by Anne Stuart
He was looking troubled, or so it seemed to her in her dazed state, but a moment later he’d leaned down and scooped her up in his arms, and his lazy smile warmed her bones. “Poor little angel,” he murmured. “I’ve worn you out.”
She realized the shower was off, their clothes in a wet heap in the middle of the floor. She dropped her head against him, so weary.
He carried her, both of them naked and dripping, through the third-floor hallway. She hadn’t closed her door completely, and he kicked it open, slamming it shut and locking it while he still held her. The next moment she was down in the concave single bed, the big fan blowing over her, making its customary racket, and the hot air stirred around them.
She was so sure he would leave her. But he slipped into bed beside her, pulling her back into his arms, his tenderness a polar opposite of the fierce sexual possession. She wanted to cling to him; she wanted to cry. She’d never felt like this before, even remotely. He’d leave, and she’d get over it. But right now he was here, and that was enough.
She could feel his mouth at her ear, just as she could feel his chest against her tender back, feel the hard bar of his cock against her butt. He kissed her, very softly. “This isn’t good,” he whispered. “This isn’t what I planned.”
“What isn’t?” she asked sleepily, snuggling against him.
“You. Me. This was supposed to be a one-night stand.”
“It isn’t?”
“No, it isn’t. Go to sleep, Angel. We’ll figure this out in the morning.”
She pressed against him, feeling like a lazy kitten. “Why do you call me angel?”
It took him so long to answer that she was almost asleep by the time he spoke. “Your name’s Evangeline. You’re not an Eva, a Vangie, or a Lina. Angel seems to fit.”
She felt a stifled burst of laughter. “After what we just did? I think I’m going to burn in hell. I’d better go back to the church and confess my sins.”
Did he stiffen, just a little bit? No, she was imagining it. “No,” he said. “We’ll find a church in Venice.”
That was enough to make her lift her head to turn and look at him. He was looking sleepy, at ease, as if he’d made up his mind about something. She wrinkled her brow. “Why should we find a church in Venice?” she asked.
“To get married, Angel. We’re getting married.”
Chapter Four
Bishop heard Evangeline’s soft laugh before she sank back against him, and a moment later she was asleep. He really wanted to roll her over on her stomach, take her from the back, right then, but she was worn out, and he’d give her that. She clearly didn’t have a lot of sexual experience. That, or she’d had phenomenally lousy lovers. Maybe both. He hadn’t met anyone who was squeamish about going down on him, but he really knew very little about her. Maybe she was a religious fundamentalist. No, scratch that—she’d certainly liked his mouth between her legs. So had he. Keeping her in a kind of thrall would be easy enough. Getting her to marry him would be relatively simple. Love at first sight, he’d tell her, with a rueful expression, and she’d believe him.
It was a drastic solution, but the only one he could think of. There were few hard-and-fast rules within the ultra-secretive Committee, even under Peter Madsen’s more reasonable rule, but one that held firm was that no one could kill a spouse. Only the operative himself. Occasionally there had been instances where people had married an infiltrator, intent on destroying the covert organization from the inside, and it had been up to that operative to take care of things. It had never been a problem.
But otherwise family members were off-limits, and if Claudia broke that rule, the punishment would fit the crime. She’d have no choice but to keep away. Claudia might be enraged, but she’d accept it. She knew the rules, and no one argued with Peter Madsen.
It would take a few phone calls to arrange things in Venice, but with Madsen pulling strings, it would be easy enough to cut through the red tape. He looked down at her, sleeping so peacefully in his arms. Marriage was nothing—it was simply another tool in an operative’s arsenal. He knew of many who’d married half a dozen times, none of them legal. He would marry anyone the Committee told him to. He knew that marriage and family and a normal life were no part of his future, ever. If a legal marriage to Evangeline would keep her alive, it was no skin off his ass. He hated collateral damage, particularly when it involved women or children, and he’d do anything he could to prevent it. If marrying Evangeline was the only solution, then he had no compunctions, though it wouldn’t have been his first choice. He didn’t expect it would make any difference in his actions in the future—he’d never be able to maintain a normal marriage, not with his disaster of a life, so bigamy wasn’t a problem.
