Port Of Paradise

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PORT OF PARADISE

An Ellora’s Cave publication written by

LISA MARIE RICE

MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-480-9 Mobipocket (PRC) ISBN # 1-84360-481-7 Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned): Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), & HTML

© Copyright Lisa Marie Rice, May 2003.

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All Rights Reserved, Ellora’s Cave. Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc. USA Ellora’s Cave Ltd, UK

This e-book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by e-mail forwarding, copying, fax, or any other mode of communication without author or publisher permission.

Edited byMarty Klopfenstein Cover Art byScott L. Carpenter

CHAPTER ONE

“Do you lick heavy metal?” Hope Winston bit her lip to hide a smile, and then composed her face before turning to meet the eager eyes of the attractive young Italian. She started mentally flipping through the student files she’d been busily memorizing in the three months since she’d taken over as Director of the English Language Center in Bari, Italy. Ah, now she had it. Giuseppe Carrera, bank employee, second year Intermediate and, at 22, a good four years younger than she was. “Do I like heavy metal?” Hope replied, gently stressing the verb. Rule number one for language teachers. Never correct outright. “Yes, I like heavy metal.” The young man ran his eyes down her figure, lingering on her breasts, bringing his eyes back up only reluctantly to her face. It was something Italian men often did, but usually with more finesse. “I have two tickets to the Dead Boyz’ concert tomorrow night, and — “ Hope stifled an inward sigh, searching for a way to refuse politely and without offending. It was the fourth invitation to the concert she’d had this week. There was something about being a blonde in Italy… “That’s very kind of you, Giuseppe,” she said gently but firmly, “but I’m going to be correcting papers all weekend.” She ran through his file once again in her mind’s eye. “And final exams are coming up, you

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know. Your employer is paying for this course. I think your bank is expecting you to do a bit better than you have been up to now.” He brightened at that and leaned forward enough for her to catch a whiff of Armani for Men. “When exams are over, we go out together, yes?” He even waggled his eyebrows, the puppy. Hope smiled noncommittally and moved past him.Ah , she thought,the male ego. Not even a hammer could put a dent in it. Smiling softly to herself, Hope glanced into each large, airy classroom as she walked down the broad, tiled corridor to the Director’s office. She could hear the soft hum of voices as she walked by the classrooms. Teachers were teaching and students were learning. Everything was orderly. Everything was as it should be. Hope felt a surge of satisfaction. Against all the odds, she’d held things together for her best friend. It was going to be all right. She breathed in the balmy sea air wafting in through the open windows of the corridor, and remembered that it had been a cold and rainy March day in New York when her best friend, Kay Summers, had called her from a hospital bed in Bari. Kay had chafed at being an employee in the run-down language school off Times Square where they both had worked and had dreamed of running and eventually owning her own school. So when Kay read the ad on the internet for a job as director of an English language school in Bari, Italy, applied and received acceptance in one week, Kay had only stopped long enough to look up Bari in an atlas, rush out to buy herself an Italian grammar book and clear out her possessions in the apartment she shared with Hope. Kay’s letters to Hope had been ecstatic. The school was a roaring success, with new students pouring in every day. Bari was chaotic but beautiful, a bustling port city on the boot heel of Italy, studded with palm trees. She’d found a charming house on the beach; a ten-minute train ride from the school. And Italian men were gorgeous. And then had come the panic phone call at five o’clock in the morning. Kay had been struckby a hit-and-run driver and left for dead in the scrub bushes by the side of the road. By chance, a passing car had stopped at the huddled clump of rags that was Kay and had rushed her to a hospital, where the doctors had barely saved her life. When Kay came to several days later, she realized her livelihood was in jeopardy. She would be laid up for months, and the school needed a director. Desperate, Kay had called Hope and pleaded with her to come and take her place. With trepidation, Hope had withdrawn all her savings and bought herself a cheap, one-way ticket to Italy. And she’d done it. She’d kept the school on track for her friend. When Kay finally recovered, she would come back to a still-flourishing business. Hope frowned as she walked into the director’s office. And maybe by the time Kay had recovered

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there’d be a stop to the frightening, deeply disturbing events centered around Kay’s lovely beach home. She was still mulling over that morning’s sickening find when the phone rang. “Hope?” “Kay! I was going to call you later this afternoon. How are you feeling? How’s the pain?” “The pain?” Hope heard the strain in Kay’s voice as she moved on the hospital bed with a creaking of springs. “The pain’s doing fine, thank you.” Hope knew that if Kay was complaining, however lightly, the pain must be fierce. “I’m coming in tomorrow morning with a few steamy romances and a pound of chocolates.” Hope smiled. Some of the loves scenes were hot enough to wake the dead. “Swiss chocolate and sex. Try and clear it with your surgeon.” “The steamy romances or the chocolates? Doesn’t make any difference, anyway. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Kay’s determinedly cheery voice hesitated. “Hope…have you spoken with Captain Rivera yet?” Hope’s stomach muscles clenched. “Uh…not exactly.” Hope couldn’t ignore the exasperation in Kay’s sigh. “Honey, you—we—need someone who knows what he’s doing to help us with whatever’s going on. We can’t do this on our own. Not in a foreign country.” Hope felt the tension race along her spine and clutched the receiver tightly. “There’s got to be some rational explanation for what’s going on, Kay. Maybe it’s just someone playing pranks. I don’t need help. I don’t want help.” A shudder of revulsion ran through her. “Not from a cop, anyway,” she added with loathing. “Isn’t there anyone else we can call in? The marines?” “Of course you need a policeman. You’ve been getting odd phone calls in the night, you see strange men lurking about the house, my new boiler goes on the blink and the repairman discovers that the wires have been severed. Someone slashes the tires on my car. The telephone lines keep getting interrupted. And something else has happened, hasn’t it, Hope?” How did she do it, flat on her back in a hospital bed? Hope wondered. “Oh, that…it was probably the neighbor’s cat — “ “My neighbors don’t have a cat.” Hope was silent for a long moment. “Okay.” She let out her breath in a gust. “There was a dead fish on the doorstep this morning. Very dead. It smelled to high heaven.” “That does it. You’vegot to talk to Franco. Believe me, Hope, I know how you feel about policemen — “ “I hate them,” Hope muttered tightly, heart racing. “I know how you feel,” Kay continued as if Hope hadn’t spoken. “I’ve seen you cross the street in New York to avoid a traffic cop. You’ve told me all about your stepfather. But we’re talking about something

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different here. I don’t know what’s happening, Hope, but it’s scary.” Hope was silent, clutching the telephone as if it were an enemy. “Franco Rivera looks formidable but he is a really nice man.” Kay’s voice was coaxing. “Not to mention a grade A hunk.” “Good God!” Hope was horrified, remembering all too clearly oversized, brainless macho idiots. “Cops aren’t hunks, Kay. Cops are barelyhuman !” She was pushing away even the thought of dealing with a cop. There had to be a way out of this…”Listen, Kay, I couldn’t even communicate with Captain Rivera. My Italian isn’t all that — “ “Franco’s English is excellent,” Kay interrupted. “He got his degree in political science at Georgetown University. His English is probably better than that of any New York cop. Go talk to him today. He told me he’d be sitting in on the Intermediate D class this afternoon.” Hope straightened in fear. “If his English is so good, what’s he doing in class?” Kay’s voice held an unexpectedly diffident note. “I don’t really know, Hope. Looking after his men? I don’t know. I do know he’s asked about you a lot.” Panic flared and Hope grasped the edge of the desk.He’d been asking about her?What did he want with her? Mind racing, Hope tried to think of anything she might have done to attract a cop’s attention. But nothing came to mind. She’d declared the small amount of money she was bringing into the country at the airport. Her residence permit and work permit were in order. As far as she knew, she hadn’t broken any laws at all. Of course, there was last Saturday… “Oh, my God, Kay, I double parked in Via Dante last Saturday,” she whispered in despair. “Do you suppose…?” “No.” Kay’s voice was dry. “No. Somehow I don’t think Captain Franco Rivera, who heads the city’s anti-racketeering squad, really has time to waste on parking tickets. Hope, have you looked in a mirror lately?” “Kay - “ “No, listen to me.” The bed creaked again and Hope could hear Kay stifle a cry of pain. “I—I know I’ve asked a lot of you. I can’t think of anyone else in the world who’d drop whatever they were doing and travel halfway around the globe to help me. Believe me, you can’t imagine how grateful I am.” “Oh, Kay,” Hope murmured. “It’s true, Hope. And I h-h-h,” Kay’s voice trembled. She drew a deep breath. “Ihate having to keep asking for your help. But something is going on and you’re not equipped to deal with it. Maybe someone is setting me up to ask for protection money for the school. I just don’t know. This is my future, Hope. I love it here. I have a real chance to do something with the school. Someone is trying to take it away from me, and I can’t defend myself. Please.” Kay’s voice caught. “Please help me.”

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Hope’s heart thudded heavily in her chest. It felt as if she had a hundred pound rock lodged in there. Fear and bitter memories fought a brief, fierce battle with friendship. The fear and bitterness lost. Kay knew what she was asking. The fact that she was asking it showed how desperate she was. Kay’s voice fell to a whisper. “Hope?” The pleading note was unmistakable. Kay was proud. To plea was wrenching for her. “Please, just talk to Franco. Ask his opinion. He’s been such a good friend to me. I know he’ll help you.Please , Hope.” Head bowed, Hope fiddled aimlessly with a paperweight. Finally, she heaved a huge sigh. “All right, Kay. I’ll talk with your Captain Rivera. How awful can he possibly be?”

***** “Subjunctive mood,” the young English teacher, Mark Harrington, said. Captain Franco Rivera stirred uneasily in his seat and wondered about his own mood. He stretched his legs out in the aisle, paying scant attention to the earnest young man pacing in front of the cadet carabinieri , the elite police corps of Italy, and a few of his trusted lieutenants. “This is a tricky mood to get right,” the teacher intoned. Rivera knew that his men were paying attention to the subjunctive, for he had made it clear to all that a good working knowledge of English was essential to the job and, above all, essential to a promotion. Police work nowadays was international, crossed too many frontiers. Rivera himself worked closely and often with Interpol, Europol, the FBI and the DEA. English was a must and his own was damned good. So what was he doing wasting his time in a class? It wasn’t even as if he had nothing better to do. His office desk was piled a foot high with files waiting to be read. He shifted in his hard chair and told himself he was keeping his men company. Through the windows came the sounds of a crash and glass shattering. Imprecations floated up from the street below. An instant later, horns blasted as angry drivers discovered that they were stuck behind the scene of an accident. Rivera suppressed a grin. Some poor sucker of a traffic cop was going to have a very difficult half hour. “I wish she were here,” Mark said, pushing up with a forefinger the wire-rimmed glasses that kept slipping down his nose. “That is the subjunctive as an expression of desire.” Desire, Rivera thought. Okay. Thatwas why he was sitting in a hot classroom when he had better things to do.Desire . Desire for Hope Winston, a woman he hadn’t yet managed to meet. Six months ago, he’d met Kay Summers at a city-sponsored event and they’d become good friends

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immediately. Both of them realized right away that they were destined to be friends, not lovers. Rivera had done what he could to help Kay, recommending the school to colleagues and acquaintances, fully aware of the weight a senior police officer’s recommendation carried in this society. And his word had ultimately cinched the city’s contract with Kay’s school to teach English to all city policemen. In return, Kay had offered him endless cups of weak coffee and a sympathetic ear when he needed to let off steam. He’d been heartbroken over Kay’s accident and visited her often in the hospital. She didn’t know that he’d been moving heaven and earth to find the hit-and-run driver who’d almost taken her life. So when Kay had asked him, last week, to look out for her best friend, Hope Winston, he had agreed, unhesitatingly. He was willing to do anything to make Kay’s friend welcome. But after one look at Hope, even from a distance, he’d realized that whatever help he could give, it wouldn’t be purely for Kay’s sake. He’d been hooked the first time he saw Hope Winston. At the time, he didn’t know who she was. All he knew was that she was tantalizing. The woman was climbing the big marble steps of the English Language Center. He’d been walking to the corner bar to have a cappuccino before going into the school to introduce himself to Kay’s friend when he stopped dead in his tracks to watch the woman who instantly mesmerized him. Woman watching was one of his favorite past-times; a hobby he shared with roughly 30 million other Italians — the entire male population. But there had been something truly compelling about the woman gracefully climbing the steep marble stairs. A foreigner, she was clearly a foreigner. For one thing, she wasn’t elegantly dressed. Old jeans hugging glorious hips and long, slender legs, tennis shoes and an old tee shirt. Clothes any self-respecting Italian woman wouldn’t be caught dead in. But the giveaway was the hair; long, straight, thick and a stunning platinum blonde. Natural, he’d bet his badge on it. There wasn’t a woman in Bari with hair like that. So he’d stood on the street staring much longer than was usual, ashamed of his behavior — he wasn’t fourteen and woman-starved, after all, he was thirty six and had more than enough sex, thank you very much. Just last night, in fact, he’d had a very satisfactory couple of hours in bed with Silvana Lucarini. So what was he doing, stopping and staring at a woman’sback ? Then someone from street level called, and the woman turned and Franco caught his breath.Gesù , she was gorgeous. In a country of beautiful women, she was a knockout. Pale, oval face, stunning features, eyes a pale silvery blue so intense the color was still startling from 50 feet away. It was Hope Winston . It had to be. There wasn’t another woman like that in all of Apulia. Helping Kay’s friend had suddenly become his new top priority. Like an idiot, he’d stood stunned in the street just long enough for her to turn back around and disappear into the building. It took him a minute to gather his wits and then he sprinted up the steps, cappuccino forgotten. He’d described her to an amused secretary, who confirmed that the person he’d seen was, indeed, the new director, Hope Winston. Butla Direttrice Winston had just left the premises, two minutes ago.

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That had been four days ago and it was always the same story. She’d just left or hadn’t arrived yet. Franco had caught tantalizing glimpses of a platinum head disappearing around corners, slender curves in ugly clothes walking down a hallway and vanishing from sight and once—two days ago—he’d looked down out of a window at the school to see her looking up. Their eyes met and held. She was breathtaking, so beautiful it was as if she’d come from another world. And maybe she had because she’d completely vanished by the time he’d run down the flight of stairs. He couldn’t get her face out of his head all that first day, and that night he’d had a wet dream for the first time in years. Silvana had called him the next day for a repeat performance and he found himself pleading overwork.Cristo , since when did he turn down sex? It was insane. He needed to see her. He’d been walking around with a semi hard-on for four days now and that couldn’t be healthy. And Kay was becoming more and more insistent that something dangerous was going on. All the more reason to corner the woman. Maybe he’d just knock on her door and introduce himself. The soft knock startled him out of his reverie and stopped Mark Harrington in mid-sentence. “Mark?” Hope Winston opened the door a crack and stuck her head in, the pale spill of hair catching the light from the open windows. She looked around the room, silver blue eyes wide and anxious. “Can I interrupt your class for a minute?”

Hope stepped gingerly into the classroom, feeling as if she were walking straight into a minefield, and shot an apologetic smile at Mark. “Excuse me.” Hope gave a brief, fleeting smile. She walked to the teacher’s podium and surveyed the room as she wiped damp palms on her jeans. She saw a roomful of clean-cut young men, not all that different from the young men she could see on any street in Bari. They didn’t look anything like the cops she remembered. She had all-too painful memories of what they looked like. Beefy. Obtuse. Cruel. One of the men in the room was different, however, she noticed as she looked nervously around. He sat in the front row, to the side. He was older than the rest, good-looking in a rough-hewn way. He looked hard, tough, cynical, like he ate rocks for breakfast. He had massively broad shoulders and large, powerful hands. His dark brown hair needed a cut. Light brown eyes glittered at her. Every other man in the classroom looked like a college graduate student. This man looked every inch a cop. A hard one. She hoped to God he wasn’t Captain Rivera. Hope turned to Mark. “Ah, Mark, sorry to break in.” She gripped the edge of Mark’s desk to stop the fine trembling in her hands and blew out her breath in a nervous puff. “I—do you happen to have a Captain Rivera in this

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class?” Mark pushed his glasses once again up to the bridge of his nose. “Sure, Hope,” he said, his voice friendly and light. “And feel free to come in any time you want. That’s Captain Rivera right there in the front row.” To Hope’s dismay, the hard-looking man rose slowly to his feet. As Hope turned nervously to meet him, her hand sideswiped all of Mark’s classroom notes. She could only watch in horror as a month’s worth of notes fluttered slowly, almost gracefully to the floor.

Hope’s face was still flaming as she walked to her office door, miserably conscious of Captain Rivera treading closely behind her. She was acutely aware of him, though he wasn’t making any noise at all. In contrast, her sneakers squeaked loudly on the linoleum tiles. She had a very sharp sense of smell and could smell him behind her. No after-shave, thank god. Just shampoo and soap and male musk, which would have been pleasant if it hadn’t been coming from a cop. She was grateful for the fact that he wasn’t as tall as she would have thought. His shoulders were so broad, she’d been afraid that he would tower over her. He was intimidating enough as it was. As it happened, however, though strongly built, he was only five or six inches taller than she was. He was walking so closely behind her, she felt…herded, and drew a sigh of relief when they reached her office door. Her palms were so damp that her hand slipped once on the doorknob. She could feel a trickle of sweat run down her spine. Get a grip on yourself, Hope, she told herself. Once in her office, Hope moved quickly away, keeping her back turned to him. “Please have a seat, Captain Rivera.” She switched on the percolator and glanced over her shoulder. “I’m afraid all I can offer you is American coffee, Captain. I hope you can stomach it.” “I got used to American coffee in Washington,” he replied. His voice was a deep bass with the faintest of accents. “Now I actually prefer it to espresso. And please call me Franco.” Hope turned with a bright, brittle smile fixed on her face, hoping he wouldn’t notice the clenched teeth. “And you must, of course, call me Hope, “ she gritted. Hope took some coffee mugs from the cupboard and tried not to think too hard about being on first-name terms with a cop. “I’m sorry to drag you out of your class, Cap—er, Franco.” Hope kept an eye on him as she poured. He folded heavily muscled arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair as he watched her. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, his voice a deep rumble. “I was going to come to your office today anyway, when —hey!” He started out of his chair. “Did you burn yourself?” Damn! Never show weakness in the face of an enemy. Hope remembered reading that in some medieval Chinese warlord’s book of tactics. The general would certainly not have approved of becoming a complete klutz in the face of the enemy.

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“No please don’t get up,” she said hastily. “I didn’t burn myself. I just stained Kay’s carpet, that’s all.” Hope bent down to wipe the spilled coffee, and started breathing deeply through her nose, pushing in and out with her diaphragm. Her yoga teacher had been pretty thorough about breathing. Standing, she turned to face him, holding the now-brown rag in front of her as if it were a shield. Her lungs felt frozen and she had to make an effort to breathe. In, out, in, out, Hope. Come on now, you’ve been breathing all your life. Nothing to it, once you’ve got the hang of it. He was watching her out of cold, observant eyes, the eyes of a cop who sees everything. This was a man to fear. “Just —” She coughed to loosen a too-tight throat. “Just why were you coming to see me, er, Franco? Is there something wrong?” “Wrong?” Rivera blinked slowly. He seemed to do everything with slow deliberation. “Why should anything be wrong?” He looked at her with hooded eyes. “It’s just that Kay asked me to keep an eye on you and it’s hard to keep an eye on a woman who’s never around. So, Hope, what can I do for you? You came to get me. Was there something you wanted to talk about?” Yes, of course.She’d come tohim . How could she have forgotten? She needed him, but more than anything else, Kay needed him. It was the thought of Kay, flat on her back, face pinched and pale from the pain, which gave her a much-needed shake. Whatever her personal feelings about policemen, however much this particular one intimidated her, she had to push her feelings aside. This was no time to wimp out. Not while Kay’s future was at stake. Hope sat down behind her desk and folded her hands on the shiny, wooden surface. She stared down at her clasped hands for a moment as if she’d never seen them before, then raised her head. That was a mistake. The late afternoon sun streaming in through the windows at her back painted Rivera’s skin golden bronze, turning his eyes from brown to a kind of smoky hazel green at the rim, with yellow flecks like gold sparkles thrown in just for effect…Hope jolted as she realized she’d been staring. She steeled herself to deal with the business at hand, wrenching her eyes from his face. She addressed a point just over his left shoulder. “Kay insisted that I talk with you, though I’m not too sure what you can do about it—what anyone can do about it—I mean if it’s some kids playing pranks, then surely they’ll ease up when they see that they haven’t really had an effect on me, because I’ve been very careful not to change my routine, though three months is not long enough to have established a routine, really, but I mean if they see that there’s no getting a rise out of me then surely they’ll ease off, won’t they?” Hope wound down and looked at him expectantly. Rivera’s gaze was unwavering, the planes of his face hard and expressionless. “You’ll have to tell me more about what’s been going on if I’m to make an informed judgment,” he said, deep voice calm.

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Well, maybe she had rambled a bit, but he rattled her so. Sitting on a chair in her office, not moving, but managing to embody brute male power. He reduced her to a babbling idiot. She sighed, intertwining her fingers and pulling her hands apart again. “I—I don’t really know where to start.” “The beginning wouldn’t be a bad place,” he rumbled. “The beginning.” Hope drew in a deep breath. “Okay here goes. As well as I can remember, it started the instant I arrived, three months ago, on March 10th. One of the teachers at the school picked me up at the airport and drove me out to Torallo, where Kay has this charming little —” “I’ve been to Kay’s house,” Rivera interrupted. He had taken out a small notebook and was taking notes. At least it meant that she wasn’t on the receiving end of a scrutiny out of those remarkable eyes that could penetrate steel. He scribbled steadily. “‘It’ started, you said. Just what do you mean by ‘it’?” Hope was glad that he seemed to be taking copious notes, though she knew that what she had to say was frustratingly vague. It was also much easier to talk when he wasn’t looking at her. “Roger—that’s Roger Merritt--he teaches Advanced C—had to leave immediately, so he just dropped me off with a set of keys and some instructions for the house Kay had left with him. At the time, I didn’t think there was anything wrong. I mean I didn’t know the house, and I was jet-lagged and worried about Kay, and it was only with hindsight that I realized something was wrong —” Hope stopped abruptly. “I’m rambling again, aren’t I?” “No. When you first entered the house, a number of things struck your subconscious whose significance only became clear with hindsight, in the light of further events. Nothing could be clearer.” “Yes.” Hope was relieved. “That’s it exactly.” This wasn’t going badly at all. Certainly not as badly as she’d feared. Maybe there was something to Kay’s idea of getting professional help. If nothing else, though he looked scary and cynical, Captain Franco Rivera also looked extremely competent. “Someone had been running water in the sink and there was a wet cup on the draining board. The back door, the one that leads down to the beach, was unlocked. And there was…” Hope closed her eyes and wrinkled her nose, “ a smell.” Rivera put his notebook down, eyes narrowed. “A smell?” “Yes, very definitely a smell and not a nice one. Maybe I should tell you that I’m very sensitive to smells. I can’t use scented soaps or wear perfume because I find them overwhelming. Maybe it’s something someone else wouldn’t have noticed, but I did. And the awful thing is, more and more often, I’ve come home to the same smell.” “And what is it?” She hesitated, trying to find the right words. “A strong, cheap men’s after shave mixed in with an overpowering smell of sweat. It’s an unmistakable—and nauseating—combination.” “And you come home in the evenings to that smell?” “No, not every evening, maybe two or three times a month, twice in the last week.”

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Rivera leaned forward, completely concentrated on what she was saying. “What else?” “Oh —” Hope gulped and waved her hand in the air. “Things. Things keep happening. Kay’s brand-new boiler was sabotaged. When I called the technician in to repair it, he showed me that the connecting wires hadn’t frayed; they’d been deliberately severed. I’m using Kay’s car while I’m here, a little Fiat, and one morning the tires were slashed. This morning I found a dead fish on thedoorstep. And I keep getting horrible phone calls at all hours.” Hope was scaring herself with this recital of events. She needed, badly, to inject a lighter note. “And—and when I answer all I get is heavy breathing and lots of words I can’t find in my Italian dictionary.” Hope wasn’t really expecting a reaction to her feeble attempt at humor, but she was unprepared for the grim look that crossed Rivera’s hard face. She panicked for a moment until she realized that the grim look wasn’t directed at her. This was the first time Hope had strung together in a logical sequence what had appeared each time to be an isolated event. But there was more—and suddenly she wanted to tell this man what she’d kept even from Kay. “Those are the tangible things,” she began hesitantly. “The things I could tell a co—a policeman. But there are other things, which you might dismiss as the product of an overheated imagination, and the hysteria of a woman living alone. Except that I’m not hysterical.” “No,” Rivera murmured and the muscles in his jaw clenched. “Tell me about the other things.” Frustrated, she stood up and walked around the desk. She perched a hip on the corner. “It’s so hard to describe, Cap — Franco.” Suddenly, she wanted very much for this man to understand her even if what she had to say was so terribly vague. “It’s as if some evenings the house has no rest. I can hear the shrubs rustling even if there’s no wind. I think—sometimes I hear voices, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. I feel constantly watched.” “Have you taken note if these events happen at regular intervals, say at the full moon or at the new moon?” Hope looked blank for a moment. Kay had said that Franco Rivera was utterly trustworthy and up until now, to tell the truth, he had seemed just that. Hard maybe, tough certainly, intimidating absolutely, but solid. Kay had never hinted that he might be mentally unstable. She looked at him strangely. “You suspect werewolves?” she asked, careful to keep her tone even. “No.” That deep voice turned dry. “I was just wondering if whatever is going on requires darkness or moonlight.” “Oh.” Hope unclenched her fists and felt a hot flush of shame. “I never even thought of that.” “Of course you didn’t. It’s not your business. It’s mine. It’s your business to teach English, and you do it well by all accounts.” He stood up abruptly. “Come on.” “Come on?” She felt alarm shoot through her again, just when she’d started to relax in his presence. “Where to?”

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He was already at the door. “To the scene of the crime.” He was coming home with her?She made it to the door just as his hand reached the knob, and bumped into a solid wall of muscle when he stopped abruptly. He turned to look at her, unsmiling, those compelling eyes intent on hers. This close, she could see his lashes, thick and stubby, were the color of mink. He had a heavy beard and, this late in the afternoon, he needed a shave. He was much too close, sending her heart racing. Her brain overheated and stalled. She said the first thing that came into her mind. “I want you to know, Cap—er, Franco, that I double-parked in Via Dante last Saturday.” “Did you?” he said mildly and a corner of his hard mouth turned up. He cupped her elbow with a rough, warm hand, opened the door and ushered her out. “Lucky you. I, myself, usually have to triple-park on Saturdays.”

CHAPTER TWO

Why didn’t Kay tell me?Hope thought resentfully, grabbing the shoulder strap and holding on for dear life as Rivera rounded a curve on what felt like two wheels, shooting onto the ring road that would take them to Torallo. They whizzed past the tall apartment blocks surrounding Bari’s ancient city center. Soon—terrifyingly soon—two-story tall palm trees and scrub pine replaced the signs of human habitation. In what seemed like mere minutes, the sandstone spire of Torallo’s Romanesque cathedral speared the horizon. It usually took her the better part of an hour to drive at her customary sedate pace into the city on Saturday mornings, when traffic was at its lightest. Now, at the peak of the rush hour, they were almost at the outskirts of Torallo after a death-defying twenty-minute drive. Though, to be honest, she seemed to be the only one terrorized. When Rivera shot through a ridiculously small opening to overtake another car, the other drivers didn’t shake their fists in indignation, as she would have imagined. Rather, they eased a fraction of an inch to one side to let him by and looked on admiringly as he streaked through. He seemed to know what he was doing, she admitted reluctantly to herself as they pulled up in Kay’s small driveway. The police-issue Fiat sedan wasn’t even dented. Cops. If they don’t get you one way, they’ll get you another, Hope thought as she climbed out on slightly shaky legs. “Do you always drive like that?” she asked him over the car’s roof. She felt frazzled and cranky, forgetting her manners for a moment. Forgetting that he was going out of his way to help her. “Like what?” Rivera frowned, puzzled, as he locked the door and came around to the passenger side.

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“Never mind,” Hope muttered and fished in her bag for the keys. She breathed in the tang of the fresh sea breeze and raised her face to the late afternoon sun, glad to be alive after the hair-raising ride. Kay’s house boasted a small, dilapidated garden. Over the past three months, Hope had pulled the weeds and bought a few small, cheap potted plants, happy that she could do this small service for her friend. “Have you been working in the garden?” Rivera asked as they walked side by side up the drive. He looked cool and relaxed but his eyes were restless. Hope had the feeling that he was registering everything, that he was learning everything about her with a mere glance at her surroundings. She didn’t like it, didn’t like being an open book. “Yes. A little, when I have time. Mainly on the weekends.” His restless gaze stopped moving and honed in on her face. “It looks nice. Kay will be pleased when she gets back.” They stopped at the peeling wooden door, which had once been painted a bright, cobalt blue. She smiled, thinking his words over.When Kay gets back. Please God, soon. She clutched her key so hard it bit into her palm. She inserted it into the lock. “I enjoy gardening, it’s…” Hope stilled, some elemental feeling of wrongness penetrating the nerves the man beside her made her feel. “That’s funny…” Hope stopped and stared at the key in the lock, then swung her puzzled gaze up at Rivera. “I could have sworn I turned the key twice this morning when I— umph!” He held her pressed tightly against the white stucco wall, one hand covering her mouth. The other hand held her so firmly against the wall that the rough texture of the stucco ate into her back even through her thick cotton sweater. Her heart beat painfully, and she stared up at him, eyes wide, reminded all over again of why she hated cops. They were all violent and cruel. Only the hand over her mouth wasn’t biting into her jaw, or stopping her in any way from breathing. He was just making sure she didn’t make a sound. The dark eyes weren’t insane but wary. She drew in a deep breath, and could feel her breasts brushing against his chest. She watched the strong muscles of his throat move as he swallowed. His shoulders were so broad they cut out the view behind her and all she could see was bronze skin and a tan polo shirt open enough to show thick curly black chest hairs. Something stirred in her, but before she could think about it, the pressure on her eased. Rivera bent down to brush his cheek against hers. His voice was a mere breath in her ear. “Maybe someone’s still inside. Don’t move. Understand?” Hope nodded once, the movement sending small flakes of white stucco cascading over her shoulders. His eyes had gone that smoky green-brown again. He nodded brusquely and released her, his hand closing over hers, silently catching the keys. He opened the door soundlessly and slipped through.

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Hope slumped in relief. For a moment there—just a moment—she’d thought…She shook her head, curiosity now replacing her earlier fear. Ignoring his instructions to stay put, Hope followed close on his heels, then skidded to a stop, heart thudding, at the scene before her. For a moment, it didn’t register and she thought they had made a mistake, driven to the wrong house. The small house she had left this morning had been neat and tidy, not…not…Hope couldn’t stifle the gasp of dismay. “Oh, no!” Rivera’s head whipped around and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “I thought I told you to stay outside,” he growled. He walked slowly around the small living room, taking in the scene of destruction and chaos, noting what had been destroyed, what had merely been thrown to the ground. Hope saw a ceramic vase that was only cracked. Maybe it could be saved. She bent down. “Don’t!” His deep voice rang with the steel of command. Hope immediately withdrew her hand. “Don’t touch anything until I tell you to.” Kay had decorated the small house cheaply with bargain-basement furniture and supermarket rugs. She’d painted the walls herself—a bright cheery yellow which glowed now in the late afternoon light. The overall effect had been pleasing and cozy. Now it was a shambles. All Kay’s paperbacks had been pulled out of the white laminated bookcases and lay open where they had fluttered to the floor, spines cracked, like so many dead birds. The cushions of the flower-be sprigged sofa had been tossed to the floor as well and the foam spilling obscenely out of the slashed flowery fabric made them look like gutted animals. Kay had bought some cheap copies of Picasso’s bullfighter lithographs and had had them framed. They had been pulled down from the walls and stomped on until the glass broke and the frames twisted. Shards of glass laid on the floor and Hope felt as if they had pierced her heart. A chill ran through her at the ferocious hatred it must have taken to wreak this much havoc. Just as she caught the familiar, sickening smell of cheap aftershave lotion and sweat, she heard the snick of the back porch door. She didn’t hesitate a second. “Hey!” Rivera barely had time to register the fact that Hope had followed him, when he realized that she had slipped through the house to the back. Where was she going? He pushed open the still swinging back porch door.

***** Hope stood still on the small, sandy promontory, shading her eyes against the white-hot glare of the afternoon sun, watching restlessly for something… There he was! Hope caught a glimpse of dirty blond curls flying and puffs of sand as a lightly built man ran down the headland to the beach.

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So you think you got away with it?she thought, as she eased into a light jog down the treacherous footing of the headland. Kay’s house was built on a small rise sloping down to a long, sandy beach. To the left was a rocky outcropping sheltering the small cove. To the right, curving gently in a crescent shape for a mile or so, the beach faded into a pine grove. Hope had run along that beach every morning and every evening since she had been there. She knew it as well as she knew the corridors of the school. The lowering sun burnished the sand, picking up the highlights of silica sparkling like upside down stars. The man had almost reached the beach. She ran lightly down the headland, picking her way carefully over the sandy slope, and then gathering speed along the hard-packed sand of the shoreline. Finally, she had firm footing. Hope slipped off her shoes and took off. He had a lead of at least 300 feet. He thought he was safe. She smiled in grim satisfaction as she pelted along the shore. It was high tide, and the waves washing up wet her feet as she pounded along the hard-packed sand. It had been a long time since she’d been in a race—too long—but she remembered the fierce rush of adrenaline, the feeling of flying as her legs ate up the distance. She was close enough now to notice his clothes. A lightweight cotton shirt which fluttered in the sea breeze and dirty chino pants, wet up to his knees. Leather sandals without socks. He turned once, eyes widening as he saw how close she was getting. She caught a glimpse of sallow skin, a day’s growth of beard and a cruel, tightly compressed mouth before he turned again and began running in earnest. Oh no, you don’t. Hope breathed deeply and lifted her head. She almost forgot what she was doing in the sheer joy of the run. Her legs pounded along the sand in the measured rhythm of an athlete. He was flagging. The signs were unmistakable. She could see his chest heaving and his uncertain gait. He tripped as a wave washed over his feet, and then he regained his footing. Hope kept her breathing even, in time with her stride.One, two, one, two. Left, right, left, right. The sun danced over the wavelets the evening tide brought in. She drew steadily closer. Hope saw the man glance around again. This time there was fear on his face. His eyes opened wide, the whites clearly visible around the dark irises. She could see the sweat pouring down his face, dropping in rivulets beside his mouth, now open and gasping for air. His narrow ribcage rose and fell as he tried to suck in air. He reached inside the waistband of his trousers. Hope barely had time to register a glint of metal when an express train hit her in the side and she plunged

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into the shallows, rolling heavily as something kept her under the water. She sputtered, outraged, while strong arms held her and rolled her once more, further into the sea. She coughed as a wave washed over her, the salt water burning her nose. She heard a familiar crackle then the soft splash as a bullet plowed into the sea, exactly where she’d been a moment before. Someone was shooting at her! Rivera was holding her down, shielding her body with his own. Hope didn’t need someone to tell her to keep her head down then. She gulped deeply and sank beneath the waves of her own accord.

Rivera watched in growing disbelief and anger as Hope took off after the intruder. The little fool!Crazy woman, what did she think she was proving?He started after her, picking his way as quickly as he could over the rock-strewn ground. It was only as Hope and the intruder was racing along the headland and Rivera was slipping and sliding down the rocky scree behind them that he realized Hope was a first-class runner. And that she was going to catch up with the man he could see scurrying in the distance. With each passing minute, Hope drew a foot closer to the man. The intruder was lightly built but he was no runner and Rivera could see the desperation on the intruder’s face each time he looked around to see Hope a little closer. He was angry at Hope for being so foolhardy, but he had to admire her slender, athletic form sprinting through the shallows so lightly it was as if she were running on water. She was almost faster than he was, and he was a good runner. It wouldn’t be long now, Rivera noted. The intruder was running unsteadily, glancing more and more often over his shoulder at his two pursuers. They were gaining on him. Surely he didn’t think he could get away? Hope was quite clearly still into her first wind, her stride steady and even. The pine grove was still a good 200 feet away. There was no way the intruder could make it there first. Rivera could almost taste victory in his mouth, could almost feel the man’s scrawny neck under his fingers when his blood suddenly ran cold in his veins. Ahead of him he could see the man, now less than 30 feet from Hope, stop and turn with a gun in his hand. Shit, shit,shit! In the rush of events, Rivera hadn’t had time to stop and think that maybe the man might be carrying. His mouth went dry with the bitter metallic taste of fear. He’d seen hundreds of gunshot victims. He knew only too well what would happen to Hope at such short range. In the four years he’d studied political science at Georgetown University, Rivera had spent almost as much time on the scrimmage fields as he had in the classroom. Terrorized that he might not be in time, he gave a powerful thrust with his right foot and launched himself into the longest tackle of his life, bringing Hope down and rolling with her into the safety of the sea.

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Hope raised her head cautiously and breathed deeply, ready to dive again. They were both submerged in waist-deep water. She glanced over Rivera’s broad shoulder, aware in a part of her mind that he was deliberately keeping himself between her and the beach. The beach was empty. The huge crimson sun dipping slowly beneath the craggy headland bathed the shore with a golden glow. The dark green of the pine trees in the small grove in the distance stood out in stark contrast to the amber-colored sand. Pine resin, hot sand and seawater mixed to form a heady scent. It was Hope’s favorite time for running. A wave lifted them, and then settled them back on the sandy ocean floor. Hope instinctively clutched Rivera’s broad shoulders. He was close. Alarmingly close. Her hands were on his shoulders, forearms and breasts flattened against his chest. Through his wet tan polo shirt and her thin wet tee shirt, she could feel the thick mat of hair on his chest against her breasts. She flexed her fingers experimentally and discovered that there was no give to the muscles of his shoulders. None at all. It was like resting her hands on a thick steel bar. There was another thick steel bar in his pants. He wasn’t rubbing his penis against her, but she could feel it, hard and hot against her mound. Fully erect. “I think he’s gone.” Her voice sounded unnaturally loud in the hushed silence. She pulled back to look at Rivera. “Shouldn’t we be trying to follow him?” He didn’t answer, just looked at her. A muscle clenched tightly in his jaw. He was breathing deeply, quickly, but it didn’t sound like the pants of a man who’d been on a run. He was in ridiculously good shape and it hadn’t been that long a run. No, she thought uneasily, it was more like the panting of an angry bull. Just before the bull charged. He made a low sound in his throat, fisted his hands in her hair and kissed her. A hard, angry kiss that was hateful and insulting and…thrilling. Hope tried to resist it, tried not to give in to the pleasure but his mouth was hotter than the sun sinking into the sea, his tongue rubbing hers setting off sparks which traveled instantly to her groin, where hot wet heat pooled. This was crazy. She wasn’t a sexual woman at all. She’d had exactly two lovers and they had both been disappointments. She was semi-resigned to thinking of herself as cool, almost frigid. And Franco Rivera was acop —a guaranteed turn-off. Her body wasn’t listening at all. He was eating at her lips, slanting his mouth over hers and she shocked herself by meeting his tongue with her own. He was stroking his tongue in her mouth in exactly the same rhythm a penis makes when making love and to her horror, her vagina responded, fluttering. A big hand on her backside pressed so hard the folds of her sex opened and she was suddenly riding his penis. It swelled and became even larger as he ground his hips against her in time with the thrusts of his tongue. Though his penis wasn’t in her, it was much, much more exciting than anything she’d ever experienced with a man before. She moaned into his mouth, muscles lax with surrender. There it was again, that flutter in her vagina, only

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harder. She was so close… He pulled back suddenly, the skin over his cheekbones flushed and taut. His lips were wet and slightly swollen from their kiss. His eyes pinned her angrily. “If you ever try anything like that again,” he said, his voice a low growl, “I will shoot you myself.”

