Consumed by Fire Page 3

  She didn’t even realize the absurdity of that statement. Would he ever get so jaded, so lost that he’d feel the same way? That human life would hold no value at all, except as a means to an end? He was halfway there already.

  “If I’m convinced she saw something, anything, I’ll kill her, quietly and efficiently, after we have dinner,” he said grimly.

  “Before or after you fuck her?” she taunted. “You think I didn’t see the way you looked at her? I know you better than you think.”

  He ignored her, heading into the shower. He was going to do everything he could to keep this one alive. If for nothing else, for the sake of all the ones who had gone before. And for her gorgeous green eyes.

  Evangeline’s tiny room on the third floor was sweltering, and she turned on the noisy fan Silvio had brought her. When the storm finally hit, the heat might disperse, at least a little bit, but until then she was sticky and tired. She couldn’t afford the air-conditioned second- and first-floor rooms, and she liked the view up here. She was so tired that all she wanted to do was collapse on the snowy white bedspread. She’d probably leave her outline in dust, she thought, and sank into the small chair beside the window as she tried to pull herself together. She must have gotten a touch of sunstroke. Once away from that man’s mesmerizing presence, she was having second thoughts. Granted, he was gorgeous, but she’d seen pretty men before, and good looks were of little importance to her. She considered herself a woman who looked for character rather than beauty, though his particular beauty had temporarily distracted her. She needed to sleep, she needed to shower, she needed to curl up into an embarrassed little ball like a hedgehog, not that hedgehogs got embarrassed, she thought dazedly. Maybe she’d just slip down on the rug and sleep there.

  She had to come up with some excuse about dinner. It wouldn’t be the first meal she’d missed in her life, and once she managed to talk herself into a shower she’d probably be so exhausted she’d sleep through the night anyway. It didn’t matter that she was starving. Thinking she might indulge in a one-night stand was all well and good, but she knew that was the last thing she’d ever do. It took her a lot to decide to go to bed with someone, and those rare decisions were usually fueled by weeks of worry and a generous amount of alcohol. She had no intention of drinking, and even then it took her weeks to get comfortable in bed with someone. No, she was definitely not having dinner with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Irresistible.

  It was a plan. She pushed herself up from the low-slung chair, grabbed her wrapper and the thin towels the villa supplied, and headed for the shower room two doors down. She didn’t dare take a bath—she’d probably fall asleep and drown. A nice hot shower and she’d simply call Silvio to leave a message for her unexpected Romeo, and then go to bed and forget all about him.

  There was no one in the hallway, and chances were he and his partner were on the first or second floor, with the ensuite bathrooms and the reliable air-conditioning. He looked like a man who went first class all the way.

  The shower room was empty, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she locked the door behind her and began to strip off her dusty clothes, tossing them on the floor beneath the shower spray for her own particular variation on a laundry. She bathed quickly and efficiently, dried herself, and wrapped her robe around her. That particular purchase had been a mistake—she’d bought it because it was lightweight, but it was a little too flimsy to wander hotel corridors in. She had even looked into replacing it, but everything was too expensive, and the thing wasn’t that indecent. She unlocked the door and peered out; the hallway was still deserted, and she dashed back to her room, her wet clothes in her arms.

  The bed looked so inviting she wanted to weep—her legs were on their last ounce of strength and her head was pounding, but she still had to drape her clothes over the small Juliet balcony so that they’d get the last of the day’s heat. Her window faced an alley and she leaned forward past the old fan to catch a glimpse of the hills beyond. She smiled briefly, taking in a deep breath of the soft night air. It smelled of olive groves and flowers and the distant storm, and she knew she’d remember that smell when she was ancient. She loved it here so much. Somehow she’d find a way to return, even on an untenured professor’s salary.

  When she turned, heading for the bed, she saw the tall green bottle in the ice bucket and frowned. What was a bottle of wine doing in her room? But when she drew closer she saw it was bottled water, and she reached for it, too damned thirsty to question its presence or even to look for a glass, twisting the cap and pouring a good long swallow down her throat.

