Express Pursuit

by Caroline Beauregard

  He bolted up and in two strides towered over me.

  “Are you kidding?” he boomed.

  “I’m afraid not,” I said, my throat constricting.

  Yes, the implications of my announcement didn’t take long to unfold on his face. The incredulous glare he threw suggested he thought I had lost my mind. He paced the room, jiggling his mysterious box.

  Then, after his fifth carpet length, he took a break and pulled out his cell, but changed his mind and put it away. Twice. The pacing resumed, accompanied by two grunts and one sigh. The jury was still deliberating, judging by his conflicted expression.

  After one more minute of walking around, calmer, he sat back down and took a deep breath.

  “Can you explain to me why you decided to make a double journey on one of the most expensive trains when there are adequate planes that can take you anywhere in the world?”

  Before I could even know where to begin with my tale, he lifted both of his hands up in a universal gesture of surrender.

  “Listen, I don’t mean to be rude here, but I’m tired, hungry and could use a shower,” he said. “Do you mind? I mean…” I noticed a flash of embarrassment when a frown crossed his brows. “What I mean to say is that I spotted a restaurant just across the street. All I’m asking for is to use your shower and take a twenty minutes power nap. So, what do you say? You can tell me, while we eat, all the nitty-gritty details of that fancy itinerary of yours.”

  “Ok, take the shower first. I’ll go in the courtyard’s garden and will be back in thirty minutes.”

  Chapter 13

  August 27th,Venice, Hotel Flora, Mara’s Room, Early Evening

  The warm soothing rain effect of the shower head was a welcomed extravagance he seldom experienced on his missions. He hoped it would wash away the grime and the top layer of his stress, thanks to his irascible nemesis. In contrast, Mara Ellington provided another kind of tension and on more than one level.

  Drake had been mistaken to assume she would continue her visit to Venice for a few more days and then head back to her hometown in New York. However, as long as the city perimeter was under a tight guard and that the security staff of the Marco Polo Airport scanned and checked all luggage with assiduity, he could ensure the safety of the area. In fact, the Transportation Security Administration, with their five million worth of bomb detection technology, used the most sophisticated equipment to scrutinize luggages, better than those found outside airports in security or police offices.

  Otherwise, he would have to count that there would be no other complications and distractions from a trouble magnet with more courage than common sense. Being a seasoned agent, he was far from being a rookie at his job and had often teamed with feminine work partners or done protection details. So what was so different this time? She was pretty, for sure and he liked the perfect fit of her body when he’d held her, but there was something else bothering him about how she affected him.

  He was still wound up about that kiss.

  It started as a mere diversion to block the view of those individuals he had seen earlier near the police station. He was almost one hundred percent sure he’d seen them on an Interpol wanted list. Once he made sure they had turned their attention away from her, he should have stopped then and there. Why prolong the kiss when it had lost its initial purpose?

  She had stiffened for a moment at his unauthorized audacity, but to his utter joy, he’d felt her relax within a second or two. Then she’d abandoned herself as he indulged in the softness of her lips. They’d been immobile at first but became bolder as the seconds passed. So much that after a while, guilt about his brash decision and unprofessional tactic had gotten the best of him, bringing him back to reason. Her unstable gait when he’d let go of her betrayed her intense involvement with the moment. He couldn’t help grinning at the thought. So the little spitfire was hiding a core of molten lava.

  He wouldn’t soon forget the delightful feeling of elation that swelled in his chest and further down when, for a minute, he’d claimed her as his. His whole body had screamed “Victory!” and sent his hormones and libido in an out-of-control rampage. Only his iron control, the product of assiduous army training, brought his lifted spirit back in check.

  As he lathered himself with the fancy hotel’s soap, he allowed himself the luxury of remembering her every curve. The soft and fluid silk of her hair as he ran his hand into it, pulling her head back with gentle force as he leaned into the kiss. How his chest and pelvis had ignited from the pressure of her small breasts and her soft hips when he’d crushed her against him. He had pressed his need unashamed against her in a most natural manner.

  If his attraction to her was only physical, he would have been able to curb his interest in her quicker. Alas, things were not that simple.

  Was it because he lacked feminine companionship or was there something about Mara Ellington he found too appealing and irresistible?

  ***

  The late afternoon sun was setting, bathing the courtyard’s garden in its warm brilliance. A stone fountain provided the centerpiece to the intimate setting where a few trees created a welcome shade during hot summer days. The vines covered almost all the side walls and extended over a lattice to form a green canopy. The whole courtyard transported me, like a time traveler, into a medieval time capsule. I could even picture Juliet better here than in Verona’s Casa di Giuletta at the windows of one of the rooms overlooking the garden. A few white bistro wrought-iron tables and chairs arranged around the fountain offered a cozy refuge from the tourist hustle and bustle a short distance away. One could even distinguish the tip of the bell tower of San Moisé church near the San Marco Piazza, a mere two minutes walk from here. The charming and relaxing music of the fountain’s babbling water offered a delicate backdrop to a couple chatting in hushed voices while sipping glasses of Prosecco.

