by Scott, D. D.
Like Pucci’s Christopher Chance, my Roman, aka Walker Texas Ranger was turning out to be much more Chance or Bond, James Bond…the guys you went to when no one else could help you.
And I can damn guarantee one thing for ya.
No one has ever been as quick to help and please anyone I’ve known like they are towards Roman Bellesconi.
Not even my attention-craving, ultra-demanding celebrity clients like Super-Diva-Without-a-Cause-Except-to-be-a-Royal-Pain-in-the-Ass Camilla de Vil.
No one made people jump-to attention and act like Roman.
I don’t know who he is. But there’s a ton more to him than I know about. And a ton more than him just being a U.S. Marshal.
You betchya I’m gonna start doing some serious homework on my very own Bond.
I prefer to know everything about my clients and partners. Even if what I know, nine times outta ten, I don’t like, as often is the case in my Stylist to The Stars gig.
And wow, if that ain’t gearin’ up to be the truth in P.I.-ville too.
No one is who or what they seem to be…whether on or off The Red Carpet.
While I fought with this realization and how it continued to play-out in both my careers, a brilliant blue dusk was descending on the city.
Or at least I thought it was blue. Maybe it was the effect of the limo’s ebony black windows.
Whichever the truth, Vienna was magical at this time of day.
As the limousine slowed and approached what I was assuming to be our hotel, I couldn’t keep my bottom lip from dropping wide open.
“I thought you’d enjoy this location,” Roman said, a twinkle in his eyes I was unaccustomed to seeing, but could get used to quite easily. “This is the hotel for fashion lovers. In just ten minutes you can be in the Vienna boutiques of Gucci, Prada, YSL, Armani, and Valentino.”
“You did this for me?”
“You could say that. But…I also have a suite here,” he said then fidgeted with the sexy as hell scarf he had around his neck.
Yeah. He was definitely more European than American. The scarf. And many other things were starting to clue me into his Old World, noble charms. Although, he was an Old World guy, clearly not comfortable with his past.
“Oh. You have a suite here. Of course,” I said, lifting my shoulders in mock nonchalance. “You have the best private suite at Vegas’ Bellagio and now one in this castle-esque hotel too. Sooo normal. Very U.S. Marshal kinda digs.”
He cleared his throat then continued to blow-off my doubts by ignoring them.
“You’ll find that the Hotel Bristol is also in the heart of Vienna, only steps away from all the main sites. Plus, for our benefit, all the United Nations Banking Resources we need are close. Here along the blue Danube, we’ll do well advancing Cozy Cash Operations.”
“Sir, your suite has been prepared. Are you and Ms. Witherspoon in further need of your car this evening, or shall I be at your service in the morning?” The limo’s driver queried into the car’s speaker system.
“Your car?” I mouthed to Roman, who placed his hand lightly over my mouth, apparently wanting to avoid the outburst I was inclined to voice.
“That will be all for tonight, Raulf. Thank you,” Roman said, removing his hand from my lips with strong as steel fingers I swore I saw quiver just a bit.
“If you’ll have our luggage brought to the suite, I’ll ring you tomorrow when we need you.”
Too stunned to speak, I simply shook my head and followed Roman out of the back of the limo, where I saw an entire staff lined up and waiting for us barely beyond the reach of the limo’s door. I felt a little bit like Orphan Annie arriving at Daddy Warbucks’ mansion.
Who was this guy?!
Chapter Seven
Well…after twenty more minutes, and after entering what had to be one of the largest hotel suites in Vienna, if not the largest in the world, I had a much better clue of just who was this guy.
Oh, and entering over noble Calacatta and Nero Maquinia marble floors, was another clue all on its own.
I knew about these grandiose building materials because my Stylist to The Stars business now had a new interior design element as well, and I’d been reading up on, for several months now, luxurious lifestyles—lifestyles fit for kings and queens.
And this place—more of a city apartment than a hotel suite—being as it was over 3,700 square feet, was not only fit for a king or queen, it actually belonged to the future King of England, the current Prince of Wales…yes, as in Prince Charles.
