by Cathie Linz
What was Alan’s definition of exciting? Interest rates and the stock market? Sex in the middle of Wrigley Field? A blow job in Bali?
“You poor baby.” Faith’s mother, Sara, sat beside her and hugged her. “He seemed like such a nice investment banker.”
“There was nothing in his background to indicate he’d bolt like this,” her dad said. “I had him thoroughly checked out. Other than being a Cubs fan instead of a Sox fan, there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with him. He wasn’t seeing another woman—or another man—wasn’t defrauding the bank or his clients.”
“Maybe he just got a case of cold feet,” Megan said. “He could still come back.”
“And when he does, I’ll beat the crap out of him,” Jeff growled.
Faith would have thought that her fiancé would be smart enough to figure out that dumping her at this late date meant there was no place he could hide. Not even Bali. Her father would track him down and make him pay . . . big time.
Only one person was more imposing than Jeff West, and that was Aunt Lorraine, who was now trying to push her way back into the room.
“Get rid of her,” Faith begged her parents.
“Gladly,” her dad said. “Do you think I haven’t wanted to make her disappear for years now? But your mother would never let me.”
“She’s my much older sister,” Sara said apologetically. “She practically raised me.”
“And she scares you shitless,” Jeff said. “Believe me, I get it.”
“She implied it was my fault Alan left,” Faith said. It turned out the Duchess of Grimness was right. According to Alan’s brief text message, it was obvious that he blamed Faith for being too dull for him.
“Your fault? That does it.” Sara glared at Lorraine, who was still trying to get in the room but was prevented by Megan. “She’s gone too far this time.” A curtain of fierce determination fell over Sara’s face. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle her.” She marched over and moved Lorraine out of the room.
Watching her mother’s totally uncharacteristic behavior, Faith realized anything was possible. Anything but her wedding. There was no saving that now.
“What are we going to do?” Faith asked her dad. “All those people are out there waiting. We’ve got the wedding reception at the Ritz-Carlton. You paid so much for everything.” Tears welled again, but she dashed them away. Alan had said there were only a handful of people he wanted to invite. His parents were dead, and he had no other close family. Since almost all of the guests were from her side of the family, Alan had been perfectly happy to have Jeff foot the bill, and her dad had done so with boatloads of paternal pride.
Again, what would Jane Austen do? She would take control.
“Tell the people in the church that due to circumstances beyond our control, the ceremony has been canceled,” Faith said. “Tell them the reception is still on. Don’t cancel it. You might as well enjoy it.”
“That’s my girl,” her dad said. “We’ll get our money’s worth as a celebration of friends and family. And it makes good business sense, since a lot of West Investigations’ top clients are also in the audience and will be at the reception.”
“Are you nuts?” her mom said, having rejoined them in time to hear Faith’s request.
“Probably,” Faith muttered.
“I was talking to your father.” She turned to face him. “Your daughter is suffering, and all you can do is talk about business and money?”
“I could put out a hit on Alan,” Jeff growled, “but I’m restraining myself.”
“I know people who could do the job,” Faith’s paternal grandmother spoke up for the first time. Her blue eyes and high cheekbones proclaimed her Scandinavian heritage, while her gelled spiky haircut revealed her rebel nature. “They’re in the Swedish mob.”
Jeff frowned. “I never heard of the Swedish mob.”
“Of course not. They’re very discreet. Not like the Finnish mob.”
“I appreciate the offer, Gram, but it’s not necessary,” Faith said.
“Well, if you change your mind, the offer stands,” Gram assured her.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You do that.” She patted Faith’s hand. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”
“Thanks.” She took a deep breath but felt the walls closing in on her. “Listen, you guys don’t have to stay with me. Go on to the reception, and please give everyone my regrets, but I just can’t . . .” She shook her head, unable to go on.
“You have nothing to be regretful about,” her mom said.
“Except regret at ever hooking up with Alan the Asshole to begin with,” her dad said.
