All You Desire (3 page)

“I wish I had seen more,” Haven said sadly. “I wish I had seen you, too. I hate that my visions are always so random.”

“Maybe someday you'll see everything,” Iain consoled her. “And then you'll be the one telling
me
stories.”

“Maybe,” Haven said, though she held no hope of that ever happening. She had managed to recall a few fragments of the many lives she'd led, but most of her memories were still lost in time. She might have tried harder to conjure them, but she suspected there were things she wouldn't want to remember. Iain's memories, on the other hand, were perfectly preserved. Of all the people who had returned to earth time and time again, Iain was the only one who could recall each of his incarnations. It was a skill that made him dangerous to all the wrong people—most notably the man in black.

“I should take a picture of the palazzo for Beau,” Haven said.

“In a minute. There's something I need to get out of the way first. When you told me you wanted to take a trip, this is why I suggested Florence. Now I can do what I didn't have the chance to do before I fell off that damn horse.”

“What?” Haven asked.

Iain removed his gloves and stuffed them in the pocket of his coat. Then he gently took Haven's face in his hands. Her eyes closed, and she could feel his warm breath on her skin. With his lips on hers, time came to a halt. She let her hand slip between the buttons of his coat until her fingers rested against his chest. It was something she did from time to time—just to prove to herself that he was real.

She had no idea how long they stood there, locked in an embrace that had waited seven hundred years to happen. But when Haven opened her eyes again, Florence was already dark.

CHAPTER THREE

Haven and Iain were greeted at the door of the restaurant by a pretty young hostess in a dress that must have inspired more drooling than the food being served. Haven took note of the woman's surgically sculpted chest and leonine hair extensions and grinned. She knew exactly what was about to transpire. Just as she'd anticipated, the hostess ignored Haven and beamed at her handsome companion instead. Haven had watched countless females offer Iain the same smile, and it almost never meant “hello.”

“Good evening,
signore
,” the hostess flirted in beautifully accented English. “Do you have a reservation?”

Iain shot a quick wink at Haven before he flashed the hostess a rakish grin. “
Buona sera, signorina.
Do I need one?”

The young woman's seductive smile turned scandalous. “Not tonight,” she whispered, as if they were sharing a secret.

The exchange was deliciously corny. Haven gritted her teeth and tried not to giggle. The Colosseum itself couldn't have held all the bodies that were thrown at Iain every week. Whenever Haven left him alone in a store, she'd return to find him surrounded by salesgirls, all as hot and bothered as goats in a pepper patch. A policewoman had once slipped Iain her phone number while she wrote Haven a parking ticket. Waitresses plied him with free drinks and desserts. Haven teased Iain about his “fans,” and a year earlier she might have bristled at the hostess's boldness. But now that she knew what Iain had gone through to find her, jealousy seemed completely absurd. There was no harm in letting silly girls flirt with someone whose heart belonged only to her.

“May I take your coats?” the hostess asked, her eyes practically fondling Iain.

“Yes, you may,” Haven replied with a smile, stepping between the two and finally drawing some attention of her own.

As she peeled off her gloves and removed her hat, Haven sensed she was being appraised like a sculpture at an auction house. Fortunately, the dress she wore underneath her coat was one of her own designs. Made of red silk and lacking all frills, it was cut so perfectly that Haven's every flaw was hidden and every asset enhanced. Two men near the entrance turned to gawk when she and Iain were escorted to their seats. The restaurant's tables were crowded together, and as Haven squeezed by, a hundred eyes traveled from her dress to her face to her wild black hair before returning to the plates on the tables in front of them. One man's gaze remained locked on Haven's chest until he received a subtle but unpleasant jab from Iain's elbow as the couple passed by him.

