by Kathryn Shay
"I know that. We talked about it."
"You implied, strongly, that you wanted nothing to do with children."
His color rose and his eyes seared her. "I never implied that."
"Of course you did. You said it was for the best that I wasn’t knocked up—your term, by the way. And that if I ever thought I was pregnant again, to tell you right away. We’d take care of it."
"I don’t want to talk about this." He ripped off his suit coat, tossed it on the bed and headed for the bathroom.
She followed. "I thought you meant we’d get rid of the child."
In the huge gilded bathroom, mirrors surrounded them. She watched him at the sink in front of one. He said nothing, unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. His chest was covered with perfectly placed dark hair.
"I didn’t want to get an abortion," she continued. "So I didn’t tell you when I did get pregnant."
He wet his face and lathered on the shaving cream. Ludicrously, she remembered one time in Vienna when she shaved him.
"Logan, I wanted that baby. I know you think I wouldn’t have gone into the operation if I did, but you’re wrong."
He whirled on her then, grabbing her by the arms. "You forget one little thing, Sachetti. I told you I loved you before we left. I told you I wanted our children and when we got back, we needed to talk about the future." He swallowed hard. "And you went anyway. You went into the most dangerous sting we’d ever taken on knowing you were pregnant and risking our child."
"I didn’t know what else to do. That op was important. I was afraid it would distract you if you knew I was pregnant. A lot was at stake."
"What was at stake was our child. Which you willingly put in jeopardy, hotshot agent that you are." He shook her. "And your luck ran out when that bastard cornered you in a warehouse and threw you over a railing twenty feet above the ground."
"That wasn’t my fault."
"The hell it wasn’t! If you weren’t there in the first place, you wouldn’t have lost the baby." And almost lost her life. She remembered he’d stayed with her in the hospital until he found out she was going to live. "Now get out of here and let me shower. The sight of you makes me ill."
Slowly Belle turned and left the bathroom. She raised the blinds, opened the door and walked back out to the balcony. Shaken, she breathed in the beautiful spring morning and forced down the emotion she felt rising inside her like a tidal wave, threatening to drown her.
It took ten minutes before she was back in control.
oOo
Puffing on his cigar, he stared down at the chess board and pressed the record button on the recorder. "Time, 17:00 hours. Subjects in hotel room. First assessment: affectionate, somewhat tense. She speaks Italian. He’s smitten. All is well."
He pressed the stop button before reaching out and moving his pawn, then laughed aloud. Pawns—all of them. And he was the Chess King, manipulating them to his will. As it well should be. "Time for another move," he whispered into the semi–darkness.
oOo
"Take the picture, darling. I can’t hold the pose much longer."
Logan shook his head at the understatement he’d just voiced. He couldn’t believe he had to hold the pose, so to speak, for days with her. They’d been in Rome four hours and already had one blowup. His only hope for sanity was that they’d make their contact, get the baby quickly and be done in much less than a full week.
God, she looked gorgeous when she was angry. This morning, in the hotel room where she’d cornered him, her dark eyes had snapped fire and her words had cut him to the quick. He’d been unable to push them out of his mind all day long.
I thought you’d want me to get rid of it.
Hell, that couldn’t possibly be true. He’d confessed his feelings before they left because he’d become aware of the acute danger that they would face in Barcelona.
I didn’t want to distract you. That op was important…so much was at stake.
Damn it, she shouldn’t have gone! She knew that. She was playing him again and he wouldn’t be sucked in.
Finally, she snapped the picture and crossed to him. The Colosseum loomed behind him, and she stared out at the huge circular landmark. Again they were dressed in character: she in a gauzy yellow dress and a straw hat, he in a golf shirt and Dockers. The outfits were so not either of their styles, it was almost laughable. But then, neither of them was the person they used to be.
"Hard to believe they kept slaves and animals and gladiators down there in those small tunnels," she said, pointing to the lower level of the historic site. Her voice was sad. "Man’s inhumanity to man always surprises me, I guess."