  It was bliss. It had to have been delivered by mistake, and it didn’t even matter if she were charged Silvio’s exorbitant prices for it. It was worth every drop.

  She saw the card a moment later. Compliments of James Bishop. She wondered if she should spit the water out. The hell with that. She took another long slug. Even if the man made her wary, this was simply a thoughtful gesture and nothing more, and she wanted this water.

  She sat on the narrow bed. If she fell asleep without doing something to her hair she’d wake looking like a crazy woman. She quickly braided it, stripped off the damp wrapper and lay down on the bed, letting the fan-driven hot breeze blow over her body. A moment later she was asleep.

  She woke in deep shadows and fumbled for the tiny alarm clock she travelled with. Eight thirty. Half an hour to the dinner she’d forgotten to cancel. Half an hour to dinner and she was absolutely starving.

  She pushed herself to a sitting position, blinking owlishly. She’d slept hard and deep, dreamless, and it took her only a moment to bounce back into full wakefulness. Her headache was gone, she was clean and rested, and she felt like an absolute fool. What was wrong with her? A gorgeous man wanted to take her to dinner and all she could do was wonder what hidden agenda lay beneath that gorgeous face. When in the world had she become so paranoid?

  Well, for one thing she wasn’t usually the object of the attentions of gorgeous men. A man like that could have anyone he wanted, and there was no lack of gorgeous women in the mountain town of Cabrisi. Why would he want her?

  She was being ridiculous. He didn’t want want her; he just wanted company for dinner. And for that matter, so did she.

  She dressed for dinner when she was in Italy, except when she stayed in youth hostels. At home she’d eat a bowl of cereal in front of the television, but here she followed the custom and enjoyed it. She had one dress, a black wash-and-wear slip of a dress that skimmed her knees, and a pair of flat black shoes that were almost weightless. She unfastened the braid but her hair was still damp, and she did her best to comb it into submission, using barrettes to tame it before checking her diamond studs to make sure they were secure. They were so large they looked fake, which was just what she counted on. What would a penniless researcher be doing wandering around Europe with diamonds like those in her ears?

  A penniless researcher who had an older sister with sticky fingers who’d always coveted the diamonds. The earrings had been a gift from her elderly aunt Evangeline, who clearly thought she deserved some compensation for being saddled with such a ridiculous name, but even the inherited diamonds didn’t make up for her parents’ idiotic choice of a name.

  She glanced at herself in the mirror. The freckles were out in full force—a spattering of gold flecks from the bright Italian sun, and she’d developed a tan on her strong arms and legs. Her reddish-brown hair seemed relatively subdued, and at the last minute she grabbed the little bag that held her makeup and applied swiftly drawn lines around her eyes, followed by a couple of sweeps of mascara. It was light enough that no one would even notice. Then she gave in and pulled out the one lipstick she carried, a soft pink that was more a stain than anything else. She pulled back to look at herself. That was the best she could do, and it would have to be enough.

  Enough for whom? She wasn’t going to primp for Mr. Bishop. She looked for a washcloth, read
y to wash the betraying makeup off her face, when she heard the muffled gong of the dinner bell. She was being an idiot, on every level. She was dressed, presentable, and hungry, and why she’d put on makeup was unimportant. Sometimes she just felt like dressing up. Tonight was one of those nights. She grabbed her featherweight shawl and left the room, ready to face the beautiful monster she’d created in her head and put him in perspective.

  A slow cat-like smile curved Claudia’s mouth as she watched from the barely opened door across the hallway. The girl hadn’t even bothered to lock her room. Silly thing. She might think she’d left nothing of value in there, but Claudia knew better. Secrets, the information was far more valuable than iPods and credit cards, and could never be completely covered up. Let James play his little games with the creature—if it amused him she didn’t care. As long as he fulfilled his part of the plan, nothing else mattered.