No joke. This place was now owned by Prince Charles, and before him, Prince Edward VIII and his great love Wallis Simpson.
So…who was my guy…as in who was Roman Bellesconi?
And how did he fit into the Land of Princes?
That question certainly just became a helluva a lot more intriguing.
Roman, in the mean time, had disappeared into the suite’s office and had told me to make myself comfortable.
How was I supposed to do that?!
I was afraid to sit on any of these gorgeous antiques, whose design clued me into their real age and value too, but whose pristine condition led me to believe no one had ever seated his or her royal ass on any of ‘em.
And talk about gold and gilt.
Even though it was now night in Vienna, the only light in this noble abode streaming from the various, beyond pricey lamps in the suite’s entrance and main parlor, the place sparkled and bounced radiance, with enough glare to almost make me shield my eyes with my sunglasses.
I had yet to see any surface not marked in some way by ultra thin or at times robust and flamboyant threads of gold.
Each room I wandered into seemed to outdo its predecessor. From the grand entrance with its marble floors, brilliant cherry tables, humongous gold urns and red velvet damask and gilt-armed and legged chairs, to a parlor with crystal chandeliers the size of which I’d never thought I’d see in a hotel suite, to a master suite with exquisite golden yellow drapes backing both the wall behind the grand, fit-for-a-King bed and framing the huge windows, no room paled in comparison to the one coming before it.
During my self-guided tour, I also came across, in almost every room, gorgeous candelabras, with antique metalwork that was truly art of its very own. A design element I both appreciated in its simplicity and, at the same time, admired in its austere magnificence.
Walking into the master bath, I had to laugh.
For the first time, I met a color combo outside of the rich and royal reds, burnt oranges and deep cherry of the rest of the suite.
Here in this magical oasis of a bathroom were royal blue, marble inlays of some sort. Frankly, I’d never seen that kind of color effect in marble. It truly was exquisite.
I dropped to my knees and bent my head closer to the tiles, trying to getting a better view of the material.
“Everything all right down there?”
Roman’s deep voice boomed above me, held in check with a bit of sarcasm and amusement that I refused to allow to get to me…well…sort of.
So yeah…what do you say to a guy who finds you crawling the bathroom floors of a Prince’s suite?
“Uhm yeah. All good. Just checking out this flooring,” I said, starting to stand-up, only to be all-too-aware of the hot, Prince-like enigma graciously steadying my effort.
“Did it pass your inspection?”
I looked at him, straight into his dark chocolate eyes, eyes that were now twinkling with mischief.
“There isn’t anything about this suite that wouldn’t pass any inspection,” I said then harrumphed, deciding to press him a bit as to who he was that he could have free reign over a Prince—who’s soon to be King’s—quarters.
“So how is it exactly that you, a U.S. Marshal by trade, have the kinda pull to hole-up in a future King’s, ultra-luxurious Vienna abode?” I asked, feeling the strain my arched eyebrows produced across my forehead while waiting for his answer.
Startled to see a light, rose-color
ed blush ascend his neck then flush the lower part of his rock strong cheeks, I backed away from him.
“Why, Agent Bellesconi, are you blushing?”
I tilted my head then placed one hand on the side of his face and tilted it so the gilded lamps hooked as sconces to the bathroom vanity walls would light-up his face for a better view.
“You most certainly are a bit red-faced. Well, I’ll be damned,” I said, taking my hand away from his jawbone, unable to ride-out the heated electricity transferring from his skin to mine.
“It’s a family thing,” he finally answered, then jerked his face at a bizarre angle until I heard a horrid crack spring forth from his neck.
“Ouch. Feel better now? Back in the resemblance of control? You do know cracking your neck like that is sooo not good for your body?”
I motioned for him to step aside then left him trailing behind me into the next room.
“I know what is and what isn’t good for my body,” he said, in that low, sexy-as-hell challenge of his.
