Tommaso (Immortal Matchmakers, Inc. #2)

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  “The nature of this group—to which the men outside belong—is confidential. So I’ll simply say that their rules are very rigid, and I’ve broken one. One that is fully outside of my control, but nevertheless, I have broken it.”

  I couldn’t believe this. “There must be something you can do?”

  He gave me a strange, almost hurt look before pasting on a superficial, charming smile and tilting his head to the side. “Sadly,” he said, his voice filled with regret, “I am unable to do anything. My fate lies in the hands of another.” He reached out and ran his thumb over my bottom lip. “And she is not ready to help.”

  “You mean Ashli?”

  He dropped his hand and gave me a quizzical look.

  I shrugged. “I may have been listening to some of your conversation outside.”

  He frowned. “Ashli is not your concern. Neither is my problem. Your only focus is going upstairs to sleep—it’s the least I can do for you, and I’d like to do it.”

  Now realizing how tense my body was, I let my shoulders fall. It was sad, the two of us. It seemed that we both had huge ugly shadows lurking over our heads, poisoning our lives, but neither was great at trusting others to help. Me especially. I’d become so accustomed to thinking that anyone, anywhere, at any time could be one of those monsters. (Crazy, I know.) Tommaso was the first person I’d ever met who I knew for sure wasn’t. The moment he looked at me, I thought, This man would do anything to protect the people he cared about.

  But now it seemed our secret little worlds were about to separate us before we’d ever really started. Unfortunately, neither of us seemed ready to go to the next level. We just…weren’t.

  I drew a deep breath. “Thank you, Tommaso. I appreciate you doing this. Especially given your circumstances.”

  He bowed his head. “It’s my pleasure, Charlotte.” He then gestured up the stairs, and I obeyed, my brain already fading into a state of sleepless delirium. Today had been straw day. As in, camel’s back.

  With each creak of my blond-wood stairs leading up to the second story of my house, I again became acutely aware of Tommaso’s strong, sensual presence and of how close we would be to a great place to utilize it. A few handful of minutes earlier, we’d been naked, our brains saturated with potent hormones, our bodies sizzling with need. Just thinking about it made me all tingly again.

  No. No. Nooo… You and I already had this discussion, I said to myself. You are not going to drag some poor guy into your life. On the other hand, he was going to prison—so crazy. Maybe he needs a good last romp?

  No! You put your dick back in your pants, Char! Put it. Back.

  I don’t have a dick.

  You know what I mean.

  Yes. And you’re bonkers. Which explains why you’re having a conversation with yourself.

  “Charlotte?”

  I realized I had stopped in my bedroom doorway and was staring into the abyss, but probably looked like I was staring at my bed in a dreamy fashion. I rolled my eyes at myself, cringing. I must look desperate.

  “Yes?” I replied.

  “I will stay downstairs.”

  “No. I mean—whatever makes you more comfortable.”

  He didn’t respond, so I turned around to see his face. Though it was beautiful, no doubt, there was a strange ugliness shimmering in his eyes.

  “Sure you don’t want to tell me what happened?” I asked.

  He lifted a brow. “I do not.”

  “Okay. I understand,” I said dejectedly, too tired to fight anymore. I turned to head into my bedroom, and he grabbed my arm.

  “Charlotte, it’s not that I don’t trust you; it’s that there are rules, and what sort of man would I be if I got you mixed up in something that would ultimately make your life more complicated?”

  I bobbed my head. “You’d be a giant asshole.”

  He smiled shallowly. “Exactly.”

  “Well, thank you for not being one of those. Not a fan.” I raised my hand a little.

  “You’re most welcome.” He drew a breath. “And now, I think it’s best if you get some rest. I will be right outside.”

  “Don’t you want to sit here?” I pointed to a small white armchair in front of the fireplace in my minimally decorated room—light gray carpet, glass nightstands, white comforter on the queen-sized bed. The windows had French-style unbreakable security glass to let in the light but keep me safe.