He turned to look at the ruins. Sections of the top two levels of the structure were missing, having been pillaged during the Renaissance, the stone used for other buildings. The floor of the famous arena had been partially restored so tourists could see how those tunnels she hated were once covered with wood, blocking out sunlight and air. There were platforms that raised and lowered through trapdoors to allow the entertainment and sets to rise out of the depths. The guide had told them that the inhabitants were going to die, anyway, so no one cared what it must have been like to be confined down there.
Because they were ordinary tourists, he slid an arm around her waist and pretended to worry that she was feeling bad. As normal as breathing, she leaned into him for comfort. Damn, it was so easy falling into the role of a loving couple.
I feel as if I’ve always known you, Logan.
Me, too. Maybe in a past life.
Oh, I like that. Anthony and Cleopatra, do you think?
Nah. More like Samson and Delilah. You have power over me, woman.
It had taken him two full years to rid himself of that spell.
Giving her a perfunctory kiss on her cheek, he straightened and took her hand. "Come on, love, let’s go get your picture with the gladiators out in the square. That might cheer you up."
She laughed. Man she was good. Instead of sultry Isabelle, she was innocent Belle Kane. She even batted her thick lashes at him. "Oh, Logan, should I?"
"When in Rome…" he quipped chuckling.
But that suggestion, too, was a mistake. While he took the picture, she posed as if she was having such a good time with the handsome gladiator that Logan could almost forget what was between them and remember days that were filled with fun and frolic. When the guy slid his hand to her fanny, Logan did forget his real role and fell into the pretend one. He drew her away like a jealous husband. "Hands off, paisan," he said dramatically.
When they finished with the photos, he linked his arm with hers, this constant touching was killing him. They walked out of the square and took the cobblestone streets to a small outdoor café called The Miraggio. She sank onto a chair at a table in the shade and sighed.
"Feet hurt?" he asked. She’d worn sandals and they’d walked all morning.
Reaching for his hand across the table, she smiled. "A bit."
"Slip off your shoes. I’ll rub them while we wait for service."
She tossed him a look that said, Isn’t this carrying it a bit too far?
"Like any loving husband would, honey."
He felt bare feet plop into his lap. Under the tablecloth, he put his hands on her. Her sole was soft, supple. No calluses. No dead skin. He knew she loved pedicures and manicures and massages. Hell, he’d loved pampering her and had searched for new and exotic ways to do so. He rubbed her instep, and watched her eyes glaze over. A lot like they did during sex.
"Ahhhh," she whispered, and he felt his body respond. Damn it. He was grateful when the waiter approached them.
"Bounjorno," the dark–haired swarthy server said, smiling. "Signor, Signora. Come sta?"
"Bene, grazie," she replied.
He asked about drinks.
"Vino Rosa. Two glasses of the best in your house."
When the waiter was gone, Logan opened his menu. "Hmm," he said aloud looking down at the small white envelope inside it. "Looks
like the games have begun."
oOo
Later that night they took a cab to the Piazza Navona, as was instructed in the terse missive they’d gotten at lunch, and found a table in the outdoor area of a wine bar. It was 7:00 p.m., and most people were just coming out for the night so the place had some empty seats. They sat close to the edge of the big square, the perimeter lined with old stone buildings, sporting a fountain at one end. They ordered espresso and took in the sights and sounds of Roman nightlife.
"Why do you think it said to come here?" she asked in a whisper.
"Cat and mouse, I guess. I studied the theories Simon came up with. Whoever is doing this seems to need control and likes to play games with his victims."
"You were always so good with their minds."
"I have a degree in psychology." Then he added meanly, "Too bad I didn’t figure you out sooner."
Ignoring her crestfallen expression, he stared at the square, which was filled tonight with vendors, performers and stalls selling souvenirs and paintings of the city. Faint smells of baking pizza dough and flowers just blooming in boxes along the windows of the buildings filled the air. In the open space in front of the restaurant, a mime was preparing his act.
