by Diana Layne
When as a prelude to their love scene Kevin let Whitney’s scarf float down to slice in half on his sword, Nia felt Sandro’s body tense next to her.
“You are very bad,” he scolded, obviously realizing what was coming next.
She looked at him. “I’m trying to be but no one will let me.” She slid her hand across the hard ridges on his stomach surprising herself with her boldness.
He grabbed her arm with a low growl.
That’s when she came to her senses, aware she was throwing herself at him. “I’m no better than a groupie,” she muttered realizing he must have women throw themselves at him all the time. “I’m sorry,” she told him, embarrassed by her actions. “I thought you were interested. Beppe’s right, I am inexperienced. Sex has never been high on my priority list.” She slid her arm from his grasp. “I’ll just um . . . go back to my room. Um, now.”
She intended to climb off the couch, but he caught her around her waist, and in an unexpected move she was on her back with him straddled on top of her.
Her eyes widened.
Sandro moved closer, closer, so close she felt his breath whispering across her face. Her heart thumped heavy and hard. She was certain he could see it pounding as he lowered his gaze to her chest. As if in proof, he laid his hand between her breasts. Her eyes drifted shut. Anticipation. Fantasy. Need.
Maddeningly avoiding her breasts which were swelling with desire, he trailed his hand up to her neck. There, his thumb brushed the thudding pulse at the base of her throat.
When he pulled back, she moaned.
“You are wrong,” he said.
Her eyes snapped back open.
“I am interested. But your first time . . . should be special. Not like this.”
“Like this?” The weight of him, the closeness of him, her brain seemed sluggish and she didn’t understand what he meant.
“In a hurry,” he told her. “Afraid someone will interrupt.”
“There’s my room,” she suggested.
“And if Beppe wakes up and I am not on this sofa, where do you think he will look? Besides, it would not be honorable to use his house for our pleasure.”
Nia knew he was right. She sighed. “Why do you have to be so logical?” She didn’t know how he could be so logical either, since the thing most prevalent on her mind was finding a way to get closer to him.
“Is not easy being logical, especially when I want to . . .” and what followed was a whole string of Italian words that sounded so sexy she wanted to rip off her clothes, even though she had no idea how to translate.
“What’d you just say to me?”
“I told you what I want to do with you, but I don’t know how to say the English.”
“Why don’t you show me instead, and I’ll interpret for you? I know, I know.” She cut off the sure protest he would make. “You don’t want to do anything here. So you can come to my dorm room with me tomorrow night. I’ll kick out my roommate.”
He chuckled. “You have one thing on the brain.”
“Can you blame me?”
His smile swiftly changed to seriousness. “I would like that very much, but Beppe and Luciana--”
“I know what you’re going to say. You haven’t seen them in years. And I understand. You don’t have enough time with them as it is. I guess I’m out of luck.”
“Don’t be impatient. You will be at the World Cup.”
“World Cup? Geez, that’s four months away.”
“Will give you time to learn Italian so you know what I say.”
“Ha. You’re the one making me wait. Better learn those words you need to know in English.”
He kissed her then, a passionate kiss that had her pushing her body as physically close as possible. He followed with more whispered words in Italian.
“All right, all right. I’ll learn Italian,” she gasped. “You just make sure you find a way for us to be together during the World Cup.” She hoped he had an idea how he was going to pull that off.
“I’ll find a way. I will be your first lover.”
“My first lover, hm? That means I’m not supposed to have sex with anyone in the meantime? After you got me all worked up like this?”
“Your first lover,” he repeated, all seriousness. “And it will be very special.”
When he put it that way, all desire to tease him fled while she fought off a renewed wave of sexual desire. “I better get to bed before I do something you’ll regret,” she said.
“But we were watching the movie,” he protested, before he kissed her again. Teasing kisses, nibbling kisses, then more serious tongue-dueling kisses that had her reeling with dizziness and desire.
Coming up for air endless minutes later, she glanced at the television. “Too late,” she breathed. “We missed it already.”
His gaze turned to the TV where Whitney sang the last refrains of I’ll Always Love You. Kevin stood guard next to his new employer. Loving the song, Nia hummed along.
“What happened?”
She stopped humming. “He left her in the end. To move onto his next job.” The ending always made her sad, which is why she felt sorry for herself as she added, “Like you’ll leave me.”
Sandro stared at her, passion still smoldering hot in his eyes. “There is a difference, carissima. I will be back. And you will be my woman. For always.”
* * *
He came back; he made her his as promised. But now he was gone. And she was alone. No comforting, strong arms. No sweetly whispered Italian words to ease her fears.
No, not alone. There were bad guys. Mob guys. With guns. And she was prisoner--God only knew where. And Sandro had disappeared, running from these bad guys. She was certain of that. No matter the little charade he pulled off this morning, he hadn’t left her for another woman or broken his promise that she would be his woman always. He had only been trying to protect her, for what reason she wasn’t sure. She only knew they were all in danger now.
He needed her. Her son needed her. Her son would be frightened without her.
She was frightened without her son. She was frightened without Sandro.
