He tried to loosen his grip, but his shaking muscles would not immediately obey him. Their hearts thudded against each other.
He willed his arms to relax. Their bodies unglued with a little wet sound. He pulled his gleaming, softening cock out of her. They fell back onto their backs, shivering in the cool room as their sweat dried.
Someone knocked on the other side of the wall. “Ehi. Auguri, amico,” their neighbor called in a dry, amused voice. Hey. Congratulations, pal.
Neither of them had the energy even to react.
When he dared to look at her, she flinched away from his gaze and dragged herself up to the edge of the bed. He laid his hand against the elegant curve of her shoulder blade. She started away as if his hand had burned her and got to her feet. She stumbled, her legs buckling beneath her, and caught herself against the wall.
He jerked up, alarmed. “Are you—”
“Fine.” She spat the words out. “I’m fine.”
He stretched out a pleading hand. “Tamar—”
“Don’t,” she said. “Just don’t. I’m going to take a shower. I’ll be a while. Don’t bug me.”
He stared at her retreating back, flinched at the slam of the door. The brass key clicked and ground in the antique lock. The shower began to hiss against the marble. His heart still drummed. And beneath it, his belly was cold and heavy with guilt for what came next.
Now, damn it. This was his only chance. Still, he sat on the bed like a lump of lead. Miserable.
Imre. Novak’s game would continue, and tomorrow a fresh piece of erotic footage was due, to keep Imre in one piece. Val couldn’t be queasy and hesitant about getting it. After all, he was not literally hurting or betraying her by doing this. God knows, he was putting his whole heart into fucking her. He had never been so honest and forthright with any woman in his life—except about this. This one little detail.
The rationalizations didn’t work. He had to do what he’d learned to do as a boy, when Kustler sent him to certain apartments, certain houses. Special clients. Or when he had no appointments, and was sent out to work the streets. The cars would stop for him, and he would put the mechanism to work. Break off a piece of himself. Let it get into the car and do the job while his mind floated somewhere apart and safe. Numb.
He had survived it. It had gotten easier with time. But this, for some reason, did not.
He unfastened the cellophane that covered the plant he’d ordered via the Internet from a local florist. A voluminous fern. He rigged the little camera in the shadow of two gracefully draped fronds. Adjusted the angle to make sure he got the bed. Adjusted the leafy fronds, to conceal the camera but not block the view. He would make it right with her somehow. God grant, she never had to know at all.
A great deal to hope, the way his luck was going.
After an hour in the shower, Tam began to feel ridiculous, cowering in the billows of steam. She was appalled to be feeling this way. Emotions sprawled over her face. Truths she never meant to say, or even knew were true, bursting out with no warning. She couldn’t trust herself to act in her own best interests. And there was the humiliating phenomenon of morphing into a mindless, scratching cat in heat whenever he looked at her with those smoldering eyes.
And she would do it again. Right now. She would just march right out there buck naked and leap on him with all four paws. At the slightest provocation.
She shut off the water, toweled dry. The mirror was obscured by condensation, which was good, because she didn’t want to look at her own face. Not when she was this angry at herself.
Working a comb through her hair killed another twenty or so minutes. It was getting stupidly long, but she hadn’t wanted to bother with dying or styling it for so long, it had evolved into its own new super straight look that suited her austere mood these days. She considered slicking it back with styling gel into a tight, wet braid, and then rejected the idea. Let it dry, and hang wherever the hell it wanted. She was sick and tired of trying to control every last fucking tiny detail. Enough.
Same with her eyes. She stared into her travel-reddened topaz eyes in the mirror, hating the idea of inflicting colored contacts on them again, without even the benefit of a night’s sleep. What did she care if Val knew the real color? He knew every other significant fact about her. Why balk at this?
To hell with useless barriers. They were draining her energy.
She wrapped a huge bath towel around herself and flung open the door. Val sat naked on the bed, waiting for her. Or rather, waiting for his turn in the bathroom. The guy probably had to piss like a racehorse after all their traveling. She had no sympathy in the least. Served the presumptuous fucker right for not booking her a room of her own.