As they waited, she made small talk, intimate and wifely, in case there were eavesdroppers near. "What did Mike have to say on the phone?"
His brother hadn’t called, of course, but he always liked talking about his family. All three of his half–brothers held a place in his heart. "Gearing up for next year."
Mike Kingston was a coach for the Buckland Bulls, a football team housed about a hundred miles from Hyde Point, where Logan had grown up with his mother. After his father had died, she’d married Jim Kingston. They’d moved south, but now resided in Buckland where Mike coached the team.
He recounted his pretend conversation, filling her in on Mike’s life with a twinkle in his green eyes. He didn’t ask about her family, though, which was another distancing maneuver. Ludicrous, she thought, to be disappointed. But Logan had related better to her protective dad than any other man in her life.
I like your father.
He likes you.
He asked me my intentions.
Oh, God, I’m sorry.
Then Logan had whispered naughty things in her ear that he pretended to say to her father, making her blush. She remembered now how she’d wished he’d be serious. Wished he’d told her father his real intentions. She’d been falling in love with him at the time.
They held hands during the show, laughing at the mime—until he brought little children into his act. Then Logan’s fingers disengaged with hers. Toddlers of about two and three joined the show. Belle was mesmerized watching them, though regret swelled inside her. One of them could have been their child. She could have had Logan’s two–year–old, and maybe an infant, too. Her throat closed up.
She felt his arm go around her and pull her close. In her ear, he whispered mockingly, "Nice touch. The sad woman yearning for children. If they’re watching, they’ll fall for it big–time."
"It’s not an act," she said achingly.
"Spare me. I refuse to believe anything you say this time around."
Still, she laid her head on his shoulder. She needed the comfort. He let her stay that way until a woman approached them.
"Scusi," she said in Italian. "For you."
Logan’s whole body went on alert. "Who gave this to you?"
"Non cabisce." She hurried away.
He opened the note and Belle read over his shoulder.
Friday, was all it said.
She stared down at the paper. Damn it! Friday was five days away. Could she possibly endure Logan’s contempt that long, while he touched her and hugged her and pretended to feel as he did before? His constant attention, his demonstrativeness, only served to remind her of what she’d lost because of one mistake.
"So, sweetheart, looks like we’re in for a week of fun." He whispered the words in her ear, so that only she caught the underlying sarcasm in his voice.
She remembered real vacations where he’d wanted to be with her.
In Venice…Isabelle, do me the honor of a gondola ride down the canal.
In London…Oh, Logan, you got tickets to that play I wanted to see?
In Spain…Don’t close your eyes during the bullfight, love.
The memories made Belle want to cry. Angered by her reaction, she stood, but he tugged her back down and grabbed her close. His hand bit into her arm and she realized she wasn’t the only one affected. "Do not, under any circumstances, blow this because your temper is sizzling." When she said nothing, he gripped her harder. "I mean it, darling."
He was right. She had to get control of herself. So, like the good agent she was, she leaned her body into his. He stiffened, which gave her a good deal of satisfaction. Smiling seductively, though she wanted to rage at him, she said sweetly, "Oh, I can’t wait to spend the week with you."
oOo
The next night, Logan’s feet pounded on the treadmill as he tried to blank his mind. He’d had to get away from Belle. He couldn’t stand being with her so much, staying in the same room, sleeping in the same bed. Even the familiar, sexy scent of her had gotten to him. He was going crazy—and it had only been two days.
Friday couldn’t come fast enough. His mind whirled with a thousand things, so he tried to focus on the assignment and how the operation would go down.
It was simple, really. Their job was to get the baby back. The money, now in a safe–deposit box in the hotel, could be traced, and other operatives would be in place to follow the drop man. Logan and Belle were to absorb as many details as they could about the people involved, but ultimately they were to ensure the safety of the child. That alone was an awesome responsibility.
