Deadly Memories

by Susan Vaughan

  Sophie’s soft appearance gave the impression of fragility, but inside she was stronger than he was. And the more time he spent with her, the more he liked her.

  The more he wanted her.

  When the mountain road widened for a scenic turnout, he pulled over and stopped. The sickle moon shed little light, so the scenery below lay unseen in its ebony blanket.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Before we go any farther, I need to check for electronic bugs and tracking devices. Everything has been swept, but Vadim found us somehow.”

  He got out, leaving the engine running and the lights on.

  Sophie watched as Jack began removing their belongings from the compact Fiat. She grabbed her tote from the backseat and lugged it onto the pavement.

  From his duffel he withdrew a device that looked like a fat ballpoint pen. When he pressed a button, a tiny antenna extended from one end and a green light glowed.

  “What’s that?” she asked, intrigued. “Spy stuff?”

  “An RF detection unit. RF for radio frequency. If we have an operational bug, the light will blink red. The faster it blinks, the closer the detector is to the bug.”

  He lay on the ground and ran the detector beneath the car chassis. Nothing. Then he passed it over and around his duffel. He opened the bag and jabbed the penlike device inside. Still nothing.

  “You shouldn’t have to be precise with this detector, but I’m taking—”

  “No chances. And I appreciate that.” As he finished with his duffel and moved to her big suitcase, Sophie’s nerves flitted like fireflies on a summer night.

  If Jack saw the marble saint, would he think she’d stolen it from the villa? It belonged to her, but he’d seen it on the nightstand and didn’t know that.

  Maybe she was worrying for nothing, but she’d keep Santa Elisabetta hidden. Once her memory returned so she knew what secret of Vadim’s she held in her brain, she’d tell him.

  She remembered some things now, but nothing helpful. Impressions of Vadim kissing her hand helped no one. She shuddered in revulsion. What did I do?

  “We’re almost done. Just this.” Jack reached for the tote handle.

  “Oh, can I do it?” Sophie gushed. “This is so cool. A real spy gadget.” Managing to bat her eyelashes, she gazed up at him. She hated such feminine ploys as phony and obvious, but this was an emergency.

  Jack looked at her oddly. Either he thought she had something in her eye or he was on to her. But then he shrugged. “Sure, why not? Nothing to it.”

  After a demonstration, he stepped aside.

  Sophie passed the bug detector over and around the tote. She unzipped it and swept inside. “Nothing.” She indicated the green light, steady and bland.

  “That’s that, then. No bugs.” As they repacked the car, he said, “We’ll head for a town you didn’t visit before. Maybe Vadim knows what was in your grandmother’s letters.” Sighing in frustration, he bent his long body into the driver’s seat.

  Sophie slid into her seat and opened the map. “I suppose I could’ve shown them to him. I can’t imagine why he’d care or remember. At the time, I mean.”

  “But the letters are only one possibility. There could be a leak.”

  Twisted mass of metal. Grotesque in the orange dawn. The small face. Upside down and too still. So much blood.

  Pain and rage a jagged boulder inside. Must reach him. Save him.

  Cascade of glass. Sharp. Stabs. Ignore them. Red shards. Dripping. A crimson lake. Red and more red. Nothing but red. Only blood—

  Jack jerked upright. He dragged in a rasping breath. His gritty eyes stung from his own sweat and tears. Breathing deeply to calm his racing heart, he focused on the pale dawn lighting the open window. Tuscan June nights were comfortably cool, but not when past terrors came back to haunt a man.

  Too much was happening to exhume all the pain. The small child yesterday. Sophie’s gentle probing…

  Sophie.

  She lay beside him in the bed. On her side, she curled her free hand beneath her cheek like a child. The pj placket gapped open above the sling strap, affording Jack a view of the inner curve of her lush breasts. Nothing like a child.

  He returned his gaze to the encroaching dawn.

  Late last night, when they’d dragged into the hill town, there’d been only one room at this bed-and-breakfast. He offered to sleep on the floor, but Sophie insisted they share. So she’d slid beneath the sheet and light blanket, and he stretched out on top in gym shorts and a T-shirt.

