She laughed and echoed his own words back to him. “What am I? Besides being a monster pain in the ass, you mean?”
He ignored her teasing. “Brilliant, creative, rich, successful. And powerful. You didn’t go under, either.”
Not yet, she thought bleakly, thinking of Novak, Georg, Stengl. She shoved the thoughts away and gave his question the consideration it deserved after his own naked honesty.
“I got my strength from what I had before,” she said. “My family. Not perfect but . . . wonderful. I knew I had value because they had thought so, even if they were all gone. So I clung to that. And I survived.”
They weren’t looking at each other at all, now. It was too much. But his fingers slid down between hers and closed, clasping hers. A rush of heat. Exquisite, understated intimacy.
“You are fortunate,” he said.
She realized that it was true. Amazingly. Everything was relative. She’d once had something precious. Something he had never known.
“As for the rest of it . . .” She shook her head. “It was random. I didn’t care about the scams I ran, the banks I robbed, the men I slept with. I didn’t care about getting rich. It just happened. It was like a video game. Robot Bitch, looking for a thrill. So I’m bored? Fine. Depose a dictator or steal twenty million euro, just for laughs. It gets old, though. I got really bored. I just . . . didn’t care.”
“What do you care about?” he asked.
She thought about it. “Rachel,” she said. “My friends. My freedom. My privacy. And my work. I care very much about my work.”
“The jewelry? A strange craft for you to choose.”
“Not really,” she replied. “My father was a metalsmith. I was his apprentice. He was an artist. He should have been a world-renowned designer for the talent he had, but he didn’t care about being famous. He just loved the craft. He didn’t even care about being paid. Which drove my mother crazy.” She smiled at the memory.
“Beauty for beauty’s sake alone?” Val offered gently.
“I suppose so,” she said.
Val leaned over their clasped hands and dropped a kiss on her knuckle. “Your family was Muslim, then?”
She shrugged. “A mixed marriage. My mother was an Orthodox Christian from Ukraina. She was the one who cared about religion. We celebrated Easter, Christmas. My father just worshipped beauty. And his wife. He adored her.”
He kissed her hand again and waited patiently for more.
“They met in Paris.” She found herself continuing, for some unknown reason. “He was an adventurer, a wandering rebel. She was an illegal immigrant, working in a garment sweatshop, dreaming of studying someday at the Sorbonne. He was twenty-two, she was nineteen. He was beautiful, she was beautiful—”
“I do not wonder at it,” he said.
“They fell madly in love,” she continued. “I was born. They had no money. Then my grandfather got sick and called my father home. We went to Zetrinja to see him, and we never left the place. Until Colonel Drago Stengl of the JNA and his secret death squad came marching in.”
His hand tightened over hers. She clung to it.
“It was so ironic,” she whispered. “He was the gentlest man I ever knew. I hardly ever heard him raise his voice, for my whole childhood. And they executed him. Just stood him up and shot him for being a paramilitary. Can you believe it? Him, a fucking paramilitary. God.”
Her heart started to race, stomach rolling as she stared down at the oil on her plate, the flecks of chopped parsley. The red, juicy chunk of Val’s steak. Her blood pressure was dropping.
Enough. She had already told him more than she’d ever told any other living person.
She jerked her hand out from under his, breaking the spell. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” she said tightly. “Let’s get back to business. Do you know where we can get some decent firepower around here? I don’t like being on the same continent with that filthy scum without a gun. Or two, or three.”
“I agree completely. A friend of mine is in Salerno, arranging it for us,” he said. “We will meet with him tomorrow.”
“Good. Get me a Glock 9mm or a SIG .357, with a good supply of ammo and spare cartridges. I want a Ruger for backup. A shoulder holster, an ankle holster and a hip strap, if he can find one. I also want some plastique for the bomblets. I don’t need much.”
He nodded, sipping his wine. “I will see what I can do.”
“You do that.” Their conversation about the past had killed what appetite she’d had. She pushed her half-finished plate away. “I’m done.”