It was hardly the first time that all eyes had been on Haven. Growing up in tiny Snope City, Tennessee, she'd always been keenly aware that the whole town was watching. But people had been scared of her then. A little girl with mysterious visions of other places simply couldn't be trusted—particularly when the girl's own grandmother claimed the visions had been sent by the devil himself. Now Snope City was five thousand miles and a whole year behind her. Haven was a different person, and for the first time in her life she was starting to enjoy attention whenever she received it. She liked the way people looked at her, with a mixture of admiration and envy. She welcomed their gazes and enjoyed dressing to draw them. Even though she and Iain were supposed to be hiding.

“Sorry the restaurant is so packed,” Iain whispered once they were seated. “My mother always said that the food here is much better than the atmosphere.”

“Aside from all your fans, the atmosphere isn't that bad,” Haven said, breaking away from a staring contest with a love-struck girl on the other side of the room. “But I doubt there's a chef in Italy who can cook anything as good as one of your omelets. Now, Mr. Morrow, no more small talk. It's time to get down to business. You've made me suffer for three whole hours. Tell me more about Piero and Beatrice. How did you meet them? What were they like?”

“Wild. I met Piero on my fifteenth birthday. He tried to bash my brains in with a rock.”

“Charming,” Haven laughed. She loved Beau, but everyone knew he wasn't exactly a pacifist.

“Yeah. Piero was a good guy, but he had the world's worst temper. He accused me of stealing his horse. He'd left it untethered, and I happened to walk by just after it wandered off after a vegetable cart. We were pounding the pulp out of each other when the horse came back to search for its owner. Piero apologized, so we called a truce and decided to join forces. A few days later he invited me to his house, where I happened to spot his little sister slaving away on a gown for their mother. If I recall correctly, she was being punished for sneaking out of the house the previous night. Beatrice was always in trouble, just like Piero. They egged each other on. And, as you know by now, some things never change.”

“So when you found Beatrice, was it love at first sight?”

Haven had been trying to tease him, but Iain's answer was serious.

“It always is. I didn't even have to speak to her. I knew it was you the second I saw Beatrice with a needle in her hand. I spent the next few weeks loitering outside the Vettori house, trying to catch glimpses of her. It nearly drove Piero insane. He was always annoyingly overprotective.”

“What was your name in those days?” Haven asked.

“Ettore,” Iain said.

“Ettore,” Haven repeated, enjoying the way the name made her heart skip a beat. Haven loved nothing better than to listen to tales of her own romances. Every story was different and every setting unique. Just when she thought she'd heard them all, Iain would lead her into another existence in some faraway land. But exploring their pasts was not without peril. As many times as they'd found happiness together, there were just as many lives that had ended too quickly or were spent searching for each other in vain. Haven couldn't remember those dark days, and Iain rarely spoke of them, but she knew the memories remained fresh in his mind.

“Did you ever have a chance to talk to Beatrice?” Haven asked more cautiously. “Did you tell her how you felt?”

“Yes, but it wasn't easy. Beatrice's parents were not pleasant people. They made her life miserable—and they were incredibly cruel to Piero. You would have been beaten if they'd seen us together, so we used to whisper though the hedges in the courtyard. Beatrice was terrified that her father would force her to marry one of his business associates. I promised her I'd never let that happen. But as you know, I didn't live long enough to keep my promise.”

“So what
did
happen to Beatrice?”

“I'm not sure,” Iain admitted.

Haven leaned back in her chair as the waiter approached. Iain examined the menu and ordered for the two of them in fluent Italian. A question waited, poised on the tip of Haven's tongue.

“You're not sure?” she asked as soon as the waiter was gone. It wasn't the first time Haven had wondered if Iain might be protecting her from an unpleasant truth.

“I guess Beatrice must have died of the plague,” Iain replied. “Most people in Florence did. All I know is that the Vettori family abandoned the house we saw today. From what I've read it was taken over by a bunch of rogue doctors who gave up trying to heal everyone and decided to save themselves. They hid out in the palazzo and drank all the Vettoris' wine and ate all their food and then proceeded to drop dead of the plague. One of the doctors kept a journal until the day he died, but even he didn't seem to know what happened to the Vettoris after they fled Florence. Chances are, the whole family's in one of the mass graves outside of the city.”