CHAPTER THREE

“So,” Rivera growled and scowled at her. It was nothing new, Hope reflected with an inward sigh. He’d been scowling at her since they’d returned, sopping wet and shivering, from the beach. She’d been shaken by the kiss, shaken by the near-orgasm she’d had in the water, shaken that it was a cop who’d made her feel that way, though it had been the man who had aroused her so strongly. It was the man who had kissed her, but it was the cop who had dragged her out of the water and up to the house. And it wasthe cop who’d been angry with her ever since. While Hope showered, Rivera had made a few phone calls and surprisingly soon the small beach house had filled with young, efficient police officers. They swarmed everywhere, working smoothly and silently, while he took his own shower. Someone must have brought a clean change of clothes, for he was now dressed in a dark brown Benetton sweatshirt and tan slacks. Something—Hope didn’t know if it was the brown of the sweatshirt or the anger he wasn’t bothering to hide—accentuated the green in his eyes. It was disconcerting to be on the receiving end of so much intensity and so much anger. She had been foolish. Nothing could change that. Hope stared down at the tepid tea she was sipping, then lifted her gaze after a few moments, knowing what she would find directed at her: hazel-green fury. The house had been dusted for fingerprints and a fine gray dust like iron filings lay everywhere. A tap had been put on the phone. The beach had been combed until one officer held up a sand-covered spent cartridge in triumph. A plaster cast of all the fresh tire tracks in the pine grove had been taken, on the off chance that the man had driven away. Rivera directed the work quietly, efficiently, and furiously. Every time he thought his anger was dying down, another image flashed of the scrawny man drawing a bead on Hope. The cartridge they had found had been a .45. A deadly weapon even at a distance. At such close quarters, it would have punched a hole in Hope’s chest as big as a plate. Or blown her pretty head apart. Rivera clenched his fists and felt the anger wash over him again. Some part of him knew it was masking the fear. His men were doing everything possible, pulling out all the stops. The case had gone beyond harassment now. When the man was caught, the charge would be attempted murder, which justified an all-out search. Drained, Hope put down her cup. Whenever she turned, she seemed to be on the receiving end of

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Captain Rivera’s intense, disapproving glare and she didn’t want him to notice that her hands were starting to tremble. Shock, she thought. It’s the reaction. But she knew it wasn’t just that. It was the memories of the other time cops had swarmed over her house. She remembered the head of the Palm Beach police force with a warrant clutched in his enormous, hairy hand, signaling his men to search the mansion. Hope could remember one particularly unsavory officer pawing through her underwear, sniggering at the plain cotton underpants he pulled from her dresser. She remembered the harsh voices, the lights, the questions. She shivered uncontrollably. Rivera saw how pale Hope had become, the smudges beneath her eyes, the trembling in her hands she was trying to conceal. He saw her shiver and called one of his men over and spoke quietly to him. A few moments later, the wool afghan, which had covered Kay’s couch, was placed over Hope’s shoulders. She gratefully clutched the blanket, huddling in its warmth. Looking up, she again met that disconcertingly intense gaze, less hostile now. Rivera held her eyes a moment, looked her over carefully, then turned away, satisfied that the shivering had stopped. No, she thought.This is not like last time . Of course, the last time she hadn’t been the victim. She had been the suspect. This time, the police officers combing through her things were neatly dressed and impeccably polite. They examined everything quickly, and then put it back in place. The small house looked neater now, not as if a bomb had blown it up. When two boyish officers started sweeping up the shards of glass and putting Kay’s books back into up righted bookcases, Hope took pity on them. Shrugging off the blanket covering her shoulders, she disappeared into the kitchen, glad of something to do. When she appeared again in the doorway of the living room with a large platter of ham sandwiches and mugs of tea, all the policemen—including Rivera—stopped what they were doing, and crowded around the table. It would appear that Italian police officers inhaled food rather than chewing and swallowing like ordinary mortals, for everything disappeared in minutes. Hope was cradling a mug of tea, smiling at a tug-of-war over the last brownie, when someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned to meet a barrel chest and moved her eyes upward until they finally met the kindly brown eyes of a spectacularly ugly man. He had a thick nose, which looked as if it had been broken several times, and pockmarked skin. A long, jagged scar ran down the side of his face. He was older than the others, more like Rivera’s age. She’d noticed Rivera never gave him direct orders. “Guardi, signorina.”Look.The man held out the pad that ordinarily sat next to the telephone on the overturned coffee table. He was holding it directly under her nose. It was blank. Just as blank as the look on Hope’s face as she tilted her head up at him. “Yes?”

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“This pad.” The man tapped it with an enormous, blunt finger. Stifling an exclamation of impatience, Hope smiled. “I can see it’s a pad,” she said carefully. “What do you want me to do with it?” Unthinkingly, she had spoken in English and it was the man’s turn to look blank. They stared at each other, frustrated. “What is it, Marco?” Hope jumped at the sound of Rivera’s deep voice behind her. With a sigh of relief, the man turned to his Captain and erupted into a long explanation. Hope tried to follow, but all she caught were tantalizing fragments of meaning—number, paper, and computer. Rivera was holding the pad now. “Hope, did you write a number on this pad, then tear it off?” She thought carefully. “No,” she said after a long moment. “Whenever I have to write a number down, I put it directly into my pocket diary. I hate bits and pieces of paper flying around. Now that I come to think of it, I know I’ve never used it. Why? It’s blank.” “This page is blank,” Rivera replied, “but someone wrote something on the sheet on top of it. We’ll put this under a lambent light then try some computer-enhancement.” “But--” He had been walking away. “Yes?” He turned to her. “But—what if Kay wrote something down a few months ago. I don’t know--her hairdresser’s number or something?” “Firstly—I doubt paper would retain an impression after several months have elapsed. And secondly—if it is her hairdresser, then he’ll be under suspicion for attempted murder. Excuse me. I have work to do.” “Signorina.” Hope turned back to the ugly man. “Yes?” The man spoke slowly, so slowly and clearly she could follow him. “Captain Rivera has given orders for you to be given protection. You’ll be all right,” he reassured her. “Captain Rivera is very good at his job.” Hope smiled at that. Captain Rivera was being a world-class pain in the backside at the moment, but she didn’t doubt for a moment that hewas very good at his job. If she were honest with herself, now that she had started to cool down, she supposed he had every right to be angry with her. “How’s your friend?” the ugly officer surprised her by asking. “My friend? You mean Kay?”

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“Sì.” He wasn’t looking at her, but examining the phone as if he’d never seen one before. “Do you know Kay?” Hope asked. He grimaced. “I kept repeating beginner’s class over and over until I realized I just wasn’t cut out for languages.” He tapped what looked like a remarkably thick cranial structure. “Too bone-headed.” Hope smiled. “Kay’s doing a little better.” A dull red stained the man’s sallow cheekbones. “She was very kind to me. I was sorry to hear that she’d had an accident. Please tell her Marco sends his best.” Well, well, well, Hope thought. “Why don’t you tell her yourself, Marco?” she asked. “What?” He looked startled. “I said why don’t you say hello to her yourself? She’s at the Santa Monica Clinic, room 341 and I know for a fact that she’d love visitors. I also know for a fact that she loves chocolates.” “Marco.” Rivera’s gruff voice called from across the room and Marco straightened and crossed immediately to his boss. Hope noticed that everyone seemed to defer to Captain Rivera as if he were the Almighty Himself. Maybe her lack of obedience was what had put him in such a foul mood. If so, too bad. Hope had never been very good at obeying orders. Rivera huddled with his men while Hope threaded a needle and picked up one of the slashed cushions. As quickly and as silently as they had come, the police officers left, leaving behind a chill silence. Rivera planted himself in front of Hope, fairly quivering with the force of unspoken words. Calmly, Hope started taking small, neat stitches in the flowered fabric. “So.” “So?” She arched an eyebrow and bit off some thread. He glared at her. “Do you want me to say it? Okay, I’ll say it. That stunt you pulled tonight was the most foolhardy, asinine thing I’ve ever…” “I agree,” she said quietly. “If you ever try anything like that again—you what?” “I said I agree. It was very, very stupid of me to follow that man out. I wasn’t thinking at all, I was so mad. If you hadn’t been there, he would have killed me. And I haven’t even thanked you for saving my life. Thank you very much, Franco.” He sat down and stared at her for a long moment. “You’re welcome.” The words sounded strangled. He tried again. “I couldn’t believe you were so foolish—” “You’re dead right,” Hope said calmly and took a stitch. “I can’t imagine what got into me.”

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“That’s right.” He started warming up to his topic. “Do you have any idea what caliber gun that jerk was holding? Do you know what that bullet would have done to you?” Hope knewexactly what caliber gun the jerk had been holding, but she couldn’t say that to a policeman. She just looked at him with her most innocent expression and widened her eyes deliberately. “I’m sorry, Franco,” she said softly and watched him bite off whatever else he was going to say. He made one more stab at it. “If anything had happened to you, Kay would never have—” I know.” Hope looked at him out of guileless blue eyes. “She would never have forgiven you. Believe me, I’m sorry, Franco.” Clearly, he still had a lot to get off his chest, but he just sat and quietly watched her sewing. “I imagine my mother would know the name of a good upholsterer,” he said finally. “Thanks.” She knotted the thread and cut it. “I can’t afford an upholsterer at the moment, but I’m a good saver. I’ll have the cushions re-covered and the pictures framed by the time Kay gets out of the hospital.” Rivera felt his heart twist a bit. It hadn’t occurred to him that Hope might be having money problems. But now that he thought of it, it made sense. She’d given up her job in New York and probably didn’t have much saved up. She wouldn’t want to ask Kay for help. She was also a little too slender. Had she been skimping on food? He couldn’t offer financial assistance, of course, much as he’d like to. Something about her told him she’d refuse that outright. But he could feed her. He could invite her out to meals. He smiled to himself. Lots of meals. Purely out of a spirit of Good Samaritanism, of course. To help Kay’s friend. And if the meals ended in bed, so be it… The phone’s loud ring made them both jump. Oh, God. Hope thought.Another anonymous phone call . She’d had enough nastiness this evening to last her a lifetime. She didn’t think she could take much more. Both of them stared at the ringing phone. “Franco,” she said uneasily, “ that might be another one of those—those calls. Would you mind—?” But he was already crossing the room with angry strides. He snatched the phone off the hook. “Pronto.” His low growl was thick with menace. He held the receiver to his ear, silently listening. He watched her carefully as he listened, his eyes traveling slowly over her features.At least he won’t have to look the words up in a dictionary , she thought. Maybe if whoever was doing this knew there was a man around, these horrible calls would cease. Tension drained from his harsh features and to her surprise he smiled. It looked almost out of place on that hard face. “No,” he said. “Please don’t hang up. I’m a friend of Hope’s.” He raised his eyebrows. “How long have I known her? Oh, long enough. Yes, you’re quite right. Sheis very pretty. Doesn’t eat enough, I’d say, but she is very pretty.” Hope rolled her eyes. The last thing she needed, today of all days, was a call from her matchmaking

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mother. She glared at Rivera as he listened with evident delight to her mother’s ramblings. He was perched on the arm of the sofa, totally at ease, swinging a muscled leg back and forth as he nodded at whatever her mother was saying. “Sure, she’s right here,” she heard him say, finally. He held out the phone, his hand covering the receiver. “It’s your mother, Hope. She says she’s glad you’re dating. Says you’re much too serious for a girl your age.” He was trying to suppress a grin, the devil. “Give me that.” She grabbed the receiver. “Hi, Mom.” To Hope’s chagrin, Rivera sat right down in front of her and listened to her half of the conversation with open interest. It was something she couldn’t get over in Italians. They were endlessly curious about their fellow human beings and had no compunctions whatsoever about satisfying that curiosity. The word ‘privacy’, she’d discovered, didn’t even exist in the Italian language. Hope turned slightly to one side, uncomfortably aware of the fact that Rivera was avidly watching and listening. Casually, she cupped the receiver and lowered her voice to a whisper. “No, there’s nothing wrong with the line, Mom.” Hope sighed and straightened, speaking normally. “Is that any better?” She glanced at Rivera. He wasn’t going to take the hint and pretend to peruse the bookcases or something. In fact, he even rested his chin on his hand and leaned forward to catch what she was saying. She sighed again. “So, how’d the face lift go? Uh, hmm. Yeah? Great. Bruises gone? You know, if you don’t watch it there won’t be anything left to nip and tuck.” She was silent a moment. “Who? Oh, him.” She shot a wry glance at Rivera. “A student at the school. No,” she said primly, “he’s just a friend. Don’t get excited. Look, it’s been a long day and I’m really tired. Thanks for the call, but I was just going to bed.” A becoming blush stole over her face as she clutched the receiver. “Alone , Mom. Of course. However could you think otherwise? ‘Night. I love you, too.” As she put the phone down, Hope realized that she hadn’t been lying to her mother. It had been a long day and it was catching up with her. She was bone-tired. It wasn’t every day she was shot at and kissed a cop. She knew the full impact of what had happened would hit her tomorrow but, for tonight, she felt numb and washed-out. All she wanted was to fall into bed. She looked at Rivera, who seemed very much at his ease in an armchair and wondered how she could hint that he should be going. He stood and stretched. “You were wrong in what you told your mother, Hope. You are most certainly not going to sleep alone tonight.” He held out his hand to her, heat in his eyes. “Come,” he said. “Let’s go to bed.”

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CHAPTER FOUR

Even three hours later, Franco still had trouble reining in his temper. He wanted to shout and scream at Hope for having been stupid enough to go after an armed man. He wanted to shake her until her brains rattled in that lovely head of hers. It seemed she still hadn’t understood the danger she’d been in. She didn’t look frightened at all, the little fool! At the same time, equally violently, he wanted to fuck her senseless. Needed to. Needed to bind her to him with the oldest tie there was—hot hard sex—so she would obey him instinctively instead of haring off into danger. He’d almost lost her this afternoon and he knew he’d have to be dead to wipe the imagine of Hope—lovely delicate Hope, with her platinum hair and soft voice, a woman who’d dropped everything and flown halfway around to world to help a friend—just a few seconds away from having a hole blasted through her. He needed a way to rid his body of the tension, and she was it. The blood was pumping through his body, hard and fast, most of it concentrating in his cock. She stared at him, shocked, that pretty mouth forming an ‘o,’ even more shocked when her gaze dropped below the belt. Those silver eyes riveted on his groin added several inches to his cock. He stepped forward and she took a step backwards. “We are definitelynot going to bed together, Captain Rivera,” Hope said crisply. “No?” He kept his voice low and calm while taking another step forward. “You’re certainly going to have me around from now on. Until we find out something about what’s going on, you’re going to have either me or Marco sleeping in the house or one of my men stationed outside at night.” Another step forward. He watched her carefully. “I’m going to be around you a lot, Hope. You’re going to have to get used to it.” She’d forgotten to take a step back. She just watched him, narrow rib cage rising and falling in short shallow breaths. “There’s got to be a rule against this. Coming on to a suspect,” she said breathlessly. Interesting she should say that, call herself a suspect. Rivera filed it away for another moment, when he had more blood circulating in his head. “You’re not a suspect,cara .” Another step forward. “And if you don’t want to go to bed with me, why are your nipples so hard, hmm?” Another step and he was right in front of her, hands slipping her old and ugly tee shirt up and over her head. A flick of his hand and the plain white cotton bra fell to the floor and

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all he could do was stare. She was perfection, something not of this world. White marble breasts tipped with palest rose. He could see her heartbeat in her left breast and it brought him back to earth. Not an angel, not a chimera but a flesh and blood woman. A beautiful flesh and blood woman who had almost died in front of his eyes this afternoon. Since he wanted to grab, he kept his trembling hands gentle as he touched her. His hands against her skin were dark and rough. He cupped her breasts, thumbs rasping over her nipples and felt more than heard the groan that went through her. Dio mio, she was so soft yet so firm. He lifted a breast and bent his head, opening his mouth over her nipple, suckling gently. She tasted as wonderful as he’d imagined. A salty vanilla ice cream cone. He curved his hands around her delicate rib cage and feasted, pulling at her with his mouth as he tugged her tightly against him. She was melting, he could feel it. Her head fell to one side like the blossom on a stalk in the wind. Fragile yet strong. The anger drained out of him. He moved his mouth up, nipping, suckling, until he met her lips. He opened her mouth with a twist of his and swung her up in his arms. “The bedroom,” he whispered against her mouth. It was either that or he was going to sink to the floor and take her there. It was touch and go and he didn’t even know what answer he wanted. Because the idea of laying her out right there, white body on the white tiles, stripping her, opening her and sliding his cock right in, was incredibly tempting. There wouldn’t be time for foreplay because he was hard as stone. “Bed or floor?” He bit her lower lip lightly, then licked it. “Your choice. But it has to benow .” “Bed.” Her eyes were on his, darkness flickering in the silver. Face somber. There was a shadow in her, something holding her back. As if she were fighting not him, but herself. He knew she wanted him. She’d kissed him fiercely; her nipples were hard little pebbles. He knew if he touched her, she’d be wet. Tight probably, too, there was just that air about her. The look and the walk of a woman without much sexual experience. No makeup, the dowdy clothes. It was as if she were hiding from men, though there was no way on earth to hide looks like hers. She couldn’t hide from him now, he thought, as he set her down in the bedroom. She stood, quietly, naked from the waist up. He held her shoulders, those strong slim shoulders and looked his fill. He was hard, aching, but the Italian in him required a moment’s pause. Beauty such as this required homage, because it was a gift from the gods. Slim, as perfect as a marble statue, only warm. So warm, so soft. He slid his eyes upwards to meet hers, silver as the moonlight flowing softly through the window. She wasn’t smiling. Why wasn’t she smiling? Didn’t she want this? There was only one way to tell.

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Slowly, deliberately, he unbuttoned her jeans, watching her face. The sound of the zipper opening was loud in the silence of the night. He crouched and untied the shoelaces of her sneakers and pulled them off, first the left sneaker then the right. He pulled her jeans and the plain white cotton panties down over those long legs, throwing the jeans and panties, forgotten, over his shoulders. She was naked and he felt like a pagan, kneeling at the feet of the goddess. Dio, even her feet were perfect. Narrow, high-arched with straight slim toes. And her legs — Dante could have written acanto about her legs. Slender, with long firm muscles. Legs that could outrun most men. He clasped her ankle loosely, then watched his dark hand as it slowly made its way up that satiny smooth ivory length. Up, up, tracing a callused finger over the inside of her thighs. He wanted to rejoice when he felt the first trembling of her firm muscles. Softly, barely touching her, his hand floated over her belly, over the pale hairs of her mound. He’d never seen blonde pubic hair before and he was entranced. It was such a beautiful sight that he thought, uneasily, dark pubic hair would never turn him on again. He had to stop thinking that way, because he’d just ruled out all women south of Rome as sex partners. But this pale cloud between her thighs turned him on so much it was as if he’d never had sex before. The skin of his cock was dark and just the image of his cock sliding into the smooth pale tunnel of her cunt was enough to almost make him come. His breathing was harsh. His hands trembled as he touched her. The hair was silky and so light he could see the folds of her sex through it. Everything about her was so pale and so perfect he could imagine that she was an angel sent down on a beam of moonlight. An angel with a cunt. If he hadn’t been shaking with lust, he’d have smiled at the thought. That hadn’t been the way they’d taught him about angels in school. He cupped her, his big hand covering her mound completely. Was she as turned on as he was? Only one way to find out. He slipped his middle finger into her and felt an electric jolt. He hadn’t thought he could become harder, but he did, his cock lengthening another inch. She was wet. Soft, wet. In the darkness and the silence, he could hear her exhaling as his finger probed, testing her readiness. Maybe he should taste her. His hands gripped her hips as he nuzzled his face to her groin and inhaled. Even her smell was delicate and mysterious. She smelled of moonlight and the sea and woman. His thumbs opened her, tongue sliding along the folds. The clitoris was small, hard. He nuzzled and licked. Her hands came down to clutch his head, more to brace herself than as a caress. Her legs were trembling badly now. Like his.

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She was close to coming but so was he and he wanted it to happen with his cock in her. The hell with foreplay. He was too far gone to continue this. If he’d been a gentleman, he’d bring her to orgasm with his mouth, continue sliding his fingers in and out of her until she came again. Maybe twice more. But though his aristocratic mother had drilled manners in him until he could play the part in public, he was no gentleman. He needed his cock in hernow . He pulled away, pulling his sweatshirt over his head, pushing his pants down and off, stopping only to extract the condoms he always kept with him. The way he was feeling tonight, he’d need a whole box, but he only had two. That would have to be enough. He rose, walking towards her, feeling exactly like a panther moving towards its prey. Hooking an arm around her waist, he fell with her on the bed, electrified at the feel of her lithe slender body against his. He pulled her legs apart, thrusting blindly, nearly insane with the need to be inside her. His cock slid along the folds, then was at the soft opening and he was about ready to tighten his ass to plunge, when he stopped, shaking. Something about the feel of her wet labia around the head of his cock… Cazzo. Fuck. Condom. He scrabbled with trembling fingers until he found a packet, ripped it open with his teeth, wishing he could put it on with his teeth because his hands were shaking so much. Maybe he should ask Hope to… She laid a hand over his.Yes! She had to do this; she would have to put the condom on. All he could hope was that he wouldn’t come at the first touch of her hand on him. “No.” Her voice was quiet in the darkness. No?No? Franco froze. ‘No’ wasn’t a word he could get his mind around at this moment. “You don’t need that,” she whispered. “I’m on the pill.” It was as if a hot wind rushed through his head, wiping out all thought. A man’s cock wasmade to enter the body of his woman without barriers, flesh to flesh. The most primitive part of his brain switched on in a flash of heat and light. He became pure instinct, a male in rut. He was in her, grinding and climaxing with the next beat of his heart. He groaned. There was nothing he could do about it, no way to stop it, he could only shake and hold on to Hope as a red hot wire raced down his back, through his balls and out through his cock. He jetted in hard, long streams. And then — ah,yes! Hope gave a wild, thin cry and she was coming, too. Just like that. Just from his come pulsing in her. She’d been on that thin razor edge, too, and that was the only thing thatkept him from being ashamed of coming the second he was in her.

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Merda. Shit. He had stamina and experience. He could fuck for hours and prided himself on not coming, ever, before the woman. And here he was, with the most excitingly beautiful woman he’d ever seen and he’d come like a teenager the instant his cock entered her. It was pure icing on the cake that Hope had come, too, but it wasn’t thanks to him. He’d been too blasted by his own orgasm to worry about hers. He held her, breathing heavily, face nuzzled against her neck, waiting to calm down a little, let his heart rate slow down, get his breathing under control. It took a while. If there was any liquid left in his body, it was a miracle. He felt like he’d spurted liters of come. A soft sigh came from her. Her fingers ran through his hair in a light caress, then her hand stilled and dropped to her side. It was as if she were uncertain of even that light touch. Franco felt ashamed. It was the first sign of tenderness between them and it had come from her. What was the matter with him? He wasn’t an animal. He made sure he treated his sex partners with affection and dignity and here he’d just attacked Hope like a convict on furlough fucking the first whore he saw. Was it too late to make amends? He lifted his head, then his shoulders, resting the weight of his body on his forearms. He was heavy and she was slender, delicate. On top of the two-second fuck, he was probably crushing her.Bravo , he told himself.Way to go. Looking down at her, he caught his breath. The moon had moved in the sky and by some miracle of light and planetary movements and the magic that was life itself, a moonbeam was shining directly on her face. His tongue felt like a useless muscle in his mouth. He waited for three heartbeats and breathed, “Sei bellissima.”You’re beautiful. And she was — impossibly beautiful. He’d spoken those two words countless times, to women both beautiful and not. To the beautiful women, it was due homage to the miracle which was female comeliness. And to the others, it was gallantry with some truth. Any woman with charm and intelligence had something beautiful about her. This…this was something else. An order above human beauty. Perfection and poetry. And sadness. She wasn’t smiling. Why wasn’t she smiling? Well, maybe because he’d jumped on her like a rabid wolverine. Sure, she’d come, but that wasn’t thanks to him. “Smile,” he whispered, looking down at her. “Smile for me.” The corners of her mouth tilted upwards, but the eyes searching his weren’t smiling. Silver sadness. It wasn’t until he saw her face moving up and down that he realized his hips had started pumping. He’d started fucking her without even realizing it, because he simply couldn’t help himself. That first orgasm had taken some of the urgency out of his desire, but not much. Not enough.

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He wasn’t calibrating his strokes, making sure he wasn’t too violent on the downswing, trying to time his strokes with her movements, things he knew how to do out of instinct and skill and practice. He’d learned the mechanics of lovemaking with endless partners and he knew he was a good lover. He knew how to time his movements, when to be gentle and when to pump hard. There was no calculation now, at all. No wondering whether she’d even want another round or how he should time it. There was nothing at all in his head except a red mist of lust, which had risen up again, suddenly, like a tropical squall. Maybe it was the electrifying feeling of fucking her through his own come. She was small, deliciously tight, but he’d spurted so much semen into her, it was like fucking a tight silky-wet fist. He moved easily in her tightness. He braced his torso on his outstretched hands, lifting himself up and away from her to look down and watch them. If he hadn’t already been hard as a rock, the sight would have turned him on like nothing else. She was slender and pale, white against the white of the sheets, that glorious moon-colored hair in a halo around her head. The very image of an angel. Except she was moving back and forth on the bed with the strength of his thrusts. Except her firm perfect breasts were swaying in time with his rhythm. Except for the fact that his dark pubic hairs meshed with her pale ones at every down stroke. Except for the fact that he was watching his dark glistening cock moving in and out of the pale folds of her sex. It was the most exciting sight he’d ever seen and his heart hammered as he realized he was close again to climaxing. With a groan, Franco collapsed on to her. He ran his hands over her hips, down her thighs and lifted the backs of them until she was hugging his hips with her legs.Yes . He cupped her ass with his big hands to brace her and moved into the almost violent rhythms of climax. The bed creaked and soon the headboard was beating against the wall. He was helpless to curb the strength of his thrusts, couldn’t slow down, couldn’t do anything but fuck with the full strength of his body. She was holding on to him tightly, her heels riding his ass and he could feel her start to tremble, then shake as if she were coming apart. She threw her head back and cried out and he had to fight not to bite her as his cock swelled in her and climax hit him like a freight train. He shouted as he came,pulsing and shaking. It lasted forever. Finally, he slumped on top of her, breathing heavily, mind completely blank. He was asleep with the next heartbeat.

I slept with a cop, Hope thought helplessly.Twice. How had that happened? She hated cops, loathed them. Cops had made her life a living hell for over five years. So how did she find herself in bed having made love with one, not once, but twice? Franco Rivera was a cop. He suspected people for a profession. He hunted people for a living. His job

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was to imagine the worst of people. That would have been enough to make her despise him a few years ago. By all rights, she should be shunning him, desperate to have him out of the house. She’d had enough dealings with policemen to last her a lifetime. Cops had made her life a living hell until—through a sheer fluke—they’d solved the mystery of her stepfather’s death. She’d thought she could never forget. Could never be in the same room with a policeman without feeling that cold shiver of an evil presence. So how had she ended up in bed with one? Making love with one? Actually, they werestill making love. Notwithstanding two orgasms and the fact that he’d fallen asleep on top of her, Franco was still semi-hard inside her. Yesterday, she’d have sworn she couldn’t touch a cop without shuddering in disgust. What had happened? Had she changed, without knowing it? Had time somehow healed wounds she had thought forever open? While she had been going to college and finding a job in New York and learning how to be a teacher, time had rolled on, somehow smoothing out the scar tissue and she hadn’t even noticed, until here she was, with a policeman sleeping on top of her and all she felt was a sense of peace. Maybe because Franco was as unlike Police Chief Carlson as it was possible to be. Now that they weren’t actively making love, she realized how heavy Franco was. He was sprawled on her. Soon it would become uncomfortable, but for the moment she lay still under him, savoring the weight of his heavily-muscled body, feeling his half-erect penis still inside. She was very wet. He’d come in her twice. The sex had been raw and immensely powerful. Hope was used to keeping her emotions under tight rein but Franco had cracked her wide open. She couldn’t remember feeling so vulnerable, so shaky. It was frightening, this feeling of being on a roller coaster with no brakes, no way to slow down or defend herself. Maybe it was being in a foreign country; maybe it was the feeling of danger that surrounded her. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She wanted to hug the man who’d made love to her with such searing power. She wanted to run away from him. She’d read a popular science book once about the biochemical effects of emotions on the brain. She was a little fuzzy on the details, but she still remembered the essentials. Fear and anxiety and stress—and even love—secreted powerful chemicals, which steeped the brain in a hormonal brew. She could imagine her own brain now, positively awash in a deadly cocktail of biochemicals, sloshing around in the aftereffects of fear and sex. Anxiety biochemicals flooded her brain, overloading the worry receptors. She fell fast asleep. It was morning when Hope woke up, hours after her customary dawn awakening time. The quality of the light told her that it must be around eight o’clock. Through her window came the soft regular plashing of the sea washing up on the shore, one of the calmest, happiest sounds in the world. It reminded her of home, of Florida and of her bedroom which had looked out over the beach. In New York she hadn’t allowed herself to acknowledge how much she’d missed that sound, the smell of brine in the air, the delight of a morning swim, an evening run in the waves.

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Franco had moved off her sometime during the night, but he slept with one large, hard arm around her waist, binding her to him. Hope watched him sleeping, emotions she hardly knew how to handle running through her. The morning after. The subject of countless books, countless movies. She had no idea how to face this particular morning after. Should she try for the sophisticated approach?Hello, it was nice last night, would you like some coffee? Pretend nothing had happened? Were they lovers now? Or had it been merely a one-night stand? Last night had been unusual, after all. Her home burgled, a man shooting at her. Had they simply given in to the emotion of events? She needed a shower before facing Franco that was for sure. She was sticky between her thighs and her skin smelled of him. Moving carefully, she slipped out from under that heavy arm, grabbed the first things she came across in her meager wardrobe and disappeared into the bathroom. She had a bit more perspective after the shower. Franco was a formidable man and it was going to be embarrassing facing him after the hot sex last night. But it was also true that he had shielded her with his life last night. And he was offering her protection. The least she could do was offer him coffee. She went into the kitchen and put the coffee on. As she prepared breakfast, she hummed softly under her breath and switched on the radio, keeping the volume low. She was setting two place mats when Franco stuck his head in and growled, “Shower?” She pointed him in the right direction and went back to preparing breakfast. A quarter of an hour later, he padded barefoot and bare-chested into the kitchen and silently sat down with a glowering expression. Thick hair matted his chest. The few white hairs interspersed with the dark touched her absurdly. He hadn’t shaved and his hair stuck out in dark, wet spikes all over his head. He sat silently, staring at the tabletop. So. He was an early-morning grouch, just as her stepfather had been. Emmett had been the sweetest man on earth, except in the morning, before coffee. Maybe, thought Hope as she silently set a cup in front of Franco and poured, maybe it was a male thing. Maybe men carried a gene for early morning grouchiness in theirY chromosome. Franco cradled the hot cup between his hands and stared gloomily into its depths, as if it held answers to questions that had puzzled mankind forever. Finally, after a long, brooding silence, he sipped gingerly. Hope put two eggs on to boil and sliced some bread. She spooned some strawberry preserves into a small dish and set it on the table. He took another sip and she watched as his eyes slowly cleared and he became conscious. “Good morning.” His voice was raspy.

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“Good morning.” She smiled and poured some more coffee. “Did you sleep well?” “Mmm-mmm.” “Yes, well, it’s a small bed.” “Mmm-mmm.” “Would you like a soft-boiled egg?” “Mmm-mmm.” “There you go.” She tapped evenly around the end of the egg in its cup, lifted the decapitated shell and even spooned in a few grains of salt. She cut another slice of the delicious, thick-crusted local bread and spooned some preserve on it. Without a word, he took it and bit deeply. “Good jam,” he grunted. “It’s a fruit preserve, but thank you. I made it the other day.” He fell silent again. As the sun slowly rose over the sill and filled the small kitchen with light, the only sounds were the peaceful ones of cutlery clicking against plates. Watching him surreptitiously, Hope saw the exact moment when Rivera became fully awake, at his third cup. She decided to make her move. There were things they needed to discuss. “Franco.” She put cup down and stood up. “I’ve been thinking about yesterday.” She cleared the table and stacked the dishes in the sink. “Obviously, whatever’s going on is centered around this house. Kay is renting it from some family in Bari. What do you think about checking…?” “Hope.” He stood up and walked over to her. “Marco’s checking into the owners this morning. I’m going to put together an identikit. We’re going to check the tire tracks and the cartridge. Everything that can be done is being done. Trust me.” He took her hand and rinsed it under the running tap. When it was free of suds, he brought it to his lips and pressed a soft kiss in the palm. He smiled down at her. “Trust me,” he repeated softly. “I’ll look after you.” Hope stood and looked at him mutely. Her hand was still strongly clasped in his. She could still feel the imprint of his lips against her hand. It felt as if a small sun were burning in her palm. Amazing. They’d had the hottest sex of her life last night and she’d been overwhelmingly aroused. But watching him take her hand, feeling his lips pressed against it made her heart slip into a crazy rhythm. It was frightening. She tried to pull her hand from his grasp, but he held tightly and gently tugged. Her eyes fluttered and closed as his lips brushed her cheek and moved slowly, heartbreakingly slowly, towards her mouth. Her heart, which had seemed to stop as he bent towards her, now started thudding wildly as his mouth closed over hers.

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Hope opened her mouth to say something, or maybe to breath, since the air seemed to have caught in her lungs. But as her lips parted, he groaned and crowded closer, moving his hand slowly, in a stroking caress across her shoulder, to cup the nape of her neck. He slanted his mouth gently again and again over hers, nipping and tasting, and she realized she’d have to wait until he ended the kiss before she could breathe again. Slowly, he withdrew, kissing the corner of her mouth lightly before raising his head. “Look, I know you want to see Kay this morning. I have some business to attend to at headquarters. I’ll drop you off at the hospital. Finish washing up and go get dressed.” Get dressed? Hope looked down at herself. There wasn’t anything much more elegant than what she was already wearing in her closet. “Iam dressed.” She looked at him hopefully. “Can I drive?”

Hope walked up the steps of the Santa Monica clinic on trembling legs, and not just from another one of Rivera’s wild drives and a near-miss with a poultry farmer driving a laden truck to Saturday market. He’d been silent on the short drive to the clinic, immersed in his thoughts. He’d dropped her off quickly at the hospital gates and sped off without a backward glance. Maybe it had been just sex. Maybe he hadn’t been affected by it at all, whereas she felt as if her world had turned upside down. Stop obsessing, she told herself. She was an adult and she’d spent the night with an attractive man. That was all. And if she was feeling raw and shaky, that was her business. And anyway, right now she should be thinking of Kay. Hope glanced into the rooms of the Orthopedic Ward as she walked down the corridor, her heart swollen with sorrow for the still figures lying motionless on their hard hospital beds with broken bones and broken lives. Hope clutched the heavy paper bag she was carrying and peeped into the room. Kay was awake, staring at the ceiling with a curious expression on her face. Hope had seen her in pain and in discomfort and in tears, but hadn’t seen that expression of…exasperated boredom before. “Hey.” Hope walked into the room. She held up her bag and jiggled it. “Look what I’ve got for you. Lots of goodies.” Surprised when Kay rolled her eyes in irritation, Hope glanced at the corner and saw a silent, hulking figure. “Marco.” She was surprised to see him here, until she remembered she’d told him Kay’s room number last night, thinking to do Kay a favor. Maybe it hadn’t been such a favor, judging by the expression on Kay’s face. Hope slipped into her slow and careful Italian. “How nice to see you, Marco. Have you been telling Kay about our misadventures last night?”

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“He hasn’t said a word in the past hour,” Kay muttered in English under her breath. “What have you got there?” Hope glanced down at the cover of a romance where a handsome nearly naked man was embracing an even more disheveled woman. Mindful of Marco, she hastily jammed that week’s copy ofTime over the top of the bag and shoved it under the bed. “I’ve brought sustenance, both physical and spiritual,” she said and placed a box of Swiss chocolates she’d found at the supermarket within arm’s reach. “The other goodies are under the bed,” Hope murmured as she pulled a chair close to the bed. “Have the nurse pull them out…later.” Kay had a drip in one arm. Hope took her free hand and forced a smile on her face. “How you doing, kiddo?” She didn’t need to ask. Kay wasn’t doing well at all. Kay lay propped on a pillow, her dark hair fanned untidily around her face. Dark smudges beneath her eyes testified to another restless night. Hope felt her heart twist in pain.Oh, please , she sent up a silent prayer to whoever was up there.Let her get well soon. Kay turned her head and attempted a smile. “Those books better be good. The hotter the better.” Hope reached down with a forefinger to touch the bag and made a hissing sound. “Mmm. The bag’s still steaming.” “Ah…” Kay twisted her neck and tried to settle back against the pillow. “Hope, can you help me? The pillow’s wrinkled and it feels like a mountain range under my back.” Hope hesitated. Kay was deadweight, unable to help herself. The last time Hope had tried to lift her, she’d let her drop, jarring the broken hipbone. It wasn’t an experience she was eager to repeat. But how could she say no? Gingerly, she placed her hands under Kay’s back and braced herself to lift. “Faccio io.”Let me . Hope looked up in surprise as a deep voice sounded behind her, somewhere above her head near the ceiling, it seemed. She’d completely forgotten about Marco. “Why, thank you, Marco.” Hope stepped back, grateful to let him take over. Moving carefully and surely, he slipped an arm under Kay’s shoulders and one under her back and lifted her easily, holding her rock-steady while Hope straightened the sheet and plumped the pillow. When she finished, he gently eased Kay back on the bed. “Grazie.” Hope smiled at him as he went back and propped his shoulder once again against the wall. She turned to Kay. “We had some excitement out at the old ranch last night. Didn’t Marco tell you?” “He’s not much of a talker,” Kay muttered, but she smiled at him as she said it. “Come on, Hope. What’s going on?” Briefly, Hope outlined the events of last night, trying to glide over the fact that she and Franco had had the hottest sex on the planet.

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“You mean this guy actually took a pot-shot at you?” “Yes. As you can see, he missed. Luckily.” Kay’s eyes gleamed. “And where was Franco in all of this? I thought I told him to keep an eye on you.” The blood pumped hot in her face and Hope cursed her fair skin. “Oh, he was very kind—” she began, and then jumped as she heard a familiar voice behind her. “There you are, Marco.” Franco’s hard, unsmiling face looked in. “I called from the car and headquarters said you were here, so I turned right around. I want that report.” He glanced around the room. “Hello, Kay. Hope, if you want a ride back to your house, Marco will be leaving in around ten minutes.” Hope knew she couldn’t hide her high color from Kay. She wondered if Kay could also see her heart thudding wildly in her chest. This is crazy, she thought. Franco had barely looked at her and she was practically melting in her chair. She mustn’t let Kay see her like this. Kay was much too astute not to notice something. She needed to get away. Hope bent to pick up her purse. “Listen, hon, I should catch that ride back. There are a lot of things I have to do. Sorry this visit was so short. I’ll be back as soon as I can and bring you up to date on everything then.” Franco and Marco were in the corridor, speaking intently in low tones. They gave no acknowledgment of her presence. Hope waited patiently until they had finished, trying to breath shallowly to still the rapid beating in her chest, surreptitiously wiping suddenly wet palms along her pant legs. Rivera beckoned to her. She walked hesitantly up to him, uncertain as to how to behave. The warm man who had kissed her this morning, the man she’d shared steaming sex with last night, had disappeared and a cold man—all cop, all business—had taken his place. Had she dreamed it? Now he was treating her as if she were a stranger. “Something’s come up.” Rivera looked unsmilingly at Hope. “I’m putting Marco on guard duty tonight. I’ll be over tomorrow. I’m busy all day and I can’t do sentry-duty tonight.” “Are you taking Margherita out?” Marco asked. A look of tenderness crossed Franco’s face. His lips curved in a smile. “Yes, she deserves an evening out. Especially tonight.” He turned to Hope. “See you tomorrow.” Hope stood next to Marco and watched Franco’s broad, departing back. She tried to swallow the huge lump in her throat. What a fool she was to think a man like that would be unattached.

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CHAPTER FIVE

The soprano hit a high note that hung in the air as the curtains fell at the end of the first act. There was a moment’s hush and then the audience rose to its feet, applauding wildly. Franco turned to the beautiful, elegantly dressed woman sitting beside him and patted her hand. “Having a good time,cara ?” Margherita Rivera smiled fondly at her son. “Yes, darling, thanks so much for asking me. I’m glad I’m not alone, tonight of all nights. I really should get out more often. It’s just that—since your father died, I —“ “I know,” Franco murmured, and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze before releasing it. Ten years. Ten years and the rage still wouldn’t subside in his chest. Ten years ago today, he’d been twenty-six years old, a happy-go-lucky junior diplomat at theFarnesina , the Foreign Ministry, in Rome. He’d just come back from four years of gentleman’s Cs, sex and football at Georgetown University and was happily settling down to an enjoyable climb through the ranks of his country’s foreign service. Then had come the phone call. His father, General Stefano Rivera, had been gunned down in the streets of Bari. At the funeral, Marco told him what had happened. Marco had still been heavily bandaged and was at the funeral against doctor’s orders, a bullet meant for the general still lodged in his chest. He told Franco that his father had come close—too close—to nailing Rocco Lipari, a reclusive shadowy figure, the reputed head of a new crime syndicate which was giving the Sicilian Mafia a run for its money. General Rivera had been on his way to interrogate a runner for Lipari who had turned state’s witness. On the way to the prison, the general had been gunned down like a dog. The defector was found dead in his cell. Franco enrolled in thecarabinieri the day after his father’s funeral. “You look tired.” His mother’s voice was soft as she smoothed back a lock of hair from his forehead. “Are you working too hard?” Franco tried to smile, though he was heartsick. Two of his best men had died today in an ambush and word on the street was that more violence was coming. He’d had to deliver the hard news twice: once to a wife with a newborn baby and once to a fiancée. It wasn’t easy and it never got easier but it was a task Franco never delegated. Those men had been his, and it was his duty to tell the loved ones of the loss. None of this showed on his face. His father had shielded the ugliness of the job from his mother, and so did he. Neither his mother nor Hope should be touched by the filth he saw at work.

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It was second nature for him to hide his feelings. “I didn’t sleep very well last night.” “Well, however you slept, it wasn’t at home,” she teased. “I called around eleven.” “No, I wasn’t at home.” He smiled reminiscently. “I slept over at a woman’s house.” “Oh, darling!” Margherita turned excitedly to her son, causing the program in her lap to slide to the floor. She bent to pick it up, and Franco knew she had visions of grandchildren dancing in her head. He never, ever told his mother anything about his sex life. This was a first. “Tell me about her? Who is she? Is she nice? What does she look like?” “What does she look like?” Franco mused, enjoying his mother’s excitement. “Well, she’s incredibly beautiful for one thing. And she looks as if a strong wind could blow her away, yet she can run faster than a man. Two men, actually. She’s courageous. And, yes, she’s very nice.” Franco turned to meet his mother’s bright, excited gaze and sighed. “But before you get too carried away, Mother, there’s something I should tell you.” “Yes?” Her voice was impatient. “She hates cops.”

