Could she trust anyone, other than Eric, with this bizarre story? No one but Marcus, and the post locator had nothing on Eric’s best friend.
A sick sensation rose up and Grace swooned.
“Can I call someone for you?” the receptionist asked, standing.
“No.” Grace moved back a couple of steps, turned and headed for the exit. Her trembling hands clutched the handle and pushed, enabling her escape.
Okay, get a grip. Giving up wasn’t an option. Nor was going back to Cleveland and pretending her father hadn’t been wiped from existence. She’d tried a variation of the scenario before. One where she avoided dealing with her father’s death—which had only led her down a path of darkness. A place she couldn’t visit again. She had to have a Plan B.
And she’d implement it, just as soon as she concocted one.
Pink’s Tavern seemed liked the appropriate place, for sentimental reasons, to end Eric Wayne’s last day of active duty in the United States Marine Corps.
The place was a hole-in-the-wall joint during Eric’s first stint at Cherry Point fifteen years ago, and nothing had changed. Not its owner. Not its charm. Not the sign hanging behind the bar proclaiming the establishment as Pink’s in pink neon cursive.
Eric strolled across the open expanse between the door and the bar. A hint of beer and pretzels mingled with the more pungent aromas of smoke and stale perfume. The hard-rocking sounds of Rod Stewart blasting from the jukebox made the stench a bit more bearable.
The leatherneck in Eric scanned the near-empty tavern. Happy hour was a good forty-five minutes away, just enough time for a beer or two and then he’d head out before the meat-market crowd arrived.
Pink, otherwise known as David Floyd, greeted Eric as he claimed a stool at the middle of the unoccupied bar. The pub’s owner and bartender had long since hit his fiftieth year. During the time Eric had been stationed elsewhere, Pink had lost most of his hair and none of the extra pounds he’d packed on with his favorite diet of beer and doughnuts.
“Lt. Colonel Wayne,” Pink’s boisterous voice bellowed, “how’s it hanging with the Marines?” He placed the usual, a bottle of Budweiser, in front of Eric.
“It’s no longer Lt. Colonel.” Eric reached for the beer. “Thanks to a little thing called retirement, I’m now a man of leisure.” After devoting twenty years to the Marine Corps—pretty much his whole adult life—he could use a bit of repose.
“Well...” Pink grabbed a bottle of Tequila, a couple of shot glasses and hammered them onto the bar. “I’ll drink to that.”
“That’s why I like this place.” Eric laughed and latched onto the nearest shot glass.
Pink downed the liquor and slammed the beaker against the bar. “So, what are you going to do now? Aggravate the Marines?” A slight snigger rumbled from his restrained laughter.
The music stopped and the tavern grew quiet, except for the faint sounds of CDs changing on the jukebox. A ray of light illuminated the interior. Someone had opened the door.
Pink looked up. His attention stayed on his newest patron, or patrons, longer than typical.
Eric had no idea, nor did he care, who’d claimed the seat a couple of stools over, but judging by the look on Pink’s face—smittened intrigue—it had to be a woman. Pink gawked at the girl and Eric laughed but didn’t steal a peek.
“When a Man Loves a Woman” blasted from the jukebox. Eric hated the song. It reminded him of Grace. Somebody had kept playing the tune over and over the night she stood him up, right here at Pink’s, eleven years ago.
Don’t go there. Keep your head out of the past.
At least he wasn’t still sitting around waiting on her to come to her senses. He’d gotten over the fascination years ago. Now, he no longer cared.
Time to check out the chick sitting a couple of stools away. She was here. She was real. And probably waiting for her boyfriend. Eric grabbed his beer, expelling any thoughts of hitting on Pink’s latest customer.
“What can I get you, darlin’?” Pink, on the other hand, poured the charm on thick.
“Black Russian, please.”
“Coming right up,” Pink said, and went about mixing the concoction.
“Thanks. Heavy on the black, please.” Her voice, polite and familiar, floated toward Eric.
What the...?
No way. Couldn’t be.
