Lost in Italy

by Stacey Joy Netzel

  He held off on initiating the argument that he’d be alone during the exchange, but he was all for making sure he and Ben were still alive on the other side. “Great idea. Seeing as I don’t think well on an empty stomach, let’s say we stop for dinner and see what we come up with.”

  “Let’s say we skip the chance of you being recognized and arrested and I’ll make something on the boat,” she countered.

  Trent grimaced even though she had a damn good point. Still, he couldn’t help thinking with his stomach instead of his head. “Cops or Spaghetti O’s…man, that’s a tough call.”

  “I can cook if I have ingredients.”

  “Yeah?”

  She lifted a noncommittal shoulder. “It’ll give me something to do.”

  In the name of safety, he gave her the benefit of the doubt and kept an eye out for the first market he could find. Two detours later to avoid Carabinieri checkpoints, he spotted a market not far from Bellagio and pulled over.

  Proving true the statement that she was the complete opposite of women he was used to, Halli took twice as long picking out food compared to clothes. After she returned with the sack of groceries, he drove the last few kilometers to George’s place where the boat was docked.

  “What are you going to do about Giovanni’s car?”

  Trent recalled the shattered left hand mirror—he hadn’t had much luck with mirrors the past two days— and blown out back window and shrugged. “Buy him a new one.”

  Surprise lifted her eyebrows. “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.” He parked out of sight of the road behind a small shed then looked over at her raised eyebrows. “What? You want to clean up all that blood?”

  “I can.”

  Trent shook his head on his way around to her side of the car, Lorenzo’s gun tucked neatly into the back waistband of his jeans and covered by his untucked shirt.

  Halli closed her door, ever-present camera in hand. “After we get Ben—”

  “You’re going home, remember? Don’t worry about the car, Halli, I’ll take care of it.” After a moment of enjoyable distraction while she retrieved the bags from the back seat, he took the overloaded grocery bag from her arms.

  “Must be nice to have that kind of money.”

  He gave a short laugh as she preceded him along the path to the dock, carrying her small handful of other bags.

  “It has its advantages.” Some days more than others.

  She stopped suddenly. Busy doing a quick check of their surrounding area, Trent almost ran her over when she turned to face him.

  “That sounded bad—like I’m envious or something.”

  “You mean you’re not?”

  He meant it as a joke, but she immediately replied, “God, no.”

  He lifted his brows, mimicking her earlier expression. She whirled and quickly started walking again. “What I meant was, I wouldn’t want your problems.”

  “Huh,” he mused. His problems included her. Trent swept his gaze down the length of her back, taking in the fitted navy T-shirt and low-rise jeans she’d borrowed from Simone. “And your life is so perfect.”

  Over her shoulder, he received a roll of her eyes, softened by a small smile. “Obviously not. But do you think Lapaglia would’ve asked for the money if you weren’t who you are?”

  “Probably not.” He stepped past her onto the dock and leapt down into the boat.

  “That’s all I’m saying,” she explained as he grasped her hand to help her aboard. “And more for myself than anything. It’s a reminder that, sure, the money’s probably nice, but it’s not everything. Most times it’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

  Her unexpected bitter statement at the end spoke of hard-earned experience. The vessel swayed gently beneath their feet, and while he would’ve liked a chance to study her expression, she pulled free as if she didn’t want to touch him. Then she set the camera atop the groceries in his arms, took the bag, and went straight below deck.

  Trent retrieved the SD card from where he’d stashed it in a waterproof compartment under the the captain’s cushion and joined her. There may be some way to dig deeper into her last words while he figured out how to make a backup copy of the video for insurance. He wouldn’t risk Halli or Ben by using it if the exchange went well, but if something went wrong…well, better to be prepared.

  After she put the antibiotics bottle from Simone in the refrigerator, the small galley table became her workstation to unload the camera, Roma tomatoes, a long loaf of French bread, pasta, parsley, basil, garlic, fresh mozzarella, parmesan, and one onion. He palmed the camera as he slid along the booth-style bench and propped his feet up on the seat cushion.

  The answer was obvious, but he asked anyway. “Whatcha makin’?”

  “Spaghetti. I know, cliché, but I could easily recognize all the ingredients without having to speak Italian.”

  “And how about dessert?”

  The moment the words left his mouth, he could’ve kicked himself for not keeping the question to himself. In the close confines of the boat, with her recently showered fresh scent lingering in the air like it had in the car, his mind immediately flashed back to the scorching kiss at the Villa Melzi that morning. The one at Simone’s had been nice, too, but it’d ended badly—how could it not with a gun involved?—and, that one certainly didn’t make him crave a long, slow, hot dessert like the one in the garden did. His mouth actually watered as he fiddled with the camera in his hands.

  “Sponge cake with fresh fruit and cream.”

  He made a noncommittal noise, still vying for control over his over-imaginative mind.

  “You want something else?”

  She was bent over, digging pots and pans and a cutting board from his small cupboards. He eyed her tempting curves and said, “Nothing you’d go for.”

  A sauté pan banged onto one of the two stove burners. She put a hand on her hip and turned to give him a challenging look. “You don’t think I can handle your dessert?”

