired. It was her best shot yet, but still not good enough. Not if he was lying dead on the floor and Pastore was coming at her.
“Satisfied?”
“No.”
“Dammit, what do you want? I’ve never—”
He spun her toward him. What he wanted was some of the anger building inside her, but he needed it directed at an unseen assailant, not at him.
“I’ve been shot. I can’t help you. A man is coming at you. He’s going to kill you unless you stop him, and the only way to do that is to fire this gun and put him down. Are you going to do it, or are you going to let him end your life?”
He hated the flash of terror he saw in her eyes, hated himself for being the cause of it, but he folded his arms over his chest and stood his ground.
She swung away from him. Lifted her arm. Aimed the gun and pulled the trigger.
“Bam,” she said softly.
Bam, indeed. If the gun had been loaded, she’d have blown a hole right through the center of the target.
“Again,” he said.
Ariel aimed, pulled the trigger. Aimed again, and pulled the trigger. After the fourth time, Matteo took the Ruger from her hand.
“Sei bella e coraggiosa,” he said softly, “e io ti amo con tutto il cuore. You are beautiful and brave, and I love you with all my heart.”
She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. A lock of golden hair dangled over her eyes. She blew it back.
“All this time, I’ve been thinking about what might happen to me. But you…if something were to happen to you…”
He took her in his arms.
“Nothing will. We’re both going to get through this, cara.”
Tears glittered in her eyes. “Swear it to me.”
He couldn’t. They both knew that, but he understood why she had to hear him say the words.
“I swear it,” he said. He bent his head, leaned his forehead against hers. “Remember our Sicilian vow?”
She nodded. “‘I trust you with my life, as you trust me with yours.’”
He kissed her. She looped her arm around his neck and kissed him back. The kiss went from gentle to passionate; she felt his heart start to race against hers, and she drew back in his arms.
“It’s interesting, the things I’m starting to remember.”
“For instance?”
She ran the tip of her index finger over his mouth.
“Those courses I took at Miss Barlow’s?” She caught her breath as he sucked her finger into the heat of his mouth. “One of the things she insisted we learn,” she said, her eyes wide with innocence, “was that no proper young woman would ever make love in a room that held a pool table, a ping pong table and, most especially, a dartboard, not even if there was a big, wide sofa like that one in the corner.”
“What a coincidence. That we should find ourselves in just such a room, I mean. Any suggestions on how to handle the situation?”
Ariel rose on her toes, put her lips to his ear and whispered two words.
He growled his assent, swept her up into his arms and dropped the gun on the pool table as he carried her to the sofa, where he made love to her with such tender intensity that, at the end, she wept.
* * *
The storm raged around them.
There was a big flat-screen TV on a wall in the living room. Matteo flicked from station to station. Weathermen were calling the storm a blizzard. Nothing was taking off or landing at any airports in the region. Roads were impassable.
He hit the remote and the set went silent. Ariel turned to him.
“We’re cut off, aren’t we?”
There was no panic in her voice, only calm acceptance.
“Hey,” he said lightly, “look at the bright side. We can’t get out, but at least nobody can get in.”
She smiled, as he’d intended.
He reached for her hand.
He was so proud of her. It was hard to imagine anyone else waking into a nightmare and dealing with it as she had.
And she was healing, inside and out.
The bruises around her eyes had faded to a pale green. Her wrist was mending. Even the tiny stitches on her temple were gone. She’d said they were itching and he could see that they’d needed to come out. He’d snipped them away with a pair of manicure scissors she’d found in one of the bathrooms.
“No more Dr. Frankenstein,” she’d said, after a glance in the mirror, “but my eye shadow still needs some work.”
He loved that she was trying to joke about something that had to be a constant reminder of what had happened to her.
And her memory was definitely coming back.
He was happy for her.
And worried.
Sitting with her now, in the circle of his arm, his mind kept returning to the same question. How would she feel about him when she remembered everything? Who she was. Who he was. That he should have helped her when she’d asked him to, when she’d begged him to…
“Too bad we don’t have a snowmobile.”
He blinked. “Too bad we don’t… Oh. A snowmobile. Actually, I
don’t know how well a snowmobile would do in a storm like this.”
“Have you ever ridden one?”