Eric’s heart clawed against his chest, and his mouth dropped open. He made a conscious effort to close it as curiosity convinced him to turn toward her.
Grace? Were his eyes playing tricks?
Wouldn’t be the first time. He’d always been able to recognize his mistake quickly though. Until now. Everything about this woman screamed Grace Hendricks.
The tavern’s dim lighting illuminated her slender, reed-like frame. Her clothing was more conservative than before. The dark pantsuit wasn’t something he’d expect to find in her closet, but the garment added a sense of maturity to her appearance.
Wisps of dark hair framed her face, still porcelain-white and ageless. She wore her hair shorter now. No more than an inch or two past her shoulders, and tamer than he remembered but still russet-brown. He’d always loved the color. It reminded him of chocolate.
Eric’s heart slipped to the floor. Then anger took possession of the empty spot. He shook his head and sneered. “Little late, aren’t you?” Turning away, he picked up the bottle and chugged his beer.
“Excuse me?” Her familiar voice was no longer polite.
“About eleven years, I’d say.” Neither happiness nor relief had overcome him at the sight of her, but her presence did have him wondering.
What’s she doing here?
To assume she was looking for him was audacious if not arrogant. Grace Hendricks was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. The girl had been raised military. She had to know the odds of Eric being at Cherry Point, eleven years after the fact, weren’t good.
So, why was she here?
“Eric...?” she uttered his name in a quavering whisper.
He had a feeling he was about to find out.
She rolled over the empty stool separating them and hugged him. His first inkling, to return her embrace, didn’t last long. Her desertion, as of yet unexplained and unforgiven, called his resentment back to the forefront of his mind.
He stiffened and nudged her away. “Why are you here?”
“Eric, I need your help.”
“You’ve got a lot of nerve.”
“Please, Eric...” She paused as Pink sat the drink in front of her, and after a brief interlude she latched onto it. “You’re the only one who can help me,” she said, and devoured half the cocktail.
Eric would’ve been overridden by his bitterness, if not for the fear emanating from her like an aura. She was either afraid or a damn good actress. Given time to make a choice, he bet on the latter and kept silent. He wasn’t biting and that had her fidgeting. Good.
“I retired my superman cape today,” he said, with such detachment he had to fight the urge to smirk.
“Well, if you say you’re not going to help me,” she said, in a half-bargaining half-threatening way. “I’ll just follow you home.”
Eric shook his head and couldn’t resist saying, “My wife won’t like that very much.”
Her laughter came across as puffed-up mockery. “Very funny.”
Sure, okay. Lots of things were wrong with his statement. Inaccuracy for one. He had no wife to speak of, but why was it so hard to believe he’d gotten married since he’d seen her last?
Grace hesitated and reached for his arm. “I need you to come with me to the cemetery,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“What?” He stiffened and leaned back, away from her. She’d lost her mind.
She inched closer. “To visit my father’s grave,” she said, still whispering. “Please?”
How dare she? How dare she waltz back into his life after all this time and beg him to escort her to the cemetery, specifically t
o visit the General’s grave.
He didn’t know which was worse. Her nerve, her strange behavior and odd request, or his inability to say no.
Eric almost considered her petition. For about a second. Because of the General, his former commanding officer. Then he remembered who he was dealing with. This girl wasn’t an ordinary damsel. Black widow was more likely.
“You’re about eleven years too late, Gracie.” Eric’s icy tone chilled his throat. He turned away from her and snatched up his beer. “Go find yourself another whipping boy.”
“Eric please...” She touched his arm. “You’re the only one I can trust.”
Laughter snorted out through his nose.
She trusted him. Since when?
He jerked away. As if putting a few inches between them made a difference. Not with all the vulnerability frozen on her face. He should’ve paid better attention in science class, then he’d understand how something so cold and unmoving had managed to melt his resistance.
Eric sighed and sat the beer bottle on the counter. Maybe appeasing her would eventually get rid of her. “All right.” He hoped his tone, bargaining and provisional, saturated her with misgivings. “I’ll see you to the cemetery,” he said, “but then you’re on your own.”