She had to fight for her family. No matter what it took, she wouldn’t be defeated.
After the nap, her mind was sharper, more focused. Escape foremost on her mind, she scanned the room again. The door lock she could pick, thanks to lessons from Dave when they were kids, but she had no tools. And who knew what waited for her on the other side of the door.
She walked to the window again. Looked out. Her room was three stories from the ground. Much too far to jump, but it seemed her only option. Quickly she searched the room, looking for anything to help her escape, to use as a ladder. She eyed the bed. Could she make a ladder from the bed sheets and slide down?
Working quickly, efficiently, she stripped the sheets from the bed. Keeping an eye on the door, she tied the sheets together, spreading them on the floor to judge the distance. Not enough. But thankfully, the bed was made for winter and had blankets.
She added the two blankets, their bulk making it harder to tie. Jerking the knots as tightly as possible, she took her bundle to the window. A thorough glance outside showed a red pickup truck and the black Lincoln Navigator, but no people. No guards around the perimeter to stop her.
Lucky her. Stupid them.
Now for something to tie her bed-linen ladder onto. The bed itself looked stout enough to hold her weight, but it was too far from the window and would use too much of her precious homemade rope. The dresser was adjacent to the window, and although not as heavy as the bed, it would have to do.
Kneeling, she tied the end of a sheet around the dresser leg. She tugged on it, testing the strength. Satisfied, she tossed the end out the window. It didn’t quite reach the ground, but she thought she could drop the remaining few feet with no trouble. She took a quick look around the room but found nothing she needed. Her purse, phone and jacket still lay on the seat of her car.
She was hoping to stea
l one of the vehicles in the driveway although she didn’t know how to wire a car. Unfortunately, Dave had never taught her how. She prayed that someone left keys in an ignition or under the visor or floor mat. Otherwise, it was going to be a long, cold walk.
Taking a deep breath, she swung a leg over the window ledge. The movement reminded her of the time she climbed over the stadium wall at the game where she first met Sandro with his uncle. She paused, gathered her courage. Sandro, Daniele, I’m coming my darlings.
Holding onto the sheet, she climbed out the window.
Breathe.
She’d never climbed a mountain--but she’d seen it on TV. She braced her feet against the wall, but she could feel her hands slipping. The sheets twisted and swung, banging her against the rough bricks which scraped the back of her hands. It was harder than it looked. Her strength was in her legs, not her arms...
The texture changed beneath her fingertips. She had reached the blankets now; she was almost at the end. A little lower then she looked to check her positioning.
And froze. They weren’t so stupid after all.
“Where do ya think you’re going, bitch?”
Chapter 12
Running across the parking lot to his car, Dave pulled his phone from his pocket. He punched a number while trying to keep Sandro in sight.
“Hey, Tony. Sandro’s no longer cooperating. He and Midnight just left to take off on their own.” Dave reached his car. “I’m following.”
“Shit,” Tony said in his mother hen way. “Guess he got scared off. Can’t really blame him.”
“No, I can’t. But he’s too inexperienced to take on the mob alone. It’s my job to keep him alive.” Dave unlocked the door and jumped into his company Crown Vic, now with two new tires.
“So we lost Midnight, too?”
“Maybe not.” The engine roared to life and Dave jerked the car into drive, spinning out of the parking space on those new tires. “I’m thinking I can persuade a little cooperation in that area. If I can separate the two.”
“It’s a shot. Maybe turn on that charm of yours.”
“Watch it,” Dave warned. Tony was venturing too far away from their agreement to not reveal Marisa’s name or gender. Now that he knew his office had been bugged, he was thankful for the precaution. “How’s the rest of them?” he asked, referring to Danny and the aunt and uncle.
“Everything’s A-okay,” Tony said. “No sign of trouble.”
“Good. You keep watch on them, and I’ll see what I can do on this end.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Dave disconnected the call, stuffed the phone into his jacket and forced his way onto the crowded street, honking and cussing his way through the heavy traffic, all the while keeping his gaze peeled for the maroon Buick.
It didn’t take him long to find it. He stayed back several car lengths, while still keeping the Buick in his line of sight. Sandro and Marisa, apparently involved in a deep discussion, waved hands and nodded heads. Sandro was driving as if he didn’t have a contract on him, hardly glancing in his rearview or side mirrors to check for tails.
Sandro, buddy, you’re going to have to get better at watching your ass if you’re going to stay alive.
Just then, Sandro made a quick left turn out of the right lane, and with the unexpected move, Dave lost him. Horns honked and brakes squealed as Dave tried to swerve through three lanes of traffic to keep up.
Italian driving skills apparently came in handy in New York. He growled, slapped his hand on the steering wheel, and drove up another block before he was able to circle back and get on the same road Sandro had taken. Dave drove on, constantly scanning the streets, hoping Sandro hadn’t made any more unexpected turns.
In front of him, drivers were stopped, waiting for a car to make a left turn into a parking garage. Dave whipped into the right lane. As he approached the turning car, he saw it was the Buick. Bingo. Sandro turned the car into the parking garage without noticing him.