“Are you sure you want us to go?” Her mom looked uncertain.
“Yes, I’m sure. Megan will stay with me, right?”
“Of course I will.”
“See, I’ll be fine.”
“Of course you will . . . in time.” Gram patted her hand again. “A year or two should do it.”
When they finally left, Megan looked at her with concern. “Are you okay?”
“Not yet. But after a few mojitos I will be. Now please help me get me out of this damn dress!”
Faith woke with a hammering headache and the sound of intense roaring in her ears. Her eyelids didn’t seem to want to open, but she was able to sneak a peek through a narrow slit. The limited view was not enough to tell her where she was.
“This is your captain speaking. We’ll be landing in Naples in about an hour.”
Her eyes flew open.
“The flight attendants will be going through the cabin . . .”
Faith didn’t pay attention to the rest of the announcement as the events of the day and night before came rushing back. Left at the altar. Humiliated, brokenhearted, angry. She and Megan downing several mojitos at a neighborhood bar before heading to Faith’s Streeterville condo only to trip over Faith’s suitcases just inside the door. A matched set of luggage packed with carefully chosen outfits for her dream honeymoon to the Amalfi Coast in Italy.
Alan wanted to spend their honeymoon elephant riding in India because his boss at the bank had done that and raved about it. Personally, Faith was not that fond of pachyderms. Had he left her because of that? Because she didn’t want to boogie with the elephants?
It wasn’t like her choice was dull or boring. Who didn’t like sunny Italy? Faith had longed to go to the Amalfi Coast ever since she’d seen the movie Under the Tuscan Sun and watched Diane Lane get swept off her feet in the beautiful town of Positano.
She distinctly remembered shouting at her living room wall last night, “Alan ruined my wedding, but he’s not going to ruin this too! I refuse to allow him to mess up any more of my life! I’ll show you exciting and adventurous! I’m going to Italy! Solo! Solo mio!”
Faith spent the last two years trying to please Alan. This trip was one of the few times she’d stood her ground and refused to back down. Once he didn’t get his way, Alan had completely lost interest and told her to handle all the arrangements. Gladly, she had—which was why she had possession of the nonrefundable tickets and the rest of the travel reservations.
Megan had been supportive as always. “Go for it! I’d come with you, but I can’t get away from work right now.”
Sitting on the plane, Faith felt as if she’d just woken up from a long, drugged sleep. Unlike Sleeping Beauty, she hadn’t been brought back to life by a kiss from a handsome prince. Instead, she’d been brought back to reality by the handsome prince screwing her over.
The ironic thing was that Faith was usually a worst-case scenario specialist, always prepared in case things went wrong. One of her dad’s favorite mottos was, “Expect the worst, and if it doesn’t happen, you’ll be pleasantly surprised.” Her relationship with Alan was the one time she’d allowed herself to believe . . . and look what happened.
She ended up on a flight to Italy. Alone. Her first solo trip ever. But it was better than moping in her condo, crying her eyes out
. She’d taken action. She’d left the mayhem behind in Chicago, calling her dad and telling him she was fleeing the country.
There was no time to reflect further on her actions as the flight attendants prepared for their landing. Her arrival in Naples went smoothly as she cleared customs with no problem. Two aspirins and a bottle of Pellegrino water took care of the headache. Her rental car was ready . . . and so was she.
She was ready, right? She wasn’t going to let fear hold her back, right?
She could do this. She would do this.
Faith put her iPod into the sound system and moments later Gnarls Barkley’s song “Crazy” blared out of the sporty little red Italian convertible’s speakers. She’d had to put her smaller suitcase in the passenger seat next to her, since it didn’t fit anywhere else.
