His hand skimmed her hip from belt to thigh.
She clenched her teeth. “I told you. Stop it.”
“Don’t want you to stumble at a sudden stop.” His whisper ruffled the hair at her neck, an emergency-code-level distraction that did not help her to find the tickets. She’d used the bag for a day and a half and it was already a Dumpster.
The driver made a sound like puh-tou.
Kicking Wulf’s shin with her flats would only hurt her. Finally, she extracted two slips of paper. Her left elbow connected briefly but satisfyingly with Wulf’s solar plexus as she liberated herself and flourished the tickets. She marched past the circular stairs that led to the crowded sightseeing deck and aimed for a bench seat at the rear of the inside compartment.
No surprise, he followed. At least he didn’t sit, so she had space to breathe.
After she straightened her dress hem and crossed her ankles, she felt composed enough to speak. “What happened at the church?”
The bus turned a corner while she watched him cling to an overhead strap and peer out the rear window. Then he answered. “I don’t like having my picture taken.”
“That was a bit much to avoid an online photo album.” Her boss had circulated mandatory reading about soldiers with complex post-traumatic stress as a result of ongoing battle exposure rather than an isolated, acute trauma. She’d spent her deployment huddled in relative safety at Camp Caddie, but Wulf encountered real enemies with every mission. He was trained to anticipate a gun or a bomb under any jacket, in any package or car. Shifting gears to enjoy a vacation probably challenged him to his core. “How many tours have you had?”
She swayed as the driver took a corner too fast.
Whatever Wulf saw, or didn’t see, through the glass must have satisfied him, because he let his weight shift from his feet to the wrist and hand looped on the strap. “Six in the ’Stan.”
“Iraq?”
“Four.”
“Ten?” She gasped at the impact of his answer. One trip to Afghanistan had left her feeling jangly in crowds. Of course he expected threats everywhere. “You’ve had ten combat tours since 9/11?”
He shrugged. “Give or take.”
“I’ll confess that I almost freaked out on the Spanish Steps before you found me.” She tapped the seat next to her. “People, noise, everybody drives like crazy—but this isn’t a combat zone. It’s Rome.” Someone had turned that doorknob, but it wasn’t rational to think that the man from the line had chased them. Wulf had secrets, and so did she, but no one would chase them through Rome.
Would they?
He sank to the leather-covered bench less than a hand’s distance from her leg.
“I’ll help you remember this isn’t Afghanistan if you’ll help me,” she said.
They sat together. They didn’t move or touch, but the longer they sat with the bus vibrating around them, the higher the energy ratcheted, until the air felt supercharged. One touch from him and she feared sparks would shoot out of her skin like she was an overhead power line.
“What next?” His question shocked her into twitching against the window.
Did he mean the next bus stop, or what would happen between them? She answered the easy question. “St. Peter’s.” She tried to smile. “Two thousand people with cameras.”
He managed a sound that might have been a chuckle. “Lunch instead? That exercise made me hungry.”
“Sure, you can laugh, but that exercise made me scared.” She couldn’t forget standing in that odd-shaped room while the doorknob turned. “And I liked that hat.”
“I’ll find you another.” His hand reached for the hair clip at her nape.
She batted him away. “No touching. And we really shouldn’t—”
“Do I need to feed you again to have a civil conversation?”
“All we ever do is eat.” He was right though; she was famished.
“I’d happily pursue other activities.” Desire flared in his eyes and crossed the space between their bodies, so hot and sudden she raised a hand to her throat. “Say the word.”
She couldn’t speak, couldn’t tighten her lips enough to swallow, couldn’t count fast enough to measure her own pulse, but none of that mattered when he stared at her with such hunger.
“That’s all you have to do—say yes—and you won’t think about food for days.”
She tried not to imagine spending days wrapped around him. She knew how good he smelled, the sound of his voice and the feel of his hands. The only sensation left to her imagination was his taste, and that answer could be hers right now. And it would cost her integrity at a minimum; maybe her career. “You said...lunch?”
