Deadly Memories Read online

  “Jack?”

  Sophie’s voice drew him like a siren’s song. He could no more let her fend for herself than fly to Mars in a Venetian vaporetto. But what would he find in the bathroom? Sophie wrapped in a wet towel? Or in nothing? Hell!

  When he opened the door, he entered a cloud of fragrant steam. Sophie had wound the bath towel around her upper torso. Her hair hung in glistening ropes over her shoulders. She wore yellow cotton-pajama boxers that bared her long, tanned legs. Jack realized she was mostly covered. Desire and dismay dueled in his struggling system.

  His hungry gaze climbed her legs’ slender length until it reached a massive yellowing bruise on her left thigh.

  Reality slapped him back to Earth. He could do this. His brain knew his duty, even if his body didn’t. Add to that, she was still a suspect and under official protection. All kinds of tangles to trip him if he didn’t keep tight control. She needed care, not sex.

  “Your agent reporting for duty, ma’am.”

  Dear Reader,

  Benvenuto al Italia! Welcome to Italy in another of my books about the men and women of the ATSA, the Anti-Terrorism Security Agency. The hunt for stolen uranium and their personal searches take my hero and heroine to that ancient land of extravagant food, wine and people.

  My memories of a trip to Italy and my research allowed me to indulge myself with Italian culture and lore. I steeped myself in the language and history, architecture and scenery as I created villas and villages. Of course, I had to sample the wine and recipes that accompanied my characters’ journey from Venice to Tuscany. You can find one of those recipes on my Web site.

  My characters’ memories are not so pleasant. Jack Thorne’s deadly memories focus him on vengeance. Sophie Rinaldi’s memory of a villain’s deadly intent could get her killed—before she can recall his secrets. As they drive mountain roads and hide in remote villages to escape the villain, they find beauty and warmth as well as passion and danger.

  In Deadly Memories, I hope you enjoy immersion in the romance of Italy along with the adventure. I love to hear from readers. You can write to me at Saint George, ME 04860 or e-mail me by visiting www.susanvaughan.com or www.intimatemomentsauthors.com. At my Web site, you can find other books and an excerpt and enter my contest.

  Andiamo! Let’s go!

  Susan Vaughan

  DEADLY MEMORIES

  SUSAN VAUGHAN

  Books by Susan Vaughan

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Dangerous Attraction #1086

  Guarding Laura #1314

  Code Name: Fiancée #1342

  Breaking All the Rules #1406

  Deadly Memories #1430

  SUSAN VAUGHAN

  Susan Vaughan is a West Virginia native who lives on the coast of Maine. Battles with insomnia over the years fired her imagination with stories. Living in many places in the U.S. while studying and teaching gave her characters and ideas. She once lived with a French family and attended the Sorbonne. With her husband, she has kissed the Blarney Stone, canoed the Maine wilderness, kayaked the Colorado River, sailed the Caribbean and won ballroom dance competitions. Susan’s books have won the NJRW Golden Leaf and finaled in the Booksellers’ Best Contest.

  To my sisters in spirit—

  Virginia Kelly, Ann Voss Peterson,

  Sheila Seabrook and Linda Style.

  And to my research assistant—

  thanks for always being my rock.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Grazie mille, many thanks for your help and expertise— Sheila Franklin, Elizabeth Jennings, Mary LaRochelle, Dennis Lombardi and Helen Vaughan. Any errors or fabrications are mine.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Prologue

  “I bring you a fortune in diamonds.” The gaunt man shifted from foot to foot on the villa’s flagstone terrace. Sweat misted his forehead.

  Sebastian Vadim leaned back in his chaise longue and savored the last sip of grappa. The fiery liqueur, Italy’s best-kept secret, would level his nerves. His grueling buying trip had ended in frustration, and upon his homecoming, this unwelcome visitor had descended on him.