***** For the second night in a row, Hope lay awake in her narrow bed and stared sightlessly at the ceiling shrouded in shadow, listening to the beating of her foolish heart. Margherita. What a stupid name. She knew enough Italian to know that it was a flower. A daisy. So what did Miss Daisy look like? She was probably sultry and dark and gorgeous. Just what an Italian policeman would want. He certainly wouldn’t want a pale American who could barely speak the language and who couldn’t keep her clothes matched. So they’d had sex. So what? People had sex every day and it meant nothing. Only it had meant something to her. She couldn’t remember the last time anything had meant as much. Well, maybe it was time for her to grow up, maybe… Hope stiffened and listened for a repeat of the sound that had hovered at the edge of her consciousness. What had it been…there it was again! A whisper of wind on a windless night, a murmuring, a rustling, then silence. She waited, wondering if it had been her imagination. Soundlessly, Hope pushed the covers away and sat up, feet searching for her slippers. She stood up in the silent blackness of the night and made her way by memory to the bedroom door. She peered blindly into the inky gloom of the living room area.

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“Marco.” Her voice was the merest breath of sound. She had left the police officer, who had come equipped with his own sleeping bag, dossed down on the opposite side of the living room. She tried again, pitching her voice slightly louder. “Marco, did you hear something?” In the moonless night, the only illumination came from the phosphorescent dial of the clock radio on the coffee table. By its feeble glow, Hope could barely make out a dark shape huddled on the floor. It didn’t stir. Great. Just great. Franco’s watchdog was a heavy sleeper. Hope caught her lower lip between her teeth and thought about crossing the room and shaking Marco awake. But what if what she heard were simply the sounds of the night? Or maybe a foraging animal? Or maybe it had all been in her head? Then she’d feel like a fool for having woken him up. Leaving Marco to his beauty sleep, she made her way carefully to the front door. Franco and his men had put a new deadbolt and the well-oiled mechanism slid back soundlessly. She slipped out. Black on black. Hope waited a moment trying to adjust her vision. She knew the area around the little house intimately and tried to make out the various shapes more from memory than by sight. Another rustling in the night, a sound, not-sound. It came from around back. Hope spread her left palm again the wall and felt her way around the corner. There was an urgency to the sounds now, as she neared the back wall. Definitely voices, at least two. Male, harsh, staccato. She strained, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. But there was something about the sounds she could catch… A thump then a grunt, as if someone were carrying something heavy. The whispers increased briefly in intensity, but she still couldn’t catch any meaning. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she moved her head cautiously around the corner, catching her pale hair back with her hand so that its light color wouldn’t betray her presence. She waited for a long heartbeat, then two, letting her eyes adjust again to the darkness. Hope could barely make out some shapes darker than the blackness of the night, two of them, one hunched over. The heavy breathing of exertion broke the silence of the night. Then the figures were moving away, heading for the small path that wound through the pines and paralleled the beach. Had they left their car in the pine grove at the end of the beach? Hope was torn with indecision. She had to move slowly if she didn’t want to make any noise. By the time she made her way back into the house to wake Marco, the two men would be gone. Hope assumed that they were making for the path, but there was no guarantee that she was right. They could be heading in any direction and if they strayed from the path, there was no way they could be tracked through the densely wooded area on a moonless night. They would, to all intents and purposes, disappear. Hope gnawed her lip as she clutched at the side of the house. Common sense told her to grope her way right back inside, wake Marco up, and dump the entire mess into his large, capable hands. That, after all, was what he was risking a backache for. She stood in an agony of indecision. The men were gone now, not even a whisper of sound betraying their presence. With each passing second, they were moving further and further away. By the time she called Marco they would be gone. And until they were caught, she would be vulnerable in her lonely little beach house.

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These were the men making her life a living hell. They had hounded her, wrecked Kay’s house and made an attempt on her life. When would it stop? Anger at the men creeping through the woods warred briefly and ferociously with common sense. Common sense lost. Hope flattened her hand against the side of house and edged cautiously around the corner. She was yanked hard against a massive body and a large, hard hand covered her mouth. She felt the pinprick of a knife against her throat. Without thinking, Hope bit down with all her strength on the hand against her mouth and exulted fiercely as she tasted blood. The instant her mouth was free she screamed at the top of her lungs and kicked viciously at the nearest shin. “Mirada!” Marco yelled. Hope went limp in his grasp. She didn’t need a dictionary to know what that meant.

CHAPTER SIX

“I hope Marco’s up to date on his rabies shots,” Franco said sourly. His exasperated gaze settled on Hope. It was almost dawn and Hope was curled up on Kay’s sofa watching two very angry men pace Kay’s small living room. The fact that she knew the anger wasn’t all directed at her didn’t really help. She still felt trapped and suffocated by all that male emotion swirling around the room. Marco hadn’t even made an attempt to go after the men. Hope’s scream had effectively warned them off. They had had at least a ten-minute head start and Marco had known he couldn’t hope to catch up in the darkness. So he had gone back into the house and called in reinforcementsinstead. Reinforcement—for now—was Captain Franco Rivera, shivering in the early morning damp and thoroughly annoyed. Hope had a fleeting, totally unworthy but satisfactorily vicious pang of pleasure at the thought of having dragged him out of bed on a Margherita night. She quickly squelched the thought, but not before having an all-too-clear vision of them in bed. Franco was a powerful lover and, she thought with a sigh, probably not used to restricting his favors to one woman. Waiting for Franco to show up, Hope had quickly changed from her old flannel nightgown to slacks, a tee shirt and a shabby old cotton sweater. She pulled the sweater closer about her shoulders and gave a

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tentative smile. Franco’s stab at humor was feeble, but she was grateful that he was even making the attempt. She was still surprised that he hadn’t taken a strip out of her hide yet.I deserve it , Hope thought guiltily as she watched Marco limp around her living room, sporting a brand-new bandage on his hand. “I’m truly sorry, Marco,” she said for the tenth time and got a small, tight smile in response. The sun was a distant promise on the horizon, a pearly haze through the windows, limning the meager furniture and poor furnishings of the little beach house. The dawning light showed the scratches in the second hand furniture, the dent in the cheap sofa where the springs were already giving way, the sheen off the polyester rug. What could anyone possibly want here? Suddenly, Hope felt achingly, vastly alone. Hounded by something she didn’t understand. Stranded in a foreign country. Hope dropped her gaze to her tightly clenched hands and felt the beginning of the bleak, black wave wash over her in the dawning light. Stress and unhappiness always had the same effect on her—a feeling of utter loneliness, as if she were the only living creature on the planet Earth. Through a long and unhappy childhood and a seemingly even longer and unhappier adolescence, it had always been the same. This aching solitude like a cold hand squeezing her heart. Hope stared at her hands and tried an old childhood trick of opening her eyes wide to will back the tears threatening to spill over. Tears wouldn’t help anything. They never had. Not when she was seven years old, not when she was seventeen. At seven, she had lived in a succession of cheap rooming houses with her beautiful, vain actress mother as they drifted from town to town, summer stock to winter rep. At seventeen, the year after her mother had gleefully landed Emmett Winston, they had lived in a palatial mansion in Palm Beach. The mansion had 80 rooms and 25 servants. Hope had never actually managed to learn all of the names of the servants, nor had she been in all of the rooms before Emmett died. She had felt as lonely and out of place in the mansion as she had felt in the boarding houses. “Well, what do you have to say?” Franco sat down next to her, jolting her out of her thoughts. The deep-set eyes, more green now than brown, were bruised-looking from fatigue. The beautifully cut mouth looked molded out of some substance harder than mere human skin. His hair needed cutting, she thought, and caught one hand in another to keep herself from reaching out to brush a few wayward strands back for him. It wasn’t her place to do so. Maybe it was Margherita’s. The thought sent a stab of pain straight to her heart. Maybe Margherita was his fiancée or even—God!—his wife. Franco didn’t wear a wedding ring but many men in Italy didn’t, she’d noticed.

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Making infidelity easier, she supposed. “Well,” he prodded, voice hard. “Are you married?” Hope blurted, and then wanted to die. “No.” Franco shook his head angrily, as if the question were a pesky gnat. He arrowed straight into the source of his anger. “What the hell did you think you were doing out there?” “What can I say?” Hope asked tiredly. “Except I’m sorry. And I’ve said that already. Repeatedly.” “I didn’t mean that, though —” He flashed a hard look at her “— apology accepted. You nearly bit through Marco’s hand, you know. Damn!” He slammed a fist against an open palm and blew out his breath in a gust. “We almost had them. They slipped right through our fingers.” Hope looked suitably contrite, but damned if she would apologize again. Enough was enough. “We’ll go over your blundering later.” Hope watched Franco reluctantly set aside the rest of his little lecture. He could probably see that she wasn’t up to it. “Right now I want to get some information out of you. Did you notice anything that might be useful to us in making an identity? Did you get a glimpse of either of them? Marco said that there were two men. Does that fit your impression?” Hope closed her eyes and concentrated. Like a videotape on rewind, she tried to roll her life back by three hours. Like the night before, it had been dark and moonless. It had been hard to see, even harder to hear above the splashing of the sea and the lightest of breezes that had suddenly swept through the pines. Think, Hope. She tried to will away the house, the memory of the invasion, her guilt over Marco, the disturbing presence of Franco beside her. She was back outside, straining her eyes and ears. There had been…what? Harsh whispers, one deep and rough, the other lighter, with an edgy, raspy tone. Was she wrong? Hope concentrated until her head hurt. No, there was no doubt. There had been two distinct voices. “Yes, there were two of them. Only two, I think.” Hope opened her eyes and met Franco’s own disconcertingly intent ones. “But I couldn’t swear to it. I mean, how could I know whether there might be more men…?” Hope’s voice trailed off. Horrified, she raised a fist to her mouth. It had never even occurred to her. How could she have been so - “Good Lord, Franco,” she whispered, “I heard an owl hoot. Maybe it wasn’t an owl, but a signal. If there were other men waiting in the woods…” “You would never have got out of there alive,” Franco finished for her grimly. He was walking a thin line between keeping the fear out of his voice and impressing on her how insanely foolish she had been. “You were prepared to go out single-handedly into the woods and follow those men, without knowing whether they were armed, without even knowing how many of them there were. Anyone posting guard duty in the woods would have seen you following them and you would have been easy prey. The easiest

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prey in the world. I can’t believe you were thinking of going after them. It was…” he bit his tongue and searched for a word which would say what he meant without actually offending, “foolhardy.” It was crazy, actually, but he didn’t want to push. Not with her sitting in the corner of that ugly little swaybacked couch, feet tucked under her, enormous blue eyes wide and dismayed, looking about twelve years old. A frightened twelve years old. “Don’t,” he said, keeping his voice mild with an effort, “please don’t do anything like that ever again.” “No,” Hope whispered shakily, “I certainly won’t.” “Until the next time you let yourself get carried away by the moment,” Franco added dryly. “Hope, you need a keeper.” Are you applying for the job?Hope had to bite the words back. Of course he wasn’t. And something told her Captain Franco would be the type of man to keep anyone he was responsible for on a very short leash. “Can you remember anything else?” he asked. Franco was a master interviewer. His men said he could coax information from a rock. He had a thousand techniques but right now there wasn’t any technique in his repertory. He finally understood why surgeons should never operate on family members. He cared too much to be objective and he was having trouble keeping the policeman separate from the man. Hope was even paler than usual, the skin like porcelain, drawn tightly over high, delicate cheekbones. As usual, she was without makeup. He noted the fear in her eyes, just as he noted the exotic silvery ice blue of the irises. He saw that her mouth was turned down at the corners with a tightly repressed emotion. At the same time, he couldn’t help but remember how incredibly sweet that mouth tasted. Without thinking, he continued stroking her hand. It trembled faintly in his. Because she was so affected by his touch and because she didn’t want him to understand that, Hope said the first thing that crossed her mind. “They weren’t Italians,” she said, and then looked at him, open-mouthed. Where had that come from? “What?” He had been expecting anything but this. He let her hand drop and clutched her shoulders, shaking her slightly. “What did you say?” Hope just continued gaping. “I don’t know,” she managed finally. She ran the words she had just said around in her head, surprised that they still rang true. “I don’t know,” she repeated. “There was just something about the way they talked…” she shook her head, bewildered, baffled. He frowned, not wanting to make her appear foolish. And yet--what if she were speaking the truth? There were rumors in Interpol that the Colombians and the Russians were pooling forces with the Sicilian Mafia. Is that what was happening here, with the Sacra Corona Unita, the local crime syndicate? But he hadn’t heard anything about this, even though he kept his ears very close to the ground. “Do you think you could have heard Spanish?” he asked.

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“Oh, no.” Hope was positive. “I spent part of my growing up years in Florida. Spanish is the second language there.” Emmett’s servants had almost all been Cuban or Venezuelan. “I’d recognize Spanish anywhere.” “Russian?” “No, it was definitely a Romance language.” Hope bit her lip. “I’m not doing very well, am I?” Franco sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair and nodded at Marco. “Why didn’t Marco notice anything amiss? He was out there as long as you were.” “Well, I couldn’t distinguish words at all, they were just sounds. And that’s all Marco would have heard, too.” And Marco had confessed to having a tin ear for languages, but Hope didn’t want to say that. Marco was a policeman, a trained observer. It would be conceited of her to think that she’d grasped something thathad eluded him. With a wave of his hand, Franco dismissed the question. He had another, more pressing matter to bring up. “Hope.” He watched her eyes clear and focus on him. Good. He needed her attention. “I’ve been thinking. This thing here is escalating. They’re starting to take real risks. I can keep guards posted here, but it’s not enough. I’d feel much better if you were away altogether. I have a wonderful idea. You could stay…” “No!” Hope tried to keep the panic from bubbling in her voice. “I—I like it here,” she said finally, lamely. “I know you like it here,” he said patiently, as if to a slightly backward child, “but that’s not the point. The point is that it’s dangerous. Don’t you realize…” “I like it here,” she said again, and lifted her chin. “No. No way am I going to be chased from this house.” “‘No’?” He frowned and considered that, as if he had never heard the word before. “What do you mean—’no’?” “Just what I said.” She’d never had a home before. Not really. From rented rooms to a mansion which was too sumptuous to live comfortably in, to boarding school, to college dormitory, to a walk-up apartment in New York. All way stations. None of them having anything to do with her. She was starting to feel connected here. She was starting to feel at home here for the first time in her life. “Capitano?” Hope swiveled, relieved. Franco turned angrily at the interruption. A fresh-faced cadet stood just inside the front door, smiling uneasily, clutching the doorjamb tightly. His captain did not look at all pleased. “Captain, we’re outside, ready to take evidence. Would you like to be present?” Franco rose reluctantly, watching as Hope stood easily and quickly walked with her graceful stride to

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the door, hips swaying gently. It was clear that she was grateful for the interruption and wanted to get away from him. Well, if she thought he’d give up on his idea, she had another think coming. Hope stepped outside and lifted her head in gratitude. The sun had come up, a phosphorescent ball riding the waves rippling to the horizon. The sky was already a brilliant blue, the air a warm promise. It was going to be a glorious day. Behind her, Franco stood framed in the doorway, his face a dark storm cloud. She looked back at him and sighed. Officers were pouring out of three police cars thathad pulled up into the driveway. With a hard glance at Hope, Franco started directing them. “Corrado, Pietro, you two circle the house and take plaster casts of every footprint you find. We can match them with Hope’s and Marco’s later. Sergio, Giorgio, you two follow that path. Marco.” Franco didn’t even glance back, certain that Marco was behind him. “You come with me.” He strode off into the woods, followed by Marco, two broad-shouldered men, one tall and hulking, the other of medium height. There didn’t seem to be much call for her services. Maybe the best thing to do would be to go back inside and prepare some coffee. Detecting looked like hard work. But first, she thought she would go around the house as she had done last night. There was something about what had happened last night that niggled at the back of her mind. Slowly, she eased her way around the corner of the house, just as she had done several hours ago. She kept her left hand on the textured stucco wall, skirted the big sweet basil pot, and walked around the house. Had someone been carrying something? There had been heavy breathing, the grunt of exertion. Curious, she crossed the garden and walked along the edge of the pine trees. What could anyone have been carrying? Something caught her eye. What on earth…? She stopped, heart pounding heavily in her chest, and looked at the traces of a white powder along the base of a particularly tall pine tree. She followed the trail angling away from the footpath. Every few feet there was another puff of white, as if a bag of white powder were leaking. White powder. Every thriller she had ever read suddenly flashed through her mind. You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out what white powder meant. Suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Drugs. Of course. Somehow this small house was being used as a drug way station.She thought that sort of thing happened around Sicily, but still, criminals were always looking for new opportunities. Hope walked forward carefully, watching the patches of white. Several feet into the woods, in a small clearing, the white powder had fallen so heavily it had piled up into a cone. She stopped and called out. “Franco! Franco, come over here!” A few seconds later, a disheveled Franco, breathing heavily, came crashing through, closely followed by Marco. “Hope!” He grabbed her, giving her a quick shake. “What’s the matter?” he gasped, patting her arms, feeling for injuries. “Are you hurt?” “I’m fine.” She shrugged free of his grasp. “Look.” Triumph coursed through her as she pointed at the

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cone of powder. “Look at that. I thought I heard them carrying something heavy last night. What do you think it is?” she asked impatiently, as Franco hunkered down and stuck a wet finger into the pile. “Well?” She almost danced in impatience as he stuck his finger in his mouth. “What is it? Heroin?” Franco raised his eyes skyward. “No,” he said finally, considering. “Not heroin.” Hope ran through her meager knowledge of drugs. How many white powders were there? “Cocaine?” she guessed. “Nope.” He shook his head slowly and a smile danced in his dark eyes.

“It waswhat ?” Three hours later, Kay brushed a lock of dark hair out of her eyes as her head turned on the pillow. “You heard me,” Hope grinned. “Flour.” “You mean to say that at least two men, maybe more, broke into the house to stealflour ? That doesn’t make any sense. What were they going to do? Bake muffins?” Hope was still exhilarated that it wasn’t drugs. “I don’t know, Kay. Maybe they were an ecological terrorist group. You use white flour,” she added accusingly. “I had a friend in college who would have considered refined flour a crime in itself.” Kay smiled faintly. “It’s hard to find stone-ground whole-wheat down here.” She sighed and turned her head. The smile was gone and worry darkened her eyes. “Hope.” She turned her free arm so that her hand lay palm up on the stiff hospital bed sheet. The other arm had an IV line running into it. “What’s really going on?” she asked softly. Hope took the hand offered her and sat down with a sigh. “I don’t know, honey. I just don’t know. Your house was trashed, someone shot at me and now it looks like maybe it’s the work of some…some demented cook!” “Baker,” Kay murmured. “I have a horrible suspicion, Kay,” Hope said somberly. “I sure hope I’m wrong, but…” “But?” Kay’s eyes were wide and frightened. “Well, I’m afraid that what we might have here is…” Hope hesitated. “What?What ?” Kay asked impatiently. “Well.” Hope looked down at her shoes, stretching out the drama of the moment. “I’m very much afraid that what we have here might be a cereal killer.” Kay gasped, and lifted her dark head from the pillow. “Oh, no! A se --” then she groaned and let her head drop. She rolled her eyes. “Cereal killer.” Kay groaned again then laughed. “Hope, that’s terrible.”

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But she was smiling again and there was the faintest touch of color in her cheeks. “Flour scattered on the ground,” she said wonderingly. “Well, if anyone can unravel this mess, Franco can.” She gave a sly, sideways glance at Hope. “He’s very good, you know.” She paused for a beat. “At what he does.” Hope gently disengaged her hand and looked up the IV pole to check the bottle of antibiotics dripping slowly into Kay’s arm, then straightened the pile of plastic glasses next to the bottle of mineral water on the night table. Kay watched her fussing with amusement in the back of her eyes. “Well?” Hope smoothed Kay’s bedclothes. “Well, what?” “Is he?” Kay smiled wickedly. “Good at it, I mean?” Despite her best efforts to keep it in check, the blush slid past her defenses and stained Hope’s cheeks. Franco, sucking her nipples, hard as steel inside her…the sun bursting in her head. Oh, yes, God yes, the man was good . Hope slumped on the chair, sneakered feet on the iron frame of Kay’s bed. “It won’t work, Hope,” Kay said slowly. Hope looked up in surprise. “You can hide behind old clothes all you want—you’re still pretty. Stunningly beautiful, actually. There’s not much you can do to hide it. But why hide it? Why not use what the good Lord gave you?” Hope looked down at herself. She usually didn’t much notice what she was wearing, but Kay was right. Frayed jeans, faded tee shirt. This outfit had more or less had it. “I guess these pants need throwing away.” “No, they need burning. They’re at least five years out of style.” Out of style. Unfashionable. How often Hope had heard her mother utter those words as if they were something morally reprehensible. She stiffened. “I don’t care about being in style or not. Besides, I can’t afford to follow fashion —” “That’s ridiculous, Hope, and you know it. You’ve got a fortune just sitting there in a bank account.” “It’s not my money,” Hope muttered. They’d been over this before. “Of course it’s your money. If it’s not your money, then whose is it? Emmett left that money toyou . His will was quite specific. He wanted you, personally, to have some money of your own. And you can’t give it back to him, Hope.” Kay met Hope’s eyes. “Emmett is dead, honey.” Hope had been the one who had had to identify the body. Half of Emmett’s chest had been blasted away. “Nobody knows that better than I do,” she said quietly. “Well, so not spending it is certainly not doing him any good. Besides which, what he left you was a drop in the ocean for him. So if it’s not his, do you think it should go to your mother? He left her half of what he owned. Not even your mother, as dedicated a shopper as she is, could possibly spend all that

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money in one lifetime. And what about Emmett’s two kids? Any more money, and Emmett Junior would just drink himself to death that much earlier. And Samantha? She’d just make one more toy boy happy. They contested Emmett’s will out of sheer spite, not because they needed the money. No, Emmett knew what he was doing when he left you that money.” “Money’s overrated,” Hope said. “It never made anyone happy.” “Spoken like a true rich person,” Kay replied wryly. “For those of us less fortunate to have a considerable sum of it, believe me, money has its place in the universal scheme of things.” “That’s what my mother thinks.” Hope clenched her fists. “She’d do anything for money.” She swallowed heavily. “Diddo anything for money, when we didn’t have any.” Kay’s dark eyes were liquid with affection. Hope had told her enough about her childhood. “Is that what all this is about? You don’t want to be like your mother? And since your mother is clothes-mad, you wear any old rag. Since your mother is impossibly vain, you don’t care about your looks at all. Since your mother loves anything in pants and with a check-book, you don’t date…” “That’s enough!” Hope knew her voice was too loud and too harsh. Kay was sick and she couldn’t get angry with a sick person. The fact that she had hit a few nails on the head was beside the point. Hope stood up. “We can play ring-around-the-shrink some other time. Right now, I think I’d better be going.” Hope opened the door of the little metal locker next to the bed and pulled out a bag of soiled nightgowns. “I’ll wash and iron these over the weekend and get them back to you. It looks like your chocolate supplies are running low. I’ll also bring more books when I…” “Hope.” Kay crooked her finger and when Hope drew near the bed, her hand gently grasped Hope’s arm. They were good enough friends to understand the unspoken things. “Thanks. Sorry.” Hope squeezed the hand on her arm. “It’s okay, hon. You’re right about a lot of things. You always have been. Take care of yourself.” She bent down and brushed a kiss over Kay’s brow. “I’ll try to stop by on Monday.”

***** “Damn.” Franco stared in frustration at the thick grayish strokes on the sheet of paper in front of him. Two numbers: 5146277 and 210603 and underneathStella del Sud , Southern Star. The numbers and words were barely discernible but that was the best his computer graphics expert could do. He and his men had spent the day checking the numbers and trying to find out what theStella del Sud was. It was Saturday afternoon, a hot Saturday afternoon, and Franco didn’t want to be in the office. He wanted to be taking a leisurely swim with Hope, making plans for dinner later. Trying to coax her back into bed, where he hoped he’d have a little more control this time. Instead, he was stuck here, trying to make sense of two numbers and a name. Even without the problems Hope and Kay were having, he’d still be here, he reflected. The past six months had seen an incredible upswing in crime. Bari, like most cities in southern Italy, had always had a

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lot of petty crime: prostitution, burglary, purse snatching, and the rare mugging. But now the statistics were shooting off the chart. It was as if the city and the surrounding area had suddenly gone crazy. Franco had asked for reinforcements twice, and Central Command in Rome, short of manpower, had started sending raw recruits who tended to trip over their own feet. But in the meantime, something had to be done to protect Hope. Hope… “Dream on, lover boy.” Marco strolled in, arms full of documents. He tipped them onto Franco’s desk, pulled out a chair, turned it around and sat down, folding his big arms along the back. “Can’t hurt to dream.” “Can it, Marco.” Franco gave his lieutenant a narrow-eyed glare. “I don’t need this right now.” Unimpressed, Marco grinned. “I’ll bet it killed you to have to put Claudio on sentry duty tonight when you’d just love to be guarding Miss Hope’s body. Don’t blame you a bit. It’s a very pretty body. Maybe tomorrow night, huh?” Marco wiggled his bushy eyebrows in an exaggerated leer. “Go to hell, Marco.” Franco slapped his hand on the pile of documents haphazardly dumped on his desk. “You know I’ve got these reports to go through.” Marco’s grin widened. “I’ll bet I know what you’d really like to go through…” Marco had been his father’s right hand man. Marco was his best friend. Franco would trust him with his life.Had trusted him with his life. But right now, he wished he could push a button to make Marco disappear. Or at least shut up. “How would you like to be demoted?” Franco asked through clenched teeth. Marco whistled tunelessly as he consulted a sheet of paper, then tossed another dossier onto the already untidy pile on Franco’s desk. He caught a computer diskette thathad started to slide off. “You won’t demote me,” he said confidently. “You can’t.” “No.” Franco sighed, remembering his father coming home twenty years ago and telling his mother about the young shepherd’s son who wanted so badly to be acarabiniere . Remembering Marco covered with his father’s blood. Remembering Marco crying because he hadn’t been able to die instead of his general. Remembering the thousand times Marco had proved his loyalty and dedication. Of course he couldn’t demote him. Franco sighed and picked up the dossiers Marco had brought. “What have you got for me here?” “Not much, unfortunately.” Marco consulted his sheet. “Let’s take the first number. It corresponds to the phone of an insurance broker, a small firm that according to our tax records is not very successful. The office is owned by Miratec, which in turn is owned by a company called Sisimo. We’re still checking. The next number doesn’t correspond to any phone numbers at all. We checked the surrounding area, any town that doesn’t need a different area code. Nothing. It isn’t a license plate number. It isn’t a social security number. It could be a bank account number or the combination to a safe. If it’s in code, we don’t have any chance of breaking it without further information. So far that’s it. On to theStella del Sud .” Marco drew a long weary breath. After a sleepless night, he had spent the entire day peering into the depths of a computer screen, trying to make sense of what was happening. Like his Captain, he was

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even neglecting his other duties, though not for the same reason. His reason was dark-haired and confined to a hospital bed. When Kay got out of the hospital, he wanted to know she would be safe. Exhausted, he drew a hand down his face, and then continued. “We started with businesses in general and came up empty-handed. Then we tried restaurants. There are two restaurants namedStella del Sus: one in Bari and one in Trani. The restaurant in Trani is only open in the high season. At the moment it’s still closed.” His lips quirked in a grim smile. “The one in Bari serves great pizza according to Claudio. The owner is the third generation to run the restaurant and has never had problems with the law.” “Nothing.” Franco’s voice was quiet. “Nothing,” Marco agreed. “Hey, Ferrari!” Marco barely looked up as a diskette flew by his head. At the very last second, his hand shot up and plucked it out of the air. “Fast as ever.” Corrado Cini, the resident computer genius, grinned at the two men. “I put some data together, hope it’s of some use to you. Gotta go. Hot date tonight.” He waved jauntily and disappeared. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” Without much hope, Franco inserted the diskette and accessed the directory. Figures scrolled down the screen. “It’s data on Miratec,” he said, disappointed. “Not much use.” Marco studied the screen. “Go on,” he said quietly. “We might as well be thorough.” The men watched the screen as the sky outside the window grew dark and as the rowdy day team was replaced by the quiet, skeleton staff of the night crew. The numbers progressed. After half an hour, Franco stopped tapping on the keyboard and rolled his shoulders. He shifted his chair and let Marco take over. “Who did you say was on duty at the beach house tonight?” Marco pressed page down and perused the screen before answering. “Claudio.” He looked up briefly at his captain. “She’ll be okay.” “Yeah, I know, it’s just that…” Franco stiffened and put a hand on Marco’s shoulder. “Run that last screen again.” Marco scrolled up. “Here?” “Yes.” Franco looked at the screen and slowly blew out his breath. “I’ve seen that somewhere before.” He accessed another database and peered into the depths of his computer. “There!” He pointed to a figure. “Go back to the previous file.” One by one, the lights went out in the big white building on the waterfront. Franco and Marco worked side by side, the quiet occasionally punctured by an exclamation of surprise. At midnight, Franco placed a phone call to a friend of his at Interpol who—luckily—was working late. The information he got sent him back to his computer with redoubled energy. At two o’clock in the morning, he pressed a key and printed out the results of the research. While the noisy old printer cranked out the pages, Franco lit a rare cigarette and ignored Marco’s hand frantically waving the smoke away from his face. Finally, the printer stopped.

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Franco beat Marco to the pile. He thumbed through the sheets once again. But it had been no mistake. Both of them knew they had hit pay dirt. Finally, Franco’s index finger pointed to a name on the next to the last page. “Well, well, well,” he breathed and met Marco’s grim eyes. “Look who we have here.” He leaned closer to the screen and his mouth curved in a hard smile, the hunter catching a scent of the quarry. “Rocco Lipari.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“They used to call this stretch of beachIl porto del paradiso.” Hope didn’t have to look behind her to see who was speaking. She recognized the deep, rich tones with the faintest of accents. Her heart rate picked up. She wasn’t ready for this. She’d come out to the beach to be alone and sort out the jumble of feelings she had. Try to put the night of hot sex with Franco in perspective, get a handle on it. In the magazines, it was all so easy. Sex was easy. Easy and fun and light. Sex with Franco had been overwhelming. She felt as if her entire world had jolted and slid into a new alignment, like terrain after an earthquake. Her world was littered with the debris of old feelings and certainties. The knowledge that she wasn’t indifferent to sex, wasn’t frigid was something completely new. The fact that the man who had introduced her to shocking intense sex was a cop—and taken, to boot—wasn’t easy to deal with. She didn’t turn around, and Franco settled down next to her, like her looking out across the blue and silver waves of the sea. Like most Sunday mornings, Hope had taken an early run along the beach, showered, and come out again to sit in the shadow of the big bluff until the sun became too hot for her delicate skin, watching the ever-changing kaleidoscopic movements of the sea. “The port of paradise,” Hope translated. “It certainly feels like paradise.” She raised her face into the mild sea breeze and breathed deeply, loving the briny tang. Franco was mesmerized by the clean cut of her profile. Eyelashes so light you had to look twice to realize they were immensely long and luxuriant swept down, casting a shadow over high, sculpted cheekbones. Etched against the dark brown bluff, her profile looked like a cameo: small straight nose curving down to a half-mouth with a soft romantic cast, the delicate, gently-rounded chin leading to a pale, slender throat seemingly made to be caressed.

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She turned to face him, that exquisite face somber and unsmiling. He flashed on that face under him, moving with his thrusts. Though aroused, it had been unsmiling and somber then, too. What on earth could make such a beautiful and desirable woman unhappy?Franco vowed to resolve that enigma soon. But first, heneeded for her to relax, talk about other things. “Not ‘port’ in the literal sense,” he answered, scooping up a fistful of sand and letting it slowly sift through his fingers. “More like haven or shelter. This is the narrowest part of the Adriatic Sea. Since the fall of the Roman Empire, the people in the Balkan countries across this narrow strait have taken refuge here during times of trouble. Just before the fall of Communism, at the height of the riots to overthrow Ceaucescu and Hoxha, there was a massive influx of refugees. Most of them Albanians. The Albanian coast is only 70 kilometers away—less than an hour by speedboat. And then, in 1997, a sixth of the population lost their life savings in a pyramid scheme. It seems like they all tried to come over. Half a million starving people trying to get in. “ “I think I remember watching a news special on that,” Hope mused. “I remember seeing this enormous ship crammed stem to stern with refugees and the docks filled to overflowing.” “You saw theVlora , a fishing vessel out of Durres,” he said with a shudder of remembrance. “There were ten thousand people crammed on board. It was August, one of the hottest Augusts on record and twenty five thousand starving Albanians poured into Bari over a four-day period.” “It was something like the Marielboat lift wasn’t it?” Hope asked. “Worse.” Franco closed his eyes. He could still see the heart-wrenching scenes of a desperate sea of humanity: young boys clinging to the anchor chain of a ship the refugees had overwhelmed, a teenager who had unknowingly hidden in the smoke stack and been burned alive, a frantic mother tossing her small child into the hands of strangers because whatever unknown horrors lay ahead couldn’t be worse than the horrors which lay behind. He had just been promoted to captain and it had been his first assignment—the impossible task of keeping order among thousands of people, many of them sick, all of them desperate. He shuddered again. “It made me realize what a border guard on the US-Mexico border must feel like, day in and day out. And it’s hopeless because some are quite literally prepared to die in the attempt to get away.” “Things are better for the Albanians now, aren’t they?” Hope asked. “I mean, the dictatorship has been overthrown and they’re free.” “Well, yes and no.” Franco toed off his loafers and dug his bare feet in the sand, loving the feel of the soft grains slipping over the skin of his feet. “The dictatorship is gone, of course, but there is still grinding poverty. And unfortunately, the Albanians receive Italian television. So here are all these people who had to wait in line for food under Communism and watched Communism fall and now they can’t afford food under democracy. And every night they watch the glitz on our TV. They think everyone in Italy wears Armani suits and drives a Ferrari because that’s what they see on the commercials. They’re convinced that everyone here is rich and all that separates them from us, from all that opulence, is a narrow strait of water. Did you know that the nickname for Italy, in Albanian, is ‘heaven’?”

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Franco dug a folded sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket and opened it up. “But I didn’t come here to discuss geopolitics with you,” he said, judging the time was right. “I wanted to show this to you to see if you recognized it.” Hope took the sheet of paper and smoothed it out across her knees. A gust of sea wind blew up and she anchored the sheet with her hands. She studied the figures and words for a long moment. There were two numbers and three words:Stella del Sud . There was something odd about the way the numbers and words were written. The strokes were unusually thick, as if written with an enormous pencil, and were an odd color of gray. “What is this, Franco? It looks…weird.” “Do you remember that notepad we found on Friday?” “I remember.” She shot him a wry look. “Actually, mostly what I remember is you being mad at me.” “As I had every right to be,” he answered coolly. “You were very foolish but…” He held up a hand to forestall whatever she was about to say. “You apologized and I accepted your apology so that’s forgotten.” How very gracious of you, Hope wanted to say. But it wasn’t the right weather for sarcasm. “I remember that notepad. But it was blank.” She pointed at the sheet of paper. “So what does that notepad have to do with this?” “The notepad itself was blank,” he said. “But someone had written these numbers and those words on the top sheet of paper then tore it off. We don’t know whether he had written them as a memo to himself or whether he had placed a phone call from your house and wrote down what he was told.” “But… “ Hope was confused. “If you didn’t find the sheet of paper, if it was torn off and taken, how can you know what was written on it?” “Whoever jotted those notes down left an impression on the page underneath. My computer expert tells me that we could have reconstructed what was written down through four or even five pages, though the writing loses clarity with each page. We were lucky that just the first sheet was torn off. Those gray squiggles are a computer enhancement of a photograph of the sheet of paper under lambent light. Then the programmer tries to fill in the hollow parts. I watched while they did it. It’s part science and part magic.” “I’ll bet it’s fascinating,” Hope said softly. “It is, actually.” Franco pointed to the sheet of paper on Hope’s knees. “So, Hope, please take a look at this and think carefully. Do the numbers mean anything to you? Anything at all?” Hope concentrated on the numbers before her, then slowly shook her head. “What about the words?Stella del Sud means southern star. Does that mean anything to you?” Hope thought for a moment, frowning. Then she shook her head. “Nothing at all, except that it’s a star visible only in the southern hemisphere. I’ve got a friend who lives in Australia and she told me about it. Of course, I’ve never seen it myself.”

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“Does it ring a bell?” Franco persisted. “Think. Could it be a shop near here, maybe? Or perhaps a camp site?” Hope thought, then shook her head again. “Sorry, Franco.” Franco sighed. “Well, don’t worry about it. I suppose I wasn’t really expecting you to recognize anything, anyway. There’s something else I wanted to ask you, though. Actually, I wanted to ask you yesterday, but I never got around to it. Do you think you could come into headquarters tomorrow around noon?” Hope looked at him solemnly. He was dressed in an open-necked short-sleeved brown shirt and beige slacks. He was deeply tanned and his eyes in the shadow of the bluff were a rich golden brown, like ancient bronze. Everything about him was earth-toned, from his glossy chestnut hair to the tanned, muscular forearms which ended in strong beautifully shaped masculine hands half buried in the dun-colored sand. Everything about him was elegantly, powerfully male. Hope had never been more attracted to a man in her life. Every time she was near him, she felt an electric charge run through her. The night in bed with him had changed her vision of herself as a woman. And every time she was near him, she foolishly, foolishly forgot what he was. A cop. She kept her expression blank. “You want me to come down to headquarters tomorrow?” she repeated, her voice a careful monotone. When he nodded, she swallowed. “Tell me, Franco.” She tried to still her wildly beating heart. She hadtrusted him, damn it! “Will I be needing a lawyer?” Franco blinked in surprise. “Will you be needing a—good God no!” He threw back his head and laughed. Without warning, a strong arm snaked around her shoulders and pulled her to him for a quick hard hug. Then she was released before she even had time to react. His teeth were dazzling white in the dark face and Hope felt her head swim at the glamour of that smile. “A lawyer.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Don’t worry, you won’t be booked.” He chuckled again at the thought. “The reason I want you there is that we’ve got an identikit of that guy who broke into the house Friday evening. It looks like a good likeness to me, but you’re the one who saw him most clearly and we want you to take a look at it. If we’ve got a make, then we’ll check out our files for an identity.” His eyes gleamed. “I’ve got a new computer program for face matching that I’m dying to try out.” He looked like a kid with a new toy. For the first time, Hope saw him. Reallysaw him--not as a cop and not as a man whose sexuality had blown her away. She saw past the hated job and good looks and the male charisma. She saw him as a human being, with likes and dislikes, not that much older than she was. A man with flaws and blind spots, a little domineering, but essentially good. A good, loyal friend. An incredible lover. If only he were free… “I beg your pardon?” He had said something while she had been woolgathering. “I said that afterwards, I’d like to take you out to lunch. There’s this great little restaurant around the corner from headquarters. You’ll just love the food. And I’m sure I can get you back to the school in time for your first afternoon class. When do you start?”