The instant she hit the road, all the other drivers seemed determined to hit her. She refused to let them. She’d handled rush-hour traffic in Vegas not to mention on the Kennedy Expressway in Chicago during construction season. The crazy Italian drivers didn’t scare her. Being alone on her honeymoon scared her if she thought about it. So she refused to think about it and instead stepped on the gas, cranked up the sound system and sang along with her favorite Bon Jovi CD, Lost Highway.
Caine Hunter had his instructions. Keep an eye on Faith West, keep track of her actions and report them back to Chicago. He knew a lot about her already: children’s librarian, jilted bride, handy with a gun. Her team from the library in Las Vegas where she’d worked two years ago had come in second place in the city’s Corporate Challenge, an event where organizations compete in various sporting events. She’d aced the shooting event.
Caine was only mildly impressed. She still seemed like a spoiled little rich girl to him, with her fancy wedding in one of the most prestigious churches in Chicago, a fancy banker fiancé and a condo in Chicago’s trendiest Streeterville neighborhood. Not that the wedding or the fiancé had panned out for her in the end. Too bad, so sad.
No one had ever accused him of being the sentimental type.
He’d say this for Faith West: she didn’t drive like a librarian . . . more like race car driver Danica Patrick. Driving in Italy, especially around Milan, was not for wimps.
Yet here she was, weaving in and out of traffic, music blaring. Was she really that reckless or just plain stupid? Hard to tell at this point, but Caine aimed on finding that out . . . among other things.
Faith’s knuckles were permanently white by the time she reached the small town of Positano. The infamous road of a thousand curves on which she’d been traveling clung precariously to the steep cliffs and was narrower than her parents’ driveway at home. That didn’t stop huge tour buses from barreling around blind curves, hogging the entire road and making her fear for her life and her sanity.
But she’d done it. She’d made it here. Alive. In one piece. Jane Austen would be so proud.
“Welcome to the Majestic Hotel, Mrs. Anderson.” Huge terra-cotta urns filled with flowers bracketed the reception desk adorned with colorful majolica tiles. The lobby, with its antiques and artwork, was a study of understated elegance. “We have the honeymoon suite all ready for you and your husband.”
Her stomach clenched. This was no honeymoon, and she had no husband. But she did have sunshine, breathtaking views and the scent of citrus blossoms in the air. “It’s Ms. West. Faith West. Not Mrs. Anything. I called ahead to explain the change . . .”
“Oh yes, I see the note here. I’m sorry for the confusion, Ms. West. If you could show me your passport, please.” He raised his hand, and a uniformed bellman immediately appeared with her luggage. “Paco will take you to your room.”
She’d spent hours over the past winter, poring over guidebooks and surfing websites trying to decide where to stay—the Grand Hotel in Sorrento or the Capri Palace Hotel on the island of Capri? But Positano had held her under its spell and, while she planned on visiting both Sorrento and Capri during her stay, this was her ultimate destination. The room didn’t disappoint with its private terrace displaying a colorful bougainvillea-framed view of the pastel, sunlit town hugging the rugged cliffs that plunged down to the blue waves of the Mediterranean.
John Steinbeck was right. This place was a dream.
The dream was interrupted by the sound of her stomach growling. She needed to eat something and fast. The hotel dining room was serving for another hour, Paco the bellman informed her in a sexy Italian accent, his liquid brown eyes gazing at her with Latin approval.
Faith was starving. But not for male attention. She handed Paco his tip and showed him the door.
She barely had time for a fast bathroom stop where she looked at the thick towels and large tub longingly before hurrying down to eat. Knowing that nearby Naples was the birthplace of pizza, she quickly ordered a pizza Margherite.
And waited. And waited. Other diners were seated on the sunny terrace dining area. Two guys in particular made a point of staring at her sitting all alone. She wasn’t pleased to see their food arrive before hers. They hadn’t even ordered Italian but steak and fries. The skinnier of the two men gave her a leering look. He poured ketchup onto his plate and then dipped a fry into it, holding it up and taunting her with it before chomping into it with gusto.