  The grappa also allowed him to temporize while he decided how best to deal with Dobrich, his second cousin from a part of the family best forgotten. Police from Paris to the capital of his native Cleatia had hosted Dobrich for offenses ranging from smuggling to picking pockets.

  Vadim crossed his ankles and straightened the seam in his tailored silk slacks. He angled his face to the late-afternoon sun’s warming rays as he regarded his nervous relative.

  In the Cleatian of his homeland—a language he’d not spoken for years—he said, “Cousin, did anyone observe your arrival here?” Vadim preferred to remain below the radar of the Veneto polizia. He’d chosen this country villa near Venice for privacy.

  “No one local. The bus driver will not remember me.” Dobrich’s shapeless trousers, threadbare jacket and the battered metal toolbox at his feet created the cover of a laborer. A man no one would notice. “May I sit down, cousin? I am not feeling well.”

  “Of course.” He waved a hand at the chairs surrounding the glass-topped patio table. “Not too close. My sympathies, but I do not wish to contract your illness.”

  Dobrich collapsed onto the cushioned seat as if he had walked all the way from Cleatia. He tucked his toolbox beneath it. “Thank you, cousin. Maybe the flu, but I think food poisoning. The inn where I stayed before crossing the Adriatic had sanitation from the Middle Ages.”

  “Tell me, then, about the diamonds. Where did they come from?” Vadim continued in his silky negotiating voice. “Are they in that disreputable box?”

  Dobrich bent into his handkerchief with a phlegmy cough that churned up from the soles of his feet. Before he tucked away the dingy linen, Vadim saw blood on it. A nasty form of food poisoning or flu. Whatever it was, he wanted the man gone. And quickly.

  “My employer is Viktor Roszca. You know of him?”

  Vadim couldn’t help his startled reaction. Viktor Roszca was a high-profile international arms broker. He didn’t usually deal in black-market diamonds, but it was credible he might hire a fellow Cleatian, one who was expendable and not overly bright. Given Roszca’s recent circumstances, Dobrich’s involvement became more interesting.

  Vadim wanted details. “Who has not heard of Viktor Roszca? Go on.”

  “Four days ago I took possession of the package. The previous courier passed it to me. I headed to Antwerp, where my papers say I have employment. There I was to receive more instructions. I saw on the television in a bar that the Americans have Roszca in custody. If I went to Antwerp, I, too, could be picked up. I thought of my wise and generous cousin, who appreciates diamonds.” Dobrich’s weak smile displayed bleeding gums.

  Vadim suppressed a shudder. Two meters away wasn’t far enough. He pushed to his feet and strolled to the flower garden at the terrace edge, where he plucked a rosebud. “Why would Viktor Roszca take you into his confidence?”

  Dobrich appeared to take no offense at the slur on his character and status. The man knew his worth—or lack of it. “He did not. No one told me what was in the hidden compartment of my toolbox.” He tapped the side of his nose with an air of pride. “A little brainpower is all it took.”

&nb
sp; Diamonds. A niggling suspicion made the hairs on Vadim’s neck itch. Apparently Dobrich hadn’t seen the entire news story on Roszca. What the idiot carried were not diamonds. “Tell me.”

  Another spasm racked Dobrich’s frame. Then he continued. After the news headline of Roszca’s capture, he’d left the bar for his room. With Roszca gone, the package belonged to him, he reasoned. His first move was to pry open the lead lining in the bottom of the toolbox. In it he found rough, pea-sized gravel, unremarkable looking but heavy.

  He guessed that the first courier had come by freighter from Africa to the Adriatic port. Dobrich was to take it to a major diamond-cutting center. Therefore, what he had must be uncut diamonds. “What else so small could be so valuable? I bit into one to test its hardness. Nearly broke a molar.”

  Vadim considered the freighter-sized holes in Dobrich’s logic. The other courier could’ve come overland instead of from diamond-rich countries in West Africa. Uncut diamonds did not resemble pea-sized gravel, but he wouldn’t disabuse the fool of his notions.