“After we go to the cemetery—” She straightened her posture and shot him a glare that nearly set him on fire. “If you can walk away, I won’t try to stop you.”
**Thank you for taking a look at the sneak peek of SECONDARY TARGETS. If You’d like to read the book in its entirety it’s available for the Kindle, Nook, and various other e-readers through your favorite online retailers.**
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MURDER, MI AMORE
BY
CARA MARSI
Chapter One
A PRICKLY sensation, like someone breathing on the back of her neck, sent chills slithering down Lexie Cortese’s spine. She glanced around the small, exclusive leather goods shop on one of Rome’s busiest streets. A well-dressed older woman perused a richly sequined evening bag while a smiling saleswoman looked on. A middle-aged man, dressed in a beautifully tailored gray suit, studied a display case of couture handbags. Nothing sinister. Yet the feeling of being followed had started before she’d entered the shop and had grown stronger in the forty-five minutes she’d been there.
“Signorina? Carta di credito?” Lexie started at the saleswoman’s words and turned back to her with an apologetic smile. Although she couldn’t speak Italian, Lexie had done enough shopping to know the saleswoman wanted her credit card. She dug into her plain black shoulder bag, pushing aside the bright scarf she’d tied on the handle to liven it up a bit, pulled out her card and handed it to the woman. As she waited for the clerk to ring up the sale, someone jostled her. “Scusi, per favore.” The middle-aged man in the gray suit had bumped her. His flat black eyes bore into hers, as if sending her a message. She backed away. “No problema,” she said, hoping she had the Italian right. With a cold smile, he moved on, heading to the door.
Clutching her shopping bag with one hand and holding her shoulder bag tightly against her, she left the shop and joined the throngs of pedestrians on the Via Corsi. Despite the festive atmosphere from shoppers and tourists enjoying an unseasonably warm April day, Lexie couldn’t shake the feeling that someone followed her. Was it the man who’d bumped into her, the one with the dead eyes? She shouldered her way along the crowded street and looked behind her. He wasn’t there. God, she was becoming paranoid, letting her imagination run amok. Nevertheless, she tightened her grip on the shopping bag that contained the way-too-expensive dark green designer handbag she’d just purchased. Rome was as well-known for its pickpockets and muggers as for its art and history. Why would anyone follow her, an ordinary tourist?
Then again, she wasn’t ordinary any more. Not since she’d come to Rome. And now she had a new handbag to go with her new attitude. In the past two weeks, the cautious, always-do-what’s-right-eager-to-please-everyone Lexie Cortese had become a confident, take-charge woman. For all of her twenty-eight years she’d done what others wanted—her parents, her teachers, that louse Jerry. But no more. Smiling at a vendor selling flowers, she inhaled the heady perfume of early spring blooms and put a little bounce in her step. A good-looking twenty-something man nodded to her as he passed. Lots of handsome Italian men had flirted with her in the two weeks she’d been here. Sure helped make up for what that scum of an ex-fiancé had done. From now on she’d do whatever she damn well pleased. Spend a month in Rome? Check. Buy a designer bag that cost more than a month’s pay? Done. Have a fling with a sexy Italian, then walk away, in control, her heart untouched? Not so sure about that one, but she could hope.
To celebrate the new Lexie, she’d have a glass of wine. Maybe even two glasses. The Trevi Fountain was close. She’d enjoy her drink in the popular piazza admiring old Neptune and his trident. The prickly feeling swept over her again, raising goose bumps on her arms. She stopped and scanned the street. Nothing. Damn it! Her imagination was in overdrive. It had to be. Thirsty for some calming wine, she hurried toward the piazza. She found a seat at one of the outdoor tables directly across from old Neptune and ordered a glass of Pinot Noir. The piazza buzzed with tourists snapping pictures and throwing their three coins in the famous fountain. She’d made her three wishes the day she’d arrived. Wish one—that she’d find success in her new job and in grad school; wish two—that she’d come back to Rome, maybe even study here; and three—that someday she’d find real love and happiness. Whatever real happiness was.