  Ah, but it did matter. James needed to remember why he was here, as an adjunct to someone who knew him as well as anyone. Which wasn’t much—James kept his secrets as did she, and he wasn’t about to cozy up to her and confess all. That thought was horrible. For now she simply took him at his word.

  Not that she cared. He could just as easily have been sent as the active agent, with her as backup, but the sad fact was he lacked her total ruthlessness. He let ridiculous things bother him, like compassion, and mercy, and forgiveness. Those things were weaknesses, and it was little wonder she’d been put in charge of this job. He might have seen Corsini with a child and suddenly decided he deserved to live.

  As for Claudia, she didn’t know why they had been charged with getting rid of Corsini, and she didn’t care. The Corsini family was involved in a dozen illegal operations, from drug smuggling to sex trafficking, but the old man was simply an accountant, an important cog in the machine, but not the capo dei capi. The organization that she and James served, ingenuously called the Committee, believed in compartmentalizing information. Things worked better that way. James held one piece of the puzzle, she held another. Solving puzzles was a game for children. As long as she could use her skills and ply her trade, the rest was for other people to work out. She was a weapon. All they had to do was point her.

  The Committee provided her with an outlet for her complicated desires. A covert, multinational organization centered in London, it ostensibly sought to stamp out terrorism and international crime in ruthless ways no public organization could ever get away with, supposedly making the world safe. Claudia didn’t give a damn about politics, and she knew the world would never be safe. She preferred it that way.

  She waited until the hall was empty. James had already baited his trap, and no one would be up here roaming the corridors. No one would see if she slipped into the girl’s room. She might not care about the people she was sent to kill, but those she chose on her own were different. Besides, she might have to answer to Madsen if it were traced back to her, and it always helped to know a little bit about her self-appointed victims. She might need a plausible excuse, and target practice wouldn’t do.

  Evangeline was the last person down for dinner, late as usual, and she liked it that way. Most of the evening crowd was already seated, busy in conversation with dinner partners, and there was no sign of James Bishop. If he stood her up she’d be overjoyed, she told herself.

  She glanced at the restaurant in the atrium of the small hotel. It was a Saturday night and the place was jammed—it was one of the best places to eat in Cabrisi and they took in guests from the various B and Bs in the town, even stealing diners from the Americanized hotel in the business district. There were a number of couples who were unfamiliar to her, and then the usuals. The American couple was on a trip to celebrate their retirement, and they held hands, so she assumed it was a second marriage. No one held hands after ten years. In fact, she couldn’t imagine her cool, practical parents getting close enough to each other to spawn two children, but in fact they had. The physical resemblances were indisputable, even though as a child she’d often daydreamed that she was adopted.

  The two British matrons were arguing, as they always did, in their crisp, bird-like tones. They wore tweed skirts, twinsets, and sensible shoes, and she imagined the British matrons, or spinsters, or whatever they were considered, had worn the same uniform for the last eighty years. They tended to fight about money—one of them was frugal, the other a spendthrift—and she wondered if they were lovers. She hoped so. They certainly treated each other with the air of long-term partners. Though they didn’t hold hands.

  The Italian couple from Rome looked amorous, and the elderly scholar who had little use for a mere researcher sat in his corner, reading. Was that what she’d be like in ten, twenty years? There was no sign of Mr. Corsini, which surprised her. The Italian gentleman liked his food and his company, and he usually occupied the seat of honor for the entire duration of the evening meals, from seven until close to midnight, or possibly later, but after then Evangeline had sought her bed. He had kind eyes, and he always treated her in a most decorous manner. She liked him, and she hoped he wasn’t still asleep up in the mountainside church. Maybe he’d moved on after all—it was a good thing she hadn’t waited for him. And in the end she’d had no reason to be nervous about accepting a ride from James Bishop, thinking he might make a pass at her. In fact, he’d stood her up.