It had to be legal, or she’d still be fair game. And they had to stay married, or Claudia could still go after her. He knew Claudia well, and she wouldn’t give up easily—she could hold a grudge for years. But he sure as hell wasn’t about to keep Evangeline with him, tell her who and what he was. No, he was simply going to sweep her off her feet, remove her from this town before she realized anything had happened to her old friend Mr. Corsini, marry her, and jilt her.
It was a pain, but it shouldn’t take more than a couple of days, and it had amazing side benefits. He hadn’t fucked such an innocent in . . . hell, he didn’t know if he ever had. It was going to be . . . enjoyable to teach her.
He pulled her pliant, sleeping body closer, the noisy, weak fan making little progress against the heat. It didn’t matter. His throbbing hard-on didn’t matter. He’d have to get her out of here early, but he could let himself sleep for a few short hours, his body wrapped around hers. He had a plan, and it was almost foolproof—he’d never make the mistake of thinking anything was totally without risk. He’d have a busy couple of days of bureaucracy and sex, and then back to business as usual.
He breathed in the scent of her skin and smiled against her flesh. He’d consider it a vacation, the first he’d had in four years. He let his lips drift against her temple. She was going to be quite a treat.
Three days later Evangeline rolled over in the huge bed in their suite at the Hotel Danieli, stretching luxuriously. She had no idea where the sheets and covers were—they’d kicked them off during the night—and she didn’t care. For the first time in her life she liked her nudity. She felt sleek and catlike, her hair was a cloud, not a rat’s nest, her body well loved and marked by him. It was nothing compared to the bite mark on his shoulder. She’d drawn blood and never realized it, and now it was a dark bruise.
It should have made her sick, but James liked it. He’d wanted her to bite him again if she felt the need to scream, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She’d smothered her cries against his chest, against the pillow, against the mattress. She rolled onto her stomach, pressing her face against the sheet as she remembered. God, where had her brain gone? All she could think about was sex; all she could think about was James.
The last three days had been insane. He’d insisted on leaving Villa Ragarra at the crack of dawn, before anyone but Silvio was up. The clothes they’d left in the bathing room had been washed and dried and were waiting for them, neatly folded, at the front desk. James had tried to pay her bill but she’d emerged from her sex-dazed haze to insist it go on her own pathetic credit card. Then they’d headed off into the sunrise, taking the surprisingly powerful Fiat, and she’d slept beside him, not questioning anything. She’d been fully prepared to argue if he brought up the idea of marriage again, but when he woke her up, they had already parked in the Piazelle Roma, at the very entrance of Venice, and it was time for breakfast. He somehow managed to find something more substantial than the usual pastry and coffee favored by the Venetians, and then she found herself in a small church off the Campo Manin, with a kindly looking priest waiting for them.
She’d been too astonished to protest at first. And then James had kisse
d her, hard, said “Trust me,” and she did. It was a ceremony, an act, but nothing legal or binding. It couldn’t have been. They would have had to jump through hoops to do that, and James had assured her they’d have a real ceremony when they got back to the States. She’d gone along with it, not protesting, blinded by emotions she was hesitant to name.
She couldn’t really imagine it. Couldn’t imagine her stiff parents reacting to her impulsive behavior, her sister taking one look at James and erupting in jealousy. It was a game, a dream, one she was afraid would end sooner or later, but in the meantime she had every intention of living the dream in their luxurious suite at the Hotel Danieli.
She’d told him how ridiculous it was—they had three rooms and they never left the bed, even for room service—but he’d insisted, and her protests had turned to a silly distraction, and they were laughing and making love again, doing things she’d never considered doing.
