Deadly Memories Read online

  Her siren’s voice tugged him toward the bathroom. He could no more have let her fend for herself than he could’ve flown to Mars in a Venetian vaporetto.

  But what would he find? Sophie wrapped in a wet towel? Or in nothing? Hell!

  When he opened the door, he entered a cloud of fragrant steam. In the middle stood a dark-haired Venus on a half shell.

  He blinked at the mirage but realized she was mostly covered. Desire and dismay dueled in his struggling system.

  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. And the shell was merely a white bath mat.

  His hungry gaze climbed her legs’ slender length until it reached the 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. He had a duty to right a wrong. She was only a means to that.

  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.”

  “How do you like these pj’s? The color matches my bruises.” Grinning, Sophie managed a model-like pose with her good arm in an elegant gesture.

  Even more like Venus. Jack clenched his teeth. At this rate, he’d need a dentist soon.

  “Practical. Ready for the shirt?” Then she’d be covered. No more Venus mirages. His constant arousal would ease.

  She held up a tube of cream. “The hospital gave me this liniment to promote healing. I can’t reach very well. Could you rub it on for me?”

  Rub it on her? On her bare skin? Jack’s body thrummed with tension. She was asking him to stroke her bare flesh, all warm and rosy from her shower. Everything male in him saluted.

  He repeated the task over and over in his head. She needs liniment. Only liniment.

  He helped her arrange a second towel in a turban to confine her wet hair. She turned her back, and he opened the tube. The cream had a slight medicinal odor, not enough to mask her unique scent or block his reaction to it.

  He squeezed cream onto his palm and took the plunge. He stroked the white liniment along the elegant line of her back and into the scabs and bruises on the soft flesh.

  Sophie kept her hands on the sink. She stood quietly, with occasional murmurs and sighs. The sounds of desire? No. More likely his ministrations were hurting her.

  “Tell me if I press too hard.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “No punishment is too harsh for the low animal that did this to you. With this crime, he has compounded his debt. When I get my hands on the scum-sucker—” He clamped his mouth shut, afraid he’d said too much.

  As his massage reached her sore shoulder, Sophie turned.

  Her shallow breathing and the lure of her half-parted lips shifted his pulse to high gear. With his palm he circled the shoulder and massaged down her upper arm. When his hand brushed the outer curve of her breast, she inhaled sharply.

  His blood rushed south. Need fisted into him.

  Enough.

  He’d touched her as much as his system could tolerate. He should step away from the temptation of her creamy skin, her trusting eyes and her vulnerability. She revived protective and possessive instincts he’d buried long ago.

  He couldn’t step away. His feet were nailed to the floor. Capping the tube, he held it out.

  Sophie could barely breathe. Sparks tap-danced over her skin where he’d massaged. Flames of arousal ignited in her groin. She ached to know how he tasted, how that grim mouth would feel against hers, how his hard body felt against her.

  How could she want this man? He was all wrong for her. The time was wrong. She was wrong.

  She reached for the cream. “Thanks.”

  He didn’t release the tube but covered her fingers with his long ones. He didn’t speak, only stared at her with an intensity that strangled her breath.

  Pupils so dilated that barely any blue showed, his smoldering gaze made her skin tingle and her thighs tremble. If he kissed her—

  No, not going to happen. Mustn’t happen.

  Pulse raging in her ears, she dragged her gaze to their joined hands. The scars, his growling fury at Vadim, a debt… “Jack, are these scars the reason you hate Vadim so? Is he responsible?”

  “Sophie, don’t,” he said on a shaky breath.

  Before she could speak, he rocked his mouth over hers, and she went liquid with want. His lips seared hers, first with gentle nips and then with thoroughness. He took his time, molding his mouth to hers. His tongue slipped inside, plundered and stole away her feeble resistance.

