Desire

by Louise Bagshawe

  All his senses felt charged. Lisa had done that to him. He was alive for the first time in a decade. It was utterly exhilarating, and for tonight, he loved his life.

  He couldn’t believe how much he was looking forward to seeing this girl. If he was honest, the desire was so fierce, it was almost longing. Sure, it was sexually charged; when wasn’t it? If a man met a woman there was always that. But he wasn’t some idiot, to be led around by his groin. She’d killed Josh Steen, almost certainly - almost - and he would call the FBI and they’d put her in jail. She’d be alive and well treated, back in Europe. And twenty or thirty years, well. She deserved it for killing that poor bastard. None of his money did a damn thing for him in the end.

  But if he was going to hunt her down and put her away, be the hero, get the cash - he wasn’t going to do that this time. He was going to keep his word, and talk to her once, just once, without police. It was a pass, a free ride. He could be with her, just be with her. Like before. And he was looking forward to it out of all proportion.

  At the airport, he checked in with Alitalia and bought a first-class ticket. Hey, it was Rich Frank’s money, and he deserved it. For one thing, first class had flat sleeper beds. It would be smart to rest before he had to deal with Lisa Costello.

  The cops, the press, Josh Steen and all his friends had underestimated this woman. Sam Murray was damn sure he wasn’t going to do the same.

  Chapter Five

  The sun was sinking now, behind the dome of St Peter’s, the sky over Michelangelo’s supreme work streaked with red and gold. Lisa wanted to give Murray enough time to get here, but there was another reason: in the evening, the shadows were long, the pillars set around the basilica casting their fingers across the square; easier to dart in and out, easier to hide.

  She didn’t know what she was feeling. It had been a weird day. Ever since she’d spoken to him yesterday she had been on edge. She didn’t want to be recognised, so she had walked around the city, in the cool of the early evening, her shades on her face, amongst a million other Romans and tourists. Some boys whistled, and she nearly jumped out of her skin, but they were just checking her out, just young kids leering at a girl. It was hard to see herself that way, a girl, an ordinary female. It was good though, and once she’d settled down again, it was wonderful to think that maybe she could pass, be just another woman.

  The streets started to empty around half eleven, and she walked back to her cheap digs and locked herself in for the night, hearing other kids leave for the clubs and a drunk vomiting in the bathroom across the hall. All that was how it was in a budget place, and Lisa relished it. She stayed awake until one, then slipped into a fitful slumber. But nobody knocked on the door, and she was safe for now at least.

  She woke late, around quarter to ten, showered and left the hostel. It was baking hot outside. She walked around the city until her feet started to ache. Motion seemed safer. When she got tired, she slipped into a church. There were hundreds of them in this city, and most had a few worshippers in the pews, kneeling with their beads, or staring into space. That was good; she could sit quietly, in the darkness, staring at the rich Catholic decorations, and nobody thought to look her way. The flickering votive candles gave off a soft, welcoming light. It was womb-like, protective; she had that ancient sense of sanctuary.

  The day ticked by, agonisingly slowly. She wanted Sam Murray to come so desperately, each heartbeat ticking away another second that he might be in the air. There had to be a way out of this nightmare. She tried praying herself once or twice, but those muscles were rusty, and she felt like a fraud. She was dry, like a Californian creek in summer. She could think of nothing else but escape. When the churches started to oppress her, she left for more walking, a cheap gelato from a stand, a panini. It would be good to sit in a trattoria like a human being, but Lisa didn’t dare stay still, risk some American tourist recognising her. She had to move until she could not walk and then sit until she could not bear it. It was like a prison. It was a prison, only under the good blue sky and the hot sun.

  And she wanted out.

  At three, she headed to the Vatican. That was better, because she was walking somewhere, not strolling aimlessly. She walked over the bridge and past Castle Gandolofo, and the side streets began to fill with tourists and pilgrims. You had to queue for an hour these days and go through metal detectors, and Lisa kept her head down, bowed as though she were in prayer. It was gone four when she was permitted to walk through the great open doors of the cathedral, and in the vastness of St Peter’s she took her time; when she emerged at last, the bright sun had sunk below the horizon, the shadows were safely long, and it was almost time.