  Perfectly respectable.

  Right.

  The first part of the night he was too aroused to relax. He watched her fall asleep and half hoped she would roll into his arms and let him hold her. She didn’t. Finally exhaustion had closed his eyes.

  Sophie ought to have more rest. Another chat with Leoni before they hit the road was essential. The hour was early. So Jack lay back on his pillow, found it soaked with sweat and flipped it over to the dry side. He adjusted his position to face his bed partner.

  Inky lashes, long and curled, fanned beneath Sophie’s eyes. If only he could see past them, past her eyes, into the brain that hid the information he needed.

  Or did it?

  She was hiding something from him. He sensed it. Did she remember and not want to tell him? Or was there something in her tote?

  Last night she’d carried the bag herself, guarded it from him like a treasure. She’d insisted on scanning it herself with the bug detector. He’d begun to trust her, but now he wasn’t sure.

  He didn’t know about her or how Slick had found them. He didn’t know much, but he would go with what he suspected.

  No more cat and mouse with a hit man. No more chances with a leak. Was somebody in the task force feeding info to Vadim? Jack’s cell was secure, but was Leoni’s? Could he trust Leoni? Or De Carlo?

  Contacting them to find out meant more risk to Sophie’s life. Not an option.

  From now on, he and Sophie hit the road on their own. No more contact with Leoni or the task force.

  He slid off the bed and padded out barefoot in search of the bathroom.

  Sophie wrenched her good arm into the stretchy yellow T-shirt and worked the garment into place. Thank God for Lycra. She panted like a marathon runner from the strain, but she’d dressed by herself. Even the bra. Her injured shoulder had healed enough in a week that she could manage a limited range of motion.

  Dressing and undressing she could handle alone. No more unnecessary intimacy.

  Now why did that give her a pang? Wasn’t sleeping in the same bed with him too close for comfort? Comfort, yes. The reality of his large presence weighing down the covers cocooned her in a feeling of safety and security she hadn’t felt since waking in the hospital.

  But close meant body heat and masculine breathing and muscles that invited cuddling. Not that Jack would ever…

  Enough of that, Sophia Constanza.

  She perched on the bed, picked up her hairbrush and began working at the knots. She’d always prided herself on her long, thick hair, but managing this rat’s nest required two hands.

  The scents of coffee and minty soap entered the room with Jack. His hair wet from a shower and shiny as new taffy, he strode in carrying a tray laden with steaming mugs and a basket covered with a white linen napkin.

  Never mind the food. With his loose-limbed gait and freshly shaven chin, he looked good enough to eat.

  He set the tray on the blue-painted bureau. “I found coffee and pastries. Hard-boiled eggs, too.”

  “Tante grazie,” she said, tossing down the hairbrush. “I could devour it all.”

  His coffee mug stopped halfway to his lips. His blue eyes browsed her length—with heat, if she wasn’t mistaken—as he took in her T and flowered capris. “Sophie, you’re dressed.”

  Was there disappointment in his tone or merely surprise? She poured milk into her coffee and stirred. Not until she’d stuffed an almond pastry in her mouth and swallowe
d did she trust herself to respond. “My shoulder’s much better.”

  “It’s been a week. The doctor said ten days.” A scowl pleating his forehead, he swallowed coffee and regarded her.

  “I won’t overdo.” She demonstrated with a tight, circular arm motion. A sharp twinge made her wince.

  Jack uttered an inarticulate growl. “Good thing you don’t have to conduct an orchestra or drive our demon car. Let’s get the sling on that arm.”

  Sophie grinned at his deadpan humor and felt a warm curl in her belly at the obvious concern in his voice. She submitted to his care as he adjusted the sling’s fastenings. Letting this man protect her, take care of her, put his hands on her and…and… Well, whatever, she was becoming way too accustomed to the intimacy.

  “I want to leave off the sling. I can remember to keep my arm still, and wearing it is like painting on a bull’s-eye.”

  He placed his hands on her shoulders and massaged gentle circles. “Vadim’s goon did use the sling to describe you. You’re sure?”