  At least she wouldn’t have to worry about making small talk with a gorgeous man. She was absolutely relieved . . .

  “You do clean up well, Miss Morrissey,” came a low, liquid voice in her ear. “Clearly it was worth the wait.”

  So why was her heart leaping instead of sinking in disappointment? She wasn’t going to think about it. She turned to face her dinner partner. “Are you chiding me for being late?” she asked him point-blank.

  He smiled down at her, those dark eyes enigmatic. “Never. A beautiful woman is always worth waiting for.”

  “But the plain ones better be on time?”

  He laughed. “In fact, Evangeline,” his voice caressed her name, and she felt an odd little ripple inside, “I find all women beautiful. I don’t discriminate.”

  “That busy, are you?” she said caustically.

  His forehead wrinkled, that high, perfect forehead. “Why so combative? Have I done something wrong?”

  She was being an idiot. “No, of course not. I’m just tired and hungry and crabby.”

  “I can take care of that.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “What, all three?”

  “Well, at least two of them,” he said.

  The dining room was packed, the noise level high, which would help with having to make conversation. She wondered idly where they were going to squeeze in.

  “Everything set?” Bishop said when Silvio arrived, his usually perfectly pomaded hair slightly awry.

  “Of course. This way, signore and signorina,” he murmured, moving away from the noisy dining room.

  Evangeline immediately froze. Did Bishop think she was stupid enough to agree to dinner in his room this soon after meeting him? Whether she trusted him or not, whether she had an instant, reluctant, incredibly potent attraction to him, she wasn’t going to . . .

  But Silvio was leading them away from the stairs, and she felt at least the first few layers of icy distrust melt. She had layers inside her that would take one of those things that drilled into the arctic core to get past, but she wasn’t worried. She was like a hedgehog—too much trouble to get to and not worth the effort.

  She’d forgotten that the terraces on either side of the dining room could be set up as well. There was only one table there, set for two, candlelit and romantic, the smaller of the two fountains splashing behind it.

  Silvio had already pulled out her chair, and she had only an instant of hesitation before she sank into it gracefully, fumbling with the heavy linen napkin Silvio draped across her lap. “This is lovely,” she said, hiding her doubts. �
�The water you sent up was very kind as well.”

  “As well as what? I’m glad that you liked the water, but I wasn’t aware I had done anything for you.” He took his seat.

  “Mr. Bishop,” she began.

  “Please. James. It’s been a while since I’ve talked with a fellow American and I miss our informality. Relax, Evangeline. It’s only dinner. Two strangers in a strange land, sharing a public meal. There’s nothing to be nervous about.”

  “I’m not nervous,” she said, a lie that fooled neither of them. “I’m just not used to small talk.”

  “Then we can dispense with small talk. Tell me about your work instead.”

  “You wouldn’t be interested,” she said, reaching for the glass of yellow liquid. Limoncello, her favorite.

  He noticed her surprise, but then, she had the impression he was a man who noticed everything. “Silvio told me about the Limoncello,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “Why do you keep looking at me like I’m Jack the Ripper?”

  That finally made her laugh. “Hardly. But this is the third year I’ve spent a month travelling around Italy on my own, and I’ve learned that it only makes sense to be cautious.”

  “Is that caution I see in those gorgeous green eyes of yours? Or acute paranoia?”

  She squirmed. “I’d look a lot less paranoid if you stopped trying to shower flowery compliments on me.”

  “Saying you have gorgeous green eyes is hardly overdone. Now if I said you had eyes the color of the heart of jade, now that would be flowery.” She made a face, and he laughed. “I tell you what. I’ll let you do the talking, and I won’t say anything nice at all, I promise. Tell me where you come from, what you love, why the hell you picked medieval clerical architecture, in particular walled towns, to devote your life to. Tell me who your best friend is, whether you hate spiders, why you love Italy, who gave you your first kiss. I’ll just listen. It’s been so long since I’ve heard an American accent.”