Dave looked up at the skyscraper. A popular hotel chain. He drove around the block, found a place to park, sprinted to a side door and entered the lobby in time to see Marisa at the front desk. But he saw no sign of Sandro. Dave ducked behind a large potted plant to scan the slickly elegant lobby until he spotted Sandro at a newsstand, reading a magazine. His infamous ponytail was shoved up under a cap.
Marisa walked by Sandro, punched the elevator button. After glancing around, forcing Dave to slide back out of sight, Sandro folded the magazine in his hands and followed a discreet distance behind Marisa, entering the elevator just as it was closing.
Following them was out of the question. The elevators were enclosed and Dave had no way of knowing which floor their room was on. He considered going to the registration desk and intimidating the clerk for the information. But that would make him too public and at this time discretion was the better part of valor and all that.
From necessity, he reasoned, Marisa was going to have to do most of the legwork for whatever scheme she and Sandro, who was too recognizable to be running around on the streets, had devised. Following a gut feeling that she would soon be back down, Dave decided to stay put and watch the elevators, betting if he followed her, he’d find out quick enough what they were planning.
* * *
A sense of déjà vu welcomed Marisa as she used the key card to unlock the second hotel room of the day. Sandro, walking past her, tossed his cap and magazine on the king-sized bed--one bed only--since she would be staying at her apartment. Or if absolutely necessary, with Luigi. She hid a shudder by giving careful attention locking the door behind them. Not much longer, she promised herself.
Sandro unzipped his jacket. Her purse joined his things on the bed before she pulled off her short, leather, fur-lined jacket. She took her jacket, as well as his, and hung them on the standard room hangars.
She didn’t have to ask him what he was thinking. She remembered all too well the horror of learning the person who gave you the reason to exist was in danger. The memory tightened her throat, cutting off her air. She’d been too late for Paolo. But there was still time for Nia.
“Ho bisogono di una pistola,” Sandro said, asking for a gun.
Her back had been to him. She dragged in a breath and turned to face him. As long as Sandro stayed in the room he was safe enough and had no need for a gun, but she could play along. Without a word, she walked to her purse and pulled out her derringer from its snug compartment.
Looking skeptically at the tiny gun she handed him, Sandro said, “Questo è un giocattaolo, non una pistola.” This is a toy, not a gun.
“Un giocattolo mortale, se sei un buon tiro.” A deadly toy if you’re a good shot, she told him, continuing in Italian since he was more comfortable with their native language. “And you are a very good shot.” She remembered the times before momma’s . . . tragedy, when Sandro joined them on family hunting trips. He’d only been a teen then, but he bagged his shot every time. Birds, a hundred meters in the air. As he grew older, he succeeded in everything he tried. She hoped his luck held with their venture. The stakes were so much higher.
Hefting her derringer in his palm, he bent over and slid it inside his sock. Almost immediately, he pulled it back out and said, “Uncomfortable. I’ll need an ankle holster.”
Apparently he planned to keep her gun, whether he thought it a toy or not. Of course, she did offer. But now she’d need to get herself a replacement. “I can buy you an ankle holster when I buy your clothes.” She’d only had time to go to the software store earlier. Since he couldn’t return home, he was going to need at least one change of clothes.
“I need a bigger gun, too. One where I don’t have to get so close to use it on the people who want to kill me. The derringer is a good back up weapon, but not as a main weapon.”
“I can get you a bigger gun, si,” she offered. It would be no problem since she was going to buy herself another one anyway.
“I want to buy my own.”
; He simply was not going to be cooperative, was he? “Getting out is risky,” she pointed out, not telling him anything he didn’t know. She’d saved his life once already today. Who knew if she would be in the right place at the right time again? And of course, there would be an ‘again’. Poppa would be relentless until Sandro was stopped.
“You know I have to look for Nia.”
Marisa almost sighed. But truthfully, she’d known there was no chance of talking him into staying hidden and safe. Dave had already tried every version of that tactic. And could she blame Sandro? She would have willingly risked her life, given her life even, to have been able to save Paolo. Sandro, with her help, had a chance to rescue his beloved and stop her father as well. No, she couldn’t blame him. Still his insistence on going out would cause them problems. Keeping him safe being the biggest problem.
Needing time to think, she reached inside the small room refrigerator for a cold drink. “Want something?”
He shook his head.
She twisted the cap off the bottle and took a sip. “Georgio’s nephew sells guns,” she said at last. Georgio was the head chef at Sandro’s restaurant. “You can get one from him without having to wait for a background check.”
“I’d heard that rumor. That will be the best option. I will go to the restaurant and get the location from Georgio.”
“Go to the restaurant? Hello? Ever heard of a telefono?” She almost lost her temper, but checked it at the last second. Waste of energy; obviously, he wasn’t listening.
“Who knows if the phones are tapped? Even if they can’t trace this throw-away phone you got for me, calling could put Georgio in danger.”
Ratcheting down her frustration, she stood sipping her soda. She studied Sandro, considering the point he made. It was nice to see his quick intelligence had not deserted him in a crisis moment. “I can swing by and talk to Georgio.” She tried one last time, knowing his answer even before he spoke.