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“I have my Intermediate A class at two-thirty,” Hope said slowly. He wanted to take her out to lunch? But, but…”Won’t Margherita mind?” she blurted out. It was bad enough that he’d slept with her when he was seeing someone else. One-off sex could maybe be put down to stress and danger. Was he now proposing anaffair? Had she completely misjudged him? Franco looked puzzled. “Margherita?” He swiveled his head to look at her closely. “Why on earth should my mother care who I have lunch with?” Then he smiled slowly as a blush rose in Hope’s cheeks. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Your…mother?” Hope spoke directly to her knees. Franco caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger and gently turned her head in his direction. He stroked his thumb over the small dimple in her chin, then released it. “My mother,” he confirmed softly. “Why? Who did you think Margherita was? My girlfriend? My—what is it they call them nowadays?” “Significant other,” Hope supplied. “Significant other.” He shook his head ruefully. “No, Margherita is definitely not my significant other. I love my mother very much, but she certainly wouldn’t mind if I had lunch with a beautiful woman. On the contrary, she’s constantly matchmaking. And what about you?” “Me?” Hope’s voice was slightly breathless. He was watching her carefully and every rational thought she ever had flew straight out of her head. “What about me?” “Do you have a significant other?” Franco slid his hand through the fine-grained sand to cover her hand with his. For a moment, she stared at their joined hands, his dark and strong, hers pale and delicate. “I…” She swallowed. “No. No, I don’t have a significant other, either.” “Good.” His face had turned tense, hard, flushed. “We should have cleared the terrain the other night. Business is over. Come here.” Without any warning whatsoever, he leaned over and covered her mouth with his. His big hand came up and covered the back of her head and held her still for his kiss, tongue thrusting deep in her mouth, exactly like his penis in her the other night. Strong steady strokes. Oh, God, he was taking her hand and placing it over his groin. His penis leapt and grew in her hand. It was amazing to feel. In a few seconds he was hot and heavy, pulsing with every stroke of his tongue in her mouth. Before she could think, he had his pants unbuttoned, unzipped and had pushed something stretchy and cool down …and she was touching his flesh, velvet over steel. His hand clenched in her hair almost painfully and his mouth ate at hers. His penis was like a barometer and she could feel…touch…his excitement. It swelled and grew with each sigh, each stroke of the tongue, each twisting movement thatensured her breasts could rub against his chest. How on earth had she managed to take all of him the other night? She’d been more aroused than she’d ever been in her life, true. More aroused than she ever thought she could be. But still…

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Her fist opened up, her fingers couldn’t meet any more around him. A hot musky smell rose up from his open pants and it went straight to the animal part of her brain. Every single rational thought process stopped and she fisted her other hand in his hair and rose to her knees. Afterwards, she’d wince at the picture they must have made. Tightly holding each other’s head, an almost violent kiss of lips and teeth and tongue. Her hand holding him tightly, starting to pump his penis… From the far end of the beach came a dog’s bark. A man whistled and called to it. Their lips parted, like two positive poles. …Franco abruptly pulled away, adjusted his clothing and then surged to his feet unbuttoning his shirt and then shrugged out of it. At his feet, Hope gaped up at him. She stirred when his hands went to the waistband of his slacks. “Franco,” she whispered, shocked. She was shocked at what he was doing but also shocked at herself. In a minute she’d gone from zero to total arousal. He was going to strip and take her on a public beach and she had no idea if she would resist him.Could resist him. Her heart beat wildly and she had to swallow to get the words out. “We’re on a public beach. There are people here.” She was reassured when he slid his trousers down muscled legs to reveal a pair of swimming trunks instead of briefs. His erect penis was clearly etched under the spandex. She could even make out the bulbous head, which she knew was already weeping semen. He bulged with muscle and was tanned a deep cinnamon brown. He was strength and maleness and temptation all in one. “Come on.” He leaned down and pulled her up by a hand. Before she could stop him, he’d whisked off her tee shirt. “We can’t do what I want to do here.” “How could you know I had on a swim suit underneath my shirt?” she demanded, voice thick in her throat. He grinned wickedly. “Lucky guess.” He looked her up and down, eyes hot and lingering on her breasts. “Now come on.” He shaded his eyes with his hand and looked out over the sea towards the bluff. The sun was shining almost directly overhead, turning the water a vivid shade of blue and picking out the cracks and crevices of the bluff as it angled down into the sea. “Do you see that outcropping over there?” He pointed to a rock formation which jutted up out of the water then tapered to a smooth gray plateau worn smooth by the waves. Hope shaded her eyes, too, and smiled. It was one of her favorite spots. “Yeah, I see it,” she said softly. He had kept her off-balance since she’d met him. He was a dominant male, a policeman. She was a foreigner in a foreign country. His country. He’d made love to her with devastating effects, while remaining almost unaffected. He had her at a disadvantage in every way. Almost every way.

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Giving him a swift push in the chest which landed him on the soft sand, she took off at a sprint, calling over her shoulder, “Race you to the rock!” Then she dove into the waves and set off at a swift crawl. Franco’s hormones were in control enough to be able to watch her indulgently for a moment or two. He picked himself up off the sand and set off at a leisurely pace towards the water. He wanted to make sure he gave her a good head start. He was a very strong swimmer and he didn’t want to beat her by too wide a margin. He paused for just a moment to tilt his head up to catch the sun and grinned—suddenly absurdly, crazily happy. Then he, too, dove into the water, savoring the silky coolness before breaking the surface and setting off at a powerful crawl. As he arrowed his way through the water, Franco emptied his mind of all cares and concentrated on the joy of the day, the pleasure he felt whenever he was with Hope, the feel of every muscle in his body working in harmony as he ploughed forward with long, powerful strokes. It was a long swim. He wondered if Hope was managing it. Maybe it was too long a swim for her. When he judged he was more or less near the outcropping, he stopped and treaded water, his back to the bluff, eyes scanning over the silver darts of the sunlight reflecting over the waves, searching for a silver head. He frowned. She was nowhere to be seen.Had she somehow veered off course? he wondered uneasily. He continued treading water, his head moving back in forth in ever wider sweeps, searching anxiously.God , he thought,ifanything’s happened to her I’ll never forgive myself … He drew in a deep breath, preparatory to bellowing out her name when a soft, gentle voice sounded from behind him. “Well, Captain,” she asked in a teasing voice, “what took you so long?” He whipped around in the water and saw her, a nymph gracefully perched on the rock, swinging her feet and dabbling her toes in the sea. The man in him noticed what a beautiful picture she made, framed by the blue sea and even bluer sky, the gray basalt rock accentuating her pale skin. The policeman in him noticed that she’d been there long enough to dry off. Hope nearly laughed at Franco’s expression. He was treading water, dark hair sleeked back, mouth open with shock. “You out swam me,” he called out, and disappeared beneath the waves. Well…yes. Hope had been on her high school and college swim teams. She was an extremely strong swimmer. Swimming was once what she did instead of having a life. Did that bother him? Was he one of those men who couldn’t stand to be beaten at anything by a woman? If so, too bad for him, because she… A strong dark hand snaked out from the water, clutched her ankle and pulled her off the rock and into

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the water. She surfaced, spluttering, to find Franco disturbingly close, smiling, and with a wicked gleam in his eye. He treaded water, edging her closer to the gray rocky outcropping. “Little mermaid,” he whispered, “come to me.” There was no one around, no sound but the waves lapping gently against the stones. Franco’s expression was almost, but not quite, frightening. The skin around his eyes was tight, skin taut over the cheekbones. She couldn’t tell if he was flushed because he was so tan, but she could certainly tell he was aroused. His nostrils flared as he moved in close to her. His lips were red and engorged. His hands clutched her waist as he swam them to the outcropping. In a moment, their feet touched something solid. An underwater ledge. Hope’s back touched the smooth gray stone. They were standing in the water in a little cove, hidden from the shore. And, even if there weren’t a stone ledge cutting off the view of the beach, no one could have seen her past Franco’s impossibly wide shoulders. The water came to the middle of his chest and up to her nipples. She knew this because he’d already stripped her of her bathing suit and the gently lapping seawater alternatively bathed her nipples andthen exposed them in an arousing rhythm. It certainly aroused Franco. He was staring at her breasts in fascination, eyes hot. He was standing so close to her she could feel him surging erect again, his penis almost echoing the rhythm of the surging tide. His hands left her for afew seconds to strip off his swimming trunks and throw them up on the rock, next to her swimsuit. His hand covered the back of her head, cupping it, protecting it from the rock and her arms rose automatically to his shoulders. For balance. Because the sleek muscles called out for her touch. To have an anchor in her suddenly narrow world - a world of rocking water and pulsing desire. Instead of giving her one of his hot, arousing kisses, Franco’s mouth stopped a breath away from hers. “The other night I didn’t get a chance to find out what you like,” he said, his voice a rough whisper. One big hand cupped her mound, the wide palm forcing her to open her legs. He stroked her, the skin of his fingers rough, the touch delicate. “Do you like it soft and gentle…?” He inserted one finger, then two, lazily caressing her. His grip tightened, fingers stiff, rubbing fast in her, thumb circling her clitoris. “Or…or do you like it hard and fast?” Hope was stiff, suddenly once more catapulted straight towards an orgasm, faster than she liked, hovering on the brink. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even blink as his eyes stared straight into hers. “There’s only one way to find out,” Franco rasped as his fingers separated, opening her up. She could feel his shoulder muscles tensing as he slid his penis into her, hard, to the hilt. He stopped, stilled, leaning hard into her, eyes blazing and nostrils flared wide with the harsh breaths bellowing in and out of his chest. Hope could feel it all, as if he were under her skin, sharing the same nervous system. His tense, unyielding muscles under her hands, the hard muscles of his stomach rubbing against hers, his chest, expanding and contracting in her arms — all of it told her he was as excited as she was.

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They stood long moments in the sun-dappled water, pressed against the stone, joined mouth to mouth, chest to chest, genitals to genitals. Hope could feel her vagina opening further with each pulse of his penis. They weren’t moving. He wasn’t thrusting. It was as though the very fact of being joined, of breathing in time, of having their heartbeats synchronized, was enough for their still, unmoving bodies to make love. Franco was the first to move. His right hand caressed her hip, then moved to her backside. He pressed her hips forward while trying to push even more deeply inside her. The feeling was amazing. It was as if all her nerve endings were concentratedthere and she could feel all of him, pressing up against her womb, deeper than any man had ever been before. She could feel his heartbeat against her breast, in his penis. She could feel his thick pubic hair, a crinkly caress against the opened folds of her sex. Every heartbeat, every breath was echoed there, where they were joined. Amazing that she’d never realized howintimate lovemaking was. She could hardly remember her other lovers, only fleeting impressions, movements in the dark, kisses which left her cold and once, only once, a tense, hard little orgasm. It had been almost painful and over quickly. She’d had two brief affairs, one for a few weeks in college with a math major and the other, four years later, with a fellow teacher in New York. Both had been fleeting and had left her dissatisfied, feeling lonelier and more disconnected than ever. Nothing like now, in the full light of day, the dappled water throwing bright silver reflections off his copper skin. She knew every breath Franco took, could see each individual eyelash, could see to a hair where his heavy beard started. Could sense his feelings from his heart beat tripping madly against her breast and his penis pulsing, warm and hard, in her vagina. This was, Hope suddenly realized, the very closest in every sense she had ever been to another human being. “So,” he rasped. He stared into her eyes. “What’s it to be? Fast or slow?” “Slow,” Hope breathed. The idea of moving, of changing this incredible feeling of closeness and turning it into mere sex was almost painful. “Piano, piano, allora.”We’ll take it slow.His deep voice was a low whisper in her ear, the puffs of air against the sensitive tissue raising goose pimples. “Piano,” he whispered, as he pulled slowly out, so slowly she could actually feel the walls of her vagina collapsing in his wake. “Piano.”Then back in, in slow stages, the large head opening her up as he slid smoothly in to the end of her sheath and then, impossibly, even further. Pressing against her, hot, hard, deep. So deep she thought he could reach her heart. “Piano.” Oh, god, he was leaving her again, and she would have felt empty and bereft, if it weren’t for the fact that his slow pulling out made her aware of every inch of her vagina, as if the passing of his penis within her woke up long-dead nerve endings. “Piano, cara. Carissima. Vado piano.”He was calling her his dear, his sweetheart. It would have sent shivers running up her spine if they weren’t already doing so, each slow passage of his penis in her electrifying the muscles in her groin, prickling along her back. The words were almost too much, a heaping of sensation onto already overwhelmed nerves.

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The deep voice whispered endearments so close to her ear it was as if they penetrated directly into her brain. Coupled with the slow glide of his body in hers, it was terrifying. Each time he entered her body—so, so slowly, just as she’d asked—a door came unlocked. A window opened. Long-frozen parts of her came rushing back to life in a long liquid surge. It was so exhilarating, yet so impossibly frightening.Oh, God ! Slowly sliding back into her, touching deep inside her, he started rotating his hips, grinding, his pubic hairs meshing with hers, the large root of his penis sliding against even the outer folds of her sex. It was too much. Too intense. “Bella mia,” he groaned, pushing somehow even more deeply into her. “Sei mia.”You’re mine . Everything in her stopped. Heart, muscles, mind. She was strung out, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Franco pressed harder and from deep within her a wild shaking began. She felt it first in her mind, spinning out of control. Then the muscles of her arms and legs and finally, her vagina, contracting in sharp rhythms. “Sì!” Franco groaned and started moving. He somehow managed to time his short strokes to her contractions. He rocked within her and it was as if her vagina was trying to catch him, and keep him, within her. His movements inside her prolonged the contractions, kept them going so long she almost forgot who she was. She became a creature of instinct and pleasure, existing only where he pierced her, the sharpest arrow on earth, moving in and out of her. Just as she was finally quieting, a few senses starting to reconnect with her mind, he bit her earlobe, then licked it. “It has to be fast now,cara .” The deep voice sounded strangled, desperate. His hips bucked once, twice, then he pounded into her, whipping the water around them into a froth. It was sex now, not lovemaking and she expected to pull back emotionally, simply making her body available to him, a receptacle for male lust. It didn’t work that way. That connection that feeling of being one with him held. Even as he was making love with her--fuckingher--she felt every beat of his heart, could feel the moment, the very second, when he started moving into his orgasm, could feel his loss of control, the shudder that rippled through his body, the low rough sound he made as semen started spurting out of him… And she moved with a high cry into another climax, taking her totally by surprise. She was holding on to him with her arms and legs, totally open in all senses. She didn’t know who was clinging more tightly to the other, her or him. His fingers would leave bruises, her skin was very delicate, but she didn’t care. He shouted, shuddering, and a flock of gulls took off from the rock, wheeling and crying in the sky. How funny, they had disturbed the birds. Franco had disturbed everything. The birds, the water, her heart. For no reason whatsoever, tears leaked out of Hope’s eyes. She tightened her arms around his neck and buried her face against his strong shoulder. She struggled, but a tear dropped on his neck.

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Franco turned his head and kissed her closed eyelid, licking the tear. “Non piangere, tesoro,” he whispered tenderly.Don’t cry, darling . Hope shook her head sharply. No, of course not. She wasn’t crying. It was just that water was coming out of her eyes. They weren’t tears. They stayed there, clinging tightly to each other in the warm water, breathing heavily, long enough for the sun to disappear on the other side of the bluff. A sharp wind suddenly rose up, ruffling the water. Hope shivered and buried deeper into Franco’s shoulder. “It’s getting cold.” His lips were still close to her ear, the deep tones sinking straight into her stomach. “We need to get back.” He loosened his hold on her, then clasped his hands on her shoulders, holding her at arm’s length. “ Are you up to swimming back to the shore?” his voice said, but his eyes were saying: Are you okay? “Sure.” She smiled, signaling: Everything’s fine. Just peachy. It wasn’t. Hope felt shaken to her core, completely off-balance. But there was nothing to say, even if she had the words to explain her feelings, which she didn’t. They were a man and a woman who were attracted to each other. They were on a beach together and everyone knew what happened then. You were already half naked and one thing leads to another. Sex is inevitable in these conditions. But it hadn’t been just sex. It had been something else, and it scared the hell out of her. Franco silently handed her swimsuit to her and put on his own trunks under water. His expression was somber, as if he, too, had a lot of things to think about. Franco glanced back to the shore. “Let’s get going. Try not to beat me by too wide a margin.”

***** He couldn’t stay. As soon as they were back to shore, Franco left for the office. The little house seemed empty after he’d gone. Some of the brightness drained out of the day. Hope was used to being on her own. She had been alone most of her life, but all of a sudden she felt not only alone but…lonely, and the loneliness weighed on her. The empty day stretched out forever, with nothing and no one to fill it. Kay had been taken by ambulance to the Mater Dei hospital for tests and wouldn’t be back until late in the evening, and Hope didn’t really know any of the other teachers well enough to suddenly call them up out of the blue on a Sunday afternoon. They would probably already have plans, anyway. Sundays were for families or for…significant others. Sundays were for people who had someone to smile with, laugh with, share things with. Sundays

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weren’t for people like her. Hope started putting together a light dinner and tried to ignore her increasingly somber mood.Stop that , she told herself sternly.Self-pity is degrading. And you have no reason to pity yourself anyway. No reason at all. You’ve got your health, which is more than Kay has. You’ve got a job you like. And if you want more, then that’s just too bad. Not everybody gets what they want. She had almost cajoled herself back to her usual serenity when the phone rang. “Hope?” “Mother!” Hope’s heart plummeted. The last thing—the very last thing she needed when she was feeling slightly depressed—was a call from her mother. “Darling,” Marla breathed, “I called because I just heard the most wonderful news, and I thought—I’ve got to grab the phone and tell Hope! If we hurry, we can have a little window of opportunity. That’s the right expression, isn’t it, darling? ‘Window of opportunity’? It’s one that my portfolio manager uses all the time.” “I suppose so,” Hope said cautiously. “So if we get onto this right away…” “Mom…” “I went down the coast to Hermosa Estates with the Fergusons in their yacht and we only just now got back. Claire Newton gave a party. Her husband’s will was finally probated and she wanted to celebrate. My heavens, did she celebrate! There must have been over three hundred people there and it was catered by Debray’s. I’ll bet the whole thing cost at least a hundred thousand dollars. I thought Claire was such an airhead, you remember how dumb she is? Or at least pretends to be? And now she’s laughing all the way to the bank. I guess it was worth her while, after all, marrying a ninety-year old. All she had to do was put up with him for six months and—bingo! A hundred and fifty million dollars richer.” Hope couldn’t believe the note of envy tingeing her mother’s soft, rich voice. The voice that had seduced dozens of men. Her mother had more money than she could possibly ever spend in one lifetime, but here she was, envying another woman her widowhood. Still, knowing Claire Newton, Claire wouldn’t be exactly wearing sackcloth and ashes right now and she probably wouldn’t remain a widow for long. With a hundred and fifty million dollars safely invested in gilt-edges and Swiss bonds, Claire Newton could buy just about any husband she desired. That dishy chauffeur of hers, for example. “What was that, Mom?” Hope asked absently. Her mother had been rattling on. “Darling, this isnot the moment to go into one of your reveries. Now please pay attention. I have it on very good authority, and I meanvery good authority, that Maxwell Wright is divorcing again. You remember him, don’t you, darling? His father founded Wright Enterprises. They say the family stock Maxwell holds in the company is worthbillions .” Hope’s mother sighed in ecstasy. Hope rubbed her forehead, where a headache was beginning behind her eyes, her usual reaction to any contact with her mother.

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“Mom,” Hope said patiently, “I was just preparing dinner. Do we really have to go through all of this now? I’m sorry for Maxwell that he’s divorcing,” she lied, “but…” “Sorry!” Marla screeched. Hope held the phone away from her ear a minute. “Hope, darling, don’t you see? The man is going to befree soon. Very soon, it appears. Apparently his lawyer is already talking to her lawyer. And, Hope, get this.” Her mother’s voice dropped an octave and grew hushed, as if she were revealing secrets of state. “He asked about you last night. You know how he loves blondes. After all, he’s married six of them. He said he remembered you as being particularly pretty. You’re still pretty, I hope, darling,” Marla fretted. “Though God knows you don’t do much with your looks. Well, we can deal with that when you get here…” A steady, deep pounding began in Hope’s temples. “When I get where, Mom?” “Whyhere , of course darling, where else? How could you get engaged to Maxwell Wright if you’re over there? I told him you were in Italy shopping, and would be back soon. Now this is the exciting part. Maxwell is giving his traditional summer party and his wife, Cecile—no, wait Cecile was his previous wife, what’s the current one’s name?” “Dorothy.” Hope remembered Cecile very well, a stunningly beautiful bottle blonde whose eyes got sadder and sadder as her husband’s wandered further and further afield. Hope had not been at all surprised, two months after moving to New York, to hear from Marla that Cecile had been dumped in favor of Dorothy. Dorothy who was equally beautiful, ten years younger and, no doubt, becoming equally sad. “Today is Sunday, so you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to book your flight…” “Mom.” Hope took a deep breath and made an effort to unclench her jaw. “Mom, I have a job, remember?” “Job? What kind of a job is teaching English to foreigners? That’s not a job, darling. You’ve got to think of your future. After all, you’re nearly 27.” In a week’s time, Mom. Not that you’ve ever remembered my birthday.Hope drew in a deep breath, but Marla overrode her. “Darling, how can you possibly prefer a miserable, low-paying job to the opportunity of landing one of the richest men in America? What on earth do you want out of life?” The fact that one of the richest men in America had made six women desperately unhappy and was now trolling for the seventh made no difference to Marla. For perhaps the millionth time, Hope wondered how on earth she and her mother could possibly be related. And yet they were. All she had to do was look in a mirror to confirm it. Her face was a younger replica of her mother’s. Though if Marla kept up with her own personal Surgical Rejuvenation Program, she would soon look younger than Hope herself. “Sorry, Mom,” Hope said hastily, “I’ve got something on the stove and it’s boiling over. It’s going to be a busy couple of days. Call me next week, okay?” Hope hastily put down the receiver and wiped her forehead, as if she’d had a narrow escape from danger.

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Maxwell Wright…how dare her mother even imagine that she could want to marry Maxwell Wright? She would rather be hung, drawn and quartered than marry him. ‘What do you want out of life?’ her mother had asked. Certainly not Maxwell Wright. Whatdo I want?Hope mused. I don’t want a fabulous career. I don’t want to be rich and famous. Rich and famous never made anyone happy. I know because I lived elbow-to-elbow with the rich and famous and they are as miserable as anybody on this earth. Whatdo I want? She asked herself. I want…I want a husband who will love me. Me, for what I am, exactly as I am. Not because I make a beautiful trophy for display, and not just as long as the looks hold. I want to be loved when the lines start, and the hair turns gray. I want to be loved when I’m tired and out of sorts. I want to be loved just for me and not because someone thinks I could be a stepping-stone to the Winston fortune. I want children, she thought. I want us to be a family unit forever and not just until the novelty wears off and this season’s wife and kids are shucked off like last year’s clothes in favor of a new set. I want our children to grow up loved and healthy in body and mind, secure forever. I want all of that, Hope thought bleakly, and I have never, ever even seen it. Wouldn’t even know it existed if I hadn’t read it between the pages of a book. Or if I didn’t somehow feel that somewhere out there the right man exists. A man who would love me and our children forever. Would Franco be like that? Hope thought wistfully. Strong and steadfast and true? Appetite gone, Hope put away the half-fixed dinner, shaking her head. She was becoming pathetic, projecting onto a man she’d barely met all her loneliness and yearning. Time to stop this train of thought before she put a halo around the man’s head and made a perfect fool of herself. If she hadn’t already.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“And that, Direttrice,” Giuseppe Carrara said, opening his eyes wide and assuming an angelic expression, “is the crotch of the matter.” Quietly, soberly, reasonably, the young man had pointed out the impeccable logic of passing him in his finals. He was due for a promotion and transfer to a newly opened branch office in a small village near Bari. He would be heading up what he liked to call the “Foreign Office.” In his new capacity as international financial giant, he would be in a powerful position to recommend the school to his

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colleagues. Of course, if he failed his course… Now, Kay would know just what to do. She would be remote and firm. But Hope felt like dissolving into giggles and promoting the young man on the spot, simply for having nerve. This isn’t me, Hope thought with part of her mind, as she uttered bland platitudes and ushered the budding Rothschild from her office. I’m just not managerial material. Now, more than ever before, she wished Kay would get better soon and come back. All I want to do, Hope thought, is teach and go home. Home to…she squelched that thought immediately. But it was too late. A certain Captain had invaded her mind. She had to keep a rein on her emotions. She was going to be seeing Franco soon, at his workplace, and she had to make sure she could be business-like around him. And not freak out at being in a cop shop. How on earth did she find herself falling for a cop, of all people? Couldn’t he have been, say, a teacher at the school? Why couldn’t she have been attracted to gentle, shy Mark Harrington? They could teach together, then go home and grade papers together. But Mark didn’t have her blood in a boil. Mark’s face wasn’t imprinted on her mind, so that all she had to do was close her eyes to see it. Of all the men in the world. A tough, autocratic man in a hard, autocratic job. The one profession she hated above all others. A job that bred cold, suspicious natures like swamps bred snakes. A man used to commanding, used to being obeyed instantly, used to… …probably punctuality, Hope thought, as she looked at her watch again and saw that even if she hurried, she would be a few minutes late. Giuseppe Carrera’s ramblings regarding his important place in the universe had taken up more time than she thought. Kay would never have allowed herself to be distracted by the entertainment value of Giuseppe Carrera making an ass out of himself. Kay would have seen him firmly out of the office in time to make an appointment. Grabbing her purse, Hope ran down the two flights of stairs to the ground floor. Luckily, thecarabiniere headquarters was only a few blocks away, down Via Sparano, the main shopping street, and then along the waterfront. Hope hurried up the center of the broad, pedestrian avenue, barely glancing into the elegant shop windows, turning right at the end and almost running along the sea wall until the big, four-story white marble facade came into view. It wasn’t until she was at the bottom of the building’s stairwell and stating her name and business to the young guard posted in a glass cubicle that she stopped to catch her breath. Fourth floor, second corridor to the right, room 41, Franco had said. As she climbed the stairs, Hope repeated the words over and over again in her head like a litany so she wouldn’t have to think about where she was. She was getting more and more nervous. Just being in a police station, with that unmistakable stench of

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male sweat and gun leather, had her heart thudding in her chest and her palms damp.Fourth floor, fourth floor, fourth floor, she repeated like a mantra as she passed what seemed like hundreds of young officers going up and down the stairwell, lounging on the landings, chatting, laughing, joking, exactly as if they were human beings instead of… Cops. Fourth floor. Hope drew in a deep breath, let it out shakily and pushed down on the fire bar that opened the steel door onto the fourth floor.Maybe Franco won’t be here , she thought as she stepped onto the worn gray-green linoleum.Maybe he forgot all about our appointment, and I can go back to the school and we can do this some other time. Like next year. Maybe he got called away on business… There he was. She recognized his deep voice in the same instant that she spotted him at the end of the corridor, talking to two other officers. Her heart went into overdrive.

She looks like a lamb that has just got a whiff of the slaughterhouse,Franco thought, as he watched Hope start towards him. Paler than usual, light blue eyes larger than usual. Franco looked on indulgently, a half-smile on his face, as she made her way warily down the corridor. Then three of his younger officers did a double take as Hope walked by, turned and started following her. Franco’s good humor vanished in an instant. Mine! A furious voice bellowed inside his head.That one’s mine! He had been discussing shifts with two lieutenants; he broke off what he was saying and walked away without a word and without a backward glance, missing two sets of raised eyebrows. Franco didn’t even reflect on the primitive feelings of possessiveness that gripped him until he had safely herded Hope into the nearest room, which happened to be a supply closet. He felt ashamed of himself the instant he closed the door. He had behaved like a stallion culling his mare from the herd. He would have been even more ashamed if it weren’t for the fact that he hadfelt like a stallion culling his mare from the herd. A weak 25-watt bulb shed a watery light over reams of photocopy paper, boxes of pencils, old typewriters, cases of diskettes, hundreds of training manuals and dusty law texts. Hope leaned against the door and looked at him in surprise, the pale weak light from the overhead bulb creating a halo in her glorious hair. Franco was so close he could smell the clean scent of her shampoo. The urge to bury his nose in that silvery mass was almost overwhelming. He gave into it, holding her tightly. “I missed you,” he said into her hair and felt her slight rib cage lift in a sigh.

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“I missed you, too.” She sounded rueful, as if she wasn’t happy that she’d missed him. Well, too fucking bad. In a perfect world, they’d have had dinner and spent last night in bed together. In this imperfect world, he’d spent the whole evening with Marco, chasing an informer down, then deposing him, without even a spare second to call her. And while listening to the informer, taking notes, issuing orders, a part of him had ached for Hope. Had run the tape of the sex in the water over and over in his head until he’d had to stop, otherwise he’d have gotten an erection. In the interrogation room. She had a beauty that was almost otherworldly, but didn’t have a shred of vanity. She was gentle yet strong. Intelligent without being obnoxious. Franco didn’t know how he’d had the luck to stumble onto her, this hidden little diamond, his very own mermaid, but now that he’d found her, he wasn’t letting go. She was exactly the kind of woman every single straight Italian male lusted after. But she washis. “Franco?” Hope pulled away, looking at him with anxious eyes. She looked around the small supply closet, frowning. “What are we doing here?” She was just so fucking beautiful, so incredibly desirable. He remembered every second of their lovemaking, how he’d rushed things, both times. There’d been very little foreplay because all he could think about was putting his cock into her, claiming her the most powerful way there was. Kisses and caresses were all well and good, but they were fleeting, ephemeral. When a man put his cock in a woman that was when she was his. And she was his. He hadn’t the faintest idea where that certainty came from, but he didn’t even question it. He trusted his instincts and every instinct he had was clamoring to claim this one woman and make her his. Only one way to do that. He bent and kissed her. She was startled at first, her mouth sweetly slack with surprise, then she was kissing him back. When her tongue shyly met his, he could feel the jolt down to his boots. He needed to be able to hang onto her. Where could he back her up? The shelves were full of dusty books, the rickety planks of the shelves ready to fall at the first shove. He kissed her harder and felt her moving against him, her firm breasts warm and plump against his chest, hips rubbing against his cock. That was all it took. In a second, he flared out of control and sank to the floor with her still in his arms. Hurry!A voice clamored in his head. There wasn’t an inside lock on the door. Anyone could walk in at any time. The computer specialist was already waiting for them, probably checking his watch right now. There were a dozen officers right outside this door, walking in the corridor, and any one of them could all of a sudden feel a burning need for a number two pencil. What he was thinking of doing was insane. Insane. His cock wasn’t listening to a word his head said, and by the time his conscious mind had finished listing

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all the reasons why making love on the dusty floor of the 4thstory supply closet was pure madness, his unconscious mind had directed his hands to strip her of her jeans and panties. “Franco!” Her hands tried to bat his away. “You’re crazy! This is crazy. We can’t do this here!” “Mm.” Franco couldn’t even answer her. He was too busy testing her with a finger. If she was dry, he’d just have to deal with his raging cock. Maybe jerk off. It wasn’t going to go down anytime soon by itself. There was duct tape in the closet, maybe he could bend his cock down and tape it to his leg… Aha! Oh, yes. She hadn’t been thinking of computer programs and identikits. She’d been thinking of him!She was all wet and creamy and this was going to work. Yes, yes, yes. He wasn’t going to have to die of frustration. Hope was staring at him, pupils large in the pale blue irises, a light flush staining her cheekbones, that delectable mouth open and wet. She was breathing quickly, almost panting. Franco fitted his cock to her entrance and crashed his way in, moving immediately, surging into a strong, driving rhythm. They watched each other; Hope almost warily, Franco with slitted eyes. This was going to be fast and hard; he could feel his orgasm gathering already. He just hoped she could keep up. Two officers stopped right outside the door, talking about the new Minister in Rome. Franco drove into her harder, short powerful strokes, his pants loud in the small confined space. Hope gave a little moan. Did you hear that? Hear what? Franco tried to keep his breathing under control. Hope was wide-eyed, biting her lips to keep from making any noise. Franco’s thrusts were growing shorter, harder, faster. He was going to come any second now… I don’t know — a noise. Do you think there’s a cat trapped somewhere? Here? On the fourth floor? Of course not. Hey, do you think Milan’s going to win the Cup? The voices moved off and Franco swelled and started spurting just as Hope came, long liquid pulls on his cock. She cried out and he put his hand over her mouth, hips pumping hard. Having to keep quiet made it unbearably intense, prolonged it. It took a few minutes before he stopped shuddering. Sweating, Franco collapsed on to Hope, burying his face in her hair. Her vagina had one last, tight contraction, pulling one last spurt out of him. He held her tightly, panting, until he could calm down a little. She let out her breath in a little huff. “That wasn’t a good idea, Franco.” No, it wasn’t a good idea. Actually, it hadn’t been an idea at all. His brain hadn’t had anything to do with it. He turned his head to kiss her ear, then slowly, reluctantly pulled out of her.

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Oh, God. Franco looked down in dismay. Hope was naked from the waist down, wet with his come. Semen trickled down her thighs and pooled on the floor. Wet spots were usually on a bed, not on dusty concrete floors. He winced as he pulled his pants up and took out a clean handkerchief from his pocket. He kneeled and gently wiped her, then wiped himself. He reached with his hand to help her up. “I could say I’m sorry,” he said quietly as he dusted her back. “But I’m not.” She sighed and shook her head as she combed the tangles out of her hair. Finally, they were as ready to face the outside world as it was possible to be when ten minutes ago they’d been rolling on the floor, fucking. Franco reached for the door. “If someone’s outside, what are we going to say?” Hope’s wide pale blue eyes searched his. “What possible excuse could we have for being in here?” “A document. I needed a document.” Franco reached out blindly and pulled a dusty file from a shelf and ushered her out. He didn’t even want to think about what he looked like. Didn’t dare glance down. He was sure his fellow officers would understand what was going on the minute they looked at him. He was sure he had desire painted on his forehead in bright vermilion. Franco was careful not to touch Hope anywhere as she stepped out into the corridor, looking dazed. He felt like a nervous, walking bundle of plutonium at critical mass. One touch and he’d go off again. The computer room was one flight down. Neither of them spoke as they made their way down the stairs. Franco stole a glance at what he’d blindly picked up in the supply closet. The 1993 Traffic Code.

***** “That’s it!” Hope cried excitedly. “That’shim! ” It was magic. The process of making an identikit wasn’t, as she had been expecting from old movies, having an artsy type drawing free hand on the basis of her verbal description. The young man running the computer program, who Franco called Corrado, was anything but an artsy type. So clean-cut and handsome, he could have been a Ken doll if it weren’t for the sardonic gleam of lively intelligence in his dark-brown eyes. Corrado quickly, efficiently corrected the identikit until Hope stared with a shudder at the cruel, lean features of the man who had shot at her.

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Then the magic began. On-screen, the computer started matching that image with the images of known felons stored on CD-ROM. Franco told her that they would start with the files of criminals in Italy and, if necessary, they could access the computer files of Interpol, Europol and—next month—the FBI and the DEA. In the end, it wasn’t necessary. Twenty minutes into the computer search, the program came up with a perfect fit. Hope looked at the full frontal and profile. Though the man was expressionless there could be no doubt as to his identity. Lean, cold features, narrow eyes with an upward slant, long dirty blond hair. On the left hand side of the screen, personal data were slowly scrolling up. “Right,” Franco said, leaning into the screen, face grimly intent. “Let’s see who we have here.” Franco gave Hope a running translation. “Altim Burka,” he read, eyes quickly scanning the screen, “born in Tirana 36 years ago, jailed twice for anti-Communist activities under Hoxha. Charges…” he pressed a key and gave a sigh of satisfaction, “drug running on the overland route and pandering. Accused of beating up two prostitutes. Charming guy. Entered Italy clandestinely aboard theVlora on August 9th, 1997.” Franco glanced up as Marco came silently into the room. Though he hadn’t actually called Marco in, Franco knew that Marco would have heard about what was going on from the super-efficient police grapevine. “We’ve got an old friend here, Marco.” Franco quickly read through the figures scrolling on screen. “Looks like a graduate of Pier 23 and the ‘Vittoria’ Stadium.” “I don’t understand,” Hope said softly, then regretted her words. He hadn’t been talking to her, anyway. He’d probably be irritated at the interruption. It was amazing how Franco had turned all business in the computer room. But he gave no sign of irritation as he explained without taking his eyes from the screen, fingers busily tapping, calling up information. “On August 8th, 1997, ten thousand refugees in Durres, Albania took over a fishing vessel named the Vlora and forced its Captain to set sail for Italy. We had the entire shipload crammed onto Pier 23 and then, when more refugees landed, we had to pen them in a soccer stadium—the ‘Vittoria’ stadium. It was a nightmare trying to feed them and keep them from knifing each other. This was right after the country fell into a complete financial collapse. The country was in a state of complete anarchy. Anyone who could was making plans to escape.” Franco’s mouth quirked in a half-smile and his hooded eyes smiled knowingly into hers. “I told you about that yesterday,” he said. And he had, just before kissing her senseless, then making love to her until she was lucky she hadn’t drowned. He looked at her mouth for a long moment, then turned back to the monitor. Hope felt a jolt of heat run through her. That heavy-lidded look he had given her had been deliberate. He meant for her to remember. What was it about the man that he could buckle her knees with a look? “Captain?” The young computer expert coughed. When Franco swiveled to glare at him, Corrado’s face was bland and expressionless. He slipped a diskette into the drive. “These are our arrest records over the past five years.” A few quick taps on the keyboard and an impressive list of arrests appeared. “Our

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friend has been in trouble with the law a lot. He keeps getting arrested and ordered to deport.” Cini frowned. He tapped quickly. “And then simply…released. How is that? What’s going on?” Franco studied the data before him. “I’ll be damned. This guy leads a charmed life. Either that or he’s got a guardian angel somewhere. Arrested September 9th, 1997. Released due to lack of evidence September 14th. Deported September 20th. Arrested January 19th, 1998, case dismissed, deported in February. Arrested May 7th, 1998…” He looked at Marco, puzzled. “It just goes on like that. What the hell’s going on?” Marco’s scarred, ugly face was set. He called up the data pertaining to the arrests and subsequent releases. “Look at that, Captain. Look at our friend’s guardian angel.” Hope sensed the tension in the three men. Franco straightened slowly in his chair. “Christ,” he breathed. She looked at three rapt faces, staring at the blinking cursor. What was everyone so excited about? A tense, heavy silence settled in the room. She looked at the screen and read the name that seemed to have everyone so transfixed. “Who’s Rocco Lipari?” she asked finally.

***** “So, who is Rocco Lipari?” Hope hesitated before asking the question again. Franco had grasped her arm tightly and marched her out of the computer room and down the stairs as if he were going to take her into custody. In actual fact, he didn’t take her into custody, but to a charming littletrattoria with white stucco walls, a friendly atmosphere and delicious smells emanating from the kitchen in the back. Hope sniffed appreciatively. The food was going to be fabulous, she knew. She might as well take what pleasures she could, because it was obvious that the conversation was going to lag. Franco hadn’t once opened his mouth, except to order their lunch in a curt, abstracted tone to the waiter, after which he subsided again into a heavy silence. He gave a start when she asked her question. “‘Who is Rocco Lipari?’” he repeated. He hesitated a moment, looking at Hope, the wide blue eyes, the pale fragile features. A wave of fierce protectiveness washed over him.Was this what his father had felt for Margherita? “Franco?” Hope’s voice was soft as she touched his hand gently, fleetingly, already withdrawing when he caught her hand in his. “Rocco Lipari murdered my father.” He knew his voice was harsh, which was why he tried to keep his touch gentle, tightening his grip just a bit when she would have pulled her hand away. All color had

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drained from her face. “Your—your father?” The waiter deftly placed two steaming plates in front of them and Franco was momentarily distracted. “Thanks, Pino.” Franco shook himself. Ten years was long enough to be able to deal with the pain. But not the anger. Never the anger. “My father was General Stefano Franco.” “General. So he was an army man.” “No, he was a cop, just like me.” A part of him wondered why she always flinched at the word ‘cop’. “ Carabinieriare part of the armed forces. That’s why I’m a captain.” And you’ll become a general, Hope thought,just like your father. It was there in his face, in the hard, uncompromising set of his jaw, in the strength etched into his features. “I see. You became a policeman because your father was one.” “No.” Franco’s hands clenched around the water glass and fury passed across his face. “No, I didn’t become a policeman because my father was one. I joined thecarabinieri because my father died one. My father was famous in Italy. He headed the team of crack cops thatfinally stopped the Red Brigades, a terrorist group which nearly brought our country to its knees.” “He must have been very brave,” Hope said softly. “‘Brave’?” Franco hesitated, considering. “Oh yes, very brave. And very foolish, or so I thought while I was growing up. The Red Brigades had sworn to kill him. I hardly saw him when I was a kid. I remember him spending most of his time under armed guard. He slept in bunkers. A different one each night. We were never able to spend any Christmas or any family holiday together because then they were sure to know where to get him. “When I was growing up, I knew I didn’t want any part of what he was. I wanted to join the diplomatic corps and have a good time. That’s why I went to Georgetown. I didn’t want to live with the constant threat of death, surrounded by bodyguards, changing itineraries every day, terrified that they might somehow get to my family.” “How awful. And how terrible for your mother.” “That was his greatest fear. For her. For her safety. And mine. I think that was what bothered him most. Not being allowed a normal family life. Later, after he was killed, I realized that he would have been content to know that he died first. Knowing any harm had come to my mother--that would have killed him.” “Good God.” Hope breathed. “What?” “Nothing.” Hope ducked her head. “It’s just --” “It’s just ?” Hope sighed. “I’ve never seen a happy marriage in my life. And I don’t think I’ve ever met a couple that

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has stayed married for more than five years.” He was stunned and was about to say something when he saw the hurt she was trying to hide. He kept his voice unruffled. “I take it that that includes your parents.” “My father left my mother before I was born. Things were…hard for us.” She concentrated on the tablecloth. “But my mother married again when I was sixteen. She married a man called Emmett Winston. A very good man who was a wonderful stepfather and who adopted me.” Franco mulled over all these findings, trying to sort out his feelings. Sorrow for the little girl who had been abandoned. Relief that the sad story had a happy ending. “I’m glad your mother finally found some sort of stability. But the way you were talking—was it a happy marriage?” “I don’t know.” Hope considered that. It was hard to imagine anyone unhappy with Emmett. But it was also impossible to imagine anyone happy with her mother. “I guess I was too young to really understand what was going on. Unfortunately, Emmett died a few years after they married. And—and he was much older than my mother. Over seventy. I often wondered what they could possibly have in common. My mother likes pretty clothes and having a good time and Emmett is—was—rather shy. He hated fusses.” “Maybe,” Franco said carefully, thinking of a single mother left to raise a child on her own, “maybe she had her reasons.” About three hundred fifty million of them, Hope thought wryly, but she didn’t say anything. The conversation had whetted Franco’s appetite. He wanted to know more. “What…” he began. “Great pasta,” Hope mumbled hastily. Their eyes met. Hope didn’t blink. It was clear that she wasn’t going to let him probe further. “So.” Hope waved her fork in the air. “You were telling me why you became a cop…uhm…a policeman.” There it was again. That look when she mentioned his profession. Franco made a mental note to find out what was behind it before he was very much older. There were mysteries to Hope. Surprising how much he wanted to probe them.Probe , he thought.It wasn’t just her mysteries he wanted to probe . He almost groaned aloud at the blatantly sexual images that sprang, unbidden, to his mind. “No.” Franco wrenched his mind back to the conversation. “I was telling you about my father’s assassination.” He drew a deep breath. Thinking about it, talking about it, even after all these years, could whip him into a cold fury. “When the last of the terrorist cells had been put away, my father was finally able to get back to what he considered his prime duty, what had had to be put on hold for a decade: combating organized crime. It’s not just the Mafia, you know, powerful as they are. The Mafia’s Sicilian. There are a number of organizations throughout Italy: there’s the Camorra in Naples, the ‘Ndrangheta in Calabria, and here…” “And ‘here’?”