In the silence, he searched her eyes and must have seen how she clung to her responsibilities.
“Coward.” He leaned away, and the taut skin around his eyes loosened with a smile.
Her pulse slowed enough to permit coherent speech. “I prefer to be called cautious.”
“Trying to convince yourself, or me?” His grin broadened.
Dammit, eyes that beautiful shouldn’t have been issued eyebrows that mischievous.
They both stood when the bus eased into the next stop. She wanted a meal, but the narrow-eyed scan Wulf gave out the back windows before he let her proceed between the seats made her wonder if food wasn’t his main motivation.
* * *
“Signorina e Signore.” As the Hotel d’Inghilterra bartender spoke, he placed a tray carrying after-dinner espresso, the saucers adorned with sugar cubes and spirals of lemon zest, on the ottoman in front of Theresa and Wulf. She’d agreed to a last coffee in a private alcove off the lobby in order to delay the moment when Wulf would suggest he escort her to her room. She didn’t want to banish him into the night, not after a day and evening exploring Rome together, but she couldn’t change the rules both of them had sworn oaths to obey.
Opposite their couch, a tilted mirror showed their side-by-side reflections. Folding doors divided this secluded nook, with its wine-red upholstery and discreet lighting, from the lobby. Be honest. Today was a date, her conscience said, with a sergeant. If called to task, she had no other explanation. And it’s no fun to pay for the ride, the proverbial bad angel on her shoulder continued in a voice that sounded like her ranch-born roommate’s, but never get to pet the pony.
Wulf’s cup rattled against its saucer when he returned his espresso to the tray. “You don’t want this coffee, do you?”
His question ignited tremors for reasons she knew she shouldn’t explore. Maybe it was his tone, as dark and rich as the tiny chocolates they’d shared after dinner, or maybe it was the unbidden thought of what she wanted. Him, pinning her to the couch and kissing her the way his eyes promised whenever their gazes locked. Her espresso sloshed over the demitasse rim, so he curled his fingers around her hand and removed the drink to rest safely beside his.
“Relax.” Warm and gentle, those same fingers tilted her chin.
She closed her eyes as he neared. Her skin heated until his breath felt almost cool as it brushed the corner of her mouth and along her cheek.
“We saw everything you wanted today.” After stroking her bare arm, he eased his hand between her spine and the couch as if worried she’d spook and bolt.
Far from it. She wanted to slide closer.
“I followed your directions.” He arched her body the fraction of an inch that brought her breasts against the wall of his chest.
Her hands drifted to his shoulders, then down his back to the groove where his shoulder muscles overlapped. They were hard and distinct, and the pleasure of touching him sizzled from her fingers to the rest of her body.
“I went everywhere you wanted to go.”
The empty ache inside her needed to be filled, yet he was taking his sweet time.
; “But we didn’t do everything you wanted, did we?” Then his mouth covered hers.
She’d been kissed before. What Jersey girl hadn’t? But she’d never known a man who kissed like this. His lips were perfect, firm but not overwhelming as they molded to hers. His hands cradled her head and rubbed her scalp and neck at spots that made her gasp with pleasure. His kisses submerged the methodical doctor into a woman who’d sit entwined with a man on a hotel couch. The doctor wouldn’t let her hands wander across his shoulders to seek the hair above his collar. Noooo, that woman would never lose her self-control. Only a wanton would pull him closer and let her fingers trace the muscles wrapping his spine. The doctor would never move her chest in tiny circles to create delicious pressure against a male chest. Only a wanton would offer her neck and encourage his kisses to drift lower.
She opened her eyes. In the mirror over Wulf’s shoulder, her tanned hands contrasted with his white shirt. Her fingers shifted to his hair. It was multicolored from the sun, like gold and sand and honey gliding over her skin.
“You’re watching us, aren’t you?” His lips hummed over the nerves on her clavicle. Her neck begged for the magic of his mouth, while his hand slipped from her waist upward along her ribs, toward breasts that swelled to invite him. His reflection claimed her reflection, consumed her with his kisses.