  She couldn’t remember ever being this nervous.

  It was late when she saw him. Twenty past five, and with every minute that ticked by on the clock, Lisa was starting to sweat. His plane was delayed. Or cancelled. Or he hadn’t come, or come with the police . . .

  She moved in and out of the shade of the pillars, her fingers twisting each other, trying not to look as anxious as she felt. And suddenly, at last, she saw him.

  He was running, and looked panicked. There was nobody with him. She checked that carefully. He raced over the yellow lines painted on the cobbles that separated Vatican City from Italy, without looking back or checking with some tail. He was looking for her, anxious that she might have left. She could see his hand over his eyes, shading his face as he scanned the crowd. He walked past the edge of the queue for the basilica, moving around the centre of the square.

  And then he saw her.

  He stopped dead, taken aback. Lisa’s breath stuck in her throat. And then he walked deliberately over to her. It was the first time she’d been confronted since Josh had been killed. A wash of fear and hope together ripped through her body, so strong she thought she might faint. She put out one hand, and steadied herself against the stone of the vast grey pillar. Try and keep it together.

  Sam reached her and stood in front of her. He was tanned, with brown eyes and disturbingly thick black lashes. Very muscular under that shirt. He had flecks of grey in his dark hair, a strong jaw, and five o’clock shadow that said he hadn’t stopped to shave after climbing off the plane.

  Lisa became stupidly aware that she was bare-faced. Keeping herself showered and with washed hair had been enough of a challenge. For days she hadn’t bothered with make-up of any kind.

  Josh had liked her perfectly groomed and professionally made up as soon as she emerged from the shower after her morning workout. And now here she was, her hair cut short, her skin wearing nothing but sunshine. And Sam Murray was looking her up and down with a gaze that said he’d known hundreds of women. Stupidly, she wished for some lipstick, some eyeliner. Anything to make herself look presentable.

  Don’t be a fool, Lisa warned herself. He’s not here on a white charger. He’s here to put you in jail. For the rest of your life.

  ‘Did you come alone?’

  He nodded. ‘You can see I did.’

  She glanced round the edge of the square. ‘You might have brought somebody. They could be hiding.’

  ‘Yeah, but you know I didn’t,’ Murray said, looking straight at her.

  Lisa realised she did know it. Her shoulders relaxed. ‘OK.’

  ‘Let’s go somewhere. We can talk. Are you hungry?’

  ‘I don’t want to sit in a restaurant,’ she said. ‘Too many Americans in this city.’

  His dark eyes swept over her. ‘You’re careful. I get that. But I think it’s OK. You look very different already.’

  Her hand crept to her head; a pang of loss for her long, golden hair hit her, and then she was embarrassed for being so stupid and trivial.

  ‘You look fine,’ Sam said.

  Lisa blushed.

  He looked around, checking the square.

  ‘Nobody’s watching. I know a few places in Rome. Out of the way, where they serve the locals and the menus are in Italian. It must be some time since you’ve sat down
and had a meal.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, suddenly gripped with longing. To sit and talk like a human being, to be normal, if only for half an hour. ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘Everything’s a risk, as I’m sure you’ve learned. Follow me.’ He led her away from the safety of the pillars and the shadow of the cathedral, out to the taxi rank, where he shoved her inside a waiting car. His Italian was quite good, and the driver ploughed away without speaking.

  Lisa stared out of the window as the baroque city slipped past her. It was no good starting a conversation with somebody else there to listen. Small talk was pointless. She smiled a little; she had to, because her life had become so ridiculous.

  It was weird to have him sitting next to her. Days of running from people had made her sensitive to company. Murray’s body was close to hers on the small back seat, and she felt his maleness as though his heartbeat was pulsing in her own veins. The ochre walls of the palazzi slipped past them, and they drove across bridges lined with statues of angels. Rome crowded in from all sides, the ancient stones almost leaning in to shelter them.