“No.” He picked up her hand, played with her fingers. “But I’m great with motorcycles.”
“Such modesty from a knight,” she said, smiling.
“That’s the last thing I am, honey.”
“A knight doesn’t get to choose whether or not he’s a knight,” she said primly. “That decision belongs to his lady.” She batted her lashes at him. “In case you hadn’t noticed, that’s me.”
He smiled. She laced her fingers with his.
“Do you really ride motorcycles?”
“Sure. I bought one after I finished college. See, I took off a year between college and law school, to work and save money.”
“For law school?”
“Uh huh. I’d won a scholarship.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Yeah, well, I want you to be.” He turned her hand over in his and traced the delicate lines in her palm with the tip of his finger. “But I knew it wouldn’t cover everything, so I took a year and worked at all kinds of jobs. Waiter. Warehouse stockman. Cleaning crew in an office building.”
“And you saved a lot of money.”
“Enough so I gave in to temptation and bought myself a Harley. It was old and beat-up looking, but it ran fine and I loved it.”
“Then you became a lawyer and you gave up the Harley for a big black limo.”
He laughed. “Then I became a lawyer and I treated the Harley to a new paint job and some upgrades. I not only kept it, I still ride it. It was the first big thing I’d ever bought myself. I can’t imagine giving it up.”
She snuggled against him and dropped her head to his shoulder.
“When all of this is over, will you take me for a ride?”
“Absolutely. We’ll go from Manhattan to the Palisades, in New Jersey. There’s a spot there that overlooks the Hudson. It’s all hemmed in by trees and brush, and the view is of the river, trees and sky, nothing else.”
“It sounds beautiful.”
“It is.”
“I have a favorite spot, too. You have go all the way out to Montauk, down this dirt road nobody ever seems to use, and suddenly you’re at the end of the world, just sky and sea ahead of you.”
His arm tightened around her. “Another memory?”
She nodded. “I’m remembering more and more. Nothing important, just bits and pieces of stuff.”
“It’s all important. It means your amnesia is fading.”
“I know.” She brought his hand to her face and rubbed her cheek against it. “But what I want to remember are the things that brought me here. I want to know why some man is after me. Who he is. What it is he thinks I’ve done, because he must think I’ve done something, or why would he want to—to get me out of his life?”
“I don’t have the answer to that and even if I did... Cristo, I hate this!”
“Shh. It isn’t your fault. I understand that.” She looked up at him. “Most of all, what I really want to remember is you.”
“I’m right here, cara. If you want me, all you have to do is reach out and touch me.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean, I want to remember you. How we met. What we said to each other. How you looked. What I was thinking when I saw you.” She smiled. “You must have made a big impression on me, if I ran away with only your business card and some money in my pocket.”
He smiled, too, though it took some effort, because it was that ‘big impression’ that made him uneasy.
What would she think once she knew he was her husband’s attorney? That initially his job had been to help Pastore divorce her? That Pastore had asked him to have her committed? Yes, he’d refused to do either thing, but so what?
What mattered was what had happened the night they met.
She’d pleaded for his help, and he’d walked away.
He’d walked away.
He hadn’t understood what was happening. Hell, he still didn’t, but the details didn’t matter.
She’d needed him and he’d walked away.
“Hey.” Her voice was soft. “What are you thinking? You look as if you’re a thousand miles away.”
He pulled her into his embrace.
“I love you,” he said. “Promise me you’ll never forget that.”
Her eyes searched his. “How could I? You’re my lover. My love. My knight.”
Matteo shook his head. “I am no knight,” he said fiercely. “I am only a man, Ariel, and I’ve made mistakes. Terrible mistakes.” He cupped her face in his hands. “But I love you. I always will, and you—”
She kissed him. “We all make mistakes, sweetheart.”
“Say that again.”
Her smile was so soft, so gentle, it made his throat constrict.
“Sweetheart,” she said.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the windows. And then…
The lights went out.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The darkness was absolute.
So was the silence.
The little sounds that had been part of the night, the one no one is ever aware of—the hum of the oil burner that heated the house, the purr of the refrigerator, the soft whoosh of the dishwasher they’d turned on after dinner—were gone.
“Oh God,” Ariel whispered, “Matteo!”