A phone rang somewhere far away.
What was she doing? Even with the folding doors latched, they were in a lobby. Strangers could open those doors, see them, post a picture on the internet. One careless keystroke could ruin their careers. Her shoulders stiffened.
Wulf’s breath slipped across her neck like a noose. During the day he’d seemed like other men, but he had secrets. She couldn’t forget what had happened on the helicopter ride, the lies and half-truths he’d told since, and under no circumstances could she fall deeper into his web.
In the mirror, he blotted out every bit of her except a blur of dark hair and one of her eyes. Her sclera completely circled her iris, like a horse she remembered from a trip to the Meadowlands with her stepfather. Right before the mare had tried to jump the wall in front of her seat, its eye had been a giant white-rimmed spot of fear, like hers now. The horse had broken a leg and men had dragged out screens and downed it right there, on the track. She rolled her head and saw the lobby lights through the slats of the louvered doors. Her stomach spun.
“Stop.” She pushed his shoulder. “Stop!” Anxiety quivered in her tone.
His deltoid jumped under her palm. Then, one long heartbeat later, he pulled away. “You’re right.”
Immobilized, they locked stares while their pulses slowed. She shouldn’t have regretted the right decision this much.
He stood and offered his hand. “I’ll say good night at the elevator.” As soon as she reached her feet, he let her go. “Share tomorrow with me.” His request was quiet. “Please.”
She thought she saw need in his expression, not merely desire, and his ten combat tours weighed on her conscience. “You’re willing to do more sightseeing after today’s fiasco?”
“Fiasco?” He glanced at the imprint they’d left on the couch, and his mouth slowly turned up and into another wicked promise. “I think not.”
She fingered her collar and hoped he wouldn’t ask about her itinerary. She’d probably blurt you. “Get one thing straight. We’re not going to—” She couldn’t say it. A doctor, and she couldn’t spit out have sex.
“We will. And soon.” His outstretched arm indicated she should precede him into the lobby. “But you’ll have to ask very nicely.”
“Not a chance. I won’t—” She spun to contradict him. He raised an eyebrow as if daring her to issue a challenge or an ultimatum, either of which would have been an absurdly bad idea, so she gave up and strode toward the elevator.
“Tomorrow it’s my turn to choose where we go.” Following, he opened the elevator cage without guidance from his eyes, which were occupied staring at her legs.
“You could lose a finger that way.” She pointed at his hands.
“Not worried. Much as I appreciate you in a skirt, wear pants for my plans.”
“What plans?” She stepped into the space, but he didn’t follow.
“I’ll be here again at nine.” He shut the doors. He really wasn’t going up.
“What plans?” If she rattled the folding metal she might lose that finger, but he was toying with her.
“A ride you won’t forget.”
The image of herself straddling his hips and looking down at him weakened her knees to the point that she reached a steadying hand for the control panel. She knew how his eyes would look half-closed with his face taut below her, because that was how he watched her, but the fantasy couldn’t become reality. Not unless she traded her career for it.
Then the outer doors closed, removing temptation for at least nine hours.
* * *
The under eye concealer from her mother didn’t match Theresa’s soldier tan, so dark circles advertised her sleepless night. She’d rejected her travel-stained jeans for cropped black pants—“pedal pushers” on her mother’s list of outfits—and a black-and-white plaid shirt that tied at her waist like a fifties cliché. Thankfully her mother hadn’t been in a Bond girl phase.
This morning’s double-thump knock caused her heart to pick up speed even though she wasn’t startled. She’d brushed her teeth twice, just in case Wulf tried to pick up where they’d stopped. Before she reached for the knob, she wiped her palms on her pants.
Wulf’s faded jeans outlined every bulge of his thighs, and the stand-up collar of his black leather jacket emphasized the cords of his neck. Complete with finger-tousled hair and a half grin, the man leaning on her door frame looked like a very bad boy.