  “I think I’ve endured enough temptation for one night,” he said. And it was the nicest rejection I’d ever heard. He was such a gentleman.

  He continued, “Besides, there is a lovely chair in your hallway here, and I’d like to sit and enjoy my last evening as a man.”

  “Sorry?” I said.

  “I meant free man.”

  God, this was awful. I understood that we were both in situations where being together was not possible, but I still wanted to help him. Okay, and wanted him too, as impractical as it was.

  “Okay, then. I’ll see you in the morning.” He didn’t look at me as he closed the door and left me standing in my bedroom all alone.

  Jesus. I scrubbed my hands over my face. The emotional roller coaster he put me on was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. We were like a bottle rocket, shooting high into the sky and then falling fast. Then repeating the maneuver once again with a wild wiggle in our trajectory.

  I can’t believe he’s being taken to jail in the morning. And now that I thought about it, if he’d broken some big rule of this very “secret” group, why let him stay? Why not take him immediately? Something about all this was extremely suspicious.

  He’s definitely hiding something.

  I walked over to my bed and sat, squeezing the edge of the mattress with an angry death grip, thinking how I wanted to finish what we’d started on that table downstairs. And I wanted to get him to open up. But the truth was, I was more of a danger to him—a train wreck waiting to happen—than anything else. Then there was the fact that in the morning, he’d be gone to some secret prison. The two of us equaled a zero-sum game.

  I flopped back on my bed and laced my fingers over my stomach, staring at the ceiling.