They were silent as they walked back to the hotel. Tam prepared herself psychologically should he try to take her hand again. She couldn’t quite tell if she was relieved or disappointed when he did not.
Back at the room, she wasted no time getting ready for sleep, and slid beneath the rumpled covers. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”
“We have an appointment with Donatella Amato and Ana Santarini, at ten thirty tomorrow morning,” he told her. “At Ana’s house near Positano. Then, we make our plan, based on what Henry tells us tomorrow, and our own observations.”
A shiver racked her, the chill touch of the past. Like an animated corpse’s finger on the back of her neck. Then he began to strip off his clothing, and every coherent thought fled from her head.
“Hey!” she said. “Janos!”
He wrenched off his shirt, peeling the sleeves off his thick, muscled arms. “Call me Val, for the love of God. Sì?”
“I want to sleep alone,” she said pointedly. “I told you that.”
He looked around the room in mock dismay. “But there is only one bed.”
“Whose fault is that? I didn’t book the room, bozo.”
He stripped off his pants, leaving only black briefs that outlined his manly package. She wrenched her gaze away.
“But I wanted this room. I wanted the beautiful view and the loggia for you.” He gave her a brazen, deal-with-it grin and slid into bed with her. “Rest easy. I will not come on to you.” He stretched out his long body, folding his arms back behind his head. “Relax and sleep,” he urged. “Tomorrow you must be sharp to meet this Santarini woman.”
Tam hunched up against the headboard, hugging her knees to her chest. “I already have met her.”
Val sat bolt upright. “Met her?” He sounded outraged. “Che cazzo dici? This is terrible! You did not tell me that!”
“You didn’t ask,” Tam said.
“But will she recognize you?” he demanded. “We cannot risk—”
“No. She won’t recognize me. It was sixteen years ago. I had puppy fat, shorter hair, a different nose. I’ve had cosmetic surgery, more than once. My eye color will be different. My energy is different. And Ana is so self-absorbed, she’ll never make the connection.”
He leaned back, mollified. “Hmmph. How do you know her?”
This subject was on her short list of the last things on earth that she wanted to talk about, but it seemed stupid to refuse. She’d already shared details from the past in the restaurant, without breaking down, or triggering a stress flashback. Thank God.
She composed herself. She could do this. Cool, methodical. A list of events as they occurred, no digressing, no expanding.
“I was Stengl’s mistress for a few months,” she said.
Val went rigid. He slowly turned, staring down at her. Shocked.
“His mistress?” he said. “After what he—after your family—”
“My father was shot with the rest of the men and boys that day.” She recited the facts in a leaden voice. “My mother and little sister and I were taken to Sremska Mitrovica. The concentration camp. It was a filthy shithole. Irina died first. A flu of some kind. The diarrhea carried her off. Then my mother, though I’m not sure it was flu that killed her. I think she’d just had enough.”
“Ah, Tamar,” he whispered. “I did not know. I am sorry.”
“I caught his eye, somehow,” Tam continue
d grimly. “I don’t know how I could have attracted anyone, as filthy as I was. They never let us bathe in that place. But he noticed me. He pulled me out, took me to Titograd. Installed me in a hotel room to play with in his off-hours. There was no one left to notice or care what happened to me. They were all dead.” She stared down at her hands, twisting the sheet. “I was locked in that room for weeks. Months, maybe. In limbo. I lost track of time.”
Val rolled back onto his side, propping his head on his hand. “Go on,” he prompted quietly.
“When he was done with what he’d come to accomplish, he still wasn’t quite done with me,” she said. “He brought me back to his house in Belgrade. Ana was living there. She was nineteen. She loathed me. She acted like a jealous wife. I think he’d probably had his sick fun with her, too. She had the vibe of a girl who had been used in that way. His wife had been dead for years, and he was just that kind of man.”
“Che schifo,” Val murmured.
She looked away. “I was all right. In fact, I have Ana to thank for the concept of wearable weaponry. She put the idea into my head.”
The look on his face was almost dread. “Oh? How is that?”