But the bitchy mental chatter faded as she took in that huge, sculpted golden body, his intense, somber face. His thick penis was impressive even when it was soft, dangling against a springy twist of curling hair. Her fingers curled with the urge to grab him and pet it.
He sensed the thought and his penis twitched, lengthened.
She turned away deliberately and went to rummage through the suitcase he’d ordered for her. She dabbed herself with expensive face cream, deodorized her pits with the ridiculously pricey bottle of deodorant. What a blast of naughty, fleeting fun she’d had with that online catalog. The criterion by which she’d chosen each item had been exquisitely simple. She’d just gone for whatever cost most.
It wasn’t as if he didn’t already know that she was a vengeful bitch. She’d made no effort to keep it a secret.
“I will take a shower, and we will get some dinner,” he said.
Right. Like it was a good idea for her peace of mind to have a romantic candlelit dinner with this man in San Vito, of all places. Pound the final nail into her coffin, why didn’t he.
“I’m not hungry,” she said. “You go on. I want to rest.”
“Stronzate.” His voice was curt. “You ate nothing at breakfast at the Huxley, nothing at the Portland airport, nothing on the plane but coffee and water, nothing at the Rome airport, nothing in the Autogrill. The last food that you ate were four bites of pasta at the wedding buffet. I counted them. You cannot continue to function like this. You are acting irresponsibly and unprofessionally. You will come with me, and get some fucking dinner.”
She bristled. “Do not order me.”
He sighed, and tilted his head to the side, as if praying for patience and inspiration. “Tamar. Bellissima,” he said wearily. “Please. Be reasonable. This is Italy. You need have no fear of the food here.”
“That’s not it,” she snapped.
He raised an eyebrow. “Ah. Fear of me, then?”
“Fuck, no!”
“Well, then? An eating disorder? A bid for control over your life? How sad. Let us discuss your feelings now, get to the bottom of this problem, so that you can eat before you collapse, no?”
She laughed at the thought in spite of herself. “Picture it. Thrashing through my emotional issues on the couch with Dr. Val. I can just imagine what you would prescribe as treatment.”
His eyes gleamed. The corners of his lips curled up. His penis lifted eagerly.
Tam rolled her eyes, and threw up her hands. “All right, fine,” she said. “Dinner. If it makes you happy.”
“It makes me ecstatic. Five minutes,” he said.
She yanked on her sweater, the jeans he’d bought for her at a boutique on the main drag of one of the little towns they’d passed through on the winding coastal highway of Amalfi. She slipped on the black suede half-boots from yesterday’s catalog adventure, her default earrings, the ones with the hypodermic and the soporific, and the multiblade ring, the one she had named for Liv Endicott, Sean’s wife.
It wasn’t much in terms of weaponry, but it was better than nothing. She decided not to bother with makeup. She didn’t have the energy to create illusions. Tonight was all about the truth. Being real.
Then she sat down facing the loggia that framed the sunset over the Mar
Tirreno and put in a call on her cell phone to Connor and Erin.
Erin picked up. “Hello?”
Tam winced. Rachel was making noise—a lot of noise—in the background. “Hey, Erin, it’s me. We just arrived. How’s it going?”
Erin sounded resigned. “It’s going,” she said. “She’s a tough cookie, but she has to give in sometime.”
Hmmph. Tam had her doubts about that, knowing Rachel the way she did, but there was no point in saying so. Let Erin hope for the best. “Did she sleep? Or eat, at all?”
“No, and no. She’s on strike. Hold on, let me see if she’ll talk to you. She’s on a speech strike, too. Hey, sweetheart, calm down. You want to talk to Mamma?”
Rachel was startled into silence, and then gave a cry of heart-breaking rage and abandonment.