“That's a terrible story,” Haven said, suddenly sorry she'd asked.

“True,” Iain acknowledged. “But don't dwell on it. We've had our share of happy endings as well. In our next lives we were peasants in Kathmandu. We got married when we were seventeen, and we lived together for more than forty years.”

“Did we have any kids?” Haven asked a little too loudly, and a man at the next table shot her a puzzled look. “Did we?” she repeated in a whisper.

“No, but we had three lovely yaks,” Iain said, as two glasses of water were set in front of them. “And thirty-six nieces and nephews.”

“Thirty-six?” Haven's head ached just thinking of it. “Was it just our families or did everyone hump like bunnies back then?”

Iain choked on his water, barely avoiding a spit take. “Such a
sweet
little Southern belle,” he laughed from behind his napkin. “There wasn't much else to do in fourteenth-century Nepal. It could get a little dull at times, but I've always considered it one of our best lives together. I still wake up some mornings craving yak-butter tea.” He seemed to savor the grimace on Haven's face. “You used to love it too,” he insisted. “I'll take you back to Nepal someday so you can acquire the taste again.”

“As long as I don't have to milk any yaks,” Haven quipped. “I wouldn't say I'm a princess, but I can't see myself getting too friendly with livestock.”

“Is that right?” Iain teased. “I think you might be surprised to find out what you're capable of doing.”

“Okay then, surprise me,” Haven challenged.

“Let me think for a second. . . .” Iain tapped his temple and arched an eyebrow. “I'll come up with something suitably shocking.”

As she waited, Haven's attention was drawn to a woman who had risen from her seat at the back of the restaurant. She was making her way toward the exit, draped in a fur that she hadn't deigned to leave at the coat check. Haven couldn't figure out which unfortunate animal had given its life for the sake of fashion. The pelt was as exotic as the woman herself, who didn't appear to be entirely human. As the lady passed by, the empty sleeve of her fur brushed against their table, and Haven grabbed her glass to keep it from toppling. Startled by Haven's sudden movement, the woman clutched her fur to her chest before it could be sullied by a stranger's touch. A single platinum ring adorned one of her hand's elegant fingers. It was in the shape of a serpent swallowing its own tail. An ouroboros.

“Haven, are you all right?” She barely heard Iain's voice over the pounding of her heart. She scanned the crowd, checking every face in view. Seated at a table against the far wall, beneath a painting of a Renaissance nobleman with a shifty smile, were two men in suits. They were too plainly dressed to be Italian. They could have been traveling businessmen. Or vacationing undertakers. Or men sent to find her.

Haven flagged down a waiter and requested the check, just as their first course arrived.

“Is something wrong?” the waiter inquired.

“Haven?” Iain joined in.

“I'm not feeling well,” Haven managed to explain as she dug through her purse and fished out a credit card. Once the waiter had disappeared, she leaned across the table toward Iain. Protecting him was the only thing that mattered now. “You have to get out of here,” she whispered. “There's a chance they haven't figured out who you are.”

“Who?” Iain asked. Haven nodded toward the two men in suits.

Iain stole a quick look and laughed with relief. “Those guys? They're not from the Ouroboros Society, Haven. They're copy machine salesmen. From Cleveland. I could hear them talking when we walked by.”

“You're sure?” Haven asked. “There was someone from the Society here tonight. The woman in the fur—she had a ring. An ouroboros ring. I saw it.”

“Haven, it's okay. It was just a coincidence. Why don't we stay and have our dinner? There's something—” Iain started to say.

“No, we're not safe here!” Haven insisted. “I felt it in Rome, and now I feel it here. He's looking for me, Iain.”

“
Signora
, I'm terribly sorry.” The waiter was hovering over them. “I'm afraid your credit card has been declined.”

“That's impossible,” Haven snipped.

“No,
signora
,” the waiter said, growing snootier by the second. “It is not. Perhaps the
gentleman
has a card?”