  The concern for her in his words and on his furrowed brow made her smile. The feel of his hands nearly melted her bones. “Assolutamente. Besides, the sling is much too hot. I roast enough with all this hair down on my neck. A French braid would get this mess off my neck, but I can’t reach high enough for that yet.”

  She felt Jack’s hands go dead-still on her shoulders.

  “What is it?”

  He cleared his throat. His hands flexed, warm and strong. “I know how to make a French braid.”

  Chapter 9

  Sophie wheeled so fast she sloshed coffee from her mug onto the woven rug. “You can what?”

  A ruddy hue crept over Jack’s cheeks. “I can do a French braid. I used to braid my wife’s hair.”

  Her heart squeezed at what the admission must’ve cost him. Jack never talked about his wife. And yet he looked more embarrassed than grieved. Five years was a long time to keep a memory in sharp focus, even a painful one.

  What throbbed like an abscessed tooth was the death of his son.

  Sophie pasted on her most dazzling smile and winked, opting for humor to ease his discomfort.

  She dug around in her kit for a scrunchie, then handed it and the brush to him. “A man of hidden talents. A French braid, per favore, Signore Giovanni.”

  As he stroked the brush through her hair, a low growl or possibly a chuckle rose from his throat. “Giovanni?”

  “Italian for Jack or John. If you’re playing hairdresser, you need a Continental name.”

  She stood as still as she could as he lifted her hair and worked the brush again and again down its length. Each tug of the bristles, gentle or not-so-gentle, felt like heaven. When he gathered her hair into sections and began braiding, she wanted to lean into him.

  Lost in his ministrations, she felt as boneless as a kitten, but behind her she sensed Jack was as rigid as the automatic pistol he kept out of sight. “Did your wife have hair like mine?”

  There was silence as though he were deciding whether to answer. In the distance, a church bell rang nine times. Nearer, a car engine ground and ground, refusing to turn over.

  “Blond. Not as thick.”

  So much for relaxing him. Detective Rinaldi was interrogating a hostile witness. “What was her name?”

  Another pause. A long-suffering sigh. “Tonia. She liked me to braid her hair, said it felt good.”

  “I can vouch for that,” she murmured, barely able to speak.

  Mint soap, aftershave and body heat mingled with the sensual feel of his big hands tugging at her hair and sliding across her scalp to radiate a shivery tingle from her head downward.

  One final tug, and his hands settled on her shoulders. “All done. I should’ve offered sooner.”

  Without his support, she would’ve melted into a warm puddle at his feet. Shaking off the sensual haze, she let him turn her to face him. “Thanks. I won’t be constantly wind-blown this way.”

  The smoky look in his blue eyes said having his hands in her hair had unsettled him, too. His voice was husky when he spoke. “Sophie, you’ve been a trouper through all this.”

  “Oh, yeah, having my hair braided is such an ordeal.” Her attempt at humor fell at her feet as he pushed a stray wisp from her cheek.

  “You know what I mean. The canal chase with shots flying. Our charging from town to town. Your injuries have to drain you, but you don’t complain or—”

  “Wimp out?” She executed a stiff shrug. “I have no choice. Getting back my memory and finding out what really happened is as important to me as it is to you. Not to mention the little matter of the uranium. But thank you.”

  She flattened her hand on his chest and rose on tiptoe to kiss him. She intended only a light brush of lips, but the magnet that pulled them together wouldn’t let go. She clung to his mouth and savored the warm muscles beneath her palm.

  “Sophie.” His arms wrapped around her, and he deepened the kiss with a moan that said he couldn’t help himself. His tongue swept against hers, all sultry heat and need.

  She tasted him—dark-roast coffee and salty male—and heat spiraled up inside. His embrace ignited her senses and stole away reality. Her nipples rasped against the bra’s lace. She leaned into him to assuage a growing ache. His rampant virility against her belly declared his matching need.

  His lips left her mouth to nip at her temples, her earlobes, and to make his way down her neck. “Sophie, I shouldn’t…we shouldn’t. But…”

  “I know.” When his lips found her hard nipple poking the shirt’s soft knit, she rubbed against him with a feline purr.