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“Here.” He poured himself some wine. “Here we have an organization called the Sacra Corona Unita. And Rocco Lipari.” “The Holy United Crown?” Hope translated in her head. “That’s a weird name. Sounds like a rap group.” “It’s anything but.” Franco sipped the wine. “It’s a smaller—and younger—version of the Mafia and it’s growing. One man has his finger in every pie that’s going. One man gets a cut of everything. Rocco Lipari.” “Well.” Hope munched thoughtfully on her pasta. “Why don’t you just arrest him?” Something flashed in Franco’s eyes. Something hot and dangerous. “Don’t you think I would if I could? The man is untouchable. He’s the top business figure around here, on first name terms with all the politicians. He’s also utterly ruthless. Every time we get someone willing to talk, that person is found dead. That’s what happened to my father. Someone from Lipari’s gang was willing to turn state’s witness. But it was a trap. My father’s car was ambushed a block from the address he’d been given. And the stool pigeon was found hanging outside his apartment window.” By a butcher’s hook, but he didn’t want to tell her that. He hadn’t actually wanted to tell her any of the story. It was Rocco Lipari’s ferocity that scared him. A connection had been found, however tenuous, between Lipari and Hope. It had him terrified. “Your poor mother.” Hope spoke aloud without thinking. “What about my mother?” He was startled at the change in subject. “She must have been worried sick about your father. And now she must be worried sick about you.” For the first time, Hope thought of being a policeman. Really thought about it. Up until now, she had simply considered cops at best necessary nuisances. At worst, harassers of the innocent. But they were also protectors. She could see that now. And they sometimes paid for that protection with their life. The waiter deftly removed their plates. Franco leaned to one side to let the waiter slip the small espresso cup in front of him. Now was the opening he had been waiting for. “Speaking of my mother…” he began. Hope sipped and felt a jolt as the strong caffeine worked its way down. “Hmmm?” She had this annoying habit of not paying attention when he wanted her to. Someone was going to have to break her of it. And he was just the man to do it. “Hope look at me.” Franco waited until he had her full attention. “I’m looking at you.” Hope glanced at him, then looked back down at the table. It was dangerous to focus too much on him. He seemed to fill her field of vision. She could almost feel the magnetic lines of attraction emanating from him. She could also feel the waves of his strong will beating against hers. He was going to try and force her into something.

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A cheap, checkered tablecloth covered the table and she etched wavy lines over it with the times of her fork. “Hope,look at me .” She sighed and met his unwavering gaze. “Okay, I’m looking.”And enjoying the view . Even with a stern expression on his face and lines of tiredness etching the skin around his eyes, he looked wonderful. Hope gave an inward groan. Boy, was she in trouble. Big time. “Hope, listen to me. We’re having manpower problems. My shifts are stretched tight. There’s been a lot going on lately, and I’m finding it hard to fill the duty roster.” Hope blinked. “So?” “So.” He drew in a deep breath. “So, I don’t know how long I can keep a man at Torallo every night. Last night, I was one man short on a stake out. I could have used the man who was pulling duty at your house. I have to sign weekly reports on deployment of my men. If anyone checks the reports, I’m going to have to cancel your protection.” Hope sipped her coffee and said nothing. Franco made a disgusted sound.Was anything getting through that pretty head of hers? “Do you understand what I’m saying?” “Of course.” Hope carefully placed the cup in its saucer. “I won’t be able to count on police protection for very much longer.” “I’ll provide it as long as I can, I won’t have that many problems this week, and maybe not the next, but one of these days, I’m going to have to justify it. And Marco and I simply can’t do it by ourselves on our off-duty hours.” “No, of course not.” Hope pursed her lips. “I can understand that.” “Well, good.” Franco sat back, relieved.She was going to be reasonable about this. “Luckily, I’ve thought of something. You can stay with my mother. She’s on her own, and she has a large house. You can have my room. I’m sure she’d be delighted to have you and I know you’ll like her. She’ll have company and I’ll know you’re safe.” He ended his little speech, pleased with himself and the solution he had come up with. Hope fiddled for a moment with the coffee spoon, then lifted her eyes. “No.” “Damn it!” Pino, the owner, looked up briefly from another table where he had been clearing the dishes. Seeing Franco’s face, he quickly busied himself with a clatter of cutlery.

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“You can’t make me do it.” Hope’s face had set in a stubborn expression. “Damn it, Hope.” This time, his voice was low, but still furious. “What the hell’s the matter with you? I wouldn’t offer my mother’s home if I didn’t think it was the best solution for everybody. Why can’t you just…” He bit back his words.Why can’t you just do what I tell you to ? had been on the tip of his tongue. But he couldn’t say something like that to Hope. Hope was American. He knew American women. Demanding something was not reason enough to get it. Suddenly, Franco hankered after the old ways. Damn it, if this were a hundred years ago instead of now, Hope would have obeyed him without a word instead of telling him no with that mulish expression on her face. Ten thousand years ago and he could have just have hog-tied her and kept her in a cave. “You can’tmake me do it,” she repeated stubbornly. A thought suddenly occurred to him. A truly terrifying one. He remembered, very vividly, the strength he had felt in her. In those slender, strong limbs. She could outrun him. She could out swim him. “Ah…Hope?” “What?” Her voice was sullen. “You don’t--I mean, you’re not an expert in martial arts, are you?” “Inwhat ?” “I mean…you don’t have a black belt or something…do you?” “Black belt?” A vision of her mother’s credo—the ‘basic black’ dress every well-dressed woman should have and which her mother had in 150 different designer versions—flashed across her mind.Why was he asking about her wardrobe? Then she realized what he was trying to say. “No, Franco, I’m not a judo expert, if that’s what you’re asking.” She thought a moment. “Or do I mean karate?” He’d had a frightening vision of trying to wrestle her to the ground. And losing. He slid his hand across the table to grab hers. “Look.” His voice was urgent, as urgent as his grip. “Meet my mother. Just meet her, that’s all I ask. I have to go to Lugano in Switzerland to depose a witness and I won’t be back until Friday. Will you come to dinner at her house on Friday evening?” His hand squeezed hers painfully. “Please?” Hope wasn’t prepared for his pleading. It was easy to resist Franco when he had been ordering her around in that arrogant way of his. But she was helpless to resist him now. Franco gentled his grip. He forgot he was in thetrattoria . He forgot about Pino and the other customers. He forgot everything but this strong, vulnerable, beautiful woman whom he wanted to keep

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safe at all costs. He brought her hand to his mouth. “Give me Friday night. Meet my mother. Please.” His large hands engulfed hers. His lips pressed a kiss in the center of her palm and she felt kissed all over. At that moment, she would have given him anything he asked. Anything at all. She let out her breath on a long sigh. “All right,” she said softly. “Friday night it is.”

***** “Boy, what a day,” Hope said a few hours later, walking into Kay’s hospital room. She rummaged in her bag for the magazines and newspapers she’d brought. “I’ve been blackmailed and commandeered--oh, hi, Marco.” She looked curiously at the ugly giant of a man bent over Kay. What was he doing bending over Kay’s head ? Was he biting her neck? No. Hope had read enough Anne Rice to know that vampires were slender and handsome—actually, a lot like the men Kay used to date in New York—and not homely and enormous. Then Hope glanced at Kay’s beet-red face and tried to hide her smile. “It’s not what you think,” Kay muttered under her breath. Then Kay turned to Marco and spoke softly to him, so quickly Hope couldn’t catch what she was saying. She did hear ‘grazie’ quite a few times, however, in what Kay was saying. While Kay talked, Marco remained totally impassive, looking down at her. Hope wondered if he was even listening. Then he gently ran a huge hand down Kay’s arm, delicately reattached the loosened surgical tape connecting her to the IV and bent to brush his lips lightly across Kay’s forehead. When he straightened, his face was still impassive. He nodded at Hope and left the room silently. “It’s not what you think,” Kay repeated stonily. Hope drew up a chair and sat down. Silence filled the hospital room. Hope saw a crack in the plaster on the far wall and followed it across the ceiling. Then she watched the view out the window, a patch of intensely blue sky and the corner of another wing of the hospital. “It’s not…” “I’m not thinking anything,” Hope said quickly. She kept her expression blank, to show Kay that she wasn’t thinking…what she was thinking. “He was straightening the blanket.” “The blanket,” Hope repeated. “Gotcha.” There was a polite silence. “Was he…”

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“Tell me about your day.” They both spoke at once, then laughed. Hope relaxed. “My day. Mmm, ithas been interesting. What do you want to hear about first?” “Well, blackmail’s always exciting.” Hope smiled. “Yeah, you’ll love this one. Do you remember Giuseppe Carrera?” “Young, smarmy, works in a bank?” “That’s him, all right. Well, young Giuseppe tried to blackmail me into giving him a passing grade on his finals. It was all wrapped up in pretty phrases, but basically, if he didn’t pass, our name would be forever branded in infamy, the school would collapse, no grass would grow on the ruins and Giuseppe Carrera would dance on our grave. It was blackmail all right.” “Well that does sounds interesting,” Kay said. “Now what about the commandeering part of your day?” “I’m surprised you were listening to what I was saying. You seemed rather…busy at the time.” “Hope…” “Okay, okay.” Hope held up her hands. “No smart comments.” “So, start at the beginning. You had an appointment with…” Kay paused delicately. “Franco.” Hope’s voice was a low mutter. “I’m sorry, dear,” Kay said sweetly. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch what you said.” Hope raised her head. “Franco,” she said clearly. “I had an appointment with Franco. But…” she mimicked Kay’s voice of a few moments ago, “it’s not what you think.” Actually, itwas what Kay was thinking, but she wanted to keep it her secret for a little while longer.Kay watched her with a faint smile and waited for Hope to continue. “I went down to police headquarters because Fra…er—the police wanted me to identify the man who broke into the house, good Lord—was it only three days ago?” Hope blinked. So much had happened…no, if she had to be honest with herself, so much hadchanged in the past three days. She had changed. Her view of the world, of men had changed. And everything centered around Franco. He had taken everything she was and turned it inside out, upside down… “Last Friday.” Kay’s dry voice interrupted her musings. “Intruder. Police.” “Right.” Hope drew a deep breath, then blew it out slowly, just as her yoga teacher had taught her. “It looks like they’ve identified him. Some Albanian who’s been in and out of the country and in and out of trouble for the past few years.” “Albanian?”Kay’s eyes widened. “AnAlbanian tried to break into my house?”

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“Looks like it.” Kay mulled that over. “Beats me what’s going on. What does Franco say?” “He says I should move in with his mother.” “Hewhat ?” “You heard me. He doesn’t have a clue as to what’s going on, and doesn’t know if he can keep on having someone at the house guarding me, so he’s decided I should stay with his mother.” “Boy is he a fast mover.” “Merely as a precautionary measure.” Hope’s voice was prim. “Oh yeah?” Kay fought back a grin. “So that’s what they call it nowadays. They used to call it courtship.” Kay shook her head. “Taking you home to mother already. Tolive , yet.” “Kay…” “Okay.” Kay lifted a palm then grimaced. She’d forgotten she was tethered to the IV. “So, what did you say?” “No.” “You said no?” Kay blinked. “ToFranco ?” “I sure did.” Hope sighed. “At first anyway.” It was important to her pride that she hadn’t just caved in to the man. “We compromised. I’m going to dinner at his mother’s on Friday.” “I’m not too sure Franco is the kind of man to take kindly to someone saying no to him.” Kay struggled to keep her face blank. “You can say that again.” Hope picked at the lint on Kay’s hospital blanket. “He almost had a heart attack right there amidst the broccoli and calamari.” “You went to Pino’s.” Kay’s mouth curved in a smile. “At least you ate well.” “That I did.” “So why did you say no? His mom’s really nice. It makes a crazy sort of sense. At least until someone’s found out what’s going on.” Hope sighed. It was hard to explain to Kay. Hope suffered from terminal shyness. New York and Kay had helped. She could at least hide her shyness now. But the thought of coping with a stranger while coping with a foreign country and a foreign language and running a school and Franco’smother on top of everything…it was too much. “It’s just that it would be so awkward, Kay. I mean, imagine sharing a house with a woman you barely understand. What could we possibly have in common?”

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Kay gave a half smile. “What do you think Franco’s mother is like?” Hope thought about it. The women she had met at the market all had a sameness about them. Most of them wore black tents over shapeless bodies. They spoke an impenetrably thick local dialect. They seemed to be obsessed with the price of food and would haggle endlessly in booming voices over a few cents. A shockingly large number of them were toothless. “I guess like the women I see in the marketplace. His mother’s a widow so I imagine she dresses in black. She’s probably good-hearted but loud. Good cook.” Hope shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know that it wouldn’t work out.” Kay smiled. “Margherita Rivera comes from one of the finest families in the city. She studied at Oxford and she teaches English literature at the University of Bari. She is a charming, highly cultivated woman who speaks superb English.” Kay’s eyes gleamed when she saw Hope’s expression. “What do you have to say to that?” Hope was silent for a long moment. “I suppose,” she said slowly, “I suppose Franco’s mother probably also has a full set of teeth.”

CHAPTER NINE

On Friday evening, Margherita Rivera’s hand hovered over the set of antique cream and gold Limoges canisters ranged along the painted Venetian cabinet that had belonged to her grandmother. Which one was the salt? Maybe she shouldn’t have given Rosa the afternoon off. Rosa would have cooked a magnificent meal, but Margherita was determined to prepare the meal herself. For Franco and his fiancée. Fiancée. Margherita sighed happily as she tasted the contents of the largest canister. Sugar. Of course, Franco hadn’t actuallysaid that they were engaged, Margherita reminded herself sternly. To tell the truth, he had been extremely close-mouthed about the whole thing and wary when Margherita had gently prodded for information. All he had said was that Hope had been having trouble and could she move in for a while. But he had had a look in his eyes.

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Stefano had had that same look years ago, when they first met. He had been a youngcarabiniere from a peasant’s family and she came from one of the oldest families in Bari.Her family had been dead-set against the engagement. But she’d known Stefano was the man for her the moment she’d set eyes on him. For a while, she had hoped that Kay would be the one for Franco. Such a nice woman. But seeing them together, it had been clear that Franco and Kay would only be friends. Kay was bright and fun, but not what Franco needed. He needed gentleness in his harsh life. Gentleness and loyalty. Hope must be a very loyal woman, Margherita thought while she absent-mindedly took a fistful of the canister’s contents and dropped it into the pasta water. Nothing happened. She bent to check under the pan and blew a breath of frustration. The gas was off. She frowned. Did Rosa put the salt in when the water was already boiling? She’d watched Rosa a million times but she couldn’t quite remember the sequence. Never mind. She lit the fire. Any woman who would leap to a friend’s aid as Hope had done must very definitely be loyal, she decided. Was she gentle? Franco’s voice had softened when he mentioned her name. Patience. Hope was a teacher, so she must have learned patience. And Franco needed a patient woman. Particularly when Franco became heavy-handed. He could be impossibly domineering and arrogant. Just like his father. Franco was especially difficult when he felt he had to protect. Just like Stefano had been, impatiently barking out orders he expected to be obeyed immediately, because he wanted, above all things, to keep his loved ones safe. Courage. Franco’s wife would need a healthy dose of it, knowing her husband lived in constant danger. God knows, she’d had to find it in herself often enough. She smiled as she remembered Franco specifically saying that Hope was brave. Margherita took a look at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. How time had flown while she had been busy mooning over Hope. The salad needed dressing, the candles had to be lit and she should check the roast in the oven. She mentally crossed her fingers. Not much could go wrong with a piece of meat stuck in the oven. Could it? Now don’t embarrass Franco by being overly eager, she chided herself, as she held the vinegar bottle over the salad bowl. Margherita bent doubtfully over the small red lake in the bottom of the bowl. Had she put in too much vinegar? She jumped when the doorbell rang and brought a hand to her fluttering heart.Be cool , she told herself, be calm. Don’t jump to conclusions . She quickly lit the candles.What a pity it was already mid-June , she thought as she blew out the match. She felt a pang of regret as she rushed to open the door. Unless Hope and Franco hurried, it was going to be too late for a summer wedding.

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Hope flinched slightly when Franco rang the bell. It echoed loudly through the enormous stairwell. She was already beginning to regret accepting the invitation. The door opened and Franco set a heavy, possessive hand on the small of her back and pushed. Not gently. Hope all but stumbled into the room. “Welcome.” The slender woman holding the door open smiled and held out her hand. “You must be Hope. Come in, please.” “Mrs. Rivera.” Hope held out her own hand, but instead of shaking it, the woman tucked Hope’s hand under her arm. “You must call me Margherita.” Tugging gently, the woman whisked her away in a cloud of pale pink silk and Chanel N° 5. There was no time for shyness. Before Hope realized what was happening, she had been escorted through two immensely high rooms with frescoes on the vaulted ceilings. “You must be tired, my dear. Franco tells me that this is finals week for your school. I know well how very stressful exam time can be, though at the university we don’t start until early July. I’m flattered that you found the time to come to dinner.” Margherita patted a gold brocade pillow. “Sit down here next to me, my dear. Franco will serve us drinks, won’t you, darling?” “Certainly.” Franco was already at a sideboard, hand hovering over a collection of crystal decanters. “What will you have, Hope?” “Ahm,” Hope licked dry lips. “Sherry. Please.” “Mother?” “Mmmm?”So pretty. Franco’s woman was so pretty. No . Margherita peered closer.Hope was beautiful . “What was that dear?” She turned her head to smile at her son. She hated sweet liqueurs. “Oh, yes, a sherry sounds nice. I’ll have one, too.” “There you go, both of you.” Rivera set two silver coasters on the coffee table, then placed the two glasses on top. He walked around the table and sank easily, gracefully, into the armchair across from them, unbuttoning his suit jacket. “I’m having a whisky myself. It’s been a tough week.” He lifted his glass, half full of an amber liquid. “To your health.” Hope could see that he was entirely at ease in the elegant room. No, more than at ease. He looked as if he belonged there. Well, of course he belonged there. As hard as it was to imagine, Franco had grown up with crystal and Chippendale. For the first time since she’d known him, he had on a suit and tie and looked elegant and urbane and immensely, frighteningly attractive now that he had shed his tough cop persona for the evening. She remembered that he said he’d been training for the diplomatic corps before his father had been killed. This evening, it was easy to imagine him in his dark blue suit in some far-off embassy, mixing drinks and

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chatting easily, the streak of hardness and violence in his heart nicely, neatly hidden under a cream silk shirt and Valentino tie. Boy, am I in over my head. Hope was almost frightened at the intense emotions he stirred in her. Not the warm, gentle flow of feelings she had dreamed she would one day feel for a man, the right man, but a flood, raging out of control. “Hope, dear.” Margherita gently touched her hand and she started slightly. Had she been staring? Margherita had said something. “Excuse me?” “I was wondering how you’re getting on here in Bari. It must be very different from New York.” “Oh,” Hope answered. “Yes. Yes, it is. But I’m not from New York. I just lived there for a few years after I got out of college. I shared an apartment with Kay.” “Where are you from, then?” “Here and there.” Hope sipped then put her sherry on the coaster. There was pain there, Margherita thought. A generation of teaching young people had left her with a sixth sense for it. She waited, hoping there would be more. The silence stretched out, not uncomfortable, just there. “My mother and I moved around a lot while I was growing up,” Hope said finally. It was hard getting the words out. She never spoke about her childhood. Even Kay only knew parts. “She was an actress and we went wherever she could find work. But then, in my teens, we moved to Florida.” Margherita leaned forward. “So I guess you don’t mind the weather here. It gets fairly torrid during the summer, though, I warn you. And very few places have air conditioning.” “That’s okay.” Hope smiled. “I’ll be just fine. I think maybe I’m genetically coded for palm trees and beaches.” Not with those features you’re not, Margherita thought, looking at the pale creamy skin, classically straight nose and ice blue eyes. Hope’s genes came straight out of a fjord. A hundred generations ago, her ancestor’s face must have launched a thousand Viking ships. “And what about the school?” Margherita asked. “Are you enjoying that as well?” She smiled as she watched Hope relax imperceptibly. School was obviously something she could talk about with ease. “Very much, though I’m finding it trying to be its director. Kay’s much better than I am at this tycoon business. I just run along in her tracks and hope for the best.” “And yet Franco tells me you’re doing well.” Hope picked up her glass again and saluted Franco. “Thanks for the compliment. It’s nice to know I’m not botching things too badly.” In the semi-shadows, Rivera grinned and lifted his own glass in return. Only the golden glow of the finger

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of whiskey left in the glass and the golden brown gleam of his eyes were visible. “So there’s nothing you miss?” Margherita leaned back against the cushions and smiled at Hope. She didn’t want to sound prying, but she did want to know whether Hope could be happy here. “Italy is so different from the States.” Hope wondered at the tension she could hear in Margherita’s voice. Her answer was clearly important, so she took the time to think about it carefully. Whatwas she leaving behind? Her best friend was already here. She liked her job here better than she had the one in New York. And of course there was this incredible bonus: five thousand miles of ocean between her and Marla. And, well, amazing sex. “Well…I sort of miss my books and the bookstores.” A reader. Margherita sighed happily. Her bookworm’s heart warmed.Hope was a reader . “How nice that you love books, too. We have only two bookshops in Bari that carry English books, as you probably already know, but I have an extensive library. You’re free to borrow anything you like. Have you read Margaret Drabble’s latest?” Margherita reached behind her to a bookcase whose top disappeared in the shadows of the high ceiling. She pulled out a book. “Here, I’ve just finished it. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.” Hope clutched the hardback tightly. “Why, thank you.” “I only wish my son were a reader.” Margherita sighed and waved a hand at Franco. “Who would have thought I would have such a Philistine for a son?” “Oh, come on Mother,” Franco replied without heat. “I read. You know I read.” He sighed and stood up. “May I escort you two ladies to the dinner table?” Franco was standing in front of her. He had addressed them both, but his eyes were riveted on her. He held out his hand. She flushed and put her hand in his and tried not to show the jolt of electricity she felt when he touched her. Margherita hid a smile as she watched the two young people stare into each other’s eyes, both of them frozen to the spot. She was about to mumble a polite excuse about seeing to the dinner, when she remembered with a rush of panic that she wassupposed to be seeing to the dinner. A quick glance at her wristwatch had her frowning. The pasta had been cooking for over half an hour. She hurried through the dining room to the big old-fashioned kitchen at the back of the palazzo. Wasn’t half an hour too long for pasta to cook? “Boy, you sure look solemn in your dress uniform.” Hope had stopped at a silver-framed portrait of Franco in full regalia. He was wearing what looked like a uniform straight out of the Ruritanian army and was scowling ferociously. A warning, no doubt, to irreverent onlookers not to laugh at the acre of gaudy ribbons and medals stretched across his chest. “I guess nobody said ‘cheese’ when they took your portrait.”

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“It’s not me.” “Well, of course it’s you,” she replied, taken aback. “Just look…” She stopped and bent to peer at the portrait. “It’s my father.” Franco’s voice was dry. “They say I resemble him.” “Do you ever.” Hope stepped closer. “And you scowl just like him. That’s the exact expression you get when I tell you ‘no’.” “Well, that’s easily taken care of.” Franco’s grip on her elbow tightened. He steered her towards the dining room. “Just don’t ever say ‘no’ to me.” Hope wanted to give a snappy answer, but she made the mistake of looking at him. He was smiling warmly at her. His glance was amused and sexy and had her catching her breath. Hope’s heart rate slid a notch up when she realized that there weren’t too many things she could say no to where Franco was concerned. If someone had told her a few weeks ago that she’d have had hot sex in a supply closet in police headquarters, she’d have called a psychiatrist. The dining room was candlelit. Three places were set on an oval cherry-wood table polished to such a sheen that tiny upside-down candles flickered in its dark red depths. “Ciao,Rosa,” Franco called out towards an open doorway. Margherita showed in the doorframe, drying her hands on a tea towel. She pushed back a lock of hair and fanned herself with the towel. “Rosa’s not here, darling. I gave her the afternoon off.” “You gave…” A look of unease crossed Franco’s face. “Well, who cooked the dinner?” He held out a chair for Hope. “I did, darling, of course.” Margherita smiled in satisfaction as she saw Franco holding Hope’s chair. “That’s right. Now get Hope settled and I’ll bring in the first course.” Hope unfolded an enormous snowy white linen napkin trimmed with lace. A faint odor of lavender drifted up. Margherita set a bowl of steaming spaghetti on a trivet. “Can I help you in any way, Mrs. Rivera?” “Hope’s a great cook,” Franco offered as he uncorked the bottle of Aglianico waiting on a trolley beside the table. “No, thank you dear,” Margherita replied distractedly to Hope. “And please do call me Margherita.” She mentally crossed her fingers. “It’s all under control.” Margherita sat down with a sigh. Both Hope and Franco were looking at her with expectant faces. Well, what were they…

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“Oh.” She stood up. Of course, they were waiting to be served. Again, Margherita felt a niggle of worry. She really shouldn’t have dismissed Rosa. Cooking all seemed so easy when Rosa did it and yet turned out to be so hard. “Hope, will you hold out your plate?” Margherita served them both, then sat down again.Anything else ? Franco had poured the wine, everyone was served and now she could relax. “Buon appetito.” Now that everything was taken care of, Margherita wanted to get back to what really interested her. “Did you ever read Doris Lessing’s autobiography? I just finished it and I was amazed at how her book mirrored her life. That’s as not usual for writers as one imagines. Take Virginia Woolf, for example—is anything wrong, dear?” Listening, agreeing, Hope had absent-mindedly wound the soggy spaghetti around the tines of her fork. After the first bite, her eyes widened and she stopped in mid-chew. Margherita looked worried and Franco looked resigned. He ate a bite. “Sweet spaghetti.” He swallowed heavily. “New recipe, Mother?” “Oh, my.” Margherita took a taste, then grimaced. “The canister.” “Thewhat ?” “Never mind,” Margherita muttered. She took another bite, then gathered the plates. “An experiment,” she said airily. “Didn’t work.” She hastily took the plates away and brought in the roast—a very small and alarmingly black lump. Margherita took a carving knife and it skidded off the surface, landing on the plate with a clatter. She pursed her lips and served the salad. Hope took a bite and felt her eyes water. “It’s really interesting what you said about women writers, Margherita. Male writers have always felt it a boon to their work when it reflected their lives, but somehow women have always felt they should keep their art separate from their private lives. I wonder why that is?” “Because men’s lives are considered more important. More pertinent to the human experience.” Margherita leaned forward, impatiently pushing her plate away. “There’s no social construct to the lives of women. In the twentieth century, of course, that has all changed and yet the conventions have remained remarkably constant.” “Except of course when the life is a negative object lesson, such as Sylvia Plath,” Hope said wryly, putting her fork down. “Then, of course, it’s relevant.” “Quite right, my dear. Such a wasted life. Such a tragic waste of talent.” “And, for that matter, what about Anne Sexton?” Rivera watched Hope’s animated face with a half-smile. They were talking about authors he’d never read, but it gave him a great deal of pleasure to listen to the two women in his life talk books. The pleasure lasted up to the first bite of salad. Rivera sighed and got up to go into the kitchen. The murmur of the two women’s voices carried faintly into the kitchen. Since they were ignoring him, he

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might as well make himself useful. The women still hadn’t come up for air when he walked sideways through the door into the dining room carrying a large tray with ham sandwiches and a sliced tomato salad. “There you go.” He was amused to note that his women seemed to have forgotten his existence. He stacked Hope’s plate. Hope reached for a sandwich. “Do you know, the strongest women around now are the private eyes and investigators in mystery novels: Kay Scarpetta, Carlotta Carlyle, V.I. Warshawski, Kinsey Millhone, Cornelia Gray. They’re all smart and strong and articulate. And very perceptive about the power structure.” “I’ve only read P.D. James. Truly an excellent writer,” Margherita replied, spooning some tomato salad onto her plate. She glanced up at her son. “Thank you, darling.” She leaned forward and smiled. “I haven’t read any of the others you’ve mentioned. They’re American, aren’t they? It looks like I should be boning up.” “Well, you’ve got a real treat in store. You’ll like them, I’m sure.” Hope picked up another sandwich. “These are great, Franco. I’ve got some Marcia Mullers with me. They’re very well written and give a real sense of what’s going on now. Much more so than most men writers. Muller writes about southern California just as well as Ross McDonald ever did.” Margherita enjoyed the fire in Hope’s eyes. “I guess I’ve been neglecting my Americans,” she murmured. “I’m glad you’re going to be around to help me catch up.” While Hope talked in her gentle voice in the shadowy, candlelit room, Franco was regarding her with a lazy, indulgent, possessive air. Margherita, with the wisdom of a European woman, understood why her son was feeling so complacent. Hope was clearly a beautiful and desirable woman. But, for reasons known only to herself, she chose to hide her extraordinary looks. She had beautiful hair, thick and so blonde it was almost silver, but it was undressed and carelessly tied back with a rubber band. She was slender and graceful, but this evening she had on a shabby cotton sweater and an ankle-length, cheap Indian cotton skirt, which hid what Margherita was sure were long, well-shaped legs. Hope didn’t have any make up on, something her very fair complexion needed. Margherita eyed her son. He had the smug air of a miser who had happened on a hidden treasure. Something had to be done to shake him up. “Quite right, dear,” Margherita murmured at an appropriate lull in the conversation. Beppe would do wonders with that glorious hair of hers. And a touch of make up, just a touch…and those clothes…pity it couldn’t be Monday. The hairdressers and theshops were closed on Mondays. She rose when Hope stifled a yawn behind a small fist. “Franco, Hope is tired. You’ll drive her back home, won’t you?” “Of course.” The gleam in Franco’s eye wasn’t lost on his mother. “Oh no, that’s not necessary.” Hope’s eyes widened in dismay. “That would be taking you far out of

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your way, Franco.” She checked her wristwatch. “I’m still in time for the ten thirty train and the buses from the station at Torallo run until midnight…” Neither Rivera nor his mother paid her the slightest bit of attention. Margherita walked them to the front door. She smoothed her son’s lapels and smiled up at him. “Now drive carefully, my dear.” He bent down to kiss a wrinkled cheek. “Don’t I always?” His mother shot him a wry glance. She turned to Hope. “I enjoyed our conversation very much, Hope. I’m going to be in the city center on Tuesday morning. Perhaps we could meet for lunch. Maybe you could bring along some of those novels you were mentioning.” “That would be nice.” Hope clutched her Margaret Drabble. “And I’ll get this back to you then.” Margherita fervently hoped that Hope would be doing something more exciting than reading Margaret Drabble over the weekend. “Never mind, my dear.” She patted Hope’s arm. “Keep it as long as you want. Would you like to join us on Tuesday, Franco?” “Why not?” He smiled lazily at Hope, looking her up and down. “She needs feeding.” “Good. I thought we’d meet atIl Vecchio Mulino . It’s full of atmosphere. I’m sure Hope will enjoy it.” Rivera frowned. “I thought you said you didn’t like their cooking.” “Oh, they’ve got a new cook now,” Margherita lied cheerfully. “Now get going, you two. It’s getting late.” Rivera put his hands on Hope’s shoulders and starting pushing her through the door. “Well, ahm, thanks for dinner.” Hope called over her shoulder. “See you on Tuesday.” Margherita waved. “At theVecchio Mulino .” Margherita sighed happily as she closed the door behind the two young people. The food wasn’t great at the restaurant, but it was close to her hairdresser’s. And half a block away from the Max Mara outlet. They were about half an hour from sex, Hope thought, and shivered. Hormones were thick in the air. Maybe this time it would be less frantic. And in a bed. Ifshe survived the journey. Franco had given her a searing kiss as they got in the car, had placed her hand on his thigh and then had…taken off. Like a rocket. Bari’s modern city center was shaped like a grid, with streetlights at every intersection. Most of the streets lights were broken, having given up the ghost, and flashed a constant, sickly yellow. Franco simply raced through the intersections, looking neither left nor right, knowing somehow, by some strange Italian radar system, whether another car was coming or not.

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“So.” He swerved around a jaywalker. “Did you like my mother?” Hope carefully opened one eye. “Ahm, Franco, that car—” Too late. Leaving a wildly honking Alfa Romeo behind them, Franco’s Fiat took a tight corner on what felt like two wheels. “What,cara ?” He took one hand off the steering wheel and caressed her knee. In the light of the street lamps—flashing by at an alarming rate—she could see his sensual smile. Funny how you could feel aroused and terrified at the same time. “Did you?” They were leaving the city behind them and shot onto the ring road. “Did I—oh, your mother.” Yoga, she thought. Remember your yoga. She breathed deeply in and out a few times. “Yes, I liked Margherita very much.” Her breath hitched as his hand moved higher. The fingers of his right hand found the buttons on her long skirt and undid one, then another one, right up to the top of her thighs. It was a warm night and she wasn’t wearing stockings. He ran a long finger along the inside of her thigh. She could feel his thigh muscles under her own hand, bunching and rippling as he played the accelerator and the clutch like a pianist plays the foot pedals. Then, she felt one long muscle tighten as he pressed the accelerator down to the floor. They were on a long, dark straightway. “Good,” he said cheerfully. Good?They were going to be killed. Though, her dazed mind told her, as his hand inched higher, she would be going out in style. He ran his finger slowly, gently, up and down, and her nerve ends rioted. “Franco?” “Yes,tesoro ?” “Don’t you think you should…slow down a little?” He ran his open palm up her leg. His hand was hard and calloused and left fire in its wake. His thumb started making circles on the inside of her thigh. “You don’t like this?” he asked softly. “I —” There weren’t words for how she felt about this. Particularly when his large, warm hand traveled the length of her leg to cup her mound. He didn’t move, just held her, like you held something that belonged to you. His hand was heavy and just the weight of it was starting to arouse her. Since when was she so easily aroused? Her college boyfriend, in a vain attempt to warm her up, had tried manual stimulation, but he’d sawed his hand in and out of her roughly and he’d dug at her clitoris as if prospecting for gold and the only thing she’d felt was mild pain and major annoyance.

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Now, Franco’s hand felt like a small sun radiating fromher loins, warming the rest of her. She’d taken biology in college and knew the basics of the physiology of arousal. Blood rushing to tumescent tissue, increased heart rate, signals in the brain activating all sorts of endorphins. It had all been academic. Butthis — this was the real thing. As Franco’s warm hand lay on her mound, she could feel all those changes in her body. She could actually feel the blood coursing through her veins to pool in a rush between her thighs. She could feel her vagina softening into liquid heat. If a scientist had been there with a ruler, he could have measured the lips of her sex growing, folding outward, almost pouting. Her nipples were hard, so sensitive that even her soft cotton sports bra chafed. The breasts themselves felt hot and swollen. The books hadn’t actually mentioned that arousal could be painful. Franco’s profile had turned tense and hard. He was staring straight ahead, which was a very good thing, considering the fact that the speedometer was hovering on the right hand side of the dial. The scenery outside the windows was a blur. His hand lifted and her sex suddenly felt cold and empty. “Take off your panties.” His deep voice was harsh. “I’d do it, but I need one hand to drive.” Put like that… Hope reached up under her skirt and lifted her hips, sliding her panties down her legs. She kicked them off and waited, breathing deeply. Franco’s jaw was tense. “Open your legs.” It didn’t even occur to Hope to disobey. Her legs fell open and the cool air-conditioned air of the car felt chilly in comparison to her heated tissues. Then…yes !… Franco’s big hand was back, fingers stroking. “You’re wet.” His deep voice was low, almost strangled. He rubbed his fingers around her labia. Of course he could feel she was wet. “Yes.” “For me.” A finger circled, slowly, rubbing against swollen flesh. He rocked his wide palm back and forth, silently asking her to open her legs even more. She spread her trembling legs. “Yes.” “Only for me.” A finger spread wetness around her sex, touching, fleetingly, her clitoris. Hope stopped breathing. “Yes.” “Good.” That deep voice held satisfaction, grew thick. “Scoot down a little, open up more. I want to feel all of you,cara . So soft, so smooth.” His finger was moving in her, stroking deeply. He withdrew his finger and turned his hand once more to cup her. “This is mine,” he growled.

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Oh, God, she needed his hand in her.She was so close… “Yes,” she whispered. “Only mine.” Franco pressed down. She whimpered. “Sì.” His hand curved, fingers gathering moisture, and his index finger slid over her clitoris. Hope erupted with a cry thatechoed in the confines of the car. Franco stroked her, in rhythm with her contractions, staring straight ahead at the road. “Sì,” he said, nodding at the road ahead. “Sì.”

Torallo was a one-light town and they whizzed through it. They were past Torallo now, on a dark stretch of road that led to the small turn-off that would take them to the beach house. Right after the turn-off, Franco killed the engine and the car rolled to a stop under an oleander bush. Pink petals drifted down on the hood. The silence was intense after the whine of the engine. What were they stopping for? Hope wondered. She could barely see Franco but could hear his clothes rustle as he turned to her. Did he want to--tohave sex out here in the car when she had a perfectly good bed not a few hundred yards from here? Franco squeezed her thigh gently, then let go. He grasped her hand and removed it from his own thigh. She felt him place her hand on the console between the driver’s seat and the passenger’s seat. He put his face close to hers and she moved blindly towards him, expecting a kiss. If he wanted sex, so be it. The last time she had made out in a car had been in Chuck Barrington’s father’s Mercedes. When Chuck had started fondling her so roughly he hurt her, she had slapped him silly and walked home along the beach, holding her sandals in her hand. But she didn’t want to slap Franco silly. She wanted to kiss him silly. He brushed a stray wisp of hair away from her ear and replaced his hand with his lips. But instead of a kiss, he spoke in the barest of whispers. “As soon as I’m gone, lock the doors.” He pressed her finger down on the automatic button. “Press this button.” Franco could barely see Hope in the light of the quarter moon and the faint starlight. Her eyes were closed. He would have found it amusing, if it weren’t for the fact that he wanted to close his own. He wanted to lie down on a bed with her, eyes closed, and touch her naked body all over. With any luck, tonight he was going to do it right, use his skill, make it romantic. Make itlovemaking and not fucking. Try a little foreplay, something he was known for.Used to be known for, anyway, before meeting Hope. But there was something he had to do first. He shook her gently. “Lock them, Hope.”

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Her breath came out on a long sigh and her eyes half-opened. “Lock?” she murmured. “The doors.” Franco’s voice was the merest breath as he climbed out. “Button. Now.” He closed the driver’s door softly and peered in through the window.Lock the doors , he mouthed, then smiled into her startled face when he heard the satisfying whump of the automatic locks. His legs weren’t quite steady as he made his way along the verge of the unpaved road. He stopped for a moment, trying to will his hard-on down. He usually had a lot of self-discipline and his cock was used to doing what he told it to, but getting it back down took him longer than he liked. Finally, he was able to concentrate on the task at hand. Corrado Cini was on duty tonight. He’d checked. He was fond of Corrado. The boy was immensely bright and a near-genius with computers. But he was a desk jockey. He was coming up for promotion to lieutenant and he needed tempering. Brightness wasn’t enough. This wasn’t a job in some office where inattention to detail or lack of character lost you some money or market share. It lost you your life. It wasn’t enough to be bright. You had to be thorough. Franco slowed his walk, moving silently through the still night. A faint breeze blew off the sea a few hundred yards away. It sent light cirrus clouds scudding across the quarter moon, leaving him in faint washes of light thatalternated with total darkness. Though he couldn’t see it, he knew that the little beach house was near. By the little light available, he scoured the side of the road. The police sedan had to be parked nearby, otherwise… Ah! The clouds parted and Franco saw the tire tracks that ran off the road. They were clear, but you had to be looking for them. Silently, he followed the tracks. So young Cini had been paying attention to his lessons, after all. Corrado had parked the car beside an enormous oak, behind a laurel bush, Franco noted approvingly. It was totally invisible from the road, but there was a clear stretch back to the road if a quick getaway was necessary. The car was dark. Franco studied it for a moment in the faint starlight. It was impossible to tell whether or not it was inhabited, though of course it would be. He checked the luminous dials of his wristwatch. What would Corrado be doing at eleven at night? Unless he had decided to do a perimeter check every few hours. But that would be going well beyond the bounds of duty… He froze. The snick of the hammer came at the exact same moment he felt the cold circle of steel pressed against his temple. He kept his voice calm and didn’t turn around. “Well, it’s about time, Cini.” “Damn it, Captain.” Cini slid his gun back in his shoulder holster. He had just got the drop on the famous

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Captain Rivera and the man’s breathing hadn’t even speeded up. “Don’t you have any nerves at all?” Rivera turned around and smiled into the young man’s disgusted face. “Try that with Marco sometime. You’ll find yourself face down in the dirt with his knee in your back before you even know what’s going on.” “No, thanks.” Cini shuddered. “I didn’t sign up to face Marco Ferrari. Just criminals.” “Speaking of which, anything unusual happen tonight?” Rivera kept his voice casual. But Cini wasn’t fooled. Everyone in the stationhouse knew there was something going on and that Captain Rivera had a special interest in the inhabitant of the little beach house. Cini would have made a crack, but he liked Miss Hope too much. She was always kind to the men posted to guard duty, making sandwiches and coffee and inquiring after their families in her charming broken Italian. And this was Captain Rivera, after all. He behaved like one of the guys, but he wasn’t. Not by a long shot. He was a legend. “Well, she hasn’t come home yet. And the last bus from the station runs at…” “She’s with me,” Rivera said shortly. “Oh.” Cini opened his mouth, then closed it again. Sometimes silence was the best policy. “Has anyone notedanything out here?” Cini could hear the raw frustration in the captain’s voice. “No, sir.” He could hear the regret in his own. He knew that the protection would have to be pulled by the end of the week. Maybe sooner. He didn’t like it when his name came up on the duty roster. It was boring spending the nights out in Torallo refreshing his knowledge of constellations. Usually, the most exciting thing that happened was that the sun rose. But he liked even less the thought of something happening to Miss Hope. “Quietest stake-out I’ve ever been on.” Rivera blew out his breath in an angry gust. He lifted a hand to the back of his neck, where he could usually feel impending danger. He felt only the light night breeze. H e took a slow turn, 360°, and saw shadowy pines and oak trees, bushes, the faint line where the road showed lighter than the surrounding ground. Very faintly, he could hear the sound of the sea, the rustling of the leaves, a car from the highway shifting up through the gears. Nothing. Nothing out of place. Nothing there that shouldn’t be there. “What a bunch of clowns we are,” he muttered.