This was the first time she’d woken in the huge bed and he hadn’t been with her. She yawned, glancing at her wedding ring. At least there he’d been sensible—it was pink glass from Murano, narrow and pretty. He assured her he’d replace it with something more substantial when they got back to the States, but she was never going to let this one go. For one thing, she’d have a hard time doing it—once on, it had stuck. But it symbolized the strange, abrupt, fragile beginning for them, and she would always cherish it.
“James?” she called sleepily. There was no answer, but Evangeline didn’t move. He must be in the bathroom that was larger than many New York City apartments. She had no idea what time it was, she wasn’t even sure what day it was. They had all blended together.
In fact, she was feeling a little achy and sticky. A nice long shower would be lovely, unless James was taking advantage of the marble bath that was big enough to hold four people. They’d used it once already, and she wouldn’t mind trying it again, except that she was hurting. Her body wasn’t used to all this activity.
She climbed out of bed and peered into the bathroom. He wasn’t there, but there was another, equally elegant bathroom on the other side of the living room, and he might have gone there so he wouldn’t disturb her. She walked across the magnificent parquet floor to the other side, unconscious of her nudity, but that bathroom was empty as well. He wasn’t anywhere in the suite.
She ignored the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. He probably knew she needed a break, and he’d gone out so he wouldn’t distract her. Besides, he’d ignored his cell phone, ignored messages that had been slid under the massive double doors to the suite. He must have decided now was a good time to catch up on things while she slept.
Suddenly she felt cold, exposed, standing in the middle of the massive living room of the luxury suite wearing nothing but skin. It was as if the sun had gone behind a cloud, which was ridiculous. She had only to look out the high leaded-glass windows to see it shining down on the water. It was only her imagination.
She took the fastest shower she’d taken in three days, the first one she’d taken alone, ignoring memories of what they’d done in the marble-sided shower stall, and dressed quickly. Her jeans and loose T-shirt weren’t proper attire for a place like the Danieli, and James had promised to take her shopping for some decent clothes, but of course she’d refused. Even if they’d really been married she wouldn’t have let him pay for her. It would have stretched her budget beyond bearing, but she could buy her own dress. Provided she found one on sale.
But they’d never gotten that far. Never gotten out of the bedroom, and she felt her skin heat as more memories flitted through her mind. His mouth everywhere, tasting, sucking, biting. They’d been with each other every second since he’d first walked into the shower at the Villa Ragarra, and this was the first time she had a chance to think. Had she lost her mind, going off with a perfect stranger?
No, he was hardly a stranger. She’d known that the moment she saw him, up at that mountain church. She’d looked into his deep brown eyes and known . . . something. He’d felt the same. He’d whispered about love at first sight, a ridiculous concept, but she grinned like an idiot every time she thought about it.
She was grinning now, her strange misgivings leaving her. She hadn’t eaten since last night, and it was midday. What she needed was a good meal and a call home to her parents. Not that she’d tell them she was married, or even engaged. She’d just say she’d . . . met someone.
Without James the suite seemed vast, almost cavernous. Here she was in Venice and she hadn’t even been outside. She pushed open the window and stuck her head outside. The walkways were packed with early-summer tourists, but the Grand Canal glittered in the sunlight as the water taxis and vaporettos rubbed shoulders with the gondolas. Could she talk James into taking her on a gondola ride? They were tourist bait, ridiculously expensive, and she’d never had any interest in such a ridiculous thing. With James everything was different. She knew what he’d do. He would slide his beautiful, strong hand beneath whatever clothing she wore and make her come, covering her mouth with his. She smiled at the thought, but for some reason her eyes filled with tears.
She shook them away. Had she suddenly become a silly, dependent woman? That wouldn’t do at all. That wasn’t who she was. Except when James put his hands on her.