  His mouth covered hers again, hot and hungry, no longer hard but determined. He made her pulse sing as arousal bloomed inside her like a profusion of roses.

  She went liquid with want.

  For years she’d floated along in occasional superficial relationships, so how could this man—this hard man, this determined man, her staunch protector—create these deeper feelings? How could such intense desire be possible? And a connection beyond their bodies her soul yearned to explore?

  Desire and connection she—they—couldn’t act on. There could be no relationship without trust. He didn’t trust her and she didn’t trust herself. Her pulse clattered like the metal turnstile at the Forty-second Street and Times Square station.

  No, I can’t. We can’t….

  “Jack,” she murmured into his mouth. She placed a trembling hand on his freshly shaven cheek.

  When he raised his head, his eyes were unfocused and his mouth glistened with their kisses. His hands slid away from her, and he stepped back. “You’re right to stop. A minute more, I’d have had you naked. I apologize. I took advantage.”

  The desire still swirling in Sophie’s belly ebbed. Feeling slightly insulted, she twitched her hips and stalked to the window. “We have more reasons to stop than Italy has grapevines, but you taking advantage isn’t one of them. I kissed you first.”

  Jack rubbed a hand over his nape. “If you say so. But I shouldn’t have gotten carried away. It’s been a long time for me, and you’re a beautiful woman and…”

  She couldn’t help but smile at his discomfiture. He ran down like a windup clock. The poor man really didn’t know what to say.

  The notion that he didn’t hop into bed with every other woman flicked her pulse again. “So chalk it up to proximity and hormones? Thank you for the compliment anyway.”

  “Besides, I should know better. ATSA has regs against sex with witnesses or suspects.”

  She was tempted to ask which she was but reflected that she knew the answer. “Speaking as both a witness and a suspect, I agree. And I have my own reasons. I need to find my memory and myself. Everything else is on hold. Even sex with a hunky, strong man who happened to share my bed.”

  Now it was his turn to smile. He looked like a small boy begging an extra cookie. “Hunky?”

  “Don’t let it go to your head.” Afraid this mutual admiration society might
lead them in a circular path back to the bed, she began gathering up her toiletries and clothing.

  When she glanced at Jack, he was scowling into his coffee mug. “Good we cleared the air on that subject.”

  The professional ATSA-officer shell was in place. Sophie could take a hint and pretend they’d put an end to the sizzle humming between them. “Too true. I’m glad we’re straight on that. Sex on this road trip is so not a good idea.”

  Denying their feelings was the rational thing to do. He knew it. She knew it. So why did she have this hollowed-out ache in her stomach?

  After packing, they headed farther south. They maintained a zigzag pattern for two days, stopping in remote villages and contacting no one.

  Once he figured he’d ditched their tail, Jack intended to make a clockwise circuit of Tuscany before going to Florence. Maybe they could get lost in the city.

  Before that, he needed to contact somebody in ATSA, but not anybody connected to the task force.

  He watched the rearview mirror, but the winding mountain road seemed to contain only locals and a few tourists. On a rare straightaway, he passed a German camper camouflaged with folding chairs, bicycles and canoes. Produce trucks, the tiny three-wheeled Apes, tourists and commuters headed to the larger towns of Montepulciano or Arezzo jockeyed for position.

  On the third day, as they drove into a small hilltop town for lunch, Sophie read to Jack from the guidebook. “‘Chiusi was once a powerful Etruscan city.’”

  Before Rome became dominant, Jack remembered, the Etruscans were Italy’s first major civilization. Noting the sleepy Piazza del Duomo that spread before the cathedral, he snorted, “What, back in the seventh-century B.C.?”

  “There’s an Etruscan labyrinth beneath the piazza and Christian catacombs outside town. Etruscan tombs pepper the hillsides around the city, and the National Etruscan Museum is…” Her voice trailed off as Jack pulled into a parking space before a restaurant.

  “What is it?” he said. “Are we being followed?”

  She shook her head, flipping her braid onto her shoulder. “I’ve been here. I remember this town. I went to the Etruscan Museum.” Her eyes widened as pleasure spread across her features like dawn.