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Cini prudently kept quiet. Rivera’s team was an elite one. The men under his command were anything but clowns and the fact that they hadn’t made any progress meant either that the nastiness had stopped or that the enemy was better. Rivera jingled his car keys softly in his pants pocket and scanned the dark horizon once again. “Well.” He turned to give Cini a hard-eyed glare. “Don’t fall asleep on duty tonight.” “No, Captain.” No one on Rivera’s detail fell asleep on duty. Ever. “I’ll get those reports to you by tomorrow afternoon.” “You do that.” Rivera turned on his heel and started walking back to the waiting car. And Hope. He turned around. “Oh, and Cini?” “Sir?” “Congratulations. You just made lieutenant.”

Hope started when she saw Franco’s face pressed against her window and brought a hand to her heart. How did the man do it? There had been darkness and then…he had just materialized out of nothing. For a second, she was tempted to keep the doors locked, just to show him. But she could see in the knowing grin on his face that he was just waiting for her to be difficult. Damned if she would act foolishly when he was expecting her to. She pressed the button to unlock the doors and turned away, angrily reaching down to slip her panties on, then turning to look blindly out the passenger window into the darkness. She resisted a moment when she felt a strong finger on her chin, then gave in with a sigh when he increased the pressure and turned her face to his. “Come here,” he said softly, as if coaxing a half-wild kitten. “Come to me.” Then he covered her mouth with his and she felt all her stiffness disappear. He curled a large hand around her neck and held her head still while his mouth whispered feather-soft kisses over hers. Kisses. A meeting of lips and tongue. Until recently, Hope had secretly thought kissing overrated. When she was kissed, part of her enjoyed it for a few moments, then her treacherous mind would kick in and she would move outside herself, observing, watching, commenting. Her mind would just swing away and observe these ridiculous people, full-grown adults, grappling and sticking their mouths together. Not this time. She waited for her mind to switch over into observer mode, but it didn’t. She didn’t notice the uncomfortable position, stretched out over the console between the seats, with the stick shift boring into her knee. She didn’t notice that her arm was awkwardly stretched out, fisted in his shirt for balance. She didn’t feel anything but a wild, honeyed pleasure as he tasted and tasted. She

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sighed into his mouth and moaned when he moved away. Why was he leaving her? She blinked, confused, and straightened in her seat. Seat. Car seat. Slowly, she pulled in her senses. She was in a car. What —? Reality broke in on her in a rush. She was in his car. He was driving her home. And he had left her, abruptly and with no reason, to sit alone in the dark. It was easier to feel anger than acknowledge what he did to her. “What was that all about?” Hope was proud of herself. She had been worried that her voice would tremble. He had started the car and was driving down to the little beach house. At, wonder of wonders, less than Mach speed. He turned his head at the asperity in her tone. She was sitting up ramrod straight, his little spitfire. He smiled to himself. Just a few moments ago she had been slumped spineless against him. He could still feel her sinking into him. “I couldn’t resist kissing you.” She could see his white teeth flash in the darkness. “You didn’t seem to mind.” “I didn’t mean that,” she muttered. “Why did you leave?” He turned the corner into the short driveway with a flourish and stopped. It was clear he wasn’t going to answer. Hope wished she could stay mad at him, she wished she could maintain that effortless distance she seemed to have had no trouble keeping with every other man. But she couldn’t. When he put his arm around her up the walkway, she leaned against him. No, melted. Her hand shook slightly as she tried to insert the key into the lock and she didn’t protest when his own warm hand closed around hers, slipped the key out of her grasp and opened the door. Inside the house, she reached for the light. He grabbed her hand. “No. No light.” Suddenly, Hope found herself with her back pressed against the door, his hard body crowding hers; he was kissing her wildly and she was kissing him back equally desperately. His hands slid through her hair and pulled out the rubber band. She welcomed the slight pain as the rubber band caught in a few hairs. It took her mind away from the unbearable pleasure she felt at his kisses. Franco wanted to dive into her, crush her to him and never come up for air. He pulled her hard into him, fingers clenching into her back muscles. When he realized he was being rough, he tried to gentle his touch, astounded at the effort it took.

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Fuck, fuck,fuck . He needed to begentle . Franco lifted his head and drew in a shuddering breath, feathering out her hair over her shoulders. It gleamed silver-gold in the starlight. “Beautiful,” he breathed. “Così bella.”So beautiful . He cupped his hand around her neck and felt the silky soft skin beneath his fingers. His hand caressed her shoulder then slipped down the front to cover her breast and his mouth blindly sought hers again. Lips, tongue, teeth. Fingers, toes, knees. If he could have crawled into her, he would have. There was no way to be close enough. He bore down on her, tongue deep in her mouth, chest pressed against her breasts, pressing hard with his cock. Pull back, he told himself,let her breathe . But he didn’t want to let her breathe. He would breathe for her. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to kiss her lightly, then maybe swing her up in his arms, take her into the bedroom, undress her slowly, linger over that soft, pale skin. Make her come first with his hands, then maybe let her be on top. He liked it when a woman rode him. Less work for him. Not now, though. His animal instincts rebelled at the thought of letting her be on top. She could be on top later, when the heat of her was out of his blood, though God only knew when that would be. Never, probably. No, right now he wanted to be on top and he wanted to fuck her hard, a male-female coupling of the most primitive sort. Thrusting into her as hard as he could, holding her down, in complete control of his woman. He could feel his blood pounding heavily through his veins. His skin felt almost too tight, as if he would burst his own bonds. His erection was so hard it was painful and the only thing that could ease the pain was rubbing against her softness. She gasped as he arched into her, pressing against her hard, grinding heavily. He reached down blindly to pull up her sweater, then impatiently swept her bra up with it, grunting with satisfaction when his hand covered her breast. Impatiently, he swept his thumb over the nipple until it hardened into a tight little bead. He wanted to take it in his mouth, but he couldn’t leave her lips, not yet, not with Hope making little moaning noises into his mouth, inflaming him further. He wished he had eight mouths, forty hands, so he could kiss her, touch her, everywhere all at once. Her skirt was unbuttoned to above the knee and he unbuttoned the last ones. The skirt opened but couldn’t fall to the floor because he was pressing her so tightly against the wall. Didn’t matter. He had what he needed. Access. His hand slipped into her panties. He wanted to slow down. He had to slow down. This wasn’t foreplay, this was vertical love making and he was two seconds from taking her against the damn door. He was going to move away from her, lead her gently into the bedroom, undress her slowly, caress her until she moaned with want, with need, then slip inside her. That was the plan.

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But then his hand slid over Hope’s flat belly and he cupped her. She was already moaning with want, with need. With a shaking finger, he outlined the shape of her, where he would soon be moving inside her. Soon. In about two seconds if he didn’t slow down. She was soft and wet from her orgasm. He slipped the tip of his finger inside her and felt her knees buckle as she cried out softly. He was holding her up by the sheer weight of his body pressing heavily against hers and his knees were about ready to buckle, too. He wanted a romantic start. He wanted to pick her up and carry her into the bedroom and lay her down on the bed, but he’d probably collapse and make a fool of himself. He wasn’t entirely sure he could stand. She had this wild effect on him, his gentle little mermaid, Franco thought, as he yielded to temptation and moved his mouth across her breast. Her skin smelled of soap and tasted of sunshine and lemons. He was drunk on her skin. He licked the area around her nipple, tormenting her, tormenting himself until he couldn’t stand it any longer and closed his mouth over her nipple and suckled. Hope jerked and tunneled her hands in his hair, holding him tightly to her breast. He could feel her narrow rib cage straining to pull in air. His mermaid. She had come out of nowhere and someday soon she could just up and leave. The thought had him digging his fingers into her soft skin. He’d never let her go. Never. He’d love her so long and so hard she could never look at another man. He would brand her with his touch, with his kisses. He sucked with the full strength of his mouth at her nipple, as if he could pull milk out of it by the sheer force of his desire. In the heated darkness of his mind, he could see a child, his son, feeding at her breast, dark little head against that white breast. There wasn’t time to make it to the bedroom. He unzipped his pants, shoved the gusset of her panties to the side and thrust inside her, hard. He could feel the jolt of her body as he entered, but there was no time to soften his entrance. His cock was engorged with blood, already primed for explosion, almost too big for her tight little cunt. He started thrusting immediately. Her back thumped heavily against the wooden door in a strong, heated rhythm. He was holding her by the ass and he was scraping his own knuckles against the rough wood as he pounded into her. She was so tight, so goddamned tight…he slid his hands down her thighs and pulled her legs wide apart, until she had to wind them around his thighs. There was no way she could fall, he was holding her too tightly against the door. Franco placed his lips against her neck, working not to bare his teeth. He wanted to bite her, mark her, brand her. A little pain would make her remember him. He was fucking her so hard, she’d be sore for a week. Good. She had to think of him every time she moved. When she walked, she wouldfeel him still inside her, remember how he filled her, over and over again. It wasn’t enough that she think of him when he wasn’t there, her goddamnedbody had to remember him, the ghost of his cock had to be there even when he couldn’t be.

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She was sobbing—oh, God, she was crying—but he couldn’t stop… no, she wasn’t crying, she was coming. He was fucking her so hard he hadn’t even noticed, but she was coming, hersmall little cunt clenching tightly around him, milking his cock just like he’d nursed at her breast. It was too much. In a burst of passion and heat and near-violence, he pounded into her as he came, spurting and shaking for minutes, head so filled with heat, he thought it would explode. One last heavy thrust so powerful he lifted her up half a foot, and it was over. His head dropped to her shoulder and he subsided, panting. It was as if he’d been in a haze, a fog. But then the fog lifted and he had a clear vision of himself from the outside. The man in him was ashamed of what he saw. He’d fucked Hope up against the door, two inches into her house. Hope’s house was small. The bedroom wasn’t far. But hadn’t even been able to make it those few feet. He was pressing her up against the door, holding her with the full weight of his body because he didn’t trust himself to stand yet and had to lean against her. His trousers were down around his ankles and he winced at the thought that past that door was Corrado Cini, who suffered from a case of hero-worship for him. Yes, the man in him was ashamed. The animal in him, however, was delirious. It had successfully coupled with its mate and was prancing around in a little victory dance, hairy knuckles brushing the floor.

***** Hope would have sighed, but Franco was leaning too heavily against her to take in enough air in her lungs.He was managing to breathe all right, judgingfrom hisheavy pants. His warm breath washed over her shoulder. He took in a big breath and let it out on a long sigh, relaxing his taut muscles as he did so. He kissed her neck. “You drive me crazy.” Well, that was rich. Hope would have been indignant if she could. As it was, she could barely scrape up the energy to answer mildly, “Idriveyou crazy?” She tried to punch him upside the head, but the position was awkward and she was too wiped out to put much power in it. He didn’t even move his head to try to avoid the blow. “I didn’t jump onyou like a wild hyena.” She could feel his lips curve against her neck. “We’ve got a problem,cara .” She wriggled again, trying to find a comfortable position, but there wasn’t one to be had. She was holding tightly on to him with arms and legs and he was still inside her, hot and hard. For the first time, she noticed that her panties were biting into her. He’d just shoved them to one side and in the excitement she hadn’t cared, but now it was uncomfortable. She was also very wet. The man was a sperm machine. “I’d say we have several. Which particular one were you thinking about?”

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“I don’t want to pull out of you. But we’ve got to get to the bedroom and if I move, my pants will trip me up.” Yes, thatwas a problem, as she’d go down with him. “Toe your shoes off,” she replied, “and step out of your pants.” “But that would leave me in mysocks ,” Franco said in horror and Hope smiled. He was so Italian. “You either sacrifice your elegance, or pull out and we walk to the bedroom like two normal people.” He pressed harder inside her. “No way.” “Well then, you know what to do.” She could feel the pull of hard muscles as he did what she said. Hope didn’t even want to think about the picture they must make. Her sweater and bra were pushed up under her armpits, her skirt unbuttoned but still clinging to her hips, and her panties shoved aside to make room for his penis. And he still had on a jacket, tie, shirt and socks, nothing else in between. Franco pulled them away from the door and started walking easily into the bedroom, one big hand on her back, one under her buttocks. Walking made his penis jostle inside highly sensitized flesh and she sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh yeah,” he whispered as he eased them down on the bed, never breaking contact. “I hope you’re ready for more because I’m not finished here, not by a long shot. I feel like we could remain just like this all weekend and into next week and they’d find our dehydrated bodies, still locked together.” While he was talking, he whipped off his jacket, shirt, tie and undershirt. She could feel his strong legs moving against hers and realized he was toeing off his socks, God forbid he make love in his stocking feet. The Italian Fashion Police would probably come and take his badge away from him. Hope had lost her skirt on the way. Franco dug his fingers into her hips to hold her still as he pressed more deeply within her. He was still hard and huge and embedded so deeply, the sensation was somewhere between pain and extreme pleasure. “Lift your arms,” he whispered and she did, feeling like a sacrificial animal as she stretched out on the bed under him. His eyes zeroed in on her breasts as he pulled her sweater and bra off in one quick swipe. How was he going to get her panties off? It would be so awkward with him still inside her. He should pull out, then… With a muscular wrench of his hands, Franco reached down and ripped her panties in two. Well, that answered that question. He still wasn’t moving his hips, as if to concentrate her attentionthere , where they were joined, though she didn’t need any reminding. He was in a position of complete dominance, in complete possession. She could barely move; he was watching her the way a hunter watches prey. He lifted himself up on his arms, biceps bulging, and looked down at them. Hope looked down, too,

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then looked away. The sight was so crudely sexual, it turned her on even more. “No,” he said, his voice low and harsh. “Look at us. Watch us.” He pulled slowly out of her and she watched as first the root of his penis appeared, then the rest of the glistening shaft. She watched the folds of her sex open, as if clinging to him. Even the contrast of their coloring was arousing. His penis was dark and the thick hairs around his sex were pitch black. It was like watching midnight invade moonlight. His tight abdominal muscles contracted even further and he moved back into her, slowly. The control was costing him. A drop of sweat fell on to her neck and she could see the slight tremor in all those gorgeous, honed muscles. She watched, fascinated, as his dark penis slid all the way home. “About this weekend —” he growled. Pulling slowlyout . “Mmm?” Hope didn’t know what he was talking about. Her toes started curling. Sliding slowlyin . “I want to take you to Ostuni this weekend. I have a house there. We can relax, swim…” Slowly pullingout . Her thigh muscles started trembling. She was so close… In. Something about this weekend… Out…In… “This weekend, tomorrow…” she gasped. Out. In. Out. In. Out. “What?” Inoutinoutinout. “Tomorrow’s my birthday.” He stopped, penis barely at her entrance.Oh, God, why did she have to open her big mouth? Her vagina felt empty. She wriggled a little and pressed her hands against his hard buttocks, trying to convince him to move backin . Franco remained rock steady, exactly where he was. She tightened her vagina around the large head. “Cut that out,” Franco said. “Your birthday, huh? How old will you be?” Her mind was pinwheels in space. It took her a second to process the question. “Twenty seven.”

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“Your birthday. Wonderful” He pushed back into her, hard and deep. Hope gave a little cry of relief. “I know just how to celebrate.” Indeed he did. He was moving strongly in her now, slow steady strokes. “It would be a nice gesture, but I don’t know if I can manage 27 times in one day, though,” Franco said, perfectly seriously. Hope was startled into a laugh and he stopped his movements. He smiled down at her, the heated eyes and white grin pure sex. He rocked in her, knowing she was on that knife’s edge. “But I can always try,” he said wickedly, speeding up his strokes and smiling in satisfaction as she slipped helplessly into climax. “We’ll celebrate together,” he whispered as he started jetting in her.

CHAPTER TEN

Celebrate. It was a day for celebration, Hope thought, as she watched the sun set from the terrace of atrattoria in Ostuni. Franco had gone into Bari in the morning and had come to pick her up by noon with a basket lunch. It had been a wonderful day, with warm buttery sunshine turning the buildings in Ostuni a blinding white. “La Bianca”,The White City, Franco had said the Italians called Ostuni and she could see why. From the beach where they had swum and eaten the picnic lunch, it had gleamed like a fairytale castle, a shimmering white hill in the distance. Now the sun, a huge crimson globe, was slowly settling over the flat white rooftops which fell in an artless jumble down the hillside to the ramparts below and colored the white walls a soft rosy pink. A waiter appeared with a bottle ofspumante , and poured them two glasses. “Auguri, Hope,” Franco murmured. They were the first words Franco had spoken in half an hour. They had simply sat quietly together watching the light drain from the sky. She hadn’t been unhappy at the silence. It allowed her time to think over the momentous step she was taking on her twenty-seventh birthday. There was something special in the air, something that was a mixture of sun and sea and sand and sex.

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Whipped together with excitement and desire, it made a potent mix. She was beginning her first love affair, as opposed to the tepid, uninspiring sex she’d had before Franco. Today felt new and fresh, the beginning of something deep and important. Hope tried to probe her feelings and discovered that she had no regrets, no second thoughts. Her life had finally begun. They clicked glasses and Hope drained hers quickly. Thespumante was dry and chilled and somehow eased the tightness in her throat. No regrets, but there was fear of what Franco was doing—had done—to her heart. He put something on the table. A narrow rectangular box, beautifully wrapped in silver-blue paper. He shoved it over to her with a long finger. “Happy birthday,cara .” Hope was startled. She hadn’t expected anything at all. She smiled uncertainly at Franco and unwrapped the paper carefully. Oh. My. God. Itwas a jewelry box. She blinked. “I —” She had no breath. “Open it,” he commanded quietly. Hope lifted the lid and stared. It was a necklace: a long gold cable chain with an emerald-cut aquamarine pendant. Beautiful, antique and very, very valuable. “Franco, I can’t accept this,” she whispered. “It’s much too valuable. I mean, it’s beautiful, it’s gorgeous, but, my heavens…” He wasn’t even listening. He did what she hadn’t dared do. He lifted the stunning necklace out of the satin-lined box and placed it around her neck. The pendant fell between her breasts. It was so magnificent it took her breath away. Franco followed the line of the cable chain with his fingers, down to the pendant. He lifted it, the back of his finger caressing her breasts. “This was my grandmother’s. My grandfather gave it to her on the birth of their first son.” He looked up at her, heat in his dark eyes. “I was right. It is exactly the color of your eyes.” It was worse than she thought. He’d given her a familyheirloom . She clutched the pendant and felt warmth in her hand. “Oh Franco, how can I accept this? It belongs in your family. What would Margherita say?” “She’d say that she has exceedingly good taste. It was my mother who chose it.” He looked at her breasts again and exhaled. The skin was tight over his cheekbones and his lips were red with blood. It was an expression Hope was beginning to recognize. “Let’s go.” There was absolutely nothing she could do. He gripped her elbow and almost lifted her out of the chair. They began walking through the narrow streets, then uphill, to the central square. Hope felt as if she were walking uphill under water, each step an effort, her heart thumping heavily in her chest, her legs leaden. She knew where they were going—to the big villa at the top of the hill, with its weathered baroque facade painted a dusky pink, the cornices picked out in white, with its large rooms full of shabby antique

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furniture, with its sandstone balcony looking right across to the cathedral—with its enormous bedroom where they had left their overnight bags this morning. It was the thought of the bedroom and what would happen there that had her dragging her feet, not out of reluctance, but out of an excitement so great she could hardly draw her next breath. Franco had his arm tightly around her waist. But then, he always held on tightly—to her elbow or to her hand—when they were together, as if he feared that she would run away at any moment. She could feel Franco intimately pressed against her side as they slowly made their way up whitewashed steps, under an arch, across a tiny square, up more stairs. Then—unexpectedly—they were looking out onto a sheer drop with only a low-whitewashed wall separating them from the valley eight hundred feet below, the sea a silver thread on the horizon. They stopped for a moment there, silently watching the wind make silver waves in the olive trees dotting the hillside. The trees were tall and time had gnarled them into fantastical shapes. Hope knew that she was looking at a landscape that had remained unchanged for hundreds of years. How many generations of lovers had stood where she and Franco were now standing, listening to the wind off the sea rustle the olive branches, listening to the beats of their hearts? The thought pleased her. Hope had always felt slightly apart, somehow different from everyone around her. Not now. Now she felt connected--to the earth beneath her feet, to the human race, and above all to the man standing so closely beside her she could feel him drawing in every breath—and a deep calm pervaded her. Love. The most elemental, the most basic, the most elusive emotion. Waiting for her on a hilltop village. He smiled down at her, a question in his eyes, and she tugged on his arm. Together, they crossed the village square in silence, footsteps echoing on the cobblestones. Franco knew that Giuseppe, the owner of the corner café, would be watching out of the grated window, and Clementina, the butcher’s wife, who came in a couple of mornings a week to clean, would be following their progress across the square. As a boy, he had spent most summers here, in the house that had been in his mother’s family for five generations. He knew everyone in the village and, more to the point, everyone knew him. He’d never brought a woman here before. Walking across the village square arm in arm with Hope was like writing across the sky:This is the one. This is my woman . He grinned at the thought and stopped, tilting Hope’s face up to his. As he gave her a possessive kiss, he could almost feel the curious eyes on them and knew the town would be buzzing tomorrow. La donna del capitano.The captain’s woman. They reached the big brass-studded wooden door and Hope drew in a shaky breath. She was nervous, he thought, as they entered the cool hall. Why? “This house used to belong to the cardinal in Lecce,” he said lightly, casually. “My great-great grandfather won it off him in a card game that lasted three days and three nights.” His voice echoed in the

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hallway as he walked around, switching on lights. Hope stood rooted in the entrance, watching him. “Family legend has it that he was on the verge of bankruptcy and had put up his wife as his stake. Luckily, he was a good card player and an even better cheat. This house came with enough land to put him back on his feet. Nowhis son…” “Franco.” “Hmmm?” “Shut up and kiss me.” He blinked, startled, then gave a slow smile. “My pleasure.” She had been expecting heat. And thunder and lightning. She had been expecting that fiery tornado to pick her up again like last night. Instead, his mouth on hers was like light spring rain. He stood, holding her loosely, showering little baby kisses on her lips, cheeks, forehead, closed eyes. He rubbed his slightly bristly cheek against hers. Hope opened her eyes to see him measuring the steep, winding staircase up to the first floor. “Franco?” She bit him gently on the earlobe and smiled when she felt his slight shudder. “Do you want me to carry you up the staircase?” He laughed and pulled back. His unassuming little mermaid was full of surprises. “I’ll just bet you could, too. No.” He bent to give her a swift kiss, then swung her up in his arms. “We have to follow the script here.” He wasn’t even winded at the top of the stairs. He carried her down the long flagstone corridor with the ancient, priceless Persian carpet until they reached the master bedroom. Franco put her down and she rested her forehead against his shoulder. “I’m sure glad this is the bedroom,” she murmured, “and not another supply closet.” Franco laughed, marveling at that unique mixture of desire and joy only Hope managed to inspire. “I lost control that day.” “Thatday?”

“Okay, not just that day. Last night. The first night.” It wasn’t easy to remember that he’d lost control every time they’d been together. Well, he couldn’t afford to lose control now because there were things he had to know. Tonight had to be about her. No hard and fast fucking. He wanted gentle sighs, and soft movements and long languid strokes. Even if it killed him. She stood a little on tiptoe so that they were in perfect alignment, mouth to mouth, breast to chest, soft to hard…he pulled away.

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Slowly. He wanted to go slowly. He fanned out her hair through his fingers and let the shiny strands fall back over her shoulders. Her hair was the color of moonlight, as was her skin. He slowly, very slowly, unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it off her shoulders, then unbuttoned her jeans, touched and aroused at the same time. The blouse and jeans were old—clean but shapeless. The bra and panties were strictly utilitarian, not lacy confections meant to seduce but as they, too, dropped to the floor he was achingly seduced. Hope was naked and Franco gripped her upper arms and looked his fill. The ugly outer wrappings hid such beauty. She was like an alabaster statue, firm and iridescent, but no statue ever felt so warm and soft. He wasn’t going to lose control tonight. No matter what else happened, Hope deserved better than a crazed man always overwhelmed by hormones. He knew better than to rush it. He knew he had to go slowly. But she was so soft, so incredibly, deliciously responsive. She sighed into his mouth when he kissed her and moaned when his hands moved to cup her breasts and linger. He tilted his head for a better fit and she followed and the fit was so perfect he felt as if he were melting into her mouth. He came up for air once, gasping and looking down at her. Her eyes were unfocussed and her lips were wet and swollen and he nearly lost it. His hands tightened, fingers digging into her back… No. No. No! Not this time, no. He stepped back. “Undress me,” he whispered. She smiled, an upturning of the corners of her mouth that didn’t quite reach her eyes and again he was reminded of the underlying sadness in her. Hope was an extravagantly beautiful woman. She was remarkably intelligent and gentle-hearted. She was a woman in a million. There was no reason on this earth for such a remarkable woman to be sad. The answer was in her past and he had to know. They couldn’t go forward, not like this. Not until he’d wiped the sadness from her eyes. That was why tonight had to be lovemaking and not fucking. He’d possessed her body and now he needed to possess her heart. Franco stood quietly while Hope undressed him. When she opened his pants, his cock sprang out. She touched him, then grasped him with her small fist, pumping slowly. He felt it down to his toes. He put his hand around hers and pressed it more closely to him. “That’s for you,” he whispered, then lifted her hand away. This wasn’t going to last more than a second if she intended on giving him a hand job. “I’m counting on it,” she whispered back and he smiled in the darkness.His little mermaid. Well, it wasn’t going to be as slow as he hoped. Franco pulled her to him, his engorged cock between them. Lips and tongues and sighs. Her back was like satin, the muscles firm and smooth. He ran his hand

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down the gentle furrow of her back, over her buttocks, sliding down between them. Hope sighed into his mouth and widened her legs so he could cup her. She was as soft and wet there as her mouth. His tongue and fingers probed more deeply.Dio , she was so responsive. Her breasts lifted against his chest, hard little nipples stabbing him, as she drew in a deep breath, still kissing him. Her tongue stroked his, hot sweet honey and her little cunt tightened suddenly around his hand. Control, control. Franco lifted his mouth from hers and drew in a deep breath as well. He pulled his finger out of her, lingering over the soft wetness. She made a soft fluttering sound with her lips, just as her cunt fluttered against his hand and every muscle in him clenched tightly. Well, that was enough foreplay. He’d planned a lot of it, planned a long slow seduction but he’d have to do his seducing after his cock was in her. It was a good thing they weren’t far from the bed because otherwise he’d have taken her on the floor and given her Persian carpet burn. “Lie down.” He wanted his voice to be smooth and persuasive but it came out a husky croak. She didn’t seem to mind, though. She stretched out on the bed, arms to her side, legs slightly apart. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and he’d been to every major museum in Italy. The pendant nestled between her perfect breasts. It pleased and excited him to think of her wearing his grandmother’s necklace in his grandparents’ bed. His grandmother had been a famous beauty and Franco just knew that his own grandfather had once stood right here, exactly like him, pleased at the sight of his naked woman, ready for him, adorned only by the beautiful piece of jewelry. Nakedness suited her. Those ugly clothes she wore hid that slim, ivory perfection. She should walk around naked all the time. Not outside, of course. Just the thought of another man seeing her in this condition made a hot ball burn in his chest. No, he’d keep her at home, locked up and naked, that way she’d always be available to him. Always ready for him, so he could fuck her at a moment’s notice without having to worry about shifting aside clothes. He’d be watching TV and she’d walk by and he’d reach out with his hand to caress that smooth white hip. And she’d know—just like that. Smiling, she would straddle him. Unzip him, pull him out and slide down on him. She’d be wet because she’d always be ready for him. This was totally politically incorrect, the idea of locking Hope up and keeping her naked so he could fuck her night and day, whenever he had the urge. He should be ashamed of himself. Instead, his cock got harder. Franco kneeled on the bed. He placed his hand on her belly. It was a moonless night but just outside the 2ndstory window was the big yellow globe of the streetlight and he could see just fine. He could see his hand, dark and sinewy, contrasting with the pale satin smoothness of her belly. He moved his hand lower, over the pale pubic hair he’d come to love. Her legs opened wider and he could see how wet she was. He was, too.

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He refused to come outside her. His seed was made to fill her up, not to be spurted all over the linen bed sheets. He mounted her and forced himself to be still a moment, face buried in her neck, breathing hard. Hope turned her head and spoke in his ear. “Now, Franco. I’m so close.” The hairs rose on the nape of his neck and he entered her. And—just like that—Hope came, holding him tightly with her strong slim arms and legs, trembling wildly, pulling at his cock . Franco held himself still for as long as he could. He wanted to start moving after she’d finished. But one final long liquid pull of that tight, wet little cunt, her legs tightening around his, grinding herself against him and he totally lost it. Without moving, he started coming himself, helplessly, in a rush of blind pleasure. He lay panting, his face buried in her neck, thinking how incredibly cunning Hope was not to wear perfume. A man had to have his nose right up next to her skin to breathe in that intoxicating scent of hers, made of equal parts sunlight and moonshine and woman and he vowed to be the only man in the world to know what Hope’s skin smelled like. They were clutching each other tightly, like two people caught in a hurricane. Franco sighed heavily and sank down on to her. There went seduction, out the window. But still, he wanted answers. He lifted his head. “You okay?” “Yes.” She smiled at him. “Oh, yes. That was another wonderful birthday present.” But the sadness was back in her eyes. Franco pulled out of her and padded into the adjoining bathroom to wet a washcloth with warm water. Hope hadn’t moved when he returned. She just lay there, one slim hand over her belly, the other up over her head. “Scoot up a little,” he said and she obeyed. Franco stopped a moment, wet washcloth in hand, and gathered himself. He was an ace interrogator. He knew exactly how to wrest information out of the most recalcitrant witness. He knew every trick in the book except how to interrogate someone you wanted to fuck senseless. This was not going to be easy. He had to get some blood back into his head and start thinking with another organ. First things first. He bent and wiped her clean between the legs. Without a word, Hope opened up and watched him silently. He was almost sorry to clean her up. She made such a stirring picture lying there filled with his seed, the drops of semen looking like little pearls in the cloud of pale hairs. But he wanted her comfortable and not sticky, so he told his cock to forget about it when it stirred again, hopefully, and bent to the task of cleaning her.

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There was a crystal decanter of excellent Italian brandy on a sideboard and Franco poured a finger of brandy in two shot glasses and waited until she’d finished hers. He climbed into bed, fluffed pillows at his back, pulled her into his arms and settled her on his chest, making sure as much of him was touching as much of her as possible, shifting until both of them felt maximum comfort. He wanted her comfortable, happy and at ease. He knew she was relaxed, had been pleasured. One hand held the back of her head, the other held her hip, softly stroking. Hope was breathing evenly, edging into sleep. It was time, Rivera decided. Time to clear up a few things. He kept his voice casual. “What happened to you in Florida, Hope?” ‘What happened to you in Florida?’ Hope’s eyes popped open and she stiffened. She wanted to pull away but Franco’s arms tightened around her. It was clear he wasn’t going to let her go anywhere and just like that, she was sorry as sorry could be that she’d let him make love to her. He wasn’t a really nice man and a fantastic lover. He was a cop. “‘What happened to me in Florida?’ I graduated from high school is what happened to me in Florida. College, too.” “I think there might be more to it than that,” he said calmly. “Do you want to know what I think?” She lifted her head and he ignored her glare. “I think something happened to you, something fairly traumatic. Something that made you mistrust men. And you certainly mistrust cops.” Hope jerked. He pulled slightly away and looked down at her impassive face. “How am I doing?” “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” she said stonily. He tunneled his hands in her hair. “I’m not your enemy, Hope,” he said quietly. “I just want to understand…” “Understand what?” “I want to help, love.” He feathered a kiss over her cheek. “Talking about it will make you feel better.” She was silent for the length of a heartbeat, then two. Nothing would make it feel better. Nothing would erase the shame and the sorrow. “Hope?” He kept his voice low. Unobtrusively, he let his hand slip over her wrist and felt the pulse race. She was quivering with tension. “What happened? What went wrong? Was it a man?” “Why are you giving me the third degree?” Hope wanted to be calm, but her voice came out tight and high. “Don’t cops ever turn off? Even in bed?” Her feelings were too close to the surface for comfort. She had given everything she had to him and it was too late to take it back. She couldn’t look him in the face and she didn’t want to be in his arms and she wished very hard that she could just disappear.

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Depressingly, she remained precisely where she was. “Hope?” he prodded. She remained silent. “All right.” He took a deep breath and held her even more tightly. “Let’s see if I can guess.” She lay stonily in his arms, hands clenched at her side, eyes closed. “I think…I think that something very bad happened to you in Florida.” Hope tensed. “I think it had something to do with your mother marrying Emmett Winston.” To Hope’s horror, a big fat tear plopped on Franco’s chest and she could hear the alarm in his voice. “Love? Hope?” Another tear. A hot ball of pain burned in her chest. “It’s all right, Hope,” he soothed. “It’s all right,tesoro . Shhh.” He rocked her. “Don’t cry,amore mio , my love. It doesn’t matter.” He rubbed her back slowly. “Hush, love, it’s all right. Don’t cry.” Hope mumbled something into his chest. He kissed her hair and waited. Hope pushed away from him and sat up. She wiped her eyes and glared at him. “I never cry,” she said accusingly. He looked at her silently. “That’s a cop technique.” Hope picked at the blanket, watching her nervous fingers twist the linen. “I-I’m familiar with it. Cops just shut up and stare until the suspect’s nerves can’t take it and they start talking simply to fill the silence.” “You’re not a suspect,” Franco said quietly. Hope looked him straight in the eyes. “But you’re a cop.” Her voice held a world of accusation. “Not now I’m not, not in this bed. Now I’m just a man who is very close to falling in love with a woman.” “That still doesn’t…” Her eyes widened. “What did you say?” she asked breathlessly. He waited a moment while she watched him, so she could see the truth of what he was saying. “I’m falling in love with you, Hope. This has never happened to me before and I’m not entirely sure what to do about it and I’m more than a little scared.” He waited and felt a little pang when he realized that he was expecting her to say she loved him back. But she didn’t. She simply watched him warily out of those huge pale blue eyes. “Hope?” She still held the sheet against her breasts, chest rising and falling rapidly as if she’d been for a run, staring at him unblinkingly. Then, she slowly leaned her head back against the headboard and closed her eyes. A tear seeped out from under long, ash brown lashes and he started to grow alarmed all over again.

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Hope?” “It’s all right.” She drew in a long breath and fisted her hands in the bedspread, as if she could hide behind it. “I suppose you should know the truth. It did happen in Florida. When my mother married Emmett.” Hope’s voice was low. Her head was still tilted back and her eyes were still closed. Rivera reached over to take her hand, but she slid it out of his grasp and he felt chilled. “Emmett comes - came from a very prestigious and very rich family and we were — “ she stopped for a moment, uncertain whether to continue, then “ - we were an out of work actress and her illegitimate daughter.” There. It was out. Hope’s eyes finally opened and her gaze circled Franco’s face, looking for a reaction. He was too used to hiding behind a professional mask to give her one, but he tucked away the swell of pity for another time. When he didn’t say anything, Hope simply nodded, then went on. “Emmett was a wonderful step-father. He was kind and generous and gentle. I loved him with all my heart. Emmett had been married before and had two children by his first wife: a son, Emmett Junior and a daughter, Samantha. They…they hated us. It was an unreasoning hatred, vitriolic. My mother seemed not to mind, but I found it hard…” Her voice trailed off and she swallowed heavily. “Hard to be on the receiving end of so much animosity. When Junior and Samantha came to visit, they would end up baiting us until either my mother or I said something they could object to, then they would go off in a huff. One weekend, there was a particularly horrendous scene. Junior and Samantha left on Sunday morning. Emmett went hunting, my mother left for a bridge tournament and I decided to go for a long, long walk in the woods. When I got back from my walk, the police were waiting for me.” “The police?” “That’s right.” Hope’s breath rose and fell swiftly. “Your colleagues,” she said bitterly. “First, I was taken to the morgue. I didn’t know where my mother was, so they took me to identify the body. I didn’t know where we were going. The first inkling I had that something had happened to Emmett was when I saw him on a slab with half his chest blasted away.” Hope turned fiercely at the sound he made, daring him to say something. She would have welcomed a chance to reject his pity, but he didn’t offer it. Franco shivered and reached across to turn on the bedside light. She needed light for this. She needed something to banish the darkness. Hope blinked in the sudden brightness, then looked across the room, into a far-off place where the glow of the lamp couldn’t reach. “A hunter had come across his body. Emmett loved to hunt and had an extensive gun collection. They were able to determine the time of death—between two and four in the afternoon—when I’d been walking along the beach. I hadn’t come across anyone and no one saw me. I didn’t have an alibi. The police took me in for questioning. They never booked my mother because she had been playing in a bridge tournament all afternoon. Junior and Samantha were both on a flight to New York. That left one suspect: me.” She shivered and pulled her knees against her chest and stared into the heart of a long-ago horror. “I’d just turned eighteen, so I could be indicted. I was held without bail for three days. Interrogated for three days. And three nights.” She turned her head under her cheek rested on her knees. A shudder went through her and he reached out, stopping himself when she stiffened. Her whole body language told him she didn’t want him to touch her, though that was what he badly wanted to do.

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Rivera knew perfectly well what kind of tactics the police could use, short of outright violence, over a three-day period. He’d used them himself. He shook with fury at the idea of an 18-year old Hope being subjected to that. He spoke only when he was sure he could control his voice, but it came out harsher than he intended. “Where the hell was your mother in those three days?” Out shopping for the funeral, Hope thought wearily. “My mother asked around for a good lawyer, and her girlfriends gave her a name, but it turned out he was a divorce lawyer and he didn’t know how to file the necessary papers for my release. I was finally released because of habeus corpus. They had nothing whatsoever to link me to the murder. “Junior and Samantha went on a rampage. They wanted to prove conspiracy to murder so that neither my mother nor I could inherit anything. But it wasn’t so much the money - it was sheer hatred.” Hope winced as she remembered the malice Emmett Junior and Samantha had directed at her. “I was released just in time to attend the funeral. I was accompanied straight from the station house in a police car. Most of Palm Beach was there and everyone knew I had been accused of murder and had been released due to lack of evidence.” Hope’s heart started thudding heavily as the memories crowded in of that terrible, terrible day. The overpowering smell of hothouse flowers, the murmurs which rose in volume as she approached the casket to pay Emmett her last respects, trying to hide the sharp pain she felt at Emmett’s loss while hundreds of pairs of accusing eyes focused on her. “They made a terrible mistake.” Franco’s deep voice jolted her out of her memories. “But at least it stopped there.” “Oh,” Hope replied. “But it didn’t. Chief Carlson made sure of it. He was a friend of Emmett Junior’s and he made it a crusade of his to ‘get me.’“ Hope met Franco’s eyes, then slid away. “Those were his very words. He was going to ‘get me.’ I didn’t even realize what he meant until…” Hope stopped and swallowed heavily. After a long, long moment in which she grappled with the black bleakness of her thoughts, she continued. “Until the boy I went to the graduation dance with wouldn’t talk to me the next day. I couldn’t figure out what was going on—he just wouldn’t look me in the face. Then he told me he’d been called in for questioning--aboutme . Whether, in the heat of passion, I might have confessed to murder.” It helped that Franco made a disgusted sound and tightened his hold. It helped even more that he didn’t say anything. “That went on all summer. Anyone who was seen with me was hauled in for questioning. Carlson just wouldn’t let go. By the end of the summer, none of my school friends would talk to me. They’d cross the street if they saw me coming.” Hope rubbed her eyes. “I couldn’t wait to get away. I thought when I started college the whole nightmare would stop, but…” “But?” “Chief Carlson called the Chief of Police in Gainesville, where I attended college, told him the story, and it started all over again. Any man I dated, any girlfriend I had coffee with, was taken down to the police station and questioned. For four years, not a living soul would talk to me. And you know what

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was the worst part?” She fixed him with an angry glare. He shook his head. “The worst part…” Hope’s voice broke and she struggled against tears. “The worst part was that anyone could think I could murder Emmett when I missed…him…so…much.” The last word came out in a fierce rush. “What they did to you was illegal, Hope,” Franco said calmly after a moment or two. “That sure didn’t stop them from doing it.” “No, but if you’d had proper legal counsel you could have sued for harassment.” He gently tilted her chin until she was forced to meet his eyes. “The law is supposed to protect, Hope. Not persecute.” She wrenched her chin out of his grasp. “That’s very reassuring, Franco. You have no idea how that thought reassures me after the law made five years of my life a living hell.” “So the harassment stopped?” “Not because they lost interest in me,” she said bitterly. “Oh no. A month after I moved to New York, a man dying of liver cancer confessed on his deathbed that he’d accidentally shot Emmett and had been too scared to come forward. His gun was examined and was found to be the weapon. Case closed. All neatly tied up. And I’d been hounded for nothing.” It was time for comfort. Franco drew her slowly into his arms and held her for a long moment. “I can’t undo what Carlson did to you, cara.” She rested her forehead against his chest. “I know,” she whispered. “I know.” “What Ican do,” he said, as his hand gently covered her breast and started stroking, “is to make sure that thenext five years are pure heaven.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“So pretty.” Margherita sighed on Tuesday, and turned to smile at Hope, shielding her eyes against the hot noonday sun. Margherita was right, Hope thought, looking into the shop window. The outfit was stunning. Margherita had called her at the school to say that she had been able to get off an hour early and had wondered whether Hope could keep her company. They were in front of the Max Mara shop on Via Sparano, looking at a turquoise linen summer suit. It had a short-sleeved jacket with a nipped-in waist and a short, slim skirt.