“Will this work with your mysterious plans?” She held out her arms, then dropped them. It was silly to worry about her clothes, and worse to invite him to stare.
He stared.
If she crossed her arms over her chest, she’d appear defensive. If she didn’t, he’d notice her nipples through the cotton.
His smile deepened. He’d noticed.
She stuck her fingers in her pockets, thrust her elbows out and hunched her shoulders forward, which lifted the starched shirtfront away from her chest.
“Do you have different footgear?” he asked after his gaze reached the floor.
“What’s wrong with these?” She pointed the toe of her ballet flat at him.
“No protection against the road.”
“Why would I—”
He pulled his arm from behind the door frame and showed her two motorcycle helmets.
“Not a chance.” Becoming that personally acquainted with Roman traffic was not on her to-do list. “Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes.” His boots crushed the carpet pile while he swung the helmets as if to hypnotize her. “You really, really want to go for a ride with me.”
Of course, as medical personnel she had a responsibility to monitor Wulf to ensure he didn’t freak out again like he had at the Mouth of Truth.
Her rationalization almost sounded legitimate.
“Yesterday I shared you with thousands of strangers.” He headed for her closet. “Today’s for the two of us.”
“I intend to survive this trip.” She followed him, eyes on the helmets. “That means no motorcycles.”
He hunted on the floor. “These—” a running shoe dangled between his thumb and first finger, “—are the sturdiest shoes you have?”
Three pair of boots at Caddie, useless at this moment. “Nothing’s wrong with my shoes. They’re perfect for visiting the Borghese Gallery.”
“It’ll be another four hundred years before I—” He snapped his mouth shut and picked up her purse, which looked so ridiculous in his grip that her last resistance
melted. “Come with me.”
* * *
Draycott settled once more into his chair after his foray to the street next to the Hotel d’Inghilterra. In less than the time it took his Earl Grey to steep, he’d popped a button-size tracking device on the frame of Wardsen’s motorcycle. With no need to hurry when his target and the brunette doctor emerged from the elevator, he rather hoped they became busy upstairs.
Two days ago Wardsen’s bread crumb trail—airfare in Karachi, clothes and shaving gear in Dubai—had led to Rome. One phone call, and Draycott had possessed the name of the only traveler the Bagram Air Field office of Black and Swan had processed during the last ten days who’d had a similar destination: Captain Theresa Chiesa, M.D. Unsurprisingly, she also hailed from Cadwalader. Aviation flight manifests also listed the doctor on two recent Special Forces missions, and her credit card had been swiped at the terminal thirty feet across the lobby.
He enjoyed a slow sip of his favorite tea blend. After yesterday’s debacle at the Basilica of Santa Maria—only the worst novice asked to photograph a target like Wardsen—he’d assumed lobby surveillance until experienced professionals arrived. This pathetic crew was only authorized to follow at a distance via the global positioning system.
Thirteen minutes after Wardsen had ascended to the doctor’s room, the couple exited the elevator. Sad what seven months in-country did to a man’s stamina.
Camouflaged by his Continental Daily News, Draycott assumed they wouldn’t register his presence. If they remained as absorbed as they’d been in each other yesterday, the smartphone concealed beneath the trilby on his knee could sing “God Save the Queen” and they wouldn’t turn.
“Sorry to break your heart,” the woman said. “But I don’t like shopping.”
“Humor me.” Wardsen passed within fifteen feet of his seat, the doctor on his far side. “You need better footwear first.”
So they weren’t headed directly for the motorcycle.
* * *
Wulf’s cheekbones and tight denim achieved what Theresa knew she never could have: two Prada salespeople reduced to kittens lapping milk. She should have been mortified that he insisted on kneeling in front of her rather than allowing the assistants to do their jobs, but as his fingers wrapped around her calf and he eased the second black knee-high boot on to her leg, she liquefied. When he traced the open V of the leather upper, a line of fire tattooed her skin. The tiny grind of zipper teeth rent the charged silence as the smooth calfskin closed.
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