by Anne Stuart
She leaned over the balcony, her hands clenched around the iron railing so tightly they were almost numb, as she watched the silent battle, and when Sam lunged for Shari the next time he managed to keep his grip, hauling her toward him.
The next few moments passed in a blur. One moment Shari was caught tight in Sam’s furious grip. In the next she was gone, sinking beneath the dark waters of the canal, dark red matting her golden blond hair before she sank.
Without a moment’s hesitation Sam dived in after her, and for a moment Elizabeth was terrified that he’d been hit, too. He came up for breath, then dived back down again, and this time he was gone for endless moments, lost in that filthy, murky canal.
Elizabeth had just started climbing over the iron railing, ready to jump in after him and drag him to the surface herself, despite her inability to swim, when he reappeared, alone. There was no boat traffic on the tiny side canal at that hour, and he swam toward her balcony with long, easy strokes, hoisting himself up over the side with weary ease.
Elizabeth flung herself into his arms, weeping, and the force of her embrace pushed him back against the peeling blue paint. “I thought you were dead,” she murmured. “I thought he’d killed you, too.”
It was a moment before he said anything. “No,” he said finally. “He knew what he was doing. One single shot into Shari Derringer’s tangled brain and the threat was gone. There was no need to kill me.” He looked up, across the silent canal to the man on the other side. The man with the gun, his face impassive, waiting. “Damn him,” Sam muttered. “She didn’t have to die.”
Pushing Elizabeth behind him, he moved to the edge of the railing. “Perfect shot as always, Danny,” he called softly, the sound carrying across the water. “She’s dead.”
“You going to leave her that way, man?” Danny inquired affably, still cradling the gun.
Elizabeth held her breath, watching. For an eternity Sam didn’t answer, and she closed her eyes, waiting for the shots, waiting for the end.
“Doesn’t make much sense to do otherwise,” he said finally.
Danny lowered the gun. “You always were a reasonable man, Sam,” he said. “See you in Washington.” And he walked away without a backward glance toward the canal and its pitiful victim.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Sam said as a faint shiver washed over his soaked body.
“You’re freezing. Shouldn’t we try to find some clothes . . . ?
“I don’t want anything from this house. The sooner we’re out of here the sooner Danny can clean up the mess.” He took Elizabeth’s hand in his and dragged her through the decrepit building, out into the narrow alleyway. The paving stones were icy and painful beneath her bare feet, but she said nothing. She had no more arguments—she wanted to get away from the blue house as much as Sam did.
“Danny will clean up the mess?”
“He’s good at that, remember? It wouldn’t do to have Shari’s body surface in any recognizable condition, now would it? Remember, she’s already dead. And Muhammed Ali Reza might be a little difficult to explain. I imagine he’ll just disappear, too.” He stopped for a moment in the deserted alleyway and pulled Elizabeth into his arms. “Damn,” he muttered against her cheek. “You feel so damn good.”
“I’ll feel better when you’re warm and dry,” she said prosaically.
“You’ll never feel better to me,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.” And he took off down the alley at something close to a run, ignoring her bare feet.
They had their choice of a garbage barge or a gondola, the only two boats moving on the wider secondary canal. She knew which one he’d pick, and she didn’t blame him. His water-soaked clothes smelled like the garbage scow anyway.
To her amazement he signaled the gondola, helping her in with all the deftness of an ancient courtier, following her into the gently rocking boat as if he weren’t drenched in canal water, as if she weren’t tattered and barefoot and bloodstained. Pulling her into his arms, he looked up at the astonished gondolier. “Penzione del Zaglia. You know it?”
The gondolier nodded his assent. “And take your time,” he said. “It’s a beautiful morning.” He dropped a kiss on Elizabeth’s upturned mouth.
She looked around her in belated shock. The sun had risen, gilding the murky waters surrounding them, bathing the ancient city in a warm, flattering glow. Leaning back, she rested her head against Sam’s damp shoulder, oblivious to the wet chill of the cotton. “I don’t understand it,” she murmured. “I was so certain it was your blood on me. That you were going to die. How could I have been so wrong?”
“Let’s face it,” he said, and there was a definite smirk in his voice. “You aren’t infallible. You must have seen a possibility, a possibility we managed to circumvent. I still wish it was my blood.” He touched the strip of material wrapped around her throat with gentle fingers.
