Murphy's Law
Page 29
“A little lower,” he murmured, and Faith bent down. He could see the tops of her pretty, conical and braless breasts, pink little nipples and all. Gave him a nice little buzz. Hmmm.
Faith stopped kneading, tracked his intent gaze and straightened, plastering a hand over the front of her sundress. “You’re a sick man, Nick Rossi.” She shook her head in mock sorrow. “If it weren’t for the fact you saved my life, I’d leave you here to the tender mercies of the doctor.”
“But I did, and you won’t.”
“Right.” She smiled at him, her face glowing.
It was so great having her back, looking at him with softness in her eyes. Having Faith around was going to make the coming bleak winter bearable.
“We’re going to have fun when we get back.” Nick put his hand over hers. “We can—”
“Time to strap you up.” Dr. Benedetti came back into the room, a big roll of gauze in hand.
A touching show of concern, but Nick could hear that the RAI programming had gone to a commercial break. He knew that whatever medical care he was going to get was going to have to fit into two coffee commercials, a preview of that evening’s shows and a cold remedy spot.
But it had been worth it. Worth getting hurt on the day of the Palio. Worth even a permanent limp. He’d never, ever forget the sight of Faith dangling by her fingertips, impossibly high up. So high up a fall would have splattered her all over the square.
Nick had lightning reflexes. Speed was his trademark and more than one sports writer had written that some of his moves were too fast for the naked eye to track. But at that moment, seeing Faith a second or two from death, he had simply stood frozen on the spot, totally incapable of moving or even breathing. He’d have sworn his heart had stopped together with his brain.
Thank God for Dante, who’d mobilized his men to rip the awning off the corner bar to form a safe landing for Faith. They’d acted just in time. Nick had been injured because his hands, sweat-slicked with terror, hadn’t been able to maintain their hold on the awning.
The terror had lasted until he’d seen Faith bending over him, until he’d felt the tickle of a lock of her brandy-colored hair sweeping across his face, until her worried eyes had locked with his. And his own had closed in naked, heart-pounding relief.
“Ow!” Pain interrupted his thoughts. The doctor was pulling the broad band of gauze so tightly he was cutting off circulation. Nick needed a bandage, not a tourniquet. “Do you have to pull that so tight?” He glared at Dr. Benedetti, who looked back at him indifferently.
Benedetti rolled his eyes. “Dante told me you were an athlete. Athletes are supposed to be tough. Listen to me. You’ve got a sprained quadriceps. I have to bind you up tightly to avoid blood leaking out from the damaged muscle. I won’t be doing you any favors if I don’t do it right and you develop a massive hematoma.”
“Let him do his job, Nick,” Faith said softly. She slipped her hand in his.
Nick shut up. He gritted his teeth when Benedetti adjusted the gauze, tightening it even more. He needed to think of something else.
“When does your flight leave?” he asked Faith. It was an idle question, simply to make conversation, but to his surprise, Faith removed her hand from his and stepped back.
Her voice was hesitant. “I, uh, haven’t had a chance tell you, Nick. I’m, uh, not coming back to the States.”
He felt like he’d received a hockey puck to the gut. What the hell had happened? One moment she was smiling at him as if he were her personal god, and the next she was dismissing him. What the hell did that mean—she wasn’t coming back?
Not coming back. Oh, God, she’d accepted some job somewhere. Maybe somewhere cold and awful like England. Or worse, she’d met someone—one of those geeks who talked math and stank of unwashed professor and No. 2 pencil—and decided he’d be better company in the long run than Nick. Smarter.
Some vestige of when he’d been cool allowed him to ask, casually, “So where are you going?” When what he wanted to do was beat his head against the wall until it hurt as much as his leg. Legs.
“Siena,” Faith answered, with a sly smile. “I’ve been offered a year’s contract to work at a new foundation in Siena. If I can stay on after the contract expires, I will.” She looked him straight in the eye. “There’s not much for me back in Southbury.”
And just like that—bam!—he knew.
Nick realized he wasn’t a deep thinker, a forward thinker or a strategic thinker. He’d been led by instinct all his life and every instinct he’d ever had, honed by years of action on the ice, guided him now.
“Yeah?” he said casually. “What do you know? Me, too. There’s a farm up for sale next to the land my grandparents own. The guy’s ancient and his kids aren’t interested in wine or olive oil. But it’s some of the best land in Italy and I’m going to buy it. Add it to the land my grandparents own. Farm it. Make the best wine and olive oil on the face of the earth.”
Eventually. When he learned how to farm. Nick mentally crossed his fingers.
Faith glowed. “Yeah?” she breathed.
“Oh, yeah,” Nick said.