  Dobrich should’ve stayed in the bar for the rest of the news broadcast. If he had, he never would’ve opened the lead-lined case. Or perhaps he would. He might not have the imagination to understand the danger.

  What Dobrich had in his lead-lined case had poisoned him. Vadim eyed the toolbox as if it were a dragon ready to breathe fire on him. As indeed it might. “Did you then secure the lead compartment once more?”

  Nodding, Dobrich mopped his forehead with his blood-spattered handkerchief. “I sealed it up immediately so no one would suspect. Are you interested, cousin?”

  “I am intrigued. But I am being a bad host. You are ill and need rest and refreshment. I will have you shown to a room. We can talk more later.”

  “Thank you, cousin. I am quite fatigued.”

  As if Vadim had pressed a button, his bodyguard and assistant stepped through the doorway and bowed.

  Dobrich struggled to his feet and bent to pick up the toolbox. He followed the bodyguard into the villa.

  Vadim returned to his chaise, leaned back against the soft padding and poured another glass of grappa.

  A miracle had fallen into his lap. His pulse raced.

  Dobrich’s toolbox held the key to wealth and power. With it, he, Sebastian Vadim, could achieve control of the diamond market. He might even achieve legitimacy in some eyes.

  He already knew the perfect buyer. An eager buyer, a fanatic. With some clever negotiating, the deal would net him a fortune and a bonus—the destruction of his competition.

  And perhaps more. Viktor Roszca’s capture left a void in the international arms market. A void he could fill. He had the contacts. And soon he would have the means. Smiling, Vadim raised his glass in a toast to himself, then downed the rest of the grappa.

  There was also the matter of his unfortunate cousin. Dobrich presented a minor problem. Regardless, he was a dead man. Two days, perhaps less.

  Definitely less, Vadim decided. An autopsy would identify the illness—another complication he could not permit.

  When his man returned, Vadim said in Italian, “My dear cousin is to take a permanent rest. Bring me his toolbox. Then dispose of the body where it will not be found. Ever.”

  The toolbox had served well, but by now the Americans and Interpol probably knew about it. For such a small package, a lead-lined compartment could be built into almost anything.

  He would need a new courier, one both unsuspecting and unsuspected.

  Chapter 1

  Six days later

  Jackson Thorne strained for a bead on his enemy.

  The savage hatred always coiled in his belly stretched and sharpened its claws in anticipation. Only sheer will and concentration on his goal kept his hand steady and his expression impassive.

  He adjusted the lens focus and swung the view beyond the rows of grapevines and ancient lime trees, across the flower beds, until he acquired the mellowed redbrick villa.

  There. The damned murderer lived in there.

  If only he had Sebastian Vadim in the crosshairs of a rifle scope instead of Leica seven-by-forty-two binoculars. Patience, patience, he mouthed. Duty for ATSA first. The Anti-Terrorism Security Agency needed Vadim’s contraband and information.

  As the new addition to this Nuclear Interdiction Task Force, Jack had to do his part. Intelligence from Interpol had prompted the American and Italian anti-terrorism agencies to cooperate on this mission—to find and confiscate a stash of weapons-grade uranium. First they had to nail Sebastian Vadim for possession.

  Afterward, Jack’s chance would come.

  He’d waited five years to exact vengeance. Five years of investigating alias after alias, lead after lead. A few days more would make no difference.

  “Nobody there but the cook and one bodyguard,” drawled Jack’s companion beneath the grapevine’s sheltering leaves. “The other security mug—the Italian—drove him and the woman somewhere before you got here. De Carlo and a couple ATSA operatives tailed them.”

  Disappointment deflated Jack’s tension. He lowered the binoculars and sank prone onto the rich Italian soil. He drew a deep breath of air spiced with ripening grapes and sun-heated loam.

  Leaning on one elbow, he eyed the other ATSA officer, who reclined with his frayed cloth cap shading his face. Jack also wore a work shirt and trousers—cover as farm labor if anyone at the villa spotted the task-force surveillance team in the vineyard. “Any idea where Vadim went?”