  Man, this is going to be a long nighhht… I felt my eyes slamming closed. My body had reached the end of its rope.

  ~~~

  Sometime in the middle of the night, I heard a rustling downstairs and then the pipes running water. I popped up from my bed, listening some more, it taking a moment for my brain to recall I had a man in my house.

  Tommaso. I’d fallen asleep—so blissfully and completely nightmare-free, I might add—but now the facts were taking another run through my head, this time with a fresh brain. I couldn’t believe that I wasn’t fighting to help him. Must’ve been my fatigue. Because I was very much attracted to him, and I felt like we had a connection. More importantly, I felt like I could trust him. Then there was the fact that he was insanely beautiful. Maybe I didn’t love him, but the right ingredients were there if we simply had more time together.

  Not wanting to offend this gorgeous man and knowing I had a lot to say, I scrambled to my bathroom to rinse with mouthwash. I checked myself in the mirror—oh, hair, why must you be so difficult?—and decided to run a brush through my lopsided brown bob. It did no good.

  Oh well.

  Still wearing my inside-out golf polo from the club and khaki pants, I decided to peel those off and throw on this long red nightgown I had. It wasn’t frilly or anything, but the knit fabric hugged my body all the way down to my calves and the spaghetti straps showed off plenty of neck and shoulders.

  I tugged down the gown to show a little cleavage and then hurried down the stairs to find Tommaso. After hearing the running water, I figured he’d be in the kitchen, getting a glass of water or something, but that room was empty.

  “Tommaso?” I stood in my kitchen, listening for noises or his response. Nothing. Where is he? “Tommaso?”

  Had he left already? Oh, God. Please no. I suddenly heard a small clan
k in the room behind the kitchen. It was my laundry slash storage room.

  I headed straight for it and then flipped on the lights.

  I really wished I hadn’t.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Run faster, Char. Faster! I leaped up the stairs two at a time, the sound of heavy footsteps closing in on me. I got to my room, slammed the door shut, and then twisted the dead bolts. Yes, bolts, as in plural. Nothing except for a tank could get through that door.

  Still, I couldn’t take my eyes from it, feeling afraid that that…thing might still find a way inside.

  Ohmygod. Ohmygod. I can’t believe this. The air around that thing had been like… Fuck. I don’t know. Some sort of dark cloud hugging its body. And the smell—dear God. It was like someone had sprayed eau de death in my laundry room. And when it turned its head, the eyes were like pits of blood red mixed with black. It was scarier than I remembered. So much scarier.

  And the weirdest part of all? I could swear it was doing a load of laundry. Yes. Fucking laundry!

  I pushed the heels of my palms into my eyes, shaking my head. That can’t be right. It can’t be. But I wasn’t dreaming. And I knew what I saw: That monster was shoving a giant bundle of whites—dirty towels and such that I’d left in a basket there—inside the machine.

  Okay. This is real. This is happening. But what do I do? Tommaso was in the house somewhere, or… Shit. He left. They took him away, and now I was all alone.

  “Charlotte?” There was a loud knock on the door. “Charlotte! Are you all right?”

  “Tommaso?”

  “Yes,” he yelled through the thick door. I could barely hear him. “Why did you run into your room?”

  “The monster is out there! Be careful.”

  “Char, there’s no monster.”

  “Yes! There is. I just saw it in the laundry room.”

  “That was me. Open the door.”

  Him? But no, I knew what I saw.

  “You were washing a load of…” My question faded away while my brain started to spin, like a teenager with a really fast car and nowhere to go, making little doughnuts in the dirt. Finally, it stopped and landed on “Duh!” Monsters didn’t do laundry. I had been dreaming or sleepwalking or something.

  I unlatched the door and Tommaso’s tall, masculine frame filled the space, his dark eyes flickering with worry.

  Oh, hell. That’s definitely not a monster. Look at him. He still had on his deep blue shirt. He looked sexy and immaculate and…

  “Wait. Why were you doing laundry?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t actually know. Guess I needed something to do.”

  “Your last night as a free man, and you’re washing my dirty towels. Strange.”

  “I cleaned your fridge, too.”

  “Wow. You really are perfect. And strange,” I added.

  “You think I’m perfect?”

  “Maybe. Okay, yes. Even those scars on your chest are hot, because I’d argue that those made you who you are.” Now more than ever, I wanted to know how he’d gotten them. I wanted to know everything.

  He looked confused all of a sudden.

  “What?” I asked.

  He tilted his head just a little, studying me. “I’m wondering what would’ve happened if we’d met sooner.”

  I wasn’t sure. The only thing I knew was that if things had been different and we had “worked out,” he would’ve had to watch me slowly go mad—completely shitty for him. That said, “I wish I could have more time with you.”

  “Me too,” he said, looking down at his perfectly polished, expensive-looking, black leather shoes. Probably Italian, like their owner.

  God, what was it about this man that made me ache so hard? Sadness, longing, desire, and so many other things I couldn’t articulate. I glanced at the clock over on my nightstand. “We have a few more hours until the sun comes up.”

  “And?” he asked.

  “And I believe I owe you eight more answers.” What I was really saying was that I did want to take things to the next level.

  He flashed a subtle smile, and it was the first time I noticed that he had a dimple hiding underneath his manicured patch of black scruff.