She couldn’t stay immured in their elegant suite, waiting for him, and the room-service menu, fabulous as it was, had its limitations. She wanted a Diet Coke and some Pasta ai Quattro Formaggi with the tang of gorgonzola. She wanted to sit by the canal and watch the pigeons and think about nothing at all.
There was no missing the disapproving looks as she walked through the lobby of the Danieli in her jeans, T-shirt, and Asics, and it took her longer than she expected to find a dress she could afford. She finally discovered one in a tiny shop with a cheerful mongrel curled up outside to greet her. The dress was a rose color, clung to every inch of her, and made her green eyes sparkle and her cheeks flush. She’d surprise James when she got back to the hotel. She’d make him wait in the salon while she changed, and then they’d end up back in the bed again, and maybe she wouldn’t wear the dress out into the hotel for days . . .
She ate a late lunch in the bright sunshine, watching the tourists. She wasn’t far from the hotel, and she kept her eye out for James, but there was no sign of him. He’d probably already gone back to the suite, and she was suddenly in a rush to finish, happiness bubbling inside her as she practically ran back to the hotel.
The suite was still empty. She searched the place, but there was no note from him, only her own left untouched. She shook off her unease and went to change into the dress. She should have bought stiletto heels but even for James she couldn’t go that far, and her thin, strappy sandals would do. She even put on makeup, then looked for her diamond studs.
She couldn’t find them. At first she thought she’d misplaced them—after all, she hadn’t had a brain in her head these last three days, and she’d had much more important things to think about. But the more she searched, the colder she grew. She dumped her meager belongings on the neatly made bed but there was no sign of them.
Maybe James had found them lying around and put them away for safekeeping. She went for his suitcase, opening it, momentarily surprised to find it empty. No diamond earrings, no change of clothes, and yet he hadn’t unpacked.
She didn’t hurry. There was no need to rush, no need to find out the truth more quickly than she had to. His shaving supplies, his toothbrush were missing. She hadn’t even noticed that when she woke up. Everything was gone except for the empty suitcase.
She went back to it, looking for some clue. There was a thin bulge in one of the outer pockets, and she pulled out his passport and wallet, and relief poured through her. The wallet had his American driver’s license, credit cards, even a Costco card, and she wanted to laugh. She’d panicked for nothing. He’d tease her when he got back, tell her she’d promised to trust him, and th
en he’d kiss her . . .
She put the wallet down and picked up the passport. The picture was a good one—weren’t passport photos supposed to be terrible? His was gorgeous. Except, why was his passport here? They’d had to leave theirs with the front desk when they registered. Of course she’d been so besotted with her new wedding ring on her finger that she hadn’t been paying much attention, but surely she remembered being asked for hers.
There was something else in the pocket, wrapped in cloth and tied with a black ribbon. She ripped it open and felt her blood freeze.
More passports. Half a dozen of them, from the US, the UK, France—she didn’t know all the myriad colors, but they each represented another country. She knew what she would find when she opened them, and she went through then, staring dully. Photos of James Bishop in every one, each with a different name, a different identity. He wasn’t James Bishop at all. He was a liar and a thief.
She looked around at the elegant bedroom. Her father had had her earrings valued for insurance, and they’d been estimated to be worth thirty thousand dollars; two nights in this palatial suite would wipe out any profits. Why would he spend more money than the earrings were worth just to steal them?
She reached for the phone, then drew her hand back. She couldn’t do this. Not this way. She went into the bedroom and ripped off the fucking dress, dumping it on the floor, and pulled on her jeans and T-shirt once more. Shoving everything in her backpack, she paused by the wide row of windows overlooking the Grand Canal. Then she yanked off her wedding ring and threw it into the dark, murky waters before heading down to the lobby.
It was early evening and the vast atrium of the ancient hotel was almost empty. She straightened her shoulders and headed for the desk.
“May I help you, miss?” the starched concierge asked, barely lifting his gaze from his paperwork. He’d taken one look at her clothing and known she wasn’t worth his time.