He hoped nothing went wrong. He still remembered how bad the last mission with Belle had gone. He ran faster, trying to block out the memories, but he could see it unravel in his mind.
They’d been in Barcelona three days and were good to go. They arrived at the warehouse separately. Belle was the plant, the one to meet with a man who claimed to have access to guns being smuggled into the U.S. from a remote area of Spain. Logan was hiding behind gallons of fuel in case anything went wrong. Concealed from the bare lights glaring overhead, he could smell the stink of oil that permeated the cavernous space…
"Up here, senorita," the man said when Belle entered through the door and stopped on the first floor. The smuggler she was to meet had been reputed to be ruthless and very good at keeping his activities quiet.
Belle was dressed in a plain blue suit, with all that hair pulled back in a knot at her neck, having taken on the identity of a rich businesswoman from Italy who wanted in on the action. Slowly, she’d climbed the steel steps, briefcase in hand. It contained half–a–million dollars in marked money.
From his vantage point, Logan watched as the guy came toward her. He’d never been more proud of her—her head was high, her shoulders set, though the situation was critical. Still, it was hard for him to let her do this by herself. He wished he was making the deal instead. She met the guy midway between the two ends of the second floor, and he could see them above the railing. She spoke to him in Spanish.
Then, all hell broke loose. Someone burst in downstairs—not one of Logan’s people. Almost in slow motion, he saw the guy on the second floor lunge for Belle. Bolting out of his hiding place, Logan took the steps two at a time. He was halfway up when Belle pitched over the rail. His heart stopped. She’d fallen twenty feet to the floor…
I thought you’d tell me to get rid of it…I didn’t want to distract you.
None of it mattered. Not even the realization that he’d already been unduly worried about her when the operation went down. If he’d known she was carrying his baby, it would have distracted him.
Hell! He had to stop this. Nothing could make him forgive her. She’d been careless and cavalier with his child and he’d never be able to accept that.
Sweating badly, he wiped his face with the towel. Through the glass surrounding the work–out room, he saw a young Italian woman smile at him. She gave him an appreciative once–over. Hmm…was she someone putting the moves on him? Or someone trying to confirm his cover?
If he was the sappy husband he pretended to be, he’d never look twice at her. Not that he had the slightest urge to take her up on an offer, anyway. There hadn’t been one single woman he’d met in two years who held any allure for him. As he’d told her, Delilah had ruined Samson, and Belle had ruined him.
He admitted he couldn’t stay in the gym any longer. It was already 22:00 hours. If he was who he said he was, he’d be anxious to get back to his loving wife. To her bed.
Son of a bitch, he thought winding down. He had to go upstairs.
oOo
In satiny red pajamas, Belle scanned the room for something to do. Trying to amuse herself while Logan worked out, she’d done her own calisthenics, some pushups and Tai Chi in the space she’d cleared of furniture. Given her new identity’s health, fragile Belle Kane wouldn’t run or work out, so she was forced to stay in the hotel room. When Logan still hadn’t come back after ninety minutes, she was starting to get pissed off at him. It didn’t take much.
Spying his notebook computer—which he locked securely in the safe when they were out of the room—she decided to play some poker until he returned. She settled down at the desk in front of the machine, and waited until it booted up. The instant messaging system came on screen first.
She thought of turning it off, but she craved knowledge of his life, wondered what he’d been up to, who he communicated with routinely. So she studied the incoming addresses. SK007. They’d teased Simon, their commander, about his screen name. Several more buddies but she couldn’t decipher who they were. Just then, one cha–chinged on. M&MSweetie. What the hell?
The dialogue box came up and typing appeared.
Hey, Logan. So glad I caught you online. All’s well. Closing Kane’s Table while you’re gone has everybody coming in here asking about you. Don’t worry. I’m taking care of everything. The baby’s getting bigger…you should feel her inside me. I think she misses your attention.