  “I would love to share these final hours with you.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Stretched out by my side, my head resting on his arm, I snuggled into his chest and listened to the deep, melodic sound of his voice. He’d said he wanted to ask me questions, but instead, he began telling me about his life. He’d grown up in a small village in Italy near Napoli and had several brothers and sisters. They spent summers living in a dream—playing hide-and-seek in an olive grove, helping their grandmother and mother tend their grapevines, swimming in the pond by the house that had been in their family for ten generations. The house had survived every war, every political movement, every drought, and neighborly feud.

  “Our land had history,” he said, gazing up at the ceiling as we spoke. “It was drenched in my family’s sweat, tears, and sometimes blood, but above all, it was filled with our love. Fifty acres, four hundred years, over one hundred and eighty Fierros were born on that land, worked that land, and died on that land.”

  That was a lot of Fierros. And the timber in his tone echoed a deep sense of pride in where he came from.

  “Do you visit home anymore?” I asked, knowing that his family had all been tragically killed.

  “No. Though I own and care for the estate, I can’t go back. There are too many memories.”

  “And you’re unable to sell it,” I surmised. The land was too precious, filled with too much history.

  “Yes.”

  “I understand.”

  There was a solemn moment that passed, and I wondered—selfishly—if he was feeling truly comfortable telling me all this. Because I wanted to hear it.

  I inhaled deeply, savoring the spicy sweet scent of him passing into my lungs. “Will you ever go back?” I asked.

  “I thought to someday, but now I might never be free again.”

  I looked up at him. Or his square jawline, really, and it made me want to pet his bristly stubble. And his chiseled abs. And his… Focus, Char. Focus. “They can’t keep you forever.”

  He chuckled. “They can, actually. This is the disturbing part.”

  “What did you do?” Murder, treason, terrorism? To sentence someone to life imprisonment was a big deal.

  “As I said, I broke a rule.”

  All right. “What kind of rule?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  I sat up and looked down at the beautiful man stretched out on my bed, his dress shirt unbuttoned just enough to allow me to see a smattering of dark hair on his upper chest. I resisted reaching down to pet that, too. Because from there, it was a slippery slope, and I really wanted this: getting to know him. Really know him.

  “How many people did you kill?” I asked, hoping he’d say none.

  His forehead and dark brows crinkled. “Why would you say that?”

  “You said you’ve been sentenced to life.”

  “Yes, but not for murder.”

  “Then?” I asked.

  I could see him debating, but then he gave in. “After my family was murdered, I lost it. I decided to go out alone—without my team or any backup—to hunt a group of very dangerous men—these sort of religious fanatics. Only their religion is death and evil. We’d been tracking them for months, and I knew better than to break our protocols, but all I could think of was how I needed to take out my rage. Maybe what I really wanted was to die—I don’t know. But after my family’s funeral, I flew to Mexico alone—didn’t tell anyone where I was going. And I was captured.”

  “Oh God. You must’ve been terrified,” I said, trying to imagine what he went through.

  “I wasn’t. I was too angry to see straight. But had I stopped for a moment and thought about what I was doing, I wouldn’t have simply gone running off on my own like that. But I did, and I thought I’d gotten luc
ky when I spotted one of these men in the jungle—not too far from where we’d caught a few of them one month prior. I tracked him to this strange temple covered in stone masks. And just when I thought that I finally had him, I realized it was me who was being hunted.”

  It was a trap. How horrifying.

  Tommaso continued, “They took me to their caverns beneath the ruins, and they tortured me. Then they brainwashed me and made me do a lot of things I am not proud of.”

  I covered my mouth. “Crap. How awful.”

  “It was. Mostly because I was semiconscious when I acted on their behalf.”

  “So you did kill people?”

  “I tried. And one of them was a woman I cared very deeply for and still consider a friend to this day.”

  “Wait. So your brain was hijacked. You tried to kill someone, but didn’t. And you’re going to prison forever because…?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “So what? They can’t do that to you. You’re the most honorable, nicest, straightforward man I’ve ever met. And might I add, totally sexy. And gentlemanly. And you have excellent taste in clothes and cars.”

  He grinned. “I like you, Char.”

  “Well, good. Because I like you, too.” He was the first person I’d ever met that made me feel everything good all at once—calm, safe, exhilarated, sexy, horny, nervous, and excited.

  I added, “And if those ass-fritters don’t see the truth about you, then they’re the ones who deserve to go to jail.”

  “I do not disagree.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Then?”

  “Then what?”

  “Then why aren’t you fighting? Get a lawyer. Start an e-petition. Rally the masses to bring attention to these assholes.”

  “Dear gods, no. That would only make things worse.”

  How funny. He’d said “gods.” I wondered what religion he belonged to.

  “Tell me what would work, then, and I’ll help you, Tommaso.” And I meant it. I’d spend every dime I had.

  A very strange expression swept over his face. It wasn’t pain or hurt, or joy or happiness. If I had to guess, I’d say it was humility. As if my desire to help truly touched him.