  Now was the time to lay on the playboy charm and let her know they were talking about two entirely different things. See where it led. It’s what his character would do to help pass the time until tomorrow. Ease the stress. Get their minds off things.

  He snorted softly. Yeah, right.

  “You might be surprised,” she said.

  Oh, there’d be surprise all right. He flipped open the viewfinder of the camera and powered it on. “I don’t think we’ve got the right ingredients.” Oil and water didn’t mix anyway, right? No matter how hot the fire burned.

  “Just tell me what you want. I’m very good at improvising.”

  Irritation had crept into her tone.

  He paused with his finger above the play button. “Forget I asked. I don’t need dessert.”

  “For a million dollars cash, dessert is the least I can do.”

  Fine. Trent slowly and deliberately slid his gaze up the length of her body until their eyes locked, leaving no question as to his definition of dessert. Color flooded her cheeks and she quickly turned toward the stove.

  To grab a knife.

  He smiled, wondering if he should take the move as a pointed warning. After her suspicion at Simone’s and cool attitude since, he’d be stupid not to, even though she applied the razor sharp steel to the onion and garlic, not him.

  When both ingredients were sizzling in a pan with a liberal splash of olive oil, she turned her slicing skills to the tomatoes and he started digging.

  “So when was money ever more trouble than it was worth to you?”

  The blade cut through a tomato and hit the cutting board beneath with a thud. “When isn’t it?”

  “Uh, uh. One million’s got to buy me more than that.”

  The look she gave him clearly said it didn’t. He dropped his hands and the camera to rest in his lap and played dirty. “You read, in intimate detail, how I feel about certain things.” In particular, his father. No one had known how much the man got to him except Sean.


  The journal reminder stilled her hands. They restarted in sharp, choppy jerks. “I didn’t have what you’d call the typical all-American childhood.”

  “No apple pie, a big ol’ dog, and family game nights playing Monopoly?”

  This time she gave a soft snort. “I wish.”

  “I hear Monopoly isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  He received a small smile, but it didn’t last, and he still didn’t know what made her think money wasn’t worth the trouble. If she’d grown up without it, he’d assume the hard work involved in reaching financial security would be more than worth it. It had been for him after he struck out on his own.

  Or…was it more that he could shove his success in his father’s face through the tabloids?

  Her chopping had intensified, the rapid sounds punctuating the silence. She quartered the Romas and removed small clumps of seeds before dicing and tossing the tomatoes in the pan with the onion and garlic.

  Normally, he’d take the hint at her obvious discomfort and change the subject. Except he hadn’t acted what he’d call normal around her since they’d met, and his curiosity was truly roused after her comments the day before.

  “What do your parents do that have to do with back story? You said they aren’t actors.”

  “Not like you, that’s for sure.”

  When she didn’t elaborate, he prompted, “Were they in sales? Starving artists? What?”

  “Artists. Hah. They’d love that.”

  Trent was losing patience. “What exactly do they do?”

  She finished with the tomatoes and swept her gaze across the table as if she wished there were more. With nothing else to chop, she braced her hands on the table and looked him straight in the eye.

  “Unless the federal government took time off for good behavior, they’re probably making license plates somewhere in Ohio.”

  Surprise held him completely still.

  “When I was with them, their sole focus was money,” she continued. “Didn’t matter how much we had at the time, or what they had to do to get it, they always wanted more. That’s when money was more trouble than it was worth.”

  Resentment, anger and hint of vulnerability shimmered in her dusk-blue eyes. “Anything else you’d like to know?”

  Chapter 19

  Trent ignored the thud of his heartbeat and held her gaze. “Not at the moment.”

  Not actors, but they used back story; currently locked up in federal prison. For robbery? Fraud? Were they con-artists?

  She turned away to begin running water into a pot. Her shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. “Just let me know if anything else trips your trigger. I wouldn’t want you to feel like you’re not getting your money’s worth.”

  He sat forward, setting the camera on the table. “In that case…”

  She slammed the faucet handle off and transferred the pot to the stove with a loud bang. Once the burner flamed and water sizzled on the underside, she faced him with her arms crossed. Prepared for whatever he threw at her. Ready to fight.

  He didn’t want to fight with her at all—and he missed the Wet & Wild T-shirt. “Which underwear did you pick yesterday?”

  Her brow furrowed even as color bloomed in her face. “What?”

  He shrugged, wondering himself where the question had sprung from. Not quite the mood lightener he’d intended, but hard to take it back now. He tried for an innocent smile. “Easier than the last question, isn’t it?”

  “You’re on drugs, aren’t you?”

  “Antibiotics.”

  She rolled her eyes and reached to give the tomato sauce a vigorous stir. Red droplets spattered onto the stovetop. A couple landed on her arm, making her hiss in a breath and drop the spoon in the pan. Trent resisted the urge to jump up and make sure she was okay as she ran water over the scalded spots.

  “Aren’t we supposed to be discussing tomorrow?” she said.

  “After we eat.”

  A quick flick of her wrist turned off the faucet, and then the burner under the pot of water. “The sauce is going to take at least an hour.” She started cleaning up from her earlier preparations, throwing a glance at the camera before rinsing a wash cloth in the small galley sink. “Do you really need to watch that again?”