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Margherita squeezed her arm. “It would look lovely on you, Hope. Particularly with your coloring.” Hope was lost in contemplation of the suit. She never really looked at shop windows. Marla had vaccinated her against clothes-madness. But there was something about that suit which seemed to beckon to her. “Come on.” Margherita tugged at her arm. “The owner of the shop is a friend of mine. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you tried it on.” “Oh, I couldn’t…” But Margherita was already walking into the shop and greeting the owner. Before Hope could even drum up a token protest, she was hustled through velvet curtains into the changing room. Hope shed her trousers and shirt and dropped them on the floor. As she fingered the smooth linen fabric of the suit, she couldn’t help but notice how shabby and drab her clothes looked, there on the pristine tiled floor. The trousers and shirt, threadbare and shapeless, lay crumpled on the floor like a sloughed-off chrysalis. Slowly, Hope buttoned the suit jacket then stepped into the skirt. Any lingering doubts she might have had that the suit would be too large or too small were dispelled as she twirled in front of the mirror. It fit her like a glove. Delighted with the effect, she stared at herself in the mirror. Hope had always taken her body for granted. She took reasonably good care of it. It took reasonably good care of her. That was as far as it went. But Franco had changed all of that. Now, she felt as if her body were an object of pleasure. His. Hers. He had touched, caressed, aroused every square inch of her, and there was no turning back. She smoothed the skirt over her thighs, remembering. Margherita was chatting with Carla Rossi, the owner, a tall, willowy woman with a hawk nose and an armful of bangles that clanked merrily with every movement. “Hope, dear,” Margherita called out. Hope had been in the changing room for well over a quarter of an hour. “Are you all right?” “I’m fine.” Hope stuck her head out between the curtains. “Can I come out?” “And so my daughter-in-law—she just can’t seem to getanything right—said” Carla Rossi stopped dead. Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh my.” “Oh my, indeed.” Margherita gave a smile of deep satisfaction. “Come on out in the middle of the shop, Hope, where we can see you properly.” Hope had been clinging to the velvet curtain with slightly damp palms. She let go and walked slowly forward. A stout customer in the shop tugged at Carla’s sleeve and pointed at Hope. “I want a suit just like that one.”

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In your dreams, Margherita thought. Hope stood, straight and slender, in the center of the floor. She moved toward a mirror on the wall across the shop, tugging at the short skirt, slightly gawky for a moment, like a newborn foal. Then, by the time she had crossed the shiny floor, she had grown into the beautiful suit and was moving easily and gracefully again. “Shoes,” Carla muttered to Margherita as she escorted the stout woman to the changing rooms. Margherita picked out a pair of dark blue pumps and crossed to Hope. “Try these on.” Obediently, as if in a dream, Hope toed off her old, tarnished sneakers and slipped into the pumps, savoring the feel of the soft leather. They lifted her an inch and a half into a new world. Hope tilted her head this way and that as she looked at herself in the three-way mirror. She lifted her hands. Her favorite fairy tale when she was a small girl had been Cinderella. She had loved the moment when the fairy godmother washed magic over Cinderella with her wand and the enchantment had swirled like stardust and turned Cinderella into…a princess. She felt like a princess. A little girl, Margherita thought contentedly, as she watched Hope twist this way and that in front of the mirror. Hope and Franco would have a little girl first. A stunning little girl with Hope’s coloring and Franco’s dark eyes…or maybe a little boy. Yes, Franco would definitely have a boy…”Yes, dear? What did you say?” “I said,” Hope repeated shyly, “do you think Franco will like it?” And then, just for the fun of it, she twirled again in front of the mirror. An extraordinarily beautiful woman just discovering her power was a riveting sight, Margherita thought. An explosive one. Her son had had been holding the grenade in his hands for a few weeks now. All she had done was to pull the pin. Half an hour later, Hope was standing next to the cash register, two enormous rope-handled shopping bags at her feet. “No, Margherita,” she said firmly, pushing the checkbook back into Margherita’s bag and closing it firmly. “I won’t hear of it.” “But…but Hope.” Margherita eyed the bags uneasily. Her plan had succeeded - only too well. She knew enough about clothes to realize that the three skirts, four pairs of pants, five silk tops, three cotton sweaters, two linen jackets and five pairs of shoes cost a small fortune. Even with the discount Carla was givingher. All she had wanted was for Hope to dazzle Franco with a new suit, perhaps a new pair of slacks. Not a whole wardrobe. The poor girl was clearly short on money. Margherita hated the thought of wiping out Hope’s savings, as she probably had. Money. Hope thought. The root of all evil. Men killed for it. Women married for it. Couples divorced because of it. Multinationals felled entire forests for it. The race for money was killing civilization. And yet, she mused, as she slid her VISA card across to Carla,it did have its uses. Before she had left,

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Marla had insisted that Hope set aside part of the interest accruing on the money Emmett had left her and put it into a checking account. “You never know, darling,” Marla had said airily as she closed Hope’s unwilling hand over the credit card. “You might need it for…whenever.” Well, now it was definitely ‘whenever’. And it felt wonderful. Emmett had always wanted her to have nice things, understanding instinctively what she had been deprived of in childhood. Emmett would have been delighted. He would have been happy that she met Franco, and that she felt reborn. He would have wanted her to feel attractive and womanly. He would have rejoiced for her, that she was finally coming into her own. It was with a heady, newfound sense of lightness and freedom that she signed her name on the credit card slip with a flourish. “Hope, please.” Hope couldn’t ignore the very real distress she could read in Margherita’s eyes. Something, some sense of modesty, kept her from telling Margherita the whole truth. But she did owe her at least part of the truth. “Margherita,” she said softly. “I have money put away in an account in the States. I haven’t touched it yet because I wanted to save it for a rainy day.” She grinned at the sunshine streaming in through the big plate-glass window of the shop. “It looks like that rainy day is here.” She didn’t tell Margherita that she hadn’t even begun making a dent in the interest on her account. “Now then.” They were outside the shop. Hope looked up and down the street, unconsciously pulling in a deep breath, her blonde hair shining like a golden helmet in the southern sun. “We still have half an hour before we’re supposed to meet Franco.” She met Margherita’s eyes and smiled. The two women shared a look of friendship and understanding. “What next?” She’s going to make a charming daughter-in-law,Margherita thought. And her Franco was going to have more of a handful than he had bargained on. She took Hope’s arm. “Hairdresser.” “Hairdresser.” Hope smiled. “Right.” Margherita’s hairdresser, Beppe, proved to be providentially close by, a small, nervy man with improbably brassy hair and long, clever fingers. In the twinkling of an eye, Hope was seated before a mirror with a long cotton cape tied around her neck. “Incredibile,” Beppe murmured as he threaded his fingers through Hope’s hair, piling the shiny waves on top of her head then letting them fall. He inspected the roots carefully. “E’ vero.”It’s real . Hope twisted in her seat. “Of course it’s real,” she said indignantly to Margherita. “What does he think—that it’s a wig?” “I think he’s referring to the color,” Margherita said gently. “It’s unusual, especially in a southern country.” Beppe continued his inspection, examining her hair minutely, calculating thickness and texture, measuring

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the planes of her face with an expert eye. He moved around her, murmuring in quick, liquid Italian tones, then straightened. He held aloft an alarmingly sharp pair of scissors for long, contemplative moment, a creative gleam in his eyes. He spoke to Hope. “What?” Hope looked to Margherita. “Bend forward, dear.” Margherita was sitting in the chair next to her. When she saw Hope’s skeptical glance, she smiled. “Trust him. He knows what he’s doing.” Obediently, Hope bent her head forward and heard the sharp click of the scissors. Long golden streams of hair fell in her lap. A quarter of an hour later, she straightened again and looked at herself in the mirror. “Perfetta,” Beppe murmured. He bunched his fingers together and kissed them with a theatrical smacking sound. Hope stood slowly, strands of hair falling on the floor. She now had wispy bangs, and her hair had been cut to fall in a gleaming silver-gold cascade to lightly touch her shoulders. Beppe had thinned and shaped the heavy mass and it followed the shape of her head. Freed of the rubber band, and cut, her hair gleamed almost silver. Experimentally, Hope bent her head to the left and then to the right and felt the lightness. The rightness. “It’s…nice.” “It’s more than nice,” Margherita said as she dug in her purse. “No.” Her voice was sharp as she saw Hope about to begin her protest. “This one’s on me.” Beppe gave a soft cry and disappeared in the back of his shop. “What does he want now?” Hope turned puzzled eyes on Margherita. “I don’t know. He—oh.” Beppe had reappeared with a makeup kit. With gentle but firm hands, he sat Hope down again and lifted her face with a finger. After a long, careful study, he whisked out eyeshadow, liner, mascara and blusher and spoke to Margherita. “Close your eyes,” Margherita translated. Hope felt feather light touches along her eyes and cheekbones, then opened them again at Margherita’s soft command. Beppe stood back and clasped his hands dramatically to his chest. “Bellissima!” he exclaimed. Hope forestalled Margherita’s translation. “I think I caught the gist of that one.” She looked at the hand-held mirror, her eyes sliding over her plastic wristwatch. She gasped and put the mirror down, shrugging out of the plastic cape, grabbing her purse. “We’re late!” she exclaimed and turned horrified eyes on Margherita. “Ohmigod, we’re late. Franco’s waiting for us.” It was already a quarter past one. They had an appointment with Franco on a nearby street corner at one.

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Margherita rose and gathered her things in a leisurely manner. “Don’t worry, Hope. This is Italy. Punctuality isn’t considered a virtue. Just an annoying northern habit.” Outside in the street, Hope juggled her bags and purse. A man bumped into her, then just stood there, staring. “Scusi,” she said. Excuse me. He didn’t move. She clucked her tongue in annoyance and moved around him. The man still stood, head swiveling to watch her retreating back. Hope turned to Margherita. “Do you think Franco will still be there? We’re almost twenty minutes late. I know he’s on a tight schedule…” “He’ll be there.” Margherita soothed, even as she refused to be hurried along. They rounded a corner and saw Franco, frowning at his watch and looking in the opposite direction. A fist clenched in Hope’s stomach at the sight of him. She felt so many things. Delight. That he was waiting for her. Fear. That he meant so much to her. Nerves. That he might not feel the same way about her. Franco turned, dark brows almost meeting over his nose, and she could see that he was angry. He honed in on his mother. “Where thehell have you been?” he demanded. He gave Hope a quick, impersonal up and down glance of approval, the Italian male’s Pavlovian response to an attractive woman. “I’ve been waiting for almost half an hour and I’ve got a million things to do this afternoon. And where the hell is…” He stopped abruptly and turned, mouth open. “Hope?” He peered at her, as if he were looking through a screen door into a dark room and could barely see her. “Is thatyou ?” “Hello to you too, Franco.” Margherita kissed her son’s cheek in greeting and surreptitiously closed his jaw with a finger. “I can see your molars, darling,” she murmured. Franco blinked, and continued to stare unsmilingly at Hope, as if he’d never seen her before. Well, Hope thought. If anything could break the enchantment that was it. He had nothing pleasant to say. Not—how nice you look, Hope or—what a pretty outfit you have on. Or even—I’m glad to see you. No, he simply stared at her as if he had never seen her before. He didn’t even say hello. Hope sniffed. Okay, so she didn’t dress up very often—actually never—but if he was going to behave as if she had suddenly sprouted two heads, simply because she had a new outfit on… She turned on her heel with an exclamation of disgust and started walking towards the restaurant a block away. The heels of her new pumps showed off her long, slender legs and the slim skirt rode up another inch or two as she strode along. The breeze caught her golden hair and lifted it as it bounced on her shoulders. She was so beautiful it hurt to look at her. Two workmen repairing a broken water main across the street downed tools and whistled. A passing man in a business suit stopped and was turning to follow her when he met Franco’s angry glare and thought better of it.

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Unconcerned, Hope strode on, a turquoise butterfly amongst the predators. Franco went after her with a low growl. A passing car honked and a male head stuck out and shouted something. Franco shouted something back, hot and furious, and grasped Hope’s elbow almost hard enough to hurt. They waited for Margherita to catch up. She was taking her time about it. Franco slanted his mother a now-look-what-you’ve-done glare and was met with a serene smile. It was only a few steps to the restaurant, and it was with a feeling of relief that Franco steered them through the restaurant to the farthest darkest corner, ignoring the waiter’s protest that the table reserved for them was next to the window. It was ridiculous, but he felt as if he’d just run an obstacle course. He sat down, panting, and forced himself to relax, muscle by muscle. Now that they were safe, he could sit back and savor the change in Hope. And rejoice at what hadn’t changed. She still had that gentle expression on her face that made him feel as if all was right with the world. She still had her heart in her eyes when she looked at him. She still blushed faintly when he smiled at her, even after the intimacies they’d shared over the weekend. She was clearly still his. And for the first time, he realized that he’d behaved like a bull whose cow had wandered into the wrong pasture. In front of his mother, too. Margherita had raised him to know better. He took Hope’s hand in his and watched with satisfaction as her blush deepened. Yes, nothing had changed. “That’s…ahm…a very pretty suit you have on, Hope.” Damn! Why did his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, like a clumsy useless muscle he couldn’t seem to operate properly? He’d never had problems flattering a woman before. Except before, the pretty phrases that had tripped so lightly off his tongue had been mainly empty. Telling Hope she was lovely was only God’s sober truth—so why was he finding it so difficult? He tried again. “You’re looking very…nice.” “Beautiful,” Margherita chided softly. “Yes,” Rivera said quickly. “Beautiful, that’s what I meant to say of course, more than nice…” “Capitano Rivera.” The deep voice of the maitre d’ interrupted them. Rivera looked up gratefully. “And Signora Rivera . What a pleasant surprise. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen you here.” He slipped menus in front of them and held up a bottle of ruby red wine before uncorking it. “While you’re choosing, let me pour you some of our specialAglianico . Maybela signorina would like some, too?” Hope looked up from the menu she had been perusing with a frown. It was filled with unfamiliar dishes. She flashed the waiter a thousand watt smile. “Grazie.” The waiter looked into her eyes and was lost. “Ah,si …Oh! A thousand pardons,capitano ! I’m so sorry—” The waiter anxiously started mopping up the red wine which had spilled over Franco’s glass on

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to the table. It dripped down onto his brand-new tan trousers. “That’s all right,” Franco said resignedly. Then he turned to his mother. “You’ve created a monster.” But his voice was more mournful than angry.

***** Two hours later, Franco was sitting in front of his desk, trying to get a handle on what was going on. Whatwas going on? The snitches weren’t talking. He had a very effective information system in place, well oiled with the state’s money. If nobody was talking, that could only mean one thing: Rocco Lipari. Only Lipari could terrorize the professionally unscrupulous into silence. Nothing the State could do could match in ferocity Lipari’s methods. In the meantime, all hell had broken loose over the past six months. Headquarters was a madhouse, even on a Tuesday afternoon. Ten tourists were loudly complaining that they had been mugged. Three unidentified corpses lay cooling in the morgue. The only thing they had in common was missing organs: two livers and a heart. A citizen’s delegation was complaining very vocally about a bevy of prostitutes who had taken up residence on the city’s chicest street corners. And he was going nowhere fast with the investigations on Miratec. What had seemed like such a promising lead had simply turned out to be the fact that Rocco Lipari owned 32% of the stock of the company. A company that—according to its tax statements—was losing money. That was no crime. And the fact that the company’s phone number had been written down by the man who had trashed Hope’s house meant nothing at all, legally. And knowing Lipari, he could easily pass off his sponsorship of Altim Burka as misplaced. Good Samaritanism. It certainly would be nothing with which he could convict Lipari, who had ironclad political protection. Franco raked his hands through his hair. It was hard to think with all the noise in the stationhouse. Corrado was accompanying a foreign couple down the stairs, the man complaining bitterly about his stolen credit cards. Two of his men were scuffling with an addled drug addict, who suddenly drew back and bit one of the officers. Franco made a note to have the officer tested for AIDS in six months’ time. A Brazilian transvestite pranced by, leaving a cloud of Giorgio in his/her wake. Franco saw Marco across the room and lifted a brow wearily. When the phone rang, it was almost a relief. “Captain Rivera?” The voice was low, with a slight foreign accent. “Yes?” “Do you want Rocco Lipari?” Rivera waved his hand for silence and cursed the day he had insisted on having an open office. No one

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was paying any attention to him. He pressed the button to record the call and put a finger against his left ear. “Talk. I’m listening.” “I can’t talk on the phone. You’ve got to come to me. But I want protection.” “What kind of protection?” “The full deal. Money. A new identity. A new city. The works.” Franco knew what the man was talking about. He had been instrumental in setting up the Witness Protection Program in Italy. He had set it up with the help of the new head of the FBI, who had been his professor at Georgetown. “Do you want the program?” Franco was stalling for time as he signaled wildly for Marco. Marco was picking up a phone. “The full deal?” “Yes,” the voice whispered. “But you have to move fast. I want to get out of here today.” “All right,” Franco said calmly. “But you know that the program costs a lot of money. What are you willing to give?” “Everything on Lipari.” The voice dropped even lower. “Names. Dates. The works.” “You have anything in writing? Documents that will hold up in court?” “In court? I—” Franco could hear the shuffling of paper. “I think so. You can be the judge of that. I’ve got a lot of stuff.” “Where do you want to meet?” Franco met Marco’s eyes across the room. “We’ve got to meet.” “Yes.” The man’s voice wavered. “Here. As soon as you can get here.” “Where’s here?” “Via Camaldoli 54. On the corner of—” “I know where it is.” It was in the heart ofBari Vecchia, the tight labyrinth of narrow streets in the oldest, poorest part of the city, where the street cops only dared venture in pairs. “Is there a name on the bell?” The man gave a soft laugh. “Here? You know where this is?” “All right,” Franco said patiently. “What floor are you on?” “Fourth floor, second door to the right. But hurry.” “How much time can you give me?” “How much time you got?”

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Franco was already awkwardly trying to get into his shoulder holster while keeping the receiver to his ear. “About twenty minutes.” “Hurry,” the voice whimpered, then hung up. “Franco.” Franco felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and looked up into Marco’s worried face. “This is like the last time.” Franco didn’t need to ask what time he was talking about. He knew what Marco meant. This was how his father had been lured into a trap and murdered. Franco shrugged into his jacket, trying to make sure he didn’t snag the lining on the holster. He’d ruined more jackets that way. “Well, if it’s a trap we’re going to turn it around on them. Get me…” He looked around the stationhouse, mentally picking and discarding men. “Rossi, Giannuzzi and Grosso. They’ll ride point. I want the doors covered by Dini and Rocco. Get four sharpshooters. We’ll move only when they’re in place.” Marco was moving away when Franco called him back. “Oh, and Marco.” “Yeah?” “Cini comes with us.” His mouth curved briefly. “If he’s going to make lieutenant, he’s got to be blooded.” Marco shrugged into his oversize bulletproof vest. It wasn’t a standard-issue one but had had to be ordered specially from the company. He held Franco’s. “Oh, come on, Marco.” Franco hated the damn thing. It was a hot June day and he knew he’d sweat under the heavy vest. “I’ll be protected—” He took one look at Marco’s implacable face. “Okay,” he grumbled and put it on. “Have it your way.” “I lost your father,” Marco said, his deep voice a rumble. “I’m not going to lose you. Now let’s go.” It was touch and go whether it would have been quicker to run to Via Camaldoli. Bari Vecchia abutted the waterfront and it was rush hour. That was nothing new--it was always rush hour in Bari’s overcrowded streets. They couldn’t use the siren to clear the streets. If it was a trap, it would warn them. If it wasn’t a trap, it would warn the enemy just the same. Besides, Bari’s unruly, anarchic drivers wouldn’t make way for a siren anyway. “What do you think?” Marco asked conversationally, then hung onto his shoulder safety belt as Franco turned a tight corner onto the square with Bari’s imposing Gothic cathedral, which was illegal. A nun walked out from afternoon mass, shading her eyes from the sun and Franco narrowly missed her. “So what do you think?” Marco repeated patiently. He knew Franco and his driving too well to be frightened. He understood that it was Franco’s way of getting rid of the many frustrations of the job. “Is he the genuine thing or not?” “I don’t know.” Franco felt his stomach clench. He tried not to think that he could be walking--or rather

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driving--straight into his own death. “How can I know? He sounded…odd.” “In what way?” “A funny accent, for one. Something not quite right with the way he talked.” Now where had he heard that before? Strange accents—he’d come across that lately… “Should I turn on the blanket?” Marco interrupted his thoughts as he starting slowing down. Franco checked his odometer. They were exactly a mile and a half away from city hall. The ‘blanket’ was another FBI gift—an electronic anti-detonation wave-emitter guaranteed to render harmless any radio-controlled bomb devices within a five hundred yard radius. It also killed TV reception within a five hundred yard radius and the police were flooded with angry calls from the mayor’s office whenever they used it. But the inhabitants of Bari Vecchia were the outcasts of the city, the poor, the criminal, the marginal. No one here would be calling city hall. “Yes, turn it on…” Franco calculated the distance to Via Camaldoli, “now.” He killed the engine and brought the car to a rolling stop. They were on a narrow street that arrowed straight down to the sea, a gray haze in the distance. The area looked empty and deserted, as if someone had dropped a neutron bomb. Even without the siren, Bari Vecchia’s inhabitants could smell the police a mile off and the street had mysteriously cleared. Car doors slammed as five officers ran to the entrance of Via Camaldoli 54 and took up stations. Franco waited a few minutes, his eyes scanning the rooftops. Four thumbs jerked skywards and he grunted in satisfaction. The sharpshooters were in place. The radio signals were being blanketed. All access roads had been blocked. Nobody could make it through. Franco gave one last final glance up and down the empty street. He pulled his gun, though he probably wouldn’t need it. Marco and the rest of his men were equipped with Uzis, but the cold heavy steel felt comforting in his hand, anyway. He glanced at Marco and nodded. No words were necessary. It was time to make a move. The street door’s lock had been broken. Some time ago, to judge by the dust-covered junk in the lobby of the building. Obviously, the local inhabitants used it to dump their unwanted possessions. A headless doll sat on a broken-down chair, springs and stuffing spilling out onto the filthy floor. Franco carefully perused the lobby, wrinkling his nose at the smell of stale urine and overcooked cabbage. Somewhere up above, a baby started crying, a desperate, desolate wail that echoed eerily down the stairwell. The only point of entry into the lobby was the front door, which was covered. He jerked his head and Dini and Rocco ran up to the first landing. He waited for their all-clear sign and moved up to the first floor, Corrado, Rossi and Giannuzzi behind him walking backwards up the stairs, Uzis covering 180°. They repeated the drill until they arrived on the fourth floor landing. ‘Fourth floor, second door to the right,’ the voice had said. Wordlessly, Franco pointed to the door

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and Dini and Rocco took up stations, Uzis at the ready. The air seemed suddenly thick and dense and an eerie silence descended on the ramshackle building. There was a heavy coppery smell in the air. Though he knew his face didn’t show it, Franco’s heart began to pound heavily in his chest. He moved to the door, Marco by his side. He lifted his hand to knock, then something, some instinct, had him looking down. For an instant, he didn’t realize what he was seeing, then it clicked. Wordlessly, he nudged Marco’s side and at his startled glance, pointed downwards at the thick red pool oozing from under the door. Every muscle in his body tightened. He met Marco’s eyes and at a nod Marco reached for the doorknob. But it wasn’t necessary. At the first touch, the door swung open with a loud squeak that echoed through the hallway. Marco put out an arm across Franco’s chest. It felt like an iron bar. Marco stepped around the red pool andinto the room. Franco saw his back muscles tense and was astonished to see the muzzle of Marco’s machine gun drop down, pointing to the floor. “What—?” Franco stepped forward then stopped abruptly at the scene of carnage. Behind him, one of his men started retching. He didn’t turn around to see who it was. “Jesus.” he breathed. “What did that? A wild animal?” “Yes,” Marco answered grimly. “Lipari.” “Who the hell was he?” “I don’t know, Captain,” Marco said. “There aren’t enough pieces left to tell.”

***** “Would you like some more wine, Franco?” Hope asked gently. She ladled some vegetable soup into his dish, then hers. When she’d made it a few hours earlier, she hadn’t known it would be for two. Franco had shown up unexpectedly on her doorstep at nine, arm braced against the doorjamb, ash-gray under the tan and looking heart-wrenchingly exhausted. After the lunch with Franco and Margherita, she had hoped that Franco would hold her back for a moment to make plans for the evening, maybe a movie and a pizza afterwards, or even just a simple dinner. Anything to be together. But he had left her with a peck on the cheek of the exact same length and warmth as the one he had given his mother. Maybe he’s shy in front of his mother, she’d thought. He’ll call later, at the school. But he didn’t call. It had been a slow afternoon, the air heavy with the tension of the students, bent over their finals. And heavy with her tension. Finally, after grading the same paper over and over again in her office, she gave up any pretence of getting anything useful done, gathered the papers and went home early.

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But the house had felt cramped in the warm afternoon sunlight, so she had gone out into the garden and weeded, never straying too far from the front door in case Franco called. He didn’t call. It doesn’t take much to make an addict, she thought. Twenty-six years of being alone and after one weekend…she was hooked. She was ashamed of herself for her weakness. In all the romances she’d read, love had made the women strong, not empty and weepy. It was as if nothing had any meaning unless he was there to share it with her. She hated the feeling of dependency. But she loved the connectedness, the sense of belonging to and with another human being. The setting sun had cast long, elegant shadows over the garden, and she wanted to point them out to him. Particularly the shadow formed by the big, crooked olive tree that, for about ten minutes in the evening, looked like a sailing ship. A straw-colored stray dog, loose-hipped and lanky, showed up to cadge some food. Hope had asked the local butcher to wrap up a soup bone and had left it at the edge of the garden. She watched the dog slink furtively forward, pretending to be invisible, until he caught the bone in his jaws. Then he turned and loped away, jaws stretched wide to accommodate the enormous bone. She could just imagine how Franco would have loved the scene. She wanted him to be there with her and watch him throw back his head and laugh. He didn’t laugh enough. When he did, he dropped ten years and made her dizzy with wanting. The air was redolent with the scent of the honeysuckle that climbed up the back wall, but she knew it would have smelled sweeter if he had been there to share it with her. So she had gardened, after a fashion, her mind elsewhere. At dusk, she had gone back into the house to make some soup and settle in for a long, lonely evening. Then, at a little past nine, she had answered the knock at the door and there he was, leaning against his arm, looking weary and drawn and her heart had leapt with gladness and swelled with love and concern. “More wine?” she repeated. At his nod, she filled his glass for the third time. He obviously needed it. His eyes were dark with tension and deep grooves furrowed down from his nose to his mouth. But above all, he had this blank, flat expression in his eyes, as if he had seen too many things and didn’t want to see any more. She sat across from him and watched as he made a stab at eating her soup, but his heart wasn’t in it. After the third spoonful, he stopped and dropped the spoon. He caught her watching him and smiled. Or tried to smile. “The soup’s delicious, Hope.” He pushed the soup bowl back. “You’ll have to forgive me, I just don’t have much of an appetite tonight.” “Bad day, Franco?” she asked softly and reached for his hand. He held it tightly and closed his eyes. He nodded wearily. Blood. There had been so much blood. Blood everywhere. On the floor. On the walls. Even on the ceiling. Covering the few cheap pieces of furniture. Spattered against the walls in patterns his forensic people were even now studying carefully. He could still smell the sickly-sour coppery odor. Even with his

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eyes closed, he could see dark red splotches on the inside of his eyelids. He opened his eyes and released her hand, tipping his head back, trying to work out the tension in his shoulders. He lifted his glass and took a long swallow. The wine was dry, astringent and delicious, and went a way towards wiping the bad taste out of his mouth. But above all, it was white wine, not red. Franco was also relieved that Hope wasn’t in red, either, but dressed in a cream shirt and beige slacks. With her light hair and pale skin she seemed to capture all the light in the room and carry it within her as she moved around the kitchen. He never wanted to see red again in his life. He never wanted to do anything ever again, except sit in this peaceful room, homey and filled with charm and eat Hope’s delicious food and sip the chilled, dry wine. He never wanted to budge from this spot, this still center of calm and peace. He felt as if he had been magically transported to an enchanted, peaceable kingdom, ruled by a beautiful, flaxen-haired fairy that spoke softly and dressed in light. He wanted to stay here forever, lulled by her soothing presence and gentle voice. “Talk to me,” he said suddenly. “About what?” she asked, startled. “Anything.” He rubbed his weary eyes. “Anything at all. Tell me…tell me about your day.” Hope understood and started talking about her students, as many funny stories as she could dredge up, including a few from her New York teaching days which she transported to Bari. When she had run out of teaching stories, she talked about Kay’s garden and her plans for it, and when she had exhausted that topic, she told him the plot of the latest novel she had read. She talked until the sliver of a moon rose over the window sill, until the day animals had settled down for the night and the night creatures had started their nightly concert, she talked until she could see him start to relax, until the skin wasn’t stretched so tightly over his cheekbones and until a faint smile—the first that evening—creased his lips. Hope. His gentle, sweetly, astonishingly sexy Hope. His delight. His refuge. The world was drowning in blood and violence, but there was still this little island of peace and serenity. If anything ever happened to her…he shuddered. A wave of possessiveness rolled over him. He wanted her by his side at all times, twenty-four hours a day. Or at least he wanted to know where she was every single waking moment. He already knew where she would be at night. Sleeping. With him. He felt like a caveman, but he still wished he could just put a homing device around her ankle, like ornithologists did around the legs of birds, to keep track of them. That way he could know she was safe at all times…but of course he couldn’t. Then he almost smacked himself in the head. Of course there was something he could do to be sure she was safe. “Here.” Hope watched, puzzled, as Franco pulled a small black plastic object from his inside jacket pocket. It was sleek and fit in the palm of his hand. “What…” she began, then blinked as it opened up into the

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smallest cellular phone she had ever seen. “Well, that’s nifty.” He pulled out the antenna, punched some numbers and spoke briefly, quietly into the receiver. When he had finished talking, he closed the two halves together with a quick flip of the wrist and handed the cellular phone to Hope. She held it a moment. It was lightweight and the plastic was still warm from his hand. She knew exactly how it felt. She was often warm herself for moments afterwards when Franco touched her. He was looking at her expectantly and she raised her brows in query. “That’s yours now.” He nodded his head at the phone. “I just told headquarters to route all my calls to another number. I want you to keep it on you at all times.” He showed her a tiny switch next to the receiver. “Switch it off when you’re at home or at school, where I can reach you by phone anyway, otherwise the battery will run down too quickly. Other than that, make sure it’s switched on at all times. I want to be able to contact you at any moment.” He looked at her sternly, but she was beginning to know him too well to be offended. Whatever had happened today must have been very bad to be making him so frantic with worry. She stood behind him and looped her arms around his neck and laid her cheek against his dark head. His hands came up to catch her wrists and held them tightly. “Do you want to tell me about it?” She spoke softly into his ear, then kissed it. “No.” He couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. He didn’t know which and didn’t much care. All he cared about was that these two aspects of his life had to be kept separate. The darkness and the violence, the light and the peace. Two totally alien worlds. It was the only way he could function, if he knew that there was a refuge to go to when he seemed to have been sucked into the dark, unreasoning pit of savagery. And from out of that pit—with the ferocious swiftness of a whirlwind—came desire. Dark. Sudden. Total. He reached behind him and pulled her onto his lap. Before she even had time to protest, he covered her mouth with his. With one hand to the back of her head, keeping her still for his kiss, plying her mouth, he unbuttoned her shirt. Not gently. One button tore under his trembling hand and pinged on the floor, rolling to lie forgotten in a corner. He had to have her, had to hold her. Now. He felt crazed, crazy. It was crazy, to want this much. He moved his mouth over hers. She made a soft, breathless sound in his mouth. If she was protesting, he didn’t want to know. He locked his mouth on hers and tore off her shirt. Some small scrap of material was still keeping him from her and he tore that, too. When he felt her naked flesh beneath his hands, he moaned with satisfaction. She felt soft. He needed softness and his hands roamed. It wasn’t enough. There was peace inside her. He couldn’t rest until he had that peace. Inside her. Moving quickly, he stood, supporting her weight, then bent her over the table, impatiently sweeping away dishes and glasses. Dimly, he heard a clatter of glass and crockery, but he didn’t care. All he cared was that she was hot under his hands, already moaning.

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His tongue tangled with hers, demanding. And she responded, digging her fingers in his hair, opening her legs around his hips. He stood panting against the tabletop, her legs around his hips. He was all instinct now, mind disconnected from body, all hands and mouth and hips and loins, as she moved beneath him. Impatient, frenzied, he fumbled at her waist and by some miracle managed to peel her slacks and panties off. She helped him. He could feel her heart pounding heavily beneath his hands as he touched her breasts. A thousand beats a minute. Like his own heart, stuttering in his chest. He drew his head back for a brief moment, trying to pull in air, trying to grab at the last vestige of self-control, when she pulled him back to her. And he was lost. Hands trembling, he unzipped and pushed down and gave a groan of relief when he slammed his cock into her. Oh, God, yes, this,this was what he needed: warmth and softness and heat. The table trembled but held as he fucked her and fucked her and fucked her, endlessly, pumping the poison of the day out of his body. He had no brain and no heart. Just a mouth and a cock, connected by raw nerve tissue. His hands tightened on her hips and he braced himself to thrust even more deeply into her, growling. Frenzied, he hitched her further up on the table and moved more strongly in her. It wasn’t enough. He lifted her legs over his shoulders so she was completely open to him. It wasn’t enough. It couldn’t be enough. He was drowning and he pulled on her hair so that she had to look up at him. Her pupils were large, black, the irises a light blue rim.Was that shock in her eyes? he thought, then surged heavily once more and stilled, shuddering, holding her tightly. He buried his face in her neck and felt all the evil and poison drain out of him, leaving him replete and sated and…ashamed. He stood stock-still, panting, numb, until consciousness returned. With a vengeance. He carefully loosened the death grip he had on her rib cage and slowly, warily disentangled himself. Now that sanity had returned, he opened one eye cautiously, then closed it again. But he had seen enough. The table was a shambles. A glass of wine had been tipped over and now that he was fully conscious he could hear the drip, drip of the wine on the floor. Hope’s soup was spattered over the kitchen floor, mixed with the shards of crockery. Her bra was lying on the floor, soaking up wine and her blouse--brand-new and beautiful, he thought with pain and sorrow—lay in a corner, covered with soup. He held her tightly, dreading the return to sanity. He dragged air into his lungs, wondering if he had even managed to breath while he had had her. What’s happened to me? he thought in despair. He’d become an animal. A ravaging savage. She was the one, bright, clean thing in his life and he had pounced on her like an animal in rut. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He wanted to bury his face in her hair but that would be the coward’s way out. He drew his head back and looked her in the eyes. “I’m sorry.” Her eyes fluttered open. “You are?”

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He kissed away a tear. “I hurt you,” he murmured with regret. “You did?” Hope sighed. “I don’t think so.” She cautiously wriggled her fingers and toes. “Everything seems to be in working order.” He brought his hands to her face and cradled it. He looked down. She was flushed, eyes too bright. Her mouth was swollen from his kisses. “I’ll buy you new plates and glasses, I promise.” Mmm-hmm.” Hope was having trouble keeping her eyes open. Why was he talking about plates and glasses?” “I used you.” His voice was a whisper, but full of regret. Hope brought a hand to his face, soothing, moving her thumb over his lips. “No.” She smiled. “You didn’t use me. You needed me. There’s a difference.” He groaned and buried his face in her hair. “When did you get so wise?” She smiled at the ceiling and calculated backwards. “About two weeks ago.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“As easy as falling off a piece of cake,” Giuseppe Carrera said triumphantly, the words a bit muffled as he talked around a chocolate-filledcornetto . Hope smiled at him. She was feeling so mellow she didn’t have the heart to mention the pastry flakes at the corner of his mouth. Just as she hadn’t had the heart to correct his one mistake in the written composition, “My Plans for the Summer”, where he had reported that this summer he wanted to take a ‘tennis curse’. It was unprofessional, but she had been so tickled at the image that had conjured up—witches in black pointy hats and white shorts dancing around a bubbling cauldron waving tennis rackets—that her red pencil had wavered for a moment, then passed on. He had been given a top grade. Exams were over and she was celebrating with her favorite class, Intermediate C, at the corner coffee shop. Everyone had passed and there was jubilation in the air. Hope looked around at the smiling faces and felt an upsurge of affection for her students. They were of

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all ages, shapes and sizes and came from all walks of life. They had been good students, all of them, and the class had had a special feel to it for Hope. She made a mental note to have herself assigned to Advanced C for the next school year this fall. This fall. Next year. She tasted the words in her mind. They had a resonance they’d never had before. The future stretched out before her, appealing, inviting. The summer, with its long, sun-drenched days, the fall, with the excitement of a new school year, the winter, snuggling warmly during the evenings, the spring, with its promise of new life. Kay should be back on her feet and would take over the management of the school, so Hope could concentrate on teaching and…Franco. Of course. That was the reason she was having these rosy thoughts of the future. She was hoping to share some of it with Franco. She could see Franco at the beach, smiling, teeth white against his dark tan. Franco, holding her tightly by the elbow as they walked, as if she would escape at any moment. Franco, laughing. Franco, trying to order her around and giving up when she wouldn’t obey. Franco, lips warm against hers, body hard against hers. Franco, face dark and hard above hers, watching her eyes as he made love to her. Franco…Franco…he suffused her being so thoroughly, it was as if she could hear his name in the air. Then, with a jolt of surprise, she realized that shewas hearing his name. She blinked and looked around. Capitano Franco Riverasomeone was saying. Her breathing quickened and she held a hand to her chest, smiling. Had he left headquarters to come and share a celebratory end-of-school-year cup of coffee with her? She looked around but as always, where more than two Italians gathered, there was chaos and noise. Luckily, the noise was dying down, even as she strained to see over the heads of her students. Where was he? Capitano Rivera, someone said again into the sudden silence that fell over the coffee bar. But where was he? Hope craned her neck, but couldn’t see him. All she saw was her students looking up, staring at the television set fixed to the corner on brackets, volume control set to ‘too loud’, which was the only volume level Italians knew. The screen showed smoke and charred, twisted metal. After a moment, Hope realized she was looking at a car thathad been blown up. She tried to concentrate on what the newsman was saying, but it was hard. She recognized a few words. Macchina, the anchorman said.Bomba. Then--morto.Car. Bomb. Dead . Everyone in the coffee shop was positively riveted to the TV set, even the man serving behind the counter, espresso machine steaming, forgotten, at his back. Then the anchorman said, “CapitanoRivera,” and Hope realized that it was the anchorman who had been saying Franco’s name. Why was he talking about Franco…and a car…that had been blown up… Morto.Dead . “No!” she whispered, then looked around. She realized that two of the youngcarabiniere students who had been taking a coffee break had disappeared. They were Franco’s men. “No!” Hope’s voice was louder. Smoke. Charred, twisted metal.Capitano Rivera. “No,” she said again, and looked around for confirmation that her thoughts were unfounded. But no one would meet her eyes.

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“Professoressa.” Giuseppe Carrera stepped forward, hand outstretched. “No,” Hope said again, looking at the outstretched hand in horror, as if it were responsible for the fire and smoke. She took a step backwards, then another, then turned and ran through the door, open to the warm June sunshine. The TV announcer’s voice droned on. Carrera moved quickly to the door, but Hope was already running down the street. He called after her, but she didn’t turn. “Professoressa,” he shouted, “they didn’t getCapitano Rivera! He’s safe! He didn’t kick the pail, after all!”