Aw, shit. Tam slumped, and put her face into her hands. She felt sorry for Rachel, for herself, and mostly for Erin and Con and Sveti, who had to be bug-eyed by now. No one knew better than Tam how stressful a wigged-out Rachel could be.
Erin came back on the line. “Looks like she’s not up for a chat.” She sounded exhausted. “We have had some good moments, though. She’s a sweet kid. But she misses you.”
“Erin, I’m sorry.” Tam felt helpless and guilty. She missed Rachel like crazy. It was hitting her hard.
“It’s not your fault. I understand, and we will all live.”
Conversation was impossible under the circumstances, so they signed off. Tam rested her face in her hands and wondered how long this depraved drama was going to take. And if Rachel could weather it.
She had to, she told herself. She had to.
Val touched her shoulder. She jumped. “Shit, you startled me!”
“Perdonami,” he murmured. “Bad news?”
She shrugged, feeling overwhelmed. “Rachel’s miserable,” she said bluntly. “So’s everyone around her. Big surprise.”
He was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry.”
She got up, and turned her back to him. “And thrilled to be thousands of miles away from it, right?”
He wisely left her alone to think and got dressed. She did not watch him clothe his spectacular nakedness. The bathed, shaved, combed, scented, designer-clothing-draped, mind-blowing finished product was enough for her nerves to take. Naked, he blew her circuits.
He took her to a restaurant that he knew well, judging from the authoritative way that he led her through the steep, twisting streets, and from the deferential way that they were treated once they arrived. The place was small and out of the way, but quietly beautiful. The food and wine were superb, although Val regarded her choice of green salad, roasted vegetables and grilled fish with dark disapproval.
“Not enough,” he growled. He tried to load her up with some of his tagliolini alla boscaiola, and a slice of his enormous, bloody tagliata di manzo.
Nice try, she thought, staring at the snarl of oily, garlicky fresh pasta and the hot pink slab of tender meat he had dumped on her plate. He couldn’t make her eat it, though. He had better luck with the wine, making it his business to keep her glass very full.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I am hoping to relax you. Would it work?”
“No,” she informed him. “I never relax. And by the way. I might as well tell you right now so you can wrap your mind around the concept. There will be no more sex tonight. Zero sex. So forget it. OK? Don’t even give me that look. I don’t want to see it on your face.”
But he didn’t obey. That sexy, devastating smile showed no signs of fading. He sawed off a chunk of his tagliata, chewed it as he studied her thoughtfully from beneath those hooded eyes, and wiped his mouth with the napkin. “Ah. No?”
“No,” she repeated firmly, fending off the urge to repeat herself. Bleating like a fluffy lamb, losing credibility with each repetition.
He sipped his wine. “You seemed to like it,” he observed.
“Whether I liked it or not is beside the point. I’m exhausted. I can’t face another blitzkrieg. I want sleep. Peace, quiet, and privacy.”
“It does not have to be that way,” he remarked, his voice bland. “I can be gentle. I can be playful. I can do it any way you want it.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she blurted.
He gazed at her. “You’re afraid to find out what you really want?”
That suave, superior air irritated her. “Stop with the fucking psychoanalysis, Val. You’re a hit man. Not a shrink.”
“I am not a hit man,” he said mildly. “But all this talk of sex reminds me of something that I meant to ask you.”
She braced herself. “Ask,” she said.
“Why no contraception? I would have thought a woman like you would be prepared for anything.”
Her hackles rose. “A woman like me?” she repeated slowly. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”
He waved his arm in that eloquent way that only Latin men could without seeming effeminate. “Professional, pragmatic. A risk taker.”
She dangled her wineglass between her fingers and considered the novel concept of telling him the flat, unbeautiful truth. She was too tired, too wired, too jet-lagged to sidestep the question.
“I’ve been celibate for years,” she said. “I had every intention of staying that way for the rest of my life. And as such, I didn’t see the point in loading my body up with useless artificial hormones.”
He looked discreetly shocked. “Really? You? What a waste. It is criminal, the very idea. Why, for the love of God?”