“She cooked up a stupid plot to get rid of me,” Tam said. “Persuaded one of her boyfriends to come in and have sex with me while she took pictures. She wanted to show them to her father, to show him what a nasty tart I was, I suppose. Lame, in terms of a plan. She wasn’t what I would call creative. But it backfired on her.”
He shifted on the bed, his eyes intent and fascinated. “Sì? How?”
“I had a pin brooch that had belonged to my mother,” she said. “A cheap thing, cubic zirconium. When I was locked in, I would just sit and hold it in my hand. I was holding it when Ana and her friend came in. When he tried to rape me, I fought back. I got in a lucky jab. Pierced his scrotum. You cannot even imagine the sounds that he made.”
Val’s horrified flinch could be felt through the bed frame.
“He got blood poisoning,” Tam said, with dark satisfaction.
Val hissed through his teeth. “Did he . . . lose his . . . ?”
“I never found out. I hope so,” Tam said. “He deserved to. Ana didn’t bother me again. And Stengl got tired of me soon after that.”
“What happened then?”
“Aren’t you just full of questions?” she grumbled. “Shut up and let me sleep, why don’t you? We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“Please tell me, Tamar,” he said softly.
She sighed. “He passed me on to one of his subordinates. It was all sort of a blur to me. Up to that point. That was when I started to sharpen up. I realized that I had to start choosing my lovers. Trading up, instead of down. Or I’d get passed lower and lower in the pecking order every time until I lost all my status as a sex object. That’s bad. That’s when you get used up and tossed onto the scrap heap.”
He nodded, with perfect understanding. “So you did? Start choosing?”
“Of course. It’s all in the attitude. I learned fast. Men are simple, basic creatures. Not that hard to manage.” She paused, eyed him for a moment and amended her statement. “For the most part, anyway. Now shut up. My throat hurts from talking so much.”
She clicked off her bedside lamp. A moment of silence in the dark, and Val scooted toward her. To her horror, he gathered her into his arms. She stiffened, in spite of how good he felt. How hot and strong.
“Damnit, Janos,” she growled. “You’re pushing me. I told you—”
“You did,” he agreed. “And call me Val.”
“I do not want to—”
“I know. I heard you the first time. I am not trying to seduce you. I just want to embrace you after what you told me. I cannot help it.”
“Thanks for the thought, but I’m not comfortable with—”
“Give it a chance,” he coaxed. “I know you can. I’ve seen you do it. Just pretend that I am Rachel.”
That made her laugh. “Ah, Val? There are a couple of really noticeable differences between you and Rachel. They’re hard to miss.”
“Perhaps, but the basic principles are the same.” He tugged her closer, massaging her shoulder. “Just hold me,” he wheedled, his voice a teasing caress. “Put my head under your chin, rub my back. Say sweet tender things to me when I wake in the night and feel frightened.”
Her laughter was nervous this time. “You wish. I’ve had a long day, and my sense of humor wasn’t great to begin with. Being mauled by a naked spy who smells like a French whore is not my idea of—”
“Shhh. Just let me hold you. Think about Rachel. It is not so hard to hold her, no?”
“That’s different,” she snapped. “I love her.”
A hole yawned in her insides. As if her sudden revelation could somehow endanger Rachel. She winced inwardly. Ah, God. She was so fucked up, it was embarrassing.
“That’s the trick, then,” he encouraged her. “Just pretend that you love me.”
Those words hit her someplace deep, like an ice pick sinking in. She stiffened, bracing against the awful pain of it.
“Fuck, no,” she whispered. “No tricks. No pretending. That’s worse than nothing, and you ought to goddamn well know it, you flip son of a bitch.” Her voice quavered off. It was happening again.
She buried her face in the pillow and tried in vain to stop it. It was like trying to stop a landslide.
Val curled himself around her like a big, warm animal, patting her back and kissing her nape as she gave in to the storm of silent sobbing. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “I spoke without thinking. I am sorry. For all of it.”
“I’m not crying because of that,” she snarled, but the soggy words became garbled. She was dismayed to realize that she was. She really was. And that was not good news. That was a lot of unshed tears. Way more than they had time to cope with. They had too much work to do.