I wanted to look back at him, but I simply couldn’t. Seeing his come hither look that could possibly be matched with that good-natured tease would have done me in for good.
And I just couldn’t go there right now.
I had way, wayyy too many questions about Roman Bellesconi before I’d ever fall into his for-real, King-sized bed.
Making my way into what must be some kind of glorious, designed for nobility, library, complete with royal Persian rugs and tons more regal red, orange, and cherry furniture, I took a seat at the bar lining one side of the room.
I watched Roman continue behind me, a crackling fire building up to a gorgeous roiling glow in the hearth covering the opposite wall of the room. The candelabras placed on the marble mantle seemed to capture his black as coal hair and dark Italian face in an angelic aura.
But really, that was it, wasn’t it?
The question of this growing-late hour.
Was my Roman a good angel or a dark one pretending to be shrouded in light?
He went behind the bar, and before I could even say anything, he had a hand-cut crystal glass of Naked Juice poured and waiting on me.
“They have Naked Juice?! In Vienna?!” I couldn’t believe it.
But what I also couldn’t believe was that my Roman cared enough to make sure we were well-stocked with the nectar of the gods.
His cheeks heated again into a rosy-red glow, almost matching the roaring fire filling the room with a fierce warmth. Or was that my body’s reaction to my Naked Juice-pouring tough-guy?
“I just thought it might relax you and make you feel more at home. Plus, keep your sugar level good to go,” he said, still with an aw-shucks casualness he couldn’t quite pull-off. “But tomorrow for breakfast, I’ll make you my own green cocktail. Then, you’ll never go back to this pre-packaged crap.”
“So my Knight in Shining Red Armor is gonna juice for me too?”
“Would you stop with the red digs? It’s just too hot in here for my preference. That’s all. But I know you enjoy a good fire.”
“So you’re pouring Naked Juice and building fires for me? What do I have to do to earn these privileges?” Although, little did he know, I’d probably cave to about anything he wanted in return.
“Oh, you’ll earn it, Plum Puddin’. Trust me,” he said, all twinkling and teasing out of his eyes, a dark and determined intensity now back into its place.
Wishing it was desire shadowing his former light-hearted joy, but figuring it was nothing but all-business and Cozy Cash created seriousness from here on out, I sighed, thinking my fairytale was just about over.
“So what’s first on our agenda here in Vienna?”
As if expecting to begin our debriefing in this very spot, he walked across the room to a drawer in the massive built-in bookshelf unit and pulled-out two leather-bound folders, each with some kinda royal crest—surprise surprise—gilded onto the cover.
Not the U.S. Marshal or other U.S. agency crest, but a royal crest. Something Italian maybe. As the design featured what sort of resembled the Italian flag, along with a crown and what could be a wreath encircling both.
“We’ve got meetings tomorrow with a group of U.S., UK and Austrian prosecutors. And then a crap-load of affidavits detailing their investigations and hundreds of documents collected to sift through and analyze. These are the documents I hope will allow us to begin to piece together this entire scheme,” he said, sinking into a plush leather club chair then spinning it to face the fire.
Jiggling his glass of expensive Scotch on ice, he said, as if speaking to the flames instead of me, “We’re going after the Cozy Cash. Every last dime of it.”
Feeling more than a bit uncomfortable with his now quiet, but fierce confidence, I broke the ice before the cubes in his crystal cup could melt. “Sounds like we’d best get some sleep then.”
That got him re-focused.
He turned to me, the orange flames of the fire flashing across his devilish eyes and warming the smirky grin taking shape across his lips.
“Good idea.”
“Great. So where’s my room then?”
He laughed. A hearty, full-blown, body shaking guffaw then slapped his leg to evidently use the residual energy of his amusement.
“Why your bedroom is my bedroom, Plum Puddin’. Since we are boyfriend and girlfriend now,” he said, his upper body starting to bounce up-and-down as if he were about to erupt into another fit of laughter. “We don’t want to give the appearance that we’re no longer an item, now do we?”