***** Hope turned the corner onto Via Sparano. The sidewalks were too crowded with morning shoppers for any real speed, so she moved to the middle of the pedestrian street. She almost tripped on a loose cobblestone and cursed the new pumps she was wearing. Barely slowing down, she slipped them off, and held them in her hand. Barefoot, her speed increased. One pump slid from her hand, but she didn’t stop to pick it up. After what seemed like an endless nightmare of a run, she reached the waterfront and could see the big white marble building. As runs went, it had been short. Her daily run along the beach was much longer, but her breath was coming in wild hitches and her heart was pounding as she slowed. The commotion surroundingcarabinieri headquarters was visible a block away. Dark police sedans were parked haphazardly along the street, which had been closed to traffic. A few cars were parked on the sidewalks. A television van, mesh antenna slowly revolving on the roof, was parked across the street from the entrance. A reporter in jeans and a plaid, short-sleeved shirt was earnestly talking into a microphone. The few times Hope had walked past headquarters, there had always been a few young officers on guard duty, leaning against the entrance, smoking and laughing. Not now. Now the entrance to the building was cut off by a phalanx of hard-eyed officers, tensely scanning the street, machine guns cocked and ready. “Ferma.” Stop. One of the officers caught Hope’s arm as she tried to push through. His grip was strong enough to hurt and she kicked at him, before remembering that she was barefoot. Her toes ached where she had kicked the officer’s hard black boot. “Let me through!” she cried and wrenched at her arm, held in an unyielding grasp. “Let me go!” She pulled again and desperately tried to remember some Italian. “Basta!”Enough !

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“Miss Hope.” Hope blinked away the tears of fear and rage and looked up into a good-looking familiar face. “Corrado.” He’d been on guard duty at the beach house several times and had practiced his English on her as she handed him coffee and sandwiches. “Help me,” she pleaded. “What are you doing here?” Corrado Cini looked at Hope and at the officer holding her. “Tell him to…let…me…go,” Hope said breathlessly. Corrado spoke to the guard and the iron vise holding her arm was loosened. Like a shot, Hope was through and into the vestibule of the building, panting, eyes darting desperately. She heard Corrado shouting but didn’t stop to look behind her. Where to go? Last time she’d been here she’d gone up to the fourth floor, but her attention was caught by a big corridor which led off the entrance and opened up into an enormous courtyard paved with light-colored tufa stone and decorated with a few sad, drooping palm trees in enormous terra cotta pots. A door slammed open across the courtyard and a knot of men spilled out, the men in front walking backwards. Tall metal sticks with what looked like toilet brushes on the end of them hovered above the crowd. The noise echoing in the courtyard swiftly reached a level almost painful to the ears. The crowd moved quickly, writhing and jabbering loudly, swarming around something in the center…no someone… Franco! Franco alive, looking pale and angry, waving away a microphone as he marched forward, glaring balefully at the reporters surrounding him, but undeniably, blessedlyalive . The crowd and the babble and the policemen closing in on her faded to nothing, as Hope stared and stared, the tears drying in dusty tracks on her cheeks. She was going to run forward, throw her arms around his neck and hold him forever. But for the moment, she was rooted to the spot and couldn’t seem to budge, could hardly breathe. All she could do was look at Franco, and think…he’salive . Franco snarled at a reporter whose boom mike hit him in the eye. He turned to chew him out and saw her. Hope, standing across the courtyard, chest heaving, barefoot and rumpled, wet eyes as large as pale blue saucers in a dead-white face. She had never looked more beautiful to him. She had to go. “Marco!” He looked around wildly, then grunted in relief when he heard Marco’s low rumble. “Capitano?” “Hope. Get her out of here.” He impatiently swept his arm in front of his face and desperately hoped no stray mike was picking up his words. “Get her out of herenow and don’t let anyone notice you doing it.” “Si, Capitano.”

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Franco was terrified. He could count reporters from the three State television networks and from Channel Four. The others would be arriving in minutes. The car bombing would be splashed all over the newspapers and would be story number one on the nightly news. All of Italy would be watching, but above all, Rocco Lipari would be watching. There was no doubt in Franco’s mind about who was responsible for the car bombing and who was responsible for the death of one of his youngest officers, whom he’d dispatched to bring his car around. Franco was getting close and Lipari was getting desperate. It had been touch and go with the snitch. Had Lipari acted less quickly and less ferociously, he could even now have been sitting in prison. But it was only a question of time now. Murdering a police officer was the most serious crime on the books. Now Franco could pull in all the resources of the state. It was becoming a chase to the death, and he wanted to keep Hope away from it all. And above all, away from Lipari. Lipari, whose touch was death. Lipari, who never hesitated to smash anyone in his way. If Lipari had any idea that Hope was important to him, he’d crush her with no more feeling than if she’d been a cockroach. Lipari had already taken his father. Damned if he’d let him touch Hope. Franco watched in horror as Hope started towards him, face alight with joy, clearly intent on throwing her arms around him. On national TV. Where everyone could see her and how much she meant to him. Where she would be a living target for anyone who had eyes to see. It was unthinkable. In one precise, heart stopping moment, as Hope was coming towards him, barefoot, bedraggled, beautiful mouth beginning its curve into a smile, he finally admitted to himself how much he loved her. More than life itself. She was his woman. Hehad to keep her safe. “Get rid of her, Marco. Now!” He watched as Marco approached her, looked her straight in the eyes, felt his heart wrench as her face lit up and…turned away. Striding swiftly towards the far corner, keeping his back to Hope, he walked until he was as far from her as he could get. Being careful not to look at her, he turned to the reporters crowding him.

***** Hope was stunned and came to a stop before Marco could reach her. She just stood there, gaping. “Come,signorina Hope,” Marco said gently, and tugged on her arm. “CapitanoRivera doesn’t want you here.” It took a long moment before Marco’s words penetrated her benumbed mind. Franco didn’t want her here. She watched him as he deftly, smoothly worked the crowd of journalists and looked down at herself. She looked like a madwoman. Barefoot, hair tangled from the wind, eyes swollen with tears. Well, of course he wouldn’t want her around, looking like this, acting like a fool. In front of the world, too. The presence of TV cameras and reporters finally registered, and she could have kicked herself.

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She remembered all too well from Chief Carlson how important it was to a policeman’s career to have good relations with the press. Certainly, it wouldn’t do Franco any good to appear on television with a woman who looked…who looked as if her heart had been punched out and her world had crumbled about her. She had acted like a fool, and had embarrassed him. She would never, never forget that flat, expressionless look which glanced off her as if she didn’t exist and had then focused elsewhere. He had actually turned his back on her. It was obvious that she was good enough for hot sex, good enough for a few meals when he was tired. But she had presumed too much. Marco tugged again at her arm and Hope was vaguely surprised that it didn’t come away in his hand. It certainly felt as if she were falling to pieces. Starting with her heart. Hope turned around and made for the entrance to the courtyard, moving slowly and painfully, as if she were a hundred years old. She looked back once. Franco was holding his arms up, palms out, trying to quiet the rowdy reporters. The crowd was shouting questions, a jumble of them. It was impossible to tell who had asked what first. He spotted her in the distance and turned deliberately away to smile charmingly at the journalists. “So gentlemen,” he said. “And lady.” He singled out the anchorwoman for the Channel 4 regional news and nodded agreeably. He spread his arms wide. “Who wants to ask the first question?”

Her feet hurt. Hope walked slowly back up Via Sparano, looking for her lost shoe. She’d tried to walk with one shoe off and one shoe on for a while, but the lop-sided gait was too awkward and raised more eyebrows than merely going barefoot. So Hope had slipped off the other pump and hoped that the few Italians who glanced curiously downwards would just put her barefoot status down to foreign eccentricity. She was glad her feet hurt. It took her mind off the other hurt. Halfway up the street, she found her pump, lying on its side next to a cement plant-holder. When she put it on and was able to walk normally back to the school, she felt a little bit more like a human being. The school was in an uproar, most of the students and many of the teachers bent over the janitor’s boom box, which had been turned to top volume. When Hope walked in, everyone crowded around her, jostling, asking for news. Hope smiled. Tried to smile. “Captain —” her voice came out a croak and she cleared her throat. “Captain Rivera is alive and well. I just came from thecarabinieri headquarters and saw him with my own eyes. So I would suggest that everyone settle down now and get back to their classrooms. As you know, this is the last day of school and your teachers have a series of announcements to make.” Hope tried to inject authority into her voice, though she knew perfectly well she looked as if she had been dragged through a hedge backwards. She clapped her hands sharply and shooed the students back

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into their classrooms as if they were recalcitrant kindergarteners instead of mature adults. When the hallway had cleared, Hope went into her office. She had planned to visit each classroom today and had prepared a little goodbye speech. But it was beyond her. She couldn’t trust her voice not to break, her knees not to buckle. One more reason why she was unsuited to run the school. One of the many. She was letting Kay down. Yesterday, she had quit work early, because she couldn’t concentrate. Because of Franco. What a fool she had been. Foolish, foolish woman. Her first real affair and she was acting like a lovesick teenager, neglecting her duty. Well, it was time she got her act together and started reordering priorities. It was time she behaved like an adult. Maybe she should have followed Kay’s example. Maybe a long series of minor heartaches would have spared her this major one, just like a long course of diluted cyanide cured ailments. The homeopathic love cure, she thought, as she rummaged in her waist pouch for a Kleenex, then in her desk drawers, then gave up the search and impatiently wiped her eyes on her sleeve of her brand-new linen shirt, now rumpled and dirty. She winced as she recalled her happy, romantic thoughts earlier. Was it possible that she had been mooning over Franco only an hour ago? In one hour her world had been smashed to bits. Well, she’d been through hard times before. And at a policeman’s hands, to boot. She should be used to it. I’m a survivor, she thought, as she determinedly collected the documents lying strewn over the wicker tray Kay used as an IN basket. At least Kay had never let her down. Kay deserved the best she could give. It was time to buckle down and catch up on all the paperwork she had been neglecting lately because she had been so taken up with…her mind skidded away from the name…with other things. But as the afternoon wore on, she found it hard to concentrate. All that adrenaline pumping through her system, that terrible mind-numbing fear, had left her shaken and depleted. Her office phone rang several times, but she didn’t want to talk to anyone. In the end, she just pulled the plug. At five, she finally acknowledged that she wasn’t accomplishing anything. Longing shot through her for the little cottage. Hastily, she gathered her papers and buckled her waist pouch. It felt heavier than usual. Frowning, she checked the contents. The waist pouch had been Kay’s idea, since Bari was as famous for its purse-snatchers as for its Norman Castle. Hope normally just carried a pocket diary, some money in a coin purse with the credit card, and a case of lipstick. Why was it so heavy? Then she saw the sleek black plastic and remembered the cellular phone. She checked to make sure the switch was in the OFF position. Not that Franco would be calling, of course, she thought with a sniff. And even if he did, she didn’t want to talk to him. Not today, anyway. Maybe never. Suddenly, she couldn’t get home fast enough. If she hurried, she could catch the 4:20 train, and if the bus were waiting at the station, she could be home in less than half an hour. She filled her mind with images of the little beach house. Home. She would be safe once she was home, she thought as she rode the rattling little train. Home. No one could hurt her when she was surrounded by

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her plants and books, she thought as the bus left her at the turn off. Home. She would stop shaking and her eyes would stop leaking once she was safe at home, she thought as she turned the key in the lock. Which is why, when a hard hand grabbed her from behind and clamped a wet cloth drenched in a nauseatingly sweet liquid over her mouth and nose, astonishment roared through her for a few seconds before she pitched forward into black nothingness.

***** “Organized crime is losing,” Franco was saying on national TV. “Today’s bomb attack was the work of desperate men who realize that the State is winning its decade-long battle against the Octopus, whose tentacles have held our country in a strangle-hold for so long. But, citizens, while today’s tragedy will never be forgotten, just as we shall never forget the sacrifice of young Giorgio Rizzi, do not doubt for a moment that we are winning the war.” Marco pursed his lips. “Not bad.” He tilted his head. “You look a little gray, though.” “Iwas gray. I’d just spoken to young Giorgio’s parents to offer my condolences.” Franco’s jaw clenched at the memory. It hadn’t been easy telling two simple peasants they’d just lost their only child, who had done his Captain the favor of bringing his car around. And had died for it. “Bastard.” Marco’s voice was a low rumble, barely audible in the chaos of the stationhouse. They both knew whom he was referring to. Franco got up to switch himself off and stretched wearily. He hadn’t stopped for one second since the bomb had exploded six hours ago. He and his men had interviewed everyone who might have seen his car parked two blocks away. The car fragments had been sent to the forensic laboratory and they were waiting for information. He had fielded the press and given answers without being specific. He had called Giorgio’s parents. Night had fallen and he still had his report to write up. He switched on his computer, glancing at the screaming headlines of the special edition of the local newspaper lying next to the keyboard. “Did you get in touch with Hope?” Franco asked Marco as he waited for the computer to boot up. “No.” Marco was reading the newspaper over Franco’s shoulder, getting a macabre kick out of how many facts the journalists could get wrong. So far they had given the wrong make of car, misspelled Giorgio’s name and had added four years to Franco’s age. He glanced over. Not that Franco didn’t look four years older. More like forty. “She’s not answering at the school and not answering at home.” Franco frowned at the screen and typed in a few commands with one finger. He hated writing reports. “How about the cellular phone?” “Switched off.” “Damn.” Franco backspaced over a mistake. He typed in the date: June 21st, 2003. 21-06-03. Then looked at it. What…? “I thought I told her to switch it on when she wasn’t at the school or home. Where is she?”

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“Maybe she’s visiting Kay,” Marco said with alacrity. The phone was already in his hand. “I’ll check.” While he dialed and spoke softly into the receiver, Franco looked at the date again. He glanced over at Marco and saw him smiling into the phone and wondered that Marco’s cheeks didn’t crack. Marco rarely smiled. Marco put the receiver down. “She hasn’t been by. Kay says she’s sorry about the young officer and that she’s happy you’re safe.” “Thanks.” Franco’s voice was absent as he tried to worry about two things at once. When he’d typed the date before and where the hell Hope was. Again, he had a fleeting, unworthy wish that he could just lock Hope up somewhere so she would stay put. He needed to know she was safe. He couldn’t afford to have this constant, niggling worry at the back of his mind. Things were coming to a head. This wasn’t fifteen years ago, when organized crime had enjoyed political protection from Rome. Operation Clean Hands had changed all that. There was a new generation in power all over the country, which realized full well that the biggest threat to the nation was organized crime. This time he’d nail Lipari, whose fingerprints were all over the case. In the meantime, when had he seen the date before? Never. This was the only day in the history of time in which it was the 21st of June, 2003. And yet he’d seen it before. Written it before. 210603. Then suddenly it struck him. He turned to shout at Marco, who shouted first. “Capitano!” Marco was frowning at the newspaper in his fist. “Look at this.” “Never mind that now, Marco. Do you know…” Marco wasn’t listening. He jabbed an enormous finger at the paper and almost punched a hole through it. “Look.” He stuck it under Franco’s nose. “La Stella del Sud.” “Marco, it wasn’t a telephone number—what?” Franco looked at the page. The paper dedicated half a page to transport in and out of Bari, giving flights, train and bus schedules and…Franco looked at Marco. “The Southern Star. It’s a ship.” “Look where it’s docking.” Marco’s voice was grim. A cold hand clenched Franco’s heart. “Torallo,” he breathed. “And it’s docking today. That’s what I was trying to tell you. That number we found at Hope’s. It wasn’t a telephone number but a date. Burka wrote down that the Southern Star would be docking on the 21st of June.” He stood up. “Marco, try Hope again. Anywhere you think she might be. Ask the janitor of the school if he knows where she is. And try the cell phone again.” Franco scanned the busy room and shouted. “Corrado!” Corrado Cini froze. “Sir?” “Who’s pulling guard detail at Torallo?” Franco’s anxious voice boomed across the big room.

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Cini turned a dull red. “Ahm, sir…” Franco was staring at him. “Well?” he asked impatiently. “Ah, sir,” Cini began again. “Damn it!” Franco slammed his free hand on the desk. “I want to know who’s on guard duty!” “No one, sir.” Franco blinked. “No one!” he roared. “What the hell…” “Well, sir.” Cini had turned a bright red by now. “You’ve been sleep—er, on guard duty yourself lately. And the duty roster hasn’t been established this week. So we all just assumed, ahm…” Franco rocked back on his heels. Cini was right. Damned if he wasn’t right. Franco was too fair to let someone else take the blame for what was his mistake. His terrible, terrible mistake. “Sorry, Cini, I…” “Capitano.” Marco stood up, looking worried. “The janitor says Miss Hope left the school almost three hours ago. No one’s seen her since and she’s not answering anywhere.” Fear such as he had never known before threatened to paralyze him. Franco waited until he felt only coldness and anger, just enough to sharpen his wits, not enough to overwhelm him. “Marco.” He pulled out his gun and slammed a new clip home. “Eight men, two cars, no sirens.” He slid the gun in his holster. “Let’s go.”

***** Hope felt a thump and wondered if it was inside or outside her head. Her throbbing head. She tried to bring a hand to her head and found that she couldn’t. Slowly, she tested her hands. They were tied in front of her. No. She pulled again and heard a slight crackle and felt the stickiness. Her hands were taped together. She stretched her facial muscles. And her mouth was taped shut. Slowly, she tried to take stock. She was lying on her right side on hard-packed earth that was numbingly cold and slightly damp. Slowly, she moved a foot, relieved that her feet hadn’t been taped together, and encountered an earthen wall, damp and chill against her back. She was in some kind of cave, whether natural or man-made was impossible to tell. The walls were dripping with moisture, so maybe they were near the sea. Hope could see vague forms moving, making noises that echoed hollowly. She was unable to judge how many people were in the cave, or even how far away they were in the uneven light of a number of flashlights. Then, the blinding light swept past her field of vision once more and she had to close her eyes again and wait for her head to settle down.

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When she opened them again, the cave was well lit by a storm lamp that had been hung from a hook in the roof of the cave. Luckily, she had been dumped so that her feet were in the light and her head in darkness. No one would notice that her eyes were open unless they were close and looking down at her. Hope’s attention was drawn to two men standing directly underneath the lamp. She nearly moaned with dismay when she recognized the man who had trashed her house. The lean, cruel face and dirty blond hair falling in wild ringlets were unmistakable. She tried to remember his name. Burda, Bora, no…Burka! That was it. Hope felt a little rush of triumph at this small achievement. It meant her mind was beginning to function. And her mind was the only weapon she had, trussed up here like a turkey. Then Burka’s voice rose in anger and the man he was speaking to turned slowly and seemed to look straight at her and she froze, feeling a deep chill which had nothing to do with the temperature of the cave. The man was handsome, with strong, even features and was elegantly, even nattily dressed from his head—covered with a gray felt Fedora—to his toes, neatly clad in shiny black tasseled loafers. His eyes were like his shoes: black and shiny and emotionless. He radiated hardness and cruelty and she shrank back from his glance, though she knew he couldn’t see her face in the shadows. Natty Dresser walked slowly over to her, his steps echoing in the cave, keeping time with the slow thumping of her heart. He called out over his shoulder to Burka and she held her breath, trying to will herself into invisibility. He was asking Burka whether she was awake. Burka shouted something and she recognized the wordcloroformio . Chloroform! That was the cloying sweet smell. That was why her head felt so fuzzy and her limbs so heavy. Hope desperately tried to recall what little she knew about chloroform, how long its effects were supposed to last. Natty Dresser stopped just inside the circle of light, black shiny toes a few inches from her face. He peered down at her and she concentrated on not moving. Not even breathing. It was lucky she had forewarning. She watched through slitted eyes, unbelieving, as that elegant shoe drew back. She barely had time to brace herself before he landed a punishing kick to her side. She grunted and rolled with the blow, head landing with a crack against the cave wall then lolling forward. She wished she were truly unconscious, at least for the first few minutes of blinding, white hot pain. It took every ounce of self-control she had to remain unmoving, when every muscle in her body screamed for release. She would have given everything she had to be able to curl in on herself and hug her pain. But, somehow, she managed to remain still. Natty Dresser stood for a moment, then gave an exclamation of satisfaction. He slowly strolled back to Burka. The pain started to recede. Slowly. Hope kept her breathing shallow, since it hurt when she drew a deep breath.Cracked rib , she thought dully and hoped it was nothing worse. If an organ had been injured and she was bleeding internally, she was done for.

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Then, impossibly, the roof of the cave cracked open and one of Natty Dresser’s trolls descended backwards down a steep wooden staircase that had been lowered from the opening. The elf carried a big box, obviously a bit too heavy for him. He was followed by another, identical, man with a gunnysack on a narrow shoulder, who negotiated the ladder with great difficulty. A few steps from the bottom the sack slipped from his grasp and fell open in a cloud of white powder. Flour, Hope thought, remembering what they had found outside the house.That’s flour . The roof cracked open again. Hope was more alert now and stifled a gasp as she saw a familiar piece of furniture through the opening. She was looking straight into her kitchen at the little painted cabinet that held her cups and saucers. The world whirled and straightened, and Hope realized that she was below her house in a basement she had never suspected existed. Suddenly, a whistle galvanized everyone in the cave. After one frozen moment, the elves erupted into action. The cover of the opening was quickly pulled down, the flashlights were switched off and all the elves disappeared into a hole in the cave wall that Hope hadn’t noticed before. Burka and Natty Dresser stood stock-still. An elf carrying the ladder had brushed the storm lantern, which swayed gently from its hook, casting crazy shadows over the cave. No one paid her the slightest bit of attention, and Hope tried to move unobtrusively out of the light, while testing her bonds. She was able to move further into the shadows, her back pressed against the cold, wet cave wall, but she was unable to free her wrists. The tape had been wound too tightly. Hope lay still while despair washed over her. Then, every nerve she had went on alert. The roof of the cave must have been thin, for she could clearly hear footsteps on tile walking slowly around her kitchen. Hope’s heart lifted with elation when she heard two deep male voices. Franco and Marco! Franco and Marco were here! Just a few feet away! But they might as well have been on the backside of the moon. Hope nearly wept with frustration. There was no way to contact them, no way for them to know she was sequestered here in this underground prison. And--and even if she could somehow rip off the tape covering her mouth and shout, she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Burka and Natty Dresser had both pulled guns—.45s—and were holding them pointed at the cave roof, tracking the slow progress of Marco and Franco over the kitchen floor. If she called to them, she’d kill them. Hope tested the tape around her wrist again, desperately, and racked her brains. There must be something she could do, some way to warn them…the cell phone! She lifted her head slightly, then let it fall back with a muffled groan. The cell phone was off. The waist pouch had twisted around to her back. Moving slowly, careful not to make any noise, Hope started tugging until the pouch slipped around to the front, where she could reach it, sighing with relief when her fingers encountered the zipper tab. Slowly, she unzipped it, silently rejoicing when she felt smooth, black plastic. Carefully, she slipped the phone half out of the pouch, as if it had spilled out when she had been dumped on her back.

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She was going to have be very careful in the next few minutes. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, then flipped the ON switch, hoping that Franco would be trying to contact her. The phone rang immediately, echoing shrilly in the silence of the cave. Hope kept her eyes tightly shut, breathing deeply and evenly, and heard the muffled expletives as two men rushed around the cave, searching for the source of noise. The phone rang again. Please Franco, Hope prayed.Please be listening . The phone rang again. A hard hand grabbed at her, fumbling at her waist, and the phone was switched off in mid-ring. Hope’s heart plummeted, while she kept her eyes shut and face blank. Would three and a half rings be enough? Could Franco hear through the floor? The hand pushed at her shoulder, rocking her against the hard cave wall, making the pain in her side explode all over again. Hope went limp and made herself roll forward. She could almost feel an intense scrutiny. She lay still, giving her best imitation of a rock, praying that she had inherited some of her mother’s acting talent. She heard footsteps walking away. She didn’t dare open her eyes. Not even a slit. Please, Franco,she prayed.Please. She heard the voices in the kitchen, arguing, then, to her dismay, two sets of footsteps walked out of the room. A moment later, the slamming of the front door could be heard down in the cave and Hope felt a tear leak out as the slamming door seemed to shut down her heart. Well, she wasn’t about to die in a cold, damp cave, trussed up like an animal. There must besomething she could do to free her hands. There had to be something she could use to cut through the tape…the zipper ! The tab of the zipper was unusually sharp. She’d often scratched her wrists on it, and wore the waist pouch only because Kay and Franco had insisted so much. Hope slowly brought her bound wrists to the waist pouch. Hope didn’t know how much time she had, so she started sawing energetically, risking moving her arms. Even in the cold, damp cave, sweat slithered down her face. No matter how hard she tried, the zipper tab just slipped off the tape. Hope risked a look, bending down to peer at her hands. The tape had a deep groove in it, but was intact. She blew a breath of frustration and tried again. The tab bit through the tape and she started sawing her wrists back and forth, enlarging the opening. Natty Dresser appeared at the cave’s entrance. “La ragazza,” he called out to Burka.The girl . “Sì, Signor Lipari,” Burka replied. Lipari! She was trapped in a cave with Rocco Lipari! She remembered Franco stressing the man’s ferocity and cruelty and whimpered with fear. Burka walked over and bent down to her. It was all Hope could do to keep from gagging at the acrid

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smell of stale sweat that washed over her. The man was stronger than his thin, wiry frame would indicate. He picked Hope up and flung her over his shoulder until her head hung down over his back, jarring her bruised ribs. The smell was overwhelming and she had to swallow back the bile rising in her throat. She sent up a fleeting prayer of thanks that her head missed his armpit. Burka followed Lipari into the hole in the cave wall, which turned out to be a long, narrow corridor angling slightly downwards, becoming colder and damper with each step. Finally, the corridor ended and opened up into an enormous cavern whose roof disappeared in the shadows. The lower reaches were illuminated with torches set in uneven intervals into the soft, sandy ground. Burka stopped at the entrance into the cavern, slipped Hope off his shoulder and hurried to catch up with Lipari. Hope slumped to the cold ground, playing dead, trusting it wouldn’t soon be the real thing. The cavern angled down to a small, pebbly beach and Hope realized that they must be inside the big bluff. Though she had never suspected it, the bluff must be hollow and there must be an underground connection between the house and the sea. Huddled on the pebbly shore was the most miserable collection of humanity Hope had ever seen; the men—identical to the elves—painfully thin, the women and children big-eyed and dressed in tattered rags. A little boy and a little girl were crying and a gaunt woman bent immediately to shush them. Their sobs echoed in the cavern. There must have been over a hundred people—some standing, some slumped on the ground. They all shared a look of hopeless despair. The tremulous light of the smoking torches only added to the horror . Lipari and Burka were on the tiny beach, Lipari with one foot on the gangplank leading up to a small motorboat. They were arguing again. The motorboat gunned its engines and Lipari turned his head and seemed to stare straight into Hope’s soul, though she knew that at that distance he couldn’t tell if her eyes were open or not. Lipari jabbed Burka’s chest angrily with one finger, shouted something, then climbed into the boat. To Hope’s horror, Burka stared straight in her direction for a long moment, then moved purposefully towards her. Desperately, she sawed even harder and gouged the skin of her wrist again. Her wrists were sticky with blood now. It didn’t matter. Nothing would matter soon unless she managed somehow to free herself and escape. She knew it. She was going to be dragged on board the boat rocking imperceptibly on the water and she would never get off. Once at sea, it would be easy enough to dump an unconscious woman overboard. The tape was cut halfway through, when Hope had to stop moving. Burka was only a few feet away. Desperately, Hope tried to think when she should make her move. She couldn’t go back. If she ran back the way they had come, she would be trapped in the cave under her kitchen. Her only hope was to wait until she was on board, then try to slip overboard as the boat made its way out of the cavern. She was a strong swimmer and there was a chance she could make it. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the only one she had. But Burka had to believe she was still unconscious, otherwise he’d tie her up and she would sink like a stone in the water. Hope held her breath against his smell as he picked her up again and walked down to

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the waiting boat, keeping herself as limp as possible. Suddenly, the cavern exploded with light and noise. A spotlight lit the cavern like day and a voice shouted through a megaphone. “Nobody move!” Now! Hope thought.Make your movenow ! Bringing her still-taped wrists high, she whacked Burka on the side of his head and heard a satisfying thump. He grunted and loosened his hold and she wriggled out of his grasp, ripping away the tape over her mouth. Through the noise and confusion and smoke from the torches, she could see Franco coming towards her at a dead run, his men behind him fanning out from the entrance to the cavern. Four were holding machines guns on the terrified elves, all of whom held thin arms pointing straight up at the cavern’s roof. The othercarabinieri were moving towards the huddled prisoners. “Hope! Are you all right?” Hope could hear the anxiety in Franco’s voice as she picked herself up off the sand. Before she could move forward, a whipcord arm snagged her around the neck. She froze when she felt the muzzle of Burka’s .45 against her temple. Burka snarled something and then Franco froze, too, only a few feet away. Slowly, Franco leaned down and placed his gun on the sand. Burka moved slowly away, towards the boat, dragging Hope with him. His grip was choking her. He was going to take her with him. Terrified, Hope looked pleadingly towards Franco, but his gaze was locked unswervingly on Burka. She was going to have to take matters into her own taped hands. With a strong wrench, Hope freed her wrists and drove an elbow as fiercely as she could into Burka’s side, delighted to hear the air whooshing out of his lungs, nearly fainting from the pain in her ribs. She ignored it and turned to push him, but Franco was already there, hurtling himself in a low dive, carrying Burka with him, rolling in the damp sand. He landed a short jab in Burka’s stomach, grunting when a blow caught him in the head. They were both covered in wet sand as they struggled to their feet, fighting silently and ferociously in a blur of limbs. Hope cheered when she saw Franco’s hands close around Burka’s neck, but her shout of joy died on her lips when Burka pulled a long knife from the waistband of his trousers and slashed viciously, slicing open Franco’s jacket sleeve. Hope dove for Franco’s gun that lay forgotten in the sand and went into her shooting crouch. “Stop!” she shouted, then, when the two men circling each other warily paid her no attention, she aimed a shot which plowed a furrow in the sand exactly between their feet as they leapt at each other. Franco and Burka froze in a tableau, Franco with one hand fisted in Burka’s shirt, the other cocked back, Burka holding his knife high, ready for a downward slash. Both men had a look of surprise so comical Hope would have been tempted to laugh if the situation hadn’t been so serious. “Hope.” Franco’s voice was uneasy. “You, ah, want to be careful, there. That gun has a hair trigger.” “I know.” Hope went deeper into her crouch, breathing shallowly against the pain in her rib cage. “It’s a Beretta Model 92F. Does it have a 9 or an 11-round magazine?” Franco blinked. “Eleven.”

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“Well, that means I’ve got ten rounds left,” Hope said, fighting to keep her voice light. “Please tell our friend here,” Hope lined the sight directly in the middle of Burka’s forehead, her hands steady, “please tell him that I am a crack shot and that I trained for the Olympics. Tell him to put his knife down and not to do anything foolish.” Franco swiftly translated. Then: “Is that true?” He eyed her warily. “Sure is,” she lied. Actually, she had only trained for the State Championships. But she needed them to take her seriously since Burka was tensing, ready to make a move. Hope dropped her aim and shot a hole in the crotch of Burka’s baggy trousers, then brought the gun back up again. Wide-eyed, Burka bent low and stared in horror at the smoking hole, then looked up, straight into the barrel. Hope knew he could still feel the heat of the bullet. “Tell him next time I’ll aim two inches higher and that I’ll make sure he survives. As a eunuch.” Franco translated but Burka was already laying his knife on the sand and backing away from her, staring at her as if she were a madwoman. Four of Franco’s men surrounded Burka and led him away in handcuffs. “Hope?” Franco was walking slowly towards her, hand held out. “Love? You did very, very well. And it was very smart of you to turn on the phone. Now—let me have that gun.” It was over. Franco was here, Burka was in custody, she was safe. She could hand over the gun and collapse in Franco’s arms. But her knees were locked in the crouch and her fingers were frozen around the gun. “That’s it, sweetheart,” Franco crooned as he pried her fingers off the Beretta, one by one. “My brave little darling, I’m so proud of you. Now--let go of the gun.” When he had finally loosened Hope’s grip, he slid the gun into his shoulder holster with a sigh of relief and smiled at her. “You did beautifully.” “Thank you,” Hope said. And fainted.

***** She woke to Franco’s lips pressed against her forehead. “It’s over, love,” he murmured. “The nightmare’s over.” She was lying on her bed fully clothed with an afghan thrown over her. There was a very faint light in the sky. She sat up and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “What happened?” she asked groggily. “You fainted.” That woke her up. “I most certainly did not,” she said indignantly. “I’ve never fainted in my entire life.” “All right,” Franco replied agreeably. “Then you fell asleep. Very suddenly.” “What time is it?”

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“Five thirty. We’ve been working all night. But we’ve bagged the lot of them,” he said triumphantly. Hope looped her arms around her knees and made room for him as he sat down next to her on the bed. He was smiling and looked ten years younger. “What was going on here, Franco? Did you find out? “Oh, yes,” he said with deep satisfaction. “We found out. Burka sang. Long and loud. We’ve got names and dates and paper documents. And we’ve got Lipari. He’s being booked right now on an indictment for multiple murders. Did you know that criminals here operate under a code of silence known asomertà ?” Hope nodded. “Well, Mr. Altim Burka and several of his, ahm, associates have no such scruples.” Franco’s lips curved in a smile. “Nothing like growing up under Communism to train a man to treachery. Burka planned his life insurance carefully. And when we offered to put him and anyone else willing to talk in our Witness Protection Program—a new identity, free home and generous monthly salary until Lipari’s brought to trial—well, they couldn’t wait to come forward. Others will follow. Lipari’s going to be put away for the rest of his life.” “But what was itabout ?” Hope asked plaintively. “What were they doing here?” “Smuggling. Not drugs or goods, but people. Albanians. They’d offer a passage over in return for unspecified ‘services’ and had a waiting list a mile long. The poor suckers thought they were going to a consumer’s paradise and ended up in Hell. The lucky ones became runners for Lipari’s gang. The unlucky ones…” Franco was silent a moment. He had thought his stomach would heave when Burka had started talking about the child prostitutes sold to the highest bidder. And the organ donors. Lipari had even had a rate sheet: $20,000 for a kidney, $50,000 for a liver and $100,000 for a healthy heart. He closed his eyes and shuddered. “But what were they doinghere ?” Hope repeated. Franco was happy to change the subject. He would never let Hope know all the sordid details. “They needed the house as a staging area. A perfectly respectable ship out of Durres would dock in Torallo, which is a small port with very lax security. At night, motorboats would ferry the passengers hidden in the hold to the cavern. The entrance is almost completely hidden. We knew what we were looking for and it took almost half an hour.” “I must have swum around it a hundred times and never noticed anything.” “That’s right. They would keep the Albanians in the cavern for a few days until they could be smuggled out through the beach house in twos and threes. That basement area under the kitchen held food supplies. It worked beautifully—until Kay and then you moved in.” “Poor Kay,” Hope sighed. “We had to peel Marco off the man who confessed to running Kay over.” Hope was quiet for a long moment, mulling over what Franco had told her. The sky was lighter now. Outside, a car door slammed and a moment later its engine started.

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“Is it over, Franco? Really over?” “God, yes.” He bent to kiss her cheek, then lingered. A ten-year nightmare had finished and he felt like he had just been handed a brand-new life. Pleased with the thought, pleased with the night’s events, pleased with Hope, he gave into temptation and hugged her. “Now there’s just you and—what’s wrong?” He drew away with a frown when she stiffened and gave a soft cry of pain. “What is it?” “Nothing,” Hope said hastily. She tried to straighten without wincing. “Nothing. Just a bruise.” She batted away his hands away. “Stop that, Franco.” He wasn’t listening. He pulled up her shirt and she heard a sharp hiss as he caught his breath. She craned her neck to look down at herself. Itwas pretty spectacular. The bruise covered most of her side and had more colors than the dawn just now lighting up the sky. “Who did this to you?” Franco’s face was frighteningly blank and his voice was devoid of inflection. “It’s all right, Franco,” Hope said uneasily. “It really doesn’t hurt that—” “Who?”He shook her once and she stared into angry, blazing eyes. “Who did this to you?” “Lipari,” Hope answered. “He kicked me—no!” Franco had surged to his feet and she scrambled out of bed to follow him. “I’ll kill the son of a bitch!” “Franco, please!” Hope hung onto his arm. It was rigid with tension. “Please, it’s over, you said it’s over. Lipari’s going to jail for the rest of his life and in a few days the bruises will be gone. Franco—” She dragged him back to the bed. “Franco, it’s not worth it.He’s not worth it. Please, Franco.” She put her arms around him. He was stiff and unresponsive. She held on until he relaxed a bit. “Please,” she whispered. Franco pulled back. His eyes watched hers carefully. “Hope, I—” He seemed to be in some difficulty. “What?” Franco breathed out quickly. “I was going to wait a while, but someone’s got to keep you out of trouble.” He grinned at her gasp of outrage and hugged her, careful of her rib. “I love you, Hope. I know how you feel about policemen. But--but do you think you could stand being a cop’s wife?” Before she could answer, before she had time to think, he slipped something on her ring finger. “Oh, Franco.” Hope looked down at her hand with misty eyes. Then blinked and laughed. He lifted her left hand and both of them stared at the Coke tab he had put there. Franco looked at her, love and laughter in his eyes. “We can go shopping tomorrow for something more suitable. Right now, I just wanted to stake my claim.” “I don’t know.” Hope held her hand to her chest protectively. “I’m fond of this already.”

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“You haven’t said yes.” The tension was back in his voice. In his body. “No,” she said softly. “I haven’t.” He didn’t say anything, just watched her. Hope stared at the floor. “Before I say yes, there’s something I want to confess.” “As long as it’s not another man.” “No.” Her smile was weak. “Of course it’s not another man.” “Then, whatever it is, I forgive you.” He bent forward to kiss her then stopped at the hand against his chest. “Hope.” Franco felt a niggling unease. “ Whatever it is, confess in a hurry so I can forgive you.” Hope drew in a deep breath. “I think you should know, Franco, that—I’m— I’m—” “Yes?” His unease was mounting. “--rich,” she finished miserably. Franco drew back. “You’rerich ? That’s what you want to confess?” Hope nodded, her heart in her eyes. “Emmett left me a lot of money.” “Just how much?” Franco asked, not really caring. All he wanted was to get this over with and start kissing her. Hope told him. His jaw dropped. “Well,” he said. “Well.” Then, a deep rumble started in his chest, and he threw back his head and started laughing. “What?” Hope asked plaintively. “I can see that I’m going to have my hands full with you as a wife,” Franco said, chuckling. “You can out swim me, outrun me, outgun me. And you’re rich.” He shook his head, then gave her a brief, fierce kiss. “Good thing I’m so tough.”

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EPILOGUE

The next morning, Hope walked down the empty corridors of the school. She had just come from the hospital and was still smiling at the memory. She opened her office with her keys and sat down behind her desk.Soon, she thought with deep satisfaction.Soon, Kay would be back . As Hope followed the list Kay had given her, she heard footsteps in the corridor. They stopped outside her door. Hope looked up with a frown. “I’m sorry, the school is closed this week—oh, hello, Giuseppe.” She looked curiously at the young man standing in the doorway. He was even more elegantly dressed than usual. She could smell his after shave lotion from clear across the room. He was holding a small bouquet of roses so tightly a couple of stems were bent. Hope debated telling him he was ruining the beautiful flowers, then decided against it. It was no business of hers. “If you’re here to sign up for the summer curse—er—course, then I’m afraid you’ll have to come back next week. The school is closed for seven days.” Giuseppe Carrera cleared his throat. “Actually, I didn’t come for that,professoressa. I came—” The phone on the desk rang and Hope held up a hand. “Excuse me.Pronto ?” she said into the receiver. “There you are,” a deep, beloved voice said. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” “I was visiting Kay. And guess what I found her doing?” “What?” “Kissing Marco.” Rivera chuckled at the other end of the line. “Now why am I not surprised?” “Standing up.” “What?” Hope leaned back in her chair, then winced. Her ribs were taped andshe had to watch her movements. “That’s right. She was standing up. Leaning on Marco a lot but on her own two feet. Isn’t that wonderful?” “Fantastic. I’ll make sure Marco gets a lot of time off. What are you doing at the school? I thought it was closed.” “Kay’s raring to get back to work. She wanted me to bring her some paperwork. It’s the best possible

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therapy. Besides Marco.” “Well, I hope you remember that we have some important shopping to do today.” Hope looked down at the tab on her finger. “I remember,” she said. “I also need you for a little damage control. My mother insisted on meeting us for lunch. You’re going to have to talk to her. From the sound of it, she’s planning a three-ring circus instead of a wedding. You’ve got to stop her.” “I’ll do my best.” “You do that. She’s driving me crazy.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “I feel like a harassed married man already.” “You’ll live.” Hope smiled into the receiver. “So how soon can you make it here?” “Ten minutes.” “Good. I love you.” “I know,” she said softly and hung up. Hope stood, gathered Kay’s things and moved quickly out of the room. She couldn’t wait to get to Franco. As she turned the key in the lock, she was surprised to see Giuseppe still waiting outside the door. “See you next week,” she called over her shoulder as she ran down the corridor towards her future. “But, butprofessoress a—Hope—” Giuseppe Carrera called after her. “Wait!” But Hope had already disappeared. Carrera clutched his bouquet tightly and a rose fell off its stem, petals scattering on the tile floor. “But I have a crash on you,” he said mournfully.

THE END