When her wine arrived, she held the glass up in salute to Neptune. Okay, water boy, do your stuff. Grant my wishes and toss a little excitement my way. With a smile, she took a sip. The rich liquid flowed down her throat, soothing her jumbled nerves. How foolish she’d been to feel so unsettled earlier. Maybe traces of the old, skittish Lexie lingered. A movement from a side street near the fountain snagged her attention. A man wearing jeans and a hoodie shot from the street, running directly toward… Her? Lexie gasped and grabbed her purse from the tabletop as the man raced past and snatched her shopping bag from the ground next to her. “Hey!” Lexie jumped to her feet. “That’s mine!”
The man ignored her, clutching the bag with her new, expensive purse against his chest like a football as he sprinted down a small alleyway. “Somebody stop him!” she shouted, knocking over the table. The wine goblet shattered onto the cobblestones, splattering red wine all over her black sandals. The piazza erupted in cries and frantic calls for the police. Onlookers, yelling in several languages, pointed toward the narrow street where the thief had disappeared. Several men ran after him. Lexie started to follow them. “Stay, signorina,” her waiter implored, grabbing her arm and holding her back. His eyes, wide and stricken, darted from her to the piazza. “See. The police. They are coming.” He pointed out two policemen racing toward the alleyway. “Please, signorina, sit, have some wine. No charge.” He pulled out a chair at a freshly made up table. Another waiter stood close, holding a full glass of wine out to Lexie. Reluctantly, she turned away from the chase. “Thank you.” She sank into the chair and took the proffered wine, grasping the glass tightly to control her sudden trembling as she noticed people staring.
Damn it all to hell! That purse was supposed to symbolize her new attitude. And now some scumbag had stolen it not ten minutes after she walked out of the store with it. What did that say about her chances for a new start? She looked up to see strangers hovering, offering help in a scattering of languages. She tried to respond, to reassure them she was all right. Her bout of self-pity dissolved with the strangers’ kindness. She could handle this. Fifteen long minutes later, her wine untouched, Lexie stared dismally across the piazza in the direction the thief and his pursuers had taken. Her waiters stood nearby, their faces tense. “The police will find him, signorina. They must.”
Then, like ancient Roman warriors returning from battle, the two policemen, followed by
a large group of raucous men and boys, materialized from the alleyway. A tall man wearing a suit and holding her shopping bag walked between the policemen. Who was he? Not the thief. She stood as they approached, wishing she knew enough Italian to ask. His well-cut, dark blue business suit emphasized his broad shoulders and muscular frame as he strode across the piazza toward her. His thick, wavy black hair was expertly slicked back from a face boasting razor sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw. He might as well have jumped from the pages of a men’s fashion magazine into her Roman holiday. “Signorina,” Mr. GQ Cover Model said, smiling and holding her bag out to her. He said something totally incomprehensible in Italian, and when she simply stared, he arched one dark eyebrow and tried again. “I believe this is yours?”
His English, spoken with a lilting Italian accent, sent unexpected spasms of pleasure over her. Unwilling to tear her gaze away from that oh-so-charming smile, Lexie stalled. She’d never seen a man so ruggedly beautiful. She’d been without sex for too long. That was the only explanation. “Grazie,” she finally said, taking the bag from him. She opened the bag to make sure her purse was indeed inside, then smiled up at her handsome knight. “Thank you so much. You could have been hurt going after that jerk.”
He lifted one elegantly-clad shoulder. “It was nothing. Vermin like that give my city a bad name.” He studied her. “You are American.” Surprise edged his deep, rich voice.
She nodded, then turned to the policemen, who stood silently by. How odd. “Grazie to both of you too.” They touched the brims of their hats at the same time. “We did nothing,” the older of the two said. “This gentleman had wrestled your bag from the thief before we got there.”
“Where is the thief?” Lexie asked, glancing around.
The policeman shrugged. “He got away, but be assured, we will find him.” He smiled and pulled a small notebook from his inside jacket pocket. “Please to give us a little information for our report.”
“Of course,” she said. She quickly gave them the information they wanted.
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