  It was nice to have a breather from Steinfield’s constant presence. I’d give him forty minutes because the last thing I wanted was another gun-in-your-face episode, because for sure he’d take his gun with him in the bathroom.

  I had seen how well defined the muscles of his back had tensed when I had surprised him on the train. Back then, my eyes had focused only on the barrel of his gun. But now, I could remember better his lean and athletic body, as I imagined him in the shower. The developed pecs and flat stomach rippled without bulging. A light dusting of chest hair was just enough to incite my fingers to want to caress the soft wavy curls. Height wise, Agent Steinfield was coming up a full head above mine. Additionally, the solid grip he occasionally took on my arms or wrists suggested that he was a man who could use significant force if he wished to. I can’t deny that he also possessed another king of power, one capable of triggering and igniting my most intimate desires. Although fit, he didn’t look beefed up by excessive work-outs as some army guys typical of the recruits at the Tower, more addicted to body building for appearance’s sake than to maintain a healthy lifestyle. Their inflated self-confidence stemmed more from their personality than their shear muscular beefcake built. A couple of them, like morons, were still hooked up on citing John Cusack’s lines from the Pushing Tin movie such as when the cocky ATC says to his colleague ‘You really think the pilot is controlling this plane? That would really scare me’.

  But regardless of his physical appeal, his personality intrigued me the most. I wanted to know more about him. It only seemed fair and natural to want to somehow counterbalance his advantage because he already had so much information on me.

  For sure, working on the field and dealing with life-threatening situations, where every split second counted, required of him to always stay focused. Even so, I suspected that behind his twinkling eyes easy catty grin he was not willing to miss an opportunity for fun; he liked to tease me even if the overall situation is serious. Life was never black and white to him, and I liked that he didn’t always take himself too seriously.

  Had I just admitted that I like
d him?

  Okay, enough nonsense, I should go back up and shower myself. I’m positive he’ll be able to find a hotel room available later with the help of the hotel’s concierge. This was the last time I’d have to share my space with him.

  As we left the hotel for the short walk to La Caravella restaurant, menacing dark clouds announced a downpour. On the way, he kept looking around to make sure no one was following us. The passageway leading out of the hotel to the Calle Larga 22 Marzo was so narrow that his excess of concern for our safety was rather ridiculous. We arrived at our destination in less than two minutes.

  The restaurant’s interior was geared to transport diners into a 15th century galleon, with its wooden panelled ceiling and walls, creaking polished wood floor and corner loggias. From the ceiling hung storm lamps with flickering candle lights drowsing the space in understated yellow light. The tables were set with pewter dishware and copper drinking mugs. I relished in the attention to details, including an antique steering wheel fitted in the room’s center, which rounded out the nautical theme.

  The maître d’ ushered us to the captain’s quarter featuring a corner table set on a logia type of balcony. Because of the dim lighted cavernous space, it enticed the couple in the other corners to nibble on more than their food.

  “So Miss Ellington, tell me about that extravagant itinerary of yours,” he started after we gave our orders.

  There he goes again, judging me on my expensive trip. If he only knew.

  “Are you that gifted to encourage people to talk or is this just your natural angle of interrogation because I’m getting—”

  He held his hands up in surrender. “Hold on, Tigress. Don’t get your claws out. Ok, I apologize. Just tell me the facts, and I promise I’ll be good from now on,” he said with mock contrition. However, the gleam in his eyes was telling me he was enjoying himself and was not in the least sorry for his snappy comment.

  “Well, it started over two years ago when my lifelong friend, Josie Goodrich, complained that I never joined her whenever she organized a trip. So, on a bet, she defied me to go with her on her next trip. I had not expected her to drag me on a train trip across Europe on the Orient-Express because I had so many air miles accumulated. She comes from a wealthy family so she’s used to this kind of non-stop decadence. We argued about which VSOE run to take. I wanted to visit Istanbul and catch up with my sister Sylvia while visiting the city. Josie was more keen on going to Venice. So, to satisfy both parties involved, she suggested we do the ultimate Orient-Express experience. As a result, we organized the double itinerary with our travel agent.”

  “Continue.” He lean with his head tilted with attention.

  “After another day of sightseeing in Venice, we were to leave and take an overnight train from Venice to Budapest. From there, we would meet the travelers from the VSOE Paris-Istanbul line staying at their Budapest hotel. We’d be just in time to take the city tour and continue on that journey until the final destination, Istanbul. And to top it off, Josie had insisted we attend a fancy VIP Gala after our arrival that night.”

  He leaned back in his seat, shaking his head, apparently fuming and swearing in silence over the trouble we, I mean I, was in. He downed another swig of Shiraz and then took out his frustration on the innocent tender filet mignon, spearing it and cutting with unnecessary ferocity. The resulting screeching of his cutlery against his plate made me cringe. Then, to finish, he impaled and stacked his remaining sweet potato fries before devouring them.

  My heart swelled as another wave of grief took over me. Talking out loud about Josie in the past tense dejected me more than I had expected. No doubt, I was being ridiculous, but since the beginning of this nightmarish trip, I had found comfort in confiding to her, like I used to. My reluctance to share my distress at her passing had needed to remain private. He was, nevertheless a stranger who would think I was kidding myself and clinging to something that was unreal.