She was about to tell him to piss off and mind his own goddamn business. The words stopped somewhere along the pipeline and petered out into a long silence. “Did you know Kurt Novak?” she asked.
His mouth tightened in disgust. “Unfortunately, yes,” he said. “He was vile.”
“Yes, he was. And Georg?”
“No better,” he said. “Kurt’s slobbering lap dog.”
“Exactly. I should never have gotten mixed up with them, but I did. I was trying to get revenge for someone Kurt had killed. It blew up in my face.”
“I see,” he murmured.
She was unable to meet his eyes. “Those two clinched it for me. I was done with men. I thought they were both dead that day that Kurt got killed. I wish I’d checked Georg more closely. I would have been happy to do the honors myself after what he . . . well. Whatever.”
“I’m sorry.” Val’s voice was careful and neutral. “It is terrible.”
She stared down at the blank white tablecloth and forced herself to endure silence. If he had oozed practiced sympathy, she’d have thrown it back in his face, but his plain, matter-of-fact comprehension was bearable. She breathed and bore it. For a minute or so. Then the intense, significant silence started driving her mad.
Time to break it and introduce an extreme change of subject.
“My turn to ask the invasive questions,” she said crisply. “So tell me, Val. How did you get to be the way you are? I’m dying of curiosity.”
He slanted her an amused look. “And how am I?”
“Slick, urbane, charming, well spoken,” she said. “The languages, the crazy mind control. Your background doesn’t explain any of that. You don’t fit the profile of a punch drunk mafiya thug at all.”
He twirled tagliolini around his fork, his eyes averted. “I was given intensive training from PSS,” he said finally. “They invested a fortune in me. But the important things . . . that was all Imre’s doing.”
She was the one this time to use the silence to refill his glass and prod him to continue. “Your friend? The one who . . .” She stopped, unwilling to invoke the monster and let him take over the conversation.
“Yes,” Val said. “The one that I want to save. He welcomed me into his home. Che Cristo, he must have had nerves of steel. An illiterate, violent, thieving, louse-ridden, twelve-year-old rent boy. He fed me, played me music, let me sleep in his apartment. I would never risk it mysel
f.”
“He must be an unusual person,” she said.
“Yes.” A faraway smile flashed over his face. “He taught me to use my mind. And about the world outside. He taught me that I might have some value, other than just a . . .” He stopped, shook his head sharply. “Something besides picking pockets, selling cigarettes, dealing drugs. Or sucking cocks in the backseat of a car under a bridge.”
Tam was startled. That was the first glimpse of bitterness about the past that he had ever let her see, but that one glimpse hinted at a hidden ocean of it. “So he was the reason that you didn’t go under.”
“Yes.” He stared intently into the bulb of his wineglass as if it were a crystal ball. “He was my refuge. He was . . .” His face contracted. He looked away from her, Adam’s apple bobbing.
Tam dropped her gaze to give him privacy. She gazed at the wobbling candle flame and waited for him to break the silence himself.
“I was fortunate to have Imre.” His voice sounded halting and forced, as if he was convincing himself. “But for all his efforts, I drag it behind me, like a ten-ton anchor. If he dies because of me . . .”
And me, Tam thought, but she shoved the thought away. She could not carry Imre on her shoulders, too. She had enough burdens.
“I know what you mean about the anchor,” she said.
Val’s hand had been inches from hers on the snowy tablecloth, but it had drifted closer. The tip of his finger made contact with hers, the faintest touch possible, yet a shock ran through her. Without any conscious volition on her part, one finger after another made contact with his corresponding ones, lifting until they were palm to palm.
The delicate connection shimmered and glowed. Neither of them acknowledged it with word or glance. It was a tiny miracle that would hide its face in embarrassment if looked at too closely.
“And you?” His eyes met hers, full of somber challenge. “I could ask the same question of you, knowing what I know about your past. About Zetrinja. What made you the way you are?”
Ultimate Weapon Page 27