  He directed the driver and they moved out of the centro storico, past the ancient city and into Trastevere. The cab pulled up in a crowded street and Sam helped her out and paid the driver. Sunset was sinking over the roofs, and warm, limpid light pooled around them, as though the city itself were trying to relax them.

  ‘Down here,’ he said. He led her through a little alleyway and around a corner. Washing was hung out to dry high above them, in the narrow gap between the buildings. The modern city was full of superstition and old-fashioned poverty; Lisa had a sense of being lost as soon as she stepped out of the light.

  There was a restaurant halfway down the street, not like the tourist eateries with their outside space marked by gleaming metal chairs and topiary in pots. It was small, with an open door and a hubbub of noise. Sam took her hand, as though they were lovers, and pulled her through the door. Lisa ducked her head, and he was talking in Italian, and before she knew it he had pushed her to the back of the crowded bar and into a tiny booth with polished wooden benches, her back to the street, facing him. It was wonderfully gloomy, a bit like all those churches, and there was already a half-litre of red wine in a slightly chipped carafe on the table.

  He reached over and poured her a glass.

  ‘Like it?’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ Lisa said. Nobody could see her at this angle, and nobody was looking. There was loud conversation all around them and incredibly delicious scents from the food. Theirs were the only English voices in the place. ‘What’s on the menu?’

  ‘They don’t do menus. Volume is the key to a place like this. You got two pasta dishes, a fish and a meat, and pastries if you want dolce. They cook cheaply and get hungry workers in and out.’ Sam took a look at the chalkboard in front of them. ‘There aren’t too many of these places left in Rome, but this is one of the best. Today you can choose pasta primavera or pappardelle al lepre, and the secondi is lamb stew or monkfish. I’d go for the pappardelle.’

  ‘I don’t speak Italian too well . . .’

  ‘Pasta ribbons with a hare sauce. It’ll be wonderful.’

  She was salivating. ‘Yes please.’

  Sam fired off an order and handed over a twentyeuro note. ‘That’ll cover us both for wine, water and food. And you won’t eat better in the city.’

  Within seconds a brawny waiter, his apron splashed with sauce, had set down two enormous bowls in front of them. He said something to Sam she didn’t catch, and then vanished.

  ‘You also don’t wait for service. They want you to eat well, drink a little and get the hell out.’

  For the first time in days, Lisa laughed. ‘Suits me.’

  He smiled back at her. ‘You look good when you do that.’

  Lisa put her fork in the pasta and took a mouthful. It was sensational. Her body was craving the protein of the meat. Sitting down with someone else, sipping wine; everything was fantastic. The small pleasures were magnified almost unbearably.

  ‘What do you think?’ He grinned at her, comfortable. It was almost like they were back in Thailand, before she got drunk, before the worst happened. ‘Good?’

  She ate for a little while, holding up one hand. You couldn’t talk while you were spooning buttery, rich pasta into your mouth. Finally, gratefully, she took a big slug of wine - it was rough, new wine, but really good, strong enough to cope with the hare - and looked him straight in the face.

  ‘Better than good. Sensational.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘But you didn’t come here to buy me a meal.’

  A shadow crossed his face, as though she’d spoiled something, popped a bubble for him. ‘True. For today, I came here to talk.’

  ‘So talk.’

  ‘Can I tape you?’ He reached into his pocket, drew out a dictaphone. Lisa pulled back.

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Voice-print analysis. The police would have me on file. No. I don’t trust them, I don’t trust anybody.’

  ‘You trusted me enough to come here with me.’

  Lisa pushed the bowl of pasta away from her. ‘And I’ll run straight out of here if you don’t let it go. I don’t need that, Mr Murray. We talk, only talk, or I run. I’m getting good at running. Maybe I’ll scream rape. I guarantee I’ll get away from you.’

  He held up both hands. ‘OK, Lisa. No tape.’ He reached for the Dictaphone, but her hand closed over it. Sam lifted a brow.