  She was dizzy with contrasting sensations. The surprise of his firm yet soft lips, the scrape of his whiskers. The heat of his mouth, redolent with garlic and wine, the rasp of his callused fingers on hers. The intense male energy yet equally intense control that limited their contact to mouth and hand. She clung to his mouth as the kiss went on, urgent and needy and thrilling.

  When he ended the kiss, it was as though someone had thrown a switch. His mouth left her and he released her hand.

  The tube of cream fell to the floor.

  Jack bent to retrieve it. He placed it on the sink. “I shouldn’t have done that. I apologize.”

  Heart drumming loud enough to wake the town, Sophie ducked her head. “Don’t be sorry. I’m not. But it shouldn’t happen again. This…we…” She fluttered a hand in mute explanation as she picked up her pajama top.

  “Yes. If I’m to keep you safe and help you remember, I don’t—neither of us needs the distraction.”

  As if by mutual consent, he helped her finish dressing without speaking. Once the pajama shirt was around her, she dispensed with the towel. They worked on the sling and tightened its fastenings until her shoulder was secure.

  She thanked him and said good-night. After gathering up her toiletries, she stepped into her bedroom.

  She’d intended to ask for help with her hair, but having his hands on her any longer wasn’t wise. For either of them.

  He’d kissed her because he’d wanted to, but she guessed that wasn’t the only reason. “Jack, you never answered my question about Vadim.”

  Her statement stopped him in his doorway. He held his wide shoulders as rigid as a statue’s. “No. I didn’t. Good night, Sophie.” The door closed behind him with a firm click.

  A few minutes later, as she sat on the bed combing the tangles from her hair, she heard the shower running.

  Sebastian Vadim closed his mobile phone and dropped it in his suit coat pocket.

  He smiled as he sipped his morning coffee. The greedy housekeeper at his villa had proved resourceful enough that he didn’t begrudge the extra euros he’d sent her. His other contact had just given him the last piece of information he needed to finish this business.

  Once he had the package, he would arrange its delivery to Ahmed. Then he would slip away.

  He hated to leave Italy, but the situation forced him to relocate and create a new identity. He might return to Cleatia, but only temporarily. He preferred somewhere more civilized, perhaps Paris or Madrid.

  He left the breakfast dishes for the maid he’d hired and strolled into the palazzo’s sunny courtyard. Petar and Guido had been worth little. Their deaths hadn’t cinched the noose around him. The police had no one to question and no clues to his location.

  The loss of his men had left a void, however. He had to hire people. This time he took no chances with careless amateurs. Contacting the Sicilian had required bowing and scraping, but time was of the essence.

  The aria from Aida floated up from his pocket. This had to be the response to the other call he’d placed earlier. No one else would have the number of this new mobile phone.

  He flipped it open and greeted the caller. “Pronto.”

  “The don said I should call you, dottore.
” The caller’s voice rang with the familiar Sicilian accent Vadim disdained.

  The respectful address mollified him, increased his confidence in the deal. Low-class or not, this man was supposed to be the best. He’d better be. His price had been exorbitant. “I know who you are. You have your money and my requirements?”

  “Sì. Eliminate the man and woman. Bring you the package.”

  “That’s it. You must be extremely careful. The package is not to be damaged.”

  “I understand. And their location?”

  “As of this morning, they left the small village named Castelbuorno, north of Bologna. My source says they’re headed south toward Florence. There is a bonus if you complete the job quickly.”

  “Nessun problema.” No problem.

  Satisfied, Vadim disconnected. Strolling amid the blooming roses, he plucked a blood-red bloom. He knew well the reason Jackson Thorne was part of this so-called task force. Thorne hated him for his well-deserved retribution. Vadim’s fingers curled around the delicate petals.

  Five years ago Thorne had thwarted his plans and paid a price. Not a big enough price. Vadim would not be thwarted again. He tightened his fist, crushed the rose to bits.

  This time Thorne would die.

  In the morning Jack was still reeling from their kiss the night before.