  He picked up the camera and turned it in his hands. “I’m hoping to figure out a way to make a copy. Not—” he added when she looked over in alarm “—to use for myself. For insurance. Back up. Just in case.”

  “In case what?”

  Their eyes met. She dropped her gaze and the collapsible table shuddered under the force of her sudden scrubbing. The surface wasn’t dirty, and he didn’t really need to give voice to the answer that hung in the air between them. In case everything goes to hell and one of us ends up dead.

  “I should watch it,” she said, then scrubbed harder.

  “No.”

  “But then I can testify—”

  He reached out a hand to stop hers. “It’s not going to come to that.”

  Distracted from taking the finish off the table, she pulled away and scanned the cabin walls. “Do you have any video equipment on board?”

  “Stereo only. The boat’s my getaway. No TV, DVD, computer, or internet.”

  “What about Giovanni and Concetta?”

  “Simone didn’t have a computer, you think they do?”

  She sighed her frustration. “No.”

  “Besides, with me being a fugitive and all that, I’d rather—”

  “No, I get it. Better not. What about your friend George’s place?”

  He shook his head. “Security alarms.”

  Her attention returned to cleaning. Trent didn’t see any difference between the before and after, but Halli didn’t let up. She moved from table, to sink, to the tiny bathroom. Her constant movement made it impossible for him to concentrate. Every time he started thinking about a strategy, something she did would distract him.

  When he heard the shower running and the door remained open, exasperation finally got the better of him. “Damn it, Halli, relax, would you?”

  The water shut off and one step brought her into sight.

  “The boat’s not going to get any cleaner,” he stated.

  “When I’m stressed at home I work in my garden.”

  “You want me to talk to Giovanni anyway? See if he’s got something for you to dig up?”

  She ignored his joke and gave him a quizzical look. “How do you stay so calm?”

  “Do I look calm?”

  Her expression immediately reflected his own frustration. “Like you’re kicked back on the beach with your third margarita in hand.”

  “My old acting coach would be so proud.” Again he rested the camera in his lap. “Just come and sit. Or stand and stir the sauce. But your constant”—he waved a hand in the air—“flitting about is getting on my nerves.”

  “‘Flitting about’?”

  He shrugged. “My last role was a Regency romantic comedy. It’s the first thing that came to mind.”

  She returned to the stove and set the water to boil again. French bread was cut as she muttered about forgetting to save some garlic. Trent was fine with warm bread and fresher breath. Next she whipped up what he guessed was the previously mentioned sponge cake with more ingredients pulled from her bottomless grocery sack. While the cake baked in the tiny galley oven, the pasta was added to the water, tomato marinara stirred more carefully this time, and fresh fruit sauce and homemade whipped cream set in his small refrigerator.

  Despite the fact that she no longer ‘flitted about’ like a bird on speed, his concentration came no easier with her precision completion of each task. He slid from behind the table and removed himself from her disturbing presence by heading topside.

  A swift scan of the area revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Strange that security had become a habit already. He touched the pistol at his back for reassurance and then, despite having just told her he’d rather not contact Gi
ovani, he dialed the phone.

  The older gentleman didn’t sound surprised to hear his voice and listened as Trent gave him the abridged version of the situation. Giovani and Concetta had always treated him as if he were their son, ever since George had introduced them after their first movie together. He felt he owed them the explanation and was relieved he’d called when Giovani assured him they didn’t believe the lies on the news, offering faith and support in a way Trent’s father never had.

  After also confirming they did not have a computer or video equipment he could use, he pocketed the phone. Then he tried to avoid thinking of his father and the fact that he felt no obligation to call him despite the news reports that were sure to have reached the location of his latest project. After their last phone conversation about Sean’s death, he seriously doubted the Great Greg Tomlin would believe anything else he had to say, so why even bother?

  Warm evening air brushed against his bare arms and Trent doubled his effort to banish his father from his mind by surveying the untamed Italian vista before him. The sun rode a downward decent in the cloud-free sky toward the surrounding mountains, casting a golden hue across the rippled lake and everything else in its reach.

  The bustle of the morning markets on the wharves had quieted to the ever-constant bells that echoed over the water. He’d spent enough time on the lake that they were normal, predictable, relaxing. Occasional carefree laughter of children, or the call of a parent added to the end of day tranquility. Mixed in with the damp, musty smell of the shoreline soil was the more pleasing scent of dinner simmering below. His stomach growled in anticipation.

  A brief sense of peace washed over his unsettled nerve endings and ironically, he immediately thought of Halli. This was the Italy she’d come to see and experience. Not the one with murderers and guns and her sister getting shot while her brother was being held for ransom. To think he’d envied the Midwest upbringing he’d imagined she’d had. Parents in prison made his father look like a saint. She deserved so much more, like the garden tour this morning.

  Their kiss replayed yet again.

  That’d be a nice bonus—really nice—but this was about giving her experiences to remember beyond the bad stuff. It was the least he could do in exchange for the tantalizing aromas wafting up from the galley.