  ‘I’ll take that. In case you switch it on in your pocket or something.’ She smiled at his reaction. ‘See? You’ve obviously done it before.’

  ‘I have. But I will keep my word to you, if I give it.’

  She noted the ‘if’.

  ‘I didn’t kill Josh, Sam. I was framed - I had to have been framed. It’s clever and I don’t know how they did it and I don’t know why. But I’m not going to jail for the rest of my life for a murder that had nothing to do with me.’ She looked around. ‘Christ. I wish I had a cigarette.’

  ‘Have wine instead.’ He poured her a little more. ‘It’s OK, there’s not enough here to get drunk.’

  ‘Do you believe me?’ she asked, and his answer mattered, very much. If he lied now, she would walk right out of this restaurant. She would never contact him again. She’d run right out of Italy and take her chances in Switzerland.

  ‘No,’ Sam said slowly. He held her gaze. ‘But I don’t disbelieve you. I figure maybe you don’t know what happened yourself. You think you’re innocent, but you have powerful reasons for wanting to think that. And there’s a lot of evidence.’ He shrugged, drank some of his own wine. ‘Maybe one or two things don’t add up, all the same. I’m hoping I can figure them out by talking them through with you.’

  Lisa stared at him. He wasn’t lying, then. That was something.

  ‘Tell me exactly what’s in it for you.’

  ‘By finding you and talking to you, I file a story with our magazine. I get a quarter of a million dollars per story. Once I capture you, and turn you in . . . it’s a million!’ He put a hand on her arm, steadying her as she prepared to leap from the table. ‘Not now, Lisa, not today; today I’m not hunting, I’m keeping a promise. But if you talk and you leave, and I leave, then tomorrow is another matter. That was the deal. Am I right?’

  Sam Murray could get a million dollars for locking her away. She must be mad, she must be fucking insane. But she found herself saying, ‘Yes. Right.’

  ‘So tell me, Lisa. Tell me why you didn’t do it. You were pretty drunk.’

  ‘I was.’

  He leaned back against the glossy wood of his bench, and as he relaxed, the knot of tension in her stomach started to unravel. She did desperately want to talk. As much to herself as to him.

  ‘Why were you getting drunk? It was your wedding day. You were angry . . .’

  ‘I’d just seen Josh making out with Melissa Olivera. He actually screwed her.�
��

  Sam nodded. He had heard those rumours.

  ‘It wasn’t like he was discreet about it. His damn family were laughing at me. His friends. I was supposed to be grateful I’d finally landed him, just take it and shut up.’

  ‘And you were angry? That wouldn’t be a good start point for the defence.’

  She ate some more pasta. How could she explain it so it sounded logical? But Sam Murray was listening to her. His eyes were on her, and he was paying close attention.

  ‘I wanted to divorce him. Not kill him.’

  ‘He was stabbed many times, so this wasn’t a logical thing. What if you were in a jealous rage?’ She looked at him, and Sam inclined his head. ‘OK, a humiliated rage? What if you snapped, and you were so drunk you didn’t remember? Did you black out?’

  ‘Yes. I woke up in bed with the worst hangover I’ve ever had, Josh dead beside me, and the dagger in my hand.’

  ‘And remembered nothing?’

  ‘The last thing I remember was fighting with Josh, then we stormed upstairs and I lay on the bed. That’s it.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Did you see Josh, Mr Murray?’

  Sam nodded. ‘I came back a little while later to watch you fight. Don’t look at me like that, Lisa, I’m a journalist, it’s my job. And call me Sam. Really.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have been drunk, would he?’

  Sam considered it. ‘No. He never drank alcohol, did he? He was angry with you for making a scene, but he certainly hadn’t had a drink.’

  ‘So riddle me this,’ she said coolly. ‘How did a drunk bride who weighed about half of what he did, a fall-down-drunk girl, stab multiple times a healthy, strong man who was not incapacitated? There wasn’t a bruise on me, not anywhere. I checked that evening in a hostel in Hong Kong.’