“And just who would we be giving that appearance to here in your almighty palace?”
“Ahhh. You’ve got so much to learn, Young Grasshopper,” he said, standing up then wrapping me into his side before ushering me towards the master suite. “In our business, you never know who’s watching or listening.”
“Then why would you even say this out loud, Smart Ass? Huh? Gotchya there,” I said, sure I’d made a very valid point.
“Way ahead of ya as usual, Witherspoon. I already de-bugged this room while you were taking your tour. And will soon have the rest of the suite done as well. But those windows are way too big to protect us while we’re sleeping…together.”
He left me in our suite to yeah, right, get settled-in while he did whatever he did to exterminate the bugs in our suite.
I stared at the gigantic bed, not sure what to do first.
I wasn’t sure what bothered me more. Sleeping with Roman. Or knowing we were possibly being watched while we slept.
Even though the fireplace in our bedroom was also roaring full-throttle, shivers descended my arms. There was a distinct chill to being a P.I. that I was learning may require a permanent cardigan…even in bed.
“Time to hop into bed,” Roman said, coming back into the room.
Evidently he was a speedy exterminator.
Before I could think of something witty to say, he had made his way to the bed and was fidgeting with…
What was that? Some kind of machine.
“I hope you don’t mind, Luv, but your boyfriend has sleep apnea,” he said, a sarcastic grin lifting the corners of his mouth.
Some Prince, I thought, stifling a giggle. I certainly didn’t want to hurt his feelings. But suddenly, sleeping with him, and his machine, didn’t seem quite so un-nerving.
And besides, we had some major thugs to rangle-up the goods on tomorrow. So sleep really was in our best interest.
As much as I was going to get the way that damn machine cranked-up into a super-strong, wind-like hiss and gurgle, like a natural-sounds sleep machine gone terribly bad.
Chapter Eight
My Prince was up long before I was the next morning…probably, because I’d been the one to take several hits for the team during the night.
Apparently, Roman is a rather restless sleeper.
And that’s being kind. Wayyy kind.
My Italian Prince was prone to popping me one with his sleep apnea mask.
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Each time he flung himself over…Ka-Bam! I got a walloping thump-and-bump against whatever part of my body was in his path.
Couple that with getting tangled in his “tubing”—and not the tubing that would be lovely to be caught up by—but rather the elaborate hose for his breathing machine, I was not a happy camper.
Honestly, sleeping with Roman, was like sleeping with your vacuum cleaner. Yeah. Quite the “Eureka” moment in Sweeper-Land, but not one of life’s fabulous discoveries, as in that kinda eureka.
I struggled out of the ultra-comfy bed—at least the mattress was straight from heaven—and shuffled my feet into my slippers which Roman must have moved next to my side of the bed.
That was sweet.
I stole a quick peek into the humungous, gold-framed mirror hanging above one of the fabulous antique chests.
I had rough night written all over me.
My hair stood out in every direction possible, giving Medusa quite the run for Queen of Bedhead-ville. I had deep, dark circles under my eyes that made Cat Woman’s suit look a bit pale in comparison.
And with the imprint of Roman’s apnea mask making large dents in one side of my face, I was a jewel of a prize to wake-up with.
Roman would probably need more oxygen from the mask I’d apparently curled up with as if it were my long lost teddy bear.
Hearing the blender whirring to life, I followed the grinding sound of fruits and vegetables being smoothie-fied. Truth told, I was kind of worried what Roman would think of my just-outta-bed appearance. But also, kind of not worried at all.
If I had to sleep with him and his machine, then he’d just have to get used to the effect that had on my beauty quotient.
Besides, he was used to dealing with people and situations with near fatal outcomes. Hopefully, I still looked slightly better than a corpse.
“Morning, Sleepyhead,” he greeted me while I padded through the kitchen and took a seat at a gorgeous wrought iron and glass table.
“Good morning,” I said, in between a gigantic yawn and while rolling my head around the top of my stiff-as-all-hell neck.