Ah, hell. Maybe it would scare him out of her bed, she thought with a spark of vindictive amusement. Served him right for dragging up the past. Getting her all whipped up into a frenzy. Invasive jerk.
But he did not leave. He just cuddled her. He tucked her head under his chin, stroked her back, and murmured sweet, senseless, tender things in a jumbled soup of languages.
When the deluge finally moved through her and passed on, it left her beaten to the ground. Too exhausted to object to the fact that even after all the tears, the drama, the sneaky bastard still dared to pretend that he loved her.
Chapter 17
Tam’s eyes fluttered open to a scene of perfect beauty. She blinked, disoriented. She was in a baroque painting. Arches, sky. Clouds glowing a delicate pink, lit by the sunrise. The morning star glittering in the vault of pale blue and gold. All that was missing were the cherubs cavorting.
Her body felt so soft, so warm . . . ah. That would explain it. Beneath the thick wool blankets, she was wrapped in Val’s arms.
It was the first time in her life that she had awakened in a man’s arms without stiffening and trying to establish her personal space again as soon as possible.
This morning, she was in absolutely no hurry. She could happily stay just like this. A little moment of stolen peace. She wanted it to last and last.
She gazed at his sleeping face. Slumber soothed the rough edges, the lines of stress and strain. He looked vulnerable.
She didn’t want him to be vulnerable. She had enough problems. Let him be tough as razor wire, steel spikes, boot leather. Let him look out for himself, for God’s sake.
But her hand hovered over the contours of his face, taking in every detail. Each scar, the shape of his bones, the strength of his jaw. Each line and hair. Her finger almost touched his cheek, close enough to stroke its fuzzy nap without touching him, feeling his vital heat.
His sleeping face looked so young. She thought of his bleak childhood. It clutched her heart, how strong he was, how uncomplaining. How fragile.
I wasn’t always this big.
It made her jaw clench painfu
lly to think of anyone hurting the vulnerable boy that he had been.
She cuddled closer. Her skin was so sensitive every brush of contact was a kiss, a deliberate caress. There was a throbbing glow in her belly and heart, a quivering tightness in her throat. Hot eyes. Her face wore an expression she’d never felt before. She wondered if she’d recognize herself in the mirror. She was afraid to look.
She didn’t want to call it happiness. That implied too much idiocy on her part. It was more like a kind of madness. But so lovely. So soft.
She should squash it. She knew how to suppress painful emotions. It had to be easier to kill beautiful ones. They were more delicate. The urge was almost automatic—but she suspended it, breathing deep to catch it, like the vanishing smell of a violet. So easily banished or lost.
Her fingertips gave in to temptation. She finally did touch his cheek, enjoying the supple heat of his skin. She studied the hollow of his throat, the tendons in his neck. The dramatic sweep of his eyebrows, each dark hair a pen stroke that emphasized his masculine beauty.
There was an ugly, recent scar twisting across the thick front part of his shoulder. A bullet wound, not the one he’d suffered on the bus. Her fingers hovered over it and moved away. Scar tissue could be extremely sensitive.
His eyes had opened. She felt a jolt of alarm, as if she’d been caught doing something for which she would be punished.
But his eyes did not mock her. They mirrored her own. Full of wonder.
He drew in a breath. Without meaning to, she touched her finger to his lips to silence him. Whatever he might say could ruin it. The moment was as fragile as a snowflake or a curling whorl of smoke. One of a kind, never again. Utterly improbable.
Let it breathe, unfold. Let it just exist for a while before they cheapened it with blunt words and hard realities. Please. Just a little pink and gold dawn fantasy. It wasn’t so much to ask, she told herself rebelliously. She might never feel this way again in her life. In fact, she might not even have a life. No, it was not so goddamn much to ask.
She made do with so little. She never let herself complain.
His lips were so soft against her hand. The warm rose blush of them against her finger was a miracle of nature. He clasped her palm, cradling it inside his own, and kissed her fingers. He turned her hand and kissed her palm. Reverently. As if her hand were a precious, holy reliquary. As if kissing it could grant power and redemption.
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