  His index finger reached under my chin and lifted my head to face him. The innocent gesture felt intimate. His jungle green eyes bore into mine, compelling me to tell exactly what was in my heart.

  “I miss her so much,” I said, my voice choking. “She made me promise on her deathbed to do the whole trip no matter what.” I blurted out in one breath.

  I should stop kidding myself that I am not alone to deal with this mess. Josie, you wanted me to go on an adventure? Are you satisfied? I took another sip of wine with my eyes glued to the glass because I didn’t want to look at him. He’d find me pathetic or deranged. Since kindergarten we had become best buddies, friend, sister and confidant to each other.

  “You probably think I’m stupid for not mentioning her death the first time you asked about her but —” I started, but the finger returned. This time it pressed gently on my lips to hush me.

  “No, you’re not,” he said, his tone sincere. There was no judgment, only quiet compassion. A kindred soul trying to reach out and comfort the distress of another.

  I blinked twice, chasing away the tears threatening to overflow. My attention focused on the other diners to prevent the emotion swelling up in my chest and sweeping me like a tsunami. It would be too embarrassing to lose my composure in a public place.

  He was considerate enough to give me space to regain my composure and continued to eat in silence, catching the rest of his bordelaise sauce with a piece of bread.

  Once he’d polished his plate clean, he lifted his head as if remembering something important.

  “You mentioned a gala?” He frowned.

  “Yes. Josie was a fan of Agatha Christie’s novels and everything associated with the glitz and glamours of the Orient-Express. So when she heard there would be a special event organized by the DuPont Company to celebrate the 128th anniversary of the first run of the VSOE going to Istanbul, Josie insisted we adjust our travel plans. She even pulled a few strings to get those VIP gala tickets.”

  “You sound like you’re not keen on this type of luxury trip or am I mistaken?”

  The man wasn’t lacking insight.

  “Yep, that’s about right. Josie kept teasing me that although I make sure that over three thousand travelers a day make it safely to their destination, the irony is that I seldom travel myself. I don’t see the point of getting all dolled up if you’re supposed to be relaxing on vacation. Anyway, I’m not even sure I wanted to go to the gala, promises or not.”

  “What about your family; any brothers and other sisters?”

  “I thought you already had all this information on file about me.”

  I didn’t want to sound too cynical because it was actually nice to engage in small talk with him. But still, I couldn't help being curious about the extent of information he had on me.

  “No, just the basics, like the name of the passengers and their cabins and how they booked them.”

  “Oh, well. No, I have only one sister, Sylvia, who works as a photo journalist and foreign correspondent for CNN.”

  “And your father’s an airline pilot and your mother used to work as a flight attendant for the same company, right?”

  Perhaps I was just imagining the tell tale corner of his lips curving on one side. Yeah, he must also see the romantic cliché of airline pilots and stewardesses like the old 1950s spoofs. The sad thing is that people are not so far from the truth with my father having had half a dozen mistresses during his early flying career while my mother was working on other flights. When I confronted her about it, many years after his affairs, she took things too philosophically for my taste. Simply put, she told me he had changed and that he had made it up to her in so many ways that she forgave him. I didn’t.

  Steinfield was staring with his eyebrows up. I think I must have let myself drift longer than I thought. He repeated his question.

  “Do you know where your sister was last assigned?” His face etched with downright concern.

  “Not sure. I know she was in Iraq two weeks ago. I calle
d her and sent her an email right after getting the anonymous message at the Piazza while you were on the phone, but she hasn't returned my calls nor replied to my texts. She told me the last time we spoke that the internet connection was unstable in the mountain areas. Is there anything you could do to locate her? I mean with your position at the Interpol, maybe they could help?”

  He responded by taking out his phone.

  “Hey Jeff, I’ve got another favor to ask. Yeah, I know. Well, that will make four this week. Listen, can you check on a Sylvia Ellington? No… a photo journalist. Works as a foreign correspondent for CNN. Yeah, call me back as soon as you receive news. Yes, continue to keep me posted on the efforts to get these journalists out. ASAP,” he said before hanging up and returning his attention back to me.

  “Do…Do you think something has already happened to her?” I asked with a shaky voice.

  “Hard to say at this point. The text suggested that they would deal with her if you’re not cooperating. So, we’ll just make sure you are,” he concluded with the same detachment as if we were discussing the weather.

  He had no comforting words for me. No ‘Don't worry, everything will be fine’. Not that I would have believed him anyway. He was all business when he spoke next, preferring not to pay heed to my bad mood.

  “The local security office needs to see you tomorrow morning. There are a few additional matters to discuss.”

  “Great.” Another cross-examination to look forward to. I needed to change the topic before I got completely depressed and disheartened.

  “What about you? Do you have a family?” I asked, curious.

  Smiling with mischief, he misunderstood the reason for my question.

  “If you’re asking if I’m married with kids, the answer is no on both accounts. Unless you’re proposing, Princess.”

  “Stop calling me Princess, and no, I am not proposing. I’ve heard of your type.”