Normally Faith would have looked away and ignored him, but she wasn’t feeling very generous toward the opposite sex at the moment.
Faith gave the man her best withering librarian look.
He responded by smacking his lips at her.
She made an Eww-yuck face.
He dipped another fry in the ketchup and waved it at her before sucking it into his mouth in one go. An instant later the man grabbed his throat and started turning red then blue.
Before she could react, a man smoothly moved past her and gave the choking man the Heimlich.
Faith sank into her chair. She felt guilty that while trying to impress her, the idiot had ended up choking and nearly killing himself. Was there some kind of Italian curse that was reserved for brides who came to the Amalfi Coast without their grooms?
Then all thought went out of her head as she got her first good look at the rescuer. Dark hair, dark eyes, stubble-darkened cheeks and chin. A dark knight. A man meant to get a woman’s juices flowing.
He stopped at her table and stared down at her before saying with amusement, “I’ll say this: you sure know how to make an impression on a guy.”
Chapter Two
“Thank you, uh . . .” Faith paused, waiting for him to provide his name, which he finally did.
“Caine,” he said. “Caine Hunter.”
The name suited him. He looked like a hunter, someone who went after what they wanted. “Well, thank you, Caine Hunter.”
“Are you thanking me for saying you know how to make an impression on a guy?”
“No, I was thanking you because you saved that man’s life. I wasn’t trying to make him choke.”
“Good to know.”
A waiter hovered nearby. “I’m so sorry, signore. All the tables are taken. You will have to wait,” he said apologetically.
“Would you like to join me?” Faith heard herself ask.
A second later the waiter scooted forward to hold a chair out for Caine invitingly.
Caine didn’t bother looking at the menu before ordering in fluent Italian. She’d meant to learn more of the language, but there had never been enough time, what with all the planning for the wedding. The wedding that never happened.
She glanced down at her hands, glad to see they weren’t shaking. Her left hand looked so bare without her engagement ring. She’d yanked it off at her condo and stuffed it in a bottom drawer.
“Is this your first trip to Europe?” Caine asked.
She looked up. “No. My first trip was with my grand-parents when I was thirteen. We didn’t come here to the Amalfi Coast, though. We visited the capital cities and some of the battlefields where my grandfather fought in World War II. After V-E Day he was called back t
o the States to do top secret work—intelligence gathering, code breaking, that sort of thing. After the war he started his own investigation business in Chicago. He passed away two years ago.” She took a deep breath. She still missed her grandfather and couldn’t believe she’d just babbled all about her background the way she had. She was normally a pretty private person. “Anyway enough about me and my family. What about you? Is this your first trip to Europe?”
“No.” He didn’t elaborate the way she had. In fact, he didn’t elaborate at all.
A man of few words. That suited her just fine. Unless it meant that she was the one who had to do all the talking to fill in the awkward silence. She was rapidly running out of energy here, and if she didn’t get some food in her soon, she’d pass out at the table, and Caine would have to do a second rescue.
“Here.” He shoved some fresh bread still warm from the oven at her. “Eat some of this.”
She did so gladly. Where had the plate of sliced crusty bread come from? She’d been sitting here for twenty minutes and gotten nothing. He’d only been there three minutes.
“I’m still jet-lagged,” she explained in between big bites. “I flew in this morning and then drove straight here from Milan.”
“That must have been exciting for you.”
She shrugged. “I handled it.”
“You seem like the kind of woman who could handle just about anything.”
His comment surprised her. “What makes you say that?”
“The Italian roads aren’t for wimps.”
“That’s true. There were a few moments there when I feared for my life.”
“Only a few?”
She laughed and reached for more bread. “Okay, quite a few times. Was it just me, or were the other drivers actually trying to drive me off the road? I was already going much faster than the speed limit.”
“Italian drivers consider that more a suggestion than an actual speed limit. They pretty much go as fast as they want to or are able to. You’ve got to keep up or get out of their way.”