  While he helped Sophie dress, neither mentioned it. The red sleeveless dress she chose buttoned in the front. Good, the less he had his hands on her the better. But the garment’s hem ended at the knees and didn’t cover enough of her legs for his peace of mind.

  Not that it mattered. Their sleekly toned image was burned into his brain.

  The usually ebullient Sophie thanked him in a subdued tone and avoided his gaze. The kiss had affected her, too.

  Better they stick to business. He knew it. So, apparently, did she.

  Later, when Jack steered into eastbound traffic on A14, Sophie said, “I thought you were avoiding major highways.”

  “Vadim probably expects us to head to the Tuscany coast, the tourist areas. We’ll go this way for about a hundred clicks, then south on secondary roads.”

  Most of the route lay away from populated areas, and spectacular scenery rolled away into the distance. Cypress and other trees lush with early summer leaves dotted emerald hills. Distant peaks loomed, craggy and purple.

  Entranced but tired, Sophie leaned against the headrest. She’d tossed and turned in her bed. Well, not really. Her injuries had prevented too much movement. But she’d lain awake for what had seemed hours wondering how to talk to Jack after that incredible kiss. His hunger and need had scalded her, and together they’d combusted like Roman candles. Afterward, their shared denial had burned almost as hot.

  Even now.

  She felt the tension emanating from Jack in waves, like the terraced vines marching over the adjacent hillsides. She was no less tense. And not wholly because of their hot kiss.

  This morning, when he’d helped her put on the red sheath, something had flickered in her mind.

  Sebastian Vadim.

  A ghostly image, out of focus. Holding her hand in an intimate gesture. She gave an involuntary shiver. Had she been the man’s lover after all?

  “You okay? Your shoulder bothering you?”

  Jack’s voice startled her from her reverie. She must’ve made a sound or spoken.

  Telling him what she remembered was out of the question. Disturbing and too close to what he’d first thought of her. “No. Just admiring the bell tower over there above the tiled roofs of that village. And I’m tired. Talk to me.”

  “Talk to you. What about?”

  “Since the task force has a file on me, my life is an open book. Yours, Jack Thorne, is so closed the pages are glued together. Tell me your story.”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Not much to tell.”

  “The Anti-Terrorism Security Agency is new since 9/11. What did you do before?”

  “U.S. Marshal Service for seven years. I came on board ATSA five years ago.”

  She scooted around so she could tuck one foot beneath her. “U.S. Marshal. And how did you get into that?”

  His hands lay lightly on the steering wheel. “My dad was a small-town cop. Fieldton, Indiana. After college I wanted more than arresting rowdy teenagers. The USMS suited me.”

  In safe territory. She knew why he relaxed. “All I know about the U.S. Marshal service is from The Fugitive. They transport and guard prisoners.”

  “That’s one of a deputy marshal’s jobs. Court security, protecting juries and witnesses are others.”

  Now she was getting the picture. “Protecting people. I see. I’ll bet you were the guy who defended the little kid against the playground bully.”

  His eyebrows shot up as if in surprise that she’d figured him out. “I never could stand guys who tried to look tough by picking on others. The strong should protect the weak, the way I see it.”

  Protecting was what Jack did, Sophie thought. Although he wanted information from her, he was protecting her, as well. An admirable man, a quiet man sure of his strength and honor. A man of many layers, one of them pain-filled.

  “What made you move to ATSA?”

  He lifted one shoulder, but it was more muscle tightening than shrug. She’d hit a nerve again. “Lots of reasons. I needed a change. Wanted to get out of Miami. 9/11. ATSA was a new agency doing a crucial job.”

  None of that touched what she really wanted to know. “Miami? I’ve never been there. I couldn’t go far from my family in New York. Until now.”

  “You had responsibilities.”

  “Did you? You said before that you have no family. Is there an ex-Mrs. Thorne?” Someone who hurt you so deeply you keep it all inside?

  His jaw worked, and the amber brow dived into a scowl. Finally, as though each word were torn bloody and writhing from the depths of his soul, he said, “I had a wife and son. They…they died.”