Epilogue
“They’re gorgeous.” Faith watched the charge of the carabinieri around the racetrack. Dressed in 19th-century uniforms they were impossibly dashing, capes billowing, plumed helmets fluttering, outstretched swords glittering in the late afternoon sunlight.
Nick squeezed her waist. “Hush. Don’t let Dante hear you. He’s jealous because the polizia doesn’t get to do the cavalry charge, only the carabinieri. And the carabinieri have snazzier dress uniforms than the police. He hates this part of the Palio.”
Faith smiled at Nick. They were on the third floor of an ancient palazzo whose balcony overlooked the square. Dante and two of his men had carried Nick up the stairs, Nick cursing all the way as they bumped him from wall to wall. He’d been sweating and white-faced by the time he’d been deposited on the balcony.
Their hosts were a charming, middle-aged couple who spoke excellent English and had instantly made Faith feel at ease. Various friendly Rossis drifted in and out until the cavalry charge, when they all jostled for space on the balcony.
Below them was a sea of excited Sienese, spilling out of balconies, shoulder to shoulder on the bandstands ringing the piazza, jam-packed in the center, where attendance was free, swaying and chanting and shouting.
“Who are they?” Faith asked suddenly, pointing to mysterious men with closed fantastical helmets.
“The contrade morte,” Nick answered. “The dead contradas. They no longer exist except in the souls of the Sienese.”
The crowd nearly drowned out the drum rolls as flag wavers, bearing the flags of the various contradas, came out. Faith watched, entranced, as the flags were thrown in the air and caught. The flag wavers executed complicated maneuvers with flawless grace. A roar rose up from various points of the crowd as each contrada’s flag was carried by.
It was almost too much to take in—the bright colors, the handsome, solemn men marching gravely in their glorious velvets and silks, the flags rippling in the soft evening air, the drums beating in the cadence of a heartbeat and over it all, the bell tolling.
One last toss of the brilliant flags in the air, the bell stopped and the crowd held its breath. The track was cleared and Faith could feel the anticipation of the crowd vibrating in the air. Certainly she could see Nick and Dante trembling.
A roar from the crowd, and the jockeys riding bareback in brilliant silks started emerging onto the track. The horses glowed with health, prancing nervously as the crowd went wild. When the red-and-yellow silk of the Snail contrada appeared, Nick and Dante leaned against the balcony and started shouting.
Nine horses and jockeys lined up between two ropes, the tenth back several feet, allowed a galloping take off. The horses were nervous and it was difficult to keep them in the line-up. Finally, the jockeys were told to exit from the starting ropes and try again. They had to start over three times. Finally, by s
ome alchemy, everyone was in position for a second, a boom sounded, and they were off!
Nick and Dante were shouting themselves hoarse and she found herself shouting, too, as Lina took second place and stayed there. The track had two sharp curves and two horses fell at the first curve. One regained its feet, rider-less, and plunged back into the race. The noise was incredible, thousands of flash bulbs went off and the entire square trembled with excitement.
The horses thundered by again, Lina still second, moving gracefully, her hooves barely touching the ground. Her jockey was crouched on her neck, a red-and-yellow blur, silks fluttering.
The third and last round. The horses had all moved up in a pack, gaining ground on the leader and Lina. The jockey tapped Lina twice on the hindquarters with his whip and she shot forward, galvanized, long slender legs flying. She drew even with the leader, another tap, her stride lengthened, she moved ahead…another shot from the gun and the crowd went wild.
Nick and Dante were pounding each other on the back, screaming, then pounding her on the back, as excited Snails jumped the fence and surrounded the horse and jockey. The jockey was lifted and carried away on the shoulders of wildly exulting men.
The Snail had won.
The End
Other Titles by Lisa Marie Rice
Midnight Series
Midnight Man
Midnight Run
Midnight Angel
Midnight Shadows: A Midnight Angel short story
Dangerous Series
Dangerous Lover
Dangerous Secrets
Dangerous Passion
Dangerous Series Novellas
Hot Secrets: A Dangerous Lover Novella
Reckless Night: A Dangerous Passion Novella
The Protector Series
Into The Crossfire
Hotter Than Wildfire
Nightfire
Ghost Ops Series
Heart Of Danger
I Dream Of Danger
Breaking Danger
Stand Alone Titles
Port Of Paradise
A Fine Specimen
The Italian
Woman On The Run
About the Author
www.lisamariericebooks.com
Lisa Marie Rice is eternally 30 years old and will never age. She is tall and willowy and beautiful. Men drop at her feet like ripe pears. She has won every major book prize in the world. She is a black belt with advanced degrees in archaeology, nuclear physics, and Tibetan literature. She is a concert pianist. Did I mention her Nobel Prize? Of course, Lisa Marie Rice is a virtual woman and exists only at the keyboard when writing erotic romance. She disappears when the monitor winks off.