“I don’t,” she whispered. “You have too many scars as it is. This way maybe I’ll start to match.” She angled her head painfully to look up at him, at the distant expression in his blue eyes. “What are you thinking?”
“That Shari Derringer didn’t have to die. That too many people have died. And that you might have died, too, all because of my stupidity.” He shook his head in disgust.
“It’s never been your fault,” she protested. “And I didn’t die. We both survived, and it’s a beautiful morning.”
He looked at her in surprise. “Beautiful,” he agreed, pulling her tightly against him.
“And I love you,” she said, waiting for the reply that still wouldn’t come. He said nothing, resting his head against hers, and with that she had to be content. She closed her eyes, accepting it, and leaned against him. And there were no more dreams of blood.
A LIGHT SNOW was falling when Sam and Elizabeth left Venice. It was drifting over the gondolas, melting in the canals, pausing for a moment on top of St. Marks’ famed spires before dissolving. For the first time in weeks Sam no longer felt as if someone was watching him. Danny hadn’t been anywhere around, the blue house had been closed up tight, and no extraneous bodies had emerged from the canals. The cover up was efficient and complete, and MacDonald Derringer appeared at public functions in a dark suit, still mourning his wayward daughter’s death and his own close brush with disaster and disgrace.
The flight to New York was long and tiring, and both of them slept. Sam had so many things he wanted to tell her, so many things he was afraid to tell her—he, who was never afraid of anything or anybody. He waited until they landed in New York, waited until they went through customs and he left her for a moment to make a phone call. He waited until they were walking through the terminal, chewing on croissants from one of the wagons that lined the hallways.
“I’m in love with you,” he said, just like that, surprised that the croissant didn’t stick in his throat.
“I know,” she said serenely.
He stopped, staring at her in outrage. “Then why did you make me say it?” he demanded, affronted. All that agonizing, and she already knew it.
“Because it’s good for you,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I’m in love with you, too. Are you going to make an honest woman out of me when we get back to Washington?”
“We’re not going back to Washington. I quit my job.”
That surprised her. She looked up at him curiously. “I didn’t know you could quit Army Intelligence.”
“I can. I know too much for them to make things difficult. I thought we’d go back to Virginia for a while. I’ve had half a dozen job offers over the past couple of years—one of them is bound to work out. Or we could raise turnips.”
“Or we could raise babies,” she said, her eyes wary.
He didn’t even blink. “Or we could raise babies,” he agreed. “Maybe babies and turnips. Do you want to go back to Colorado?”
“Never.”
“We don’t know each other very well,” he temporized. “We only met ten days ago.”
> She snorted. “We know each other better than most people do in their whole lives. We have no secrets.”
He hesitated. “I have one. Amy Lee. I should tell you about her.” The moment the words were out of his mouth he felt a huge weight leave him. All the guilt finally dissolved and vanished, along with that part of his life.
“You don’t need to,” she said gently. “I already know.”
“How . . . ?” He shook his head. “Stupid question. Of course you know. I think I need to tell you anyway.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “I never had much of a family. I was an only child, and my parents were older when I was born. They died when I was in college, and I joined the Army soon after. It wasn’t until I met Amy Lee that I ever thought I could fall in love. And then I failed her, and she died. I didn’t think I could ever forgive myself for that. Ever allow myself to feel that way for someone again.”
“And you feel that way for me?”
He shook his head. “No. Loving Amy Lee was something safe and young, from another lifetime. Loving you is forever.” He took her in his arms, oblivious to the amused stares of the passersby. “Will you?”
“Will I what?”
“Marry me. Raise turnips and babies and hell on occasion?”
She smiled up at him. “I thought you’d never ask.” And as busy travelers threaded their way around the entwined couple blocking the middle of the busiest corridor in the building, she gave him all the answer he needed.
The End
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About the Author
ANNE STUART recently celebrated her forty years as a published author. She has won every major award in the romance field and appeared on the bestseller list of the NYTimes, Publisher’s Weekly, and USA Today, as well as being featured in Vogue, People Magazine, and Entertainment Tonight. Anne lives by a lake in the hills of Northern Vermont with her fabulous husband.