  Leoni affected a shrug and popped two sticks of chewing gum in his mouth to join the wad distorting his cheek.

  Three others—Italian cops—were strung out along the same vine row but close enough for conversation without electronics.

  When no one else replied, Leoni said, “Sometimes he takes the babe sightseeing in Venice. Sometimes they go to Treviso or the beach at Jesolo for a long lunch. Don’t expect them back until three or four. De Carlo’ll alert us.”

  De Carlo, a commissario, an investigative officer, Jack recalled, was the task-force leader. “And Vadim hasn’t done anything suspicious? Contacted anyone?”

  “Nothing that would give us an excuse to move on him.” The man unscrewed the cap on his bottled water and drank.

  “Wiretap?”

  Leoni roused himself enough to shake his head. Jack suspected he was part of the task force mainly because he spoke fluent Italian. “Local polizia put up a roadblock of red tape. Vadim’s been a good citizen so far, spending liberally and living peacefully.”

  “Hereabouts, he’s a wealthy business consultant,” another officer added. “They have no idea he’s a major player in the diamond-smuggling trade. We’re not ready to share intelligence with them.”

  Leoni chuckled. “Just for grins, I tried to wire in anyway, but Vadim has a scrambler. With his black-market connections, he can get anything.”

  The video officer spat into the dirt. “He will not get away this time. If the uranium charge does not stick, Interpol now has given us enough evidence on the smuggling.”

  “For now, we wait.” Jack had read all that and more in the Interpol report, but impatience had goaded him to ask anyway. He laid the binoculars beside him on the ground.

  At one o’clock the sun floated high among three puffy clouds. Temperatures climbed to a soporific sauna, incubating the cultivated vines and the watchers camped among their shady rows. “Unusual for early June,” said one of the Italians on a yawn. Everyone nodded in a doze.

  Except Jack.

  Downtime or not, his mind dwelled on his quarry. He didn’t need the CO’s report to know the relevant events.

  The uranium courier’s trail had disappeared after Venice, but his kinship with Vadim was no coincidence. When De Carlo had interviewed Vadim, he’d denied any contact with his cousin and invited the officers to search the villa. They’d found nothing suspicious.

  Other than Vadim and his bodyguards, a young American woman resided there. An overly courteous Vadim had introduced her as his hou
seguest.

  Jack emitted a cynical snort. Guest was a euphemism. De Carlo’s report stated that her bedroom—beside Vadim’s—had been awash in Italian designer boutique clothes and silk lingerie with the price tags still attached. A check of Vadim’s credit card history showed he’d purchased them all. A man didn’t buy expensive clothing for a mere guest.

  He raised the binoculars and used the rest of the time to study the villa. The house, part of it dating to the 1600s, was a sprawl of soft-red brick, native-stone chimneys and flagstone terraces. It stood at the end of a long avenue lined with ancient lime trees. On one side was the vineyard, tended by the adjacent farmer cooperating with the task force. On the other side, opposite the watchers, Jack saw gardens, a swimming pool and guesthouses.

  “They come,” one of the Italians said. “De Carlo says five minutes ETA.”

  Jack’s adrenaline surged and his temples throbbed. Deep breaths calmed him. Photographs had put a face to Vadim, but now he was finally going to see his enemy in the flesh.

  When Jack heard tires crunch on the gravel driveway and the purr of a powerful engine, he raised the binoculars.

  A silver-gray S-Class Mercedes sedan rolled up to the portico, and the driver climbed out, a swarthy man in a lumpy sport coat. The Italian bodyguard, Jack recalled, one Guido Mazza. He made a small bow as he opened the rear door.

  The diamond dealer eased smoothly from the backseat. He gleamed like his wares, in a tailored suit the same silver-gray as his luxury automobile. At a distance he looked fit, trim and much younger than the fifty Jack knew him to be.