  Sophie’s senses went numb with shock. Dead? That was the last thing she’d expected him to say. Tears stung her eyes. “Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry. You must miss them terribly. What—”

  “Here’s our exit. I’ll need you to watch the map again.”

  When she saw the jaw muscle leap, she knew he’d closed the book again. Her heart twisted with sorrow for him.

  Now she understood why he was so grim and closed. Why he hadn’t waved to the children on the snail staircase. In fact, he’d deliberately looked away from them. Seeing little ones must bring back the terrible tragedy.

  Memories.

  His plagued him with grief and perhaps guilt. Hers were deadly, except they were locked in her brain.

  Which was worse—remembering horror or not being able to?

  What happened in Miami? An accident? Did what killed them also scar his hands?

  And what did it have to do with Sebastian Vadim?

  Jack’s tension finally eased as the Fiat chugged into the Tuscan hills. Sophie had ceased grilling him, thank God. Her exclamations on this gorgeous vineyard or that adorable farmhouse had even elicited a smile or two from him.

  They bought lunch from a produce vendor—bottled water, a crusty loaf of bread, apples and a wedge of pecorino, a sharp cheese from sheep’s milk.

  By the early evening they approached one of the villages mentioned in her grandmother’s letters.

  “Before we arrive, I need you to understand something.” Jack braced himself for an argument.

  Sophie tilted her head and gazed at him expectantly. Trust shone in her espresso-brown eyes.

  Despite the twinge in his conscience, Jack forged ahead. “We have a fine line to walk. We want to awaken your memory. But we don’t want to announce our presence.”

  Her dark hair swung onto her shoulder as she shook her head. “So what are you telling me exactly?”

  “Too much contact and conversation with locals will make them remember us. We don’t want to attract attention.”

  “But talking to people, asking qu
estions, might lead me to Rinaldis. Finding family might trigger memories. Don’t you want me to remember?” Desperation edged her voice.

  She was right, damn it. But he’d take no chances with her safety, for ATSA or his personal aims.

  Curbing her natural gregariousness would be hard. But her naive curiosity and warmth charmed people. People who would remember her.

  He felt her disappointment in palpable waves, but there was no other option. “Your memory is key, but so is your life. By now Vadim must have people on our trail. You have to talk for us both, so I need your word you’ll limit conversation to getting a room and ordering a meal. Don’t chat.”

  “All right.”

  Her wistful expression and crooked smile twisted something in his chest, but he kept quiet.

  The narrow, steep roads challenged his skills enough without distractions. An Ape—a three-wheeled miniature truck—approached at breakneck speed. Squashed into the tiny cab over the single front wheel, the corpulent driver saluted cheerfully as he nearly clipped them. No wonder Italy didn’t export those damn vehicles. Unsafe at any speed.

  A while later she said, “I get the feeling you believe me now. About amnesia, I mean.”

  Jack reflected on the past few days. He had no hard evidence, only his observations. And the reality of Sophie. Had his attraction to her swayed him? He didn’t know, but for now he’d hold his cards close to the vest. “What if I did?”

  “That would be something, anyway.” She turned her gaze to the forested hillside beyond the passenger window.

  The village sat in a verdant valley ringed by vineyards and narrow roads snaking into the surrounding hills. As in the previous one farther north, businesses and the church faced a town square. The sun-kissed reds and golds of the ancient brick structures looked grown from the Tuscan soil.

  The single small inn’s location on the square didn’t entirely suit Jack’s low-profile requirement, except for parking in back. Pale yellow, with arched windows, a wrought-iron sign and red-tile roof, the building glowed the same Mediterranean gleam as the rest of the village.

  The innkeeper assigned them connecting rooms, but the bath was across the hall. Somehow the arrangement seemed safer, less domestic. Less prone to temptation. The intimacy of tending Sophie in their shared bathroom had strained Jack’s nerves to the snapping point.