He clamped one hand over her mouth and drew the Sig Sauer with the other. He could feel his heart thudding.
The power had gone out.
The storm? Or something—someone—else.
He told himself it was the storm. Yes, but Zach had said there was a generator. It was hooked into the house, he’d said; it would kick in automatically. If only he’d asked how long that would take. Ten seconds? A minute? Two?
The answer came before he’d finished the thought.
An electrical whirr. A motorized cough. The lights blinked on. The refrigerator purred, the dishwasher whooshed, and Matteo breathed again and took his hand from Ariel’s mouth.
“It’s okay, honey. It’s the storm. It took out the power and I forgot what Zach told me. We have a generator. It just kicked in.”
Ariel shuddered. “I thought—I thought—”
“We’re fine. See? We have lights and I can hear the oil burner. We’re absolutely fine.” He tucked the gun into the back of his jeans. “Come here.”
She slumped against him as he closed his arms around her. Seconds dragged past. Then she sighed and sat up in his embrace.
“Sorry.”
“For what? Trust me. I had the same reaction as you did.” He hesitated, not wanting to ask the question but knowing he had to. “Ariel? Where’s the Ruger?”
She groaned.
“Upstairs. It’s still the pocket of the robe. I was wearing. Remember? I put the robe on the chair next to the bed when we went up to shower and change, and I forgot all about it.”
“Yeah, okay, but let’s not let that happen again. You should have it with you all the time.”
“Right,” she said with a big, artificial smile. “Wear the jeans, sweater and boots you pilfer from your host’s closet, and walk around armed. The perfect houseguest. That’s me.”
“That’s us, you mean. I’m all decked out in stuff we found here, same as you.”
She gave him a long, appraising look. Borrowed clothes or not, he looked spectacular. He was wearing faded jeans, a navy turtleneck sweater and low boots, similar to hers. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and he had that stubbled look she’d never liked on Anthony but loved on Matteo because it was so sexy and it made her think of how it felt when he kissed her breasts, her belly, her thighs when he made love to…when he made love to…
Oh God!
Anthony.
Who was Anthony? The name had come to her so easily. Who was he? And why did just thinking the name make her feel sick to her stomach?
Anthony. Anthony.
“Who’s Anthony?” she blurted.
S
he felt Matteo stiffen. Saw the change in his face.
“What do you mean?”
She sat up straight, swiveled around and faced him.
“Don’t do that,” she said sharply. “Don’t answer my question with a question. I know you’re just playing for time, Matteo, but you can’t. Not now. Not when that’s the first meaningful thing I’ve remembered. And don’t try telling me it isn’t meaningful, not when you look as if I’ve said something ugly.” She locked eyes with his. “Who is Anthony?”
Matteo rose slowly to his feet.
Why hadn’t he been prepared for this? Why had he assumed that everything about Pastore, everything that mattered, would come to her in one big revelation?
Never mind that. The question was, what should he do now? What should he tell her? She’d remembered Pastore’s name, and she was smart enough to realize the name meant something important.
“Matteo.” Ariel stood up. She closed the small distance between them, put her hand against his chest and looked up into his face. “I know you want to protect me. That you’re afraid to tell me more than I can maybe handle. But I have to know the truth. Don’t you see that? I’ve done everything you asked, everything the doctor wanted. I’ve tried to ignore the feeling inside me that I was blocking the memories that really matter. Bad memories. Disturbing ones.”
“Ariel. Cara. Listen to me.”
“No! You listen. We’re in a house designed to keep the world from finding us—from finding me—and all of a sudden, a name pops into my head and—and just thinking that name makes me sick and angry and desperate and—and I have to know why.” Tears blurred her eyes. “Goddammit,” she said, “I have the right to know! This is my life, mine, and now somebody’s name is in my head and I know that it’s the name of someone who terrifies me, and you have to tell me, you’ve got to tell me who that person is.” She balled her hand into a fist and banged it against his chest. “You have to! You have to! You have—”
Matteo caught hold of her fist.
He took a deep breath.
“His name is Anthony Pastore. And he is your husband.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“What?”
“The man whose name you remember. He’s your husband.”
She jerked back, the fist she’d pounded against him now a way to put distance between them.
Passion: In Wilde Country: Book Two Page 20