Learning to Trust (15 page)

He raised a brow. “Why not? They live in the Dakota, so they’re not short of funds, like Anna’s other boyfriends. They seem as if they want to care for her.”

She shrugged and finished her drink, signaling the end of her own personal crisis. “I don’t know. Call it a woman’s instinct. But when I saw them tonight I didn’t like the way they crowded her. You know the older one watched you all the time? Didn’t take his eyes off you for a minute.”

He wouldn’t reject her feelings. She rarely revealed them to him. “You can call it instinct, but it’s honed by years of observation. Dad trusted you. He listened to your instincts and I can’t remember you ever being wrong. I’ll have them quietly investigated.”

She walked forward slowly, steadily.

“I’ll call you a cab, unless you want to use the spare bedroom here.” She shook her head. He hadn’t really expected her to spend a night away from home. Not without her essential equipment, the case that contained the things she considered vital. And she hadn’t brought them tonight. Knowing he needed it, knowing she needed it too, he grabbed her around the waist and gave her a noisy kiss on the forehead. Her halfhearted but stern-sounding protests made him grin as he brought out his cell and found his mother’s favorite taxi company.

Before it came she told him one more thing, franker than he’d ever known her to be. “Every mother of sons knows she has to lose them one day. To another woman, to an absorbing career, or to a cause. Usually she can be proud of them as well as grieving for the loss. But sometimes a mother doesn’t have that compensation. I lost one son to his own demons and to drugs. Without the drugs he might have had a chance. I won’t lose another. Be sure that Bellina is free of them. I will fight for you, harder and with more knowledge than I had before. I mean it. I
won’t
lose you.”

“Ready?”

Ridiculously happy, considering he wasn’t taking her on a date, just a visit, Lina grabbed her jacket and let him hold the door for her. Jon had always done that, from the first time they’d met at Franco’s in Naples. They’d come a long way since then. Or maybe only in a geographical sense. But she gave him a broad smile. “How is Alice?”

His expression didn’t change. “Gone. We didn’t suit.”

“Your mother must be upset.”

“Not so much.”

That surprised her. Mrs. Brantley struck her as a formidable lady who decided on the way her life would go, and it did, not daring to disagree. She didn’t think for one minute that Jon would let her control his, but she thought the woman would put up a fight. “I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not.” He grinned as he led the way to the cab he’d left with the meter ticking. He glanced at her. “I hope a cab is okay. I don’t want to try to park anywhere near the Empire State.” The tourist season was in full swing, and it was bad enough driving in the less crowded areas. As if there was such a thing on Manhattan Island.

“You seem to be getting on better with your Italian stallion.” He stretched his arm across the back of the seat.

She loved the gesture. She mustn’t let him see. She’d stopped doing needy years ago. “Don’t call him that. He’s my stepbrother. Anything else would be icky.”

“Icky?” He grinned. “You’re not related in any way. You could marry him if you wanted to.”

“I don’t want to.” She could have bitten off her tongue. This was just a visit to an old friend, that was all. No sense going for anything else.

She’d driven him away two weeks ago, not wanting to hold him to any rash promises he might have made in Italy. He’d been under a great deal of stress there. Time to let him chill, find his feet again, get back into his normal life. Otherwise she could never be sure. Seeing him with Alice had hurt, sure, but it would have hurt more to see him gaze at someone else while he was with her. And if she went back to him, she’d be lost, in so deep she’d never get out again.

She knew what it felt like to be addicted, and it worried her that she might get addicted to a person. A psychologist had told her once that she needed crutches. The drugs had been crutches once. She didn’t want to cripple Jon in that way.

“What do you want?”

Something she could talk about. “I’ve applied to do a course at a local college. I don’t have the qualifications for the university, I pissed that away. But I can do them now.”

“That’s what you want to do?”

She considered. “I want to do something. It’s all right for you, you’ve found your role in life. Everyone says your stores are a huge success these days since you took over.”

He grimaced. “It was a matter of having to. My father was ill for three years before he died, and during that time he let the business slide. I was too young to do anything, but after he died, I had to. I did my business degree with a practical example right in front of me. I used the stores for case studies, when they let me, introduced it as a project for the students.” He gave a deprecating laugh. “It gave us new directions and new ways of thinking. Just what we needed.”

Trying to keep the conversation away from their experiences together wasn’t working. Lina watched his lips move. Her whole body remembered what it was like to have them touching her skin, caressing her, and feeling his breath stutter against her when he murmured to her. She missed him so badly she ached with it. But she might have to continue missing it.

He’d done so much for her, there was no way she’d screw up his business or his personal life. They moved in different circles, met different people, only came together at big or public events. Although they’d met a lot recently, or it seemed like that.

“It sounds exciting.”

He gave his one-sided grin. “Yeah. All that and more.”

The taxi drew up and before she could open her purse, Jon had reached across her to open the door. “I’ll take care of the fare. You look at the store and tell me what you think.”

Wow
. She stood on the pavement, hands on hips, and stared. The store had a double front, a window on either side of the door, and Franco had taken advantage of that. In the left-hand window she saw football—soccer—strips. Major European teams, with the colors of Italy prominently displayed, and some of the greatest teams in the world. Because of her time in Italy, she recognized AC Milan, Manchester United, Liverpool, Arsenal, Roma. She hadn’t seen a display like this outside Europe.

In the other window, proudly displayed under the Stars and Stripes, she saw the American football uniforms. Not just the New York teams, but a fair selection from the Dolphins to the Patriots and the Packers. Lina didn’t know enough about the sport to know if any non-NFL teams had their uniforms there. But she liked the contrast and the displays made a great focus.

Jon stood next to her. “This was Franco’s idea. Or rather, he and his son. They were missing the soccer, and Franco’s younger boy wanted what he called a strip—the uniform of his favorite team. That, and the number of tourists we get around here, gave them the idea. I thought it was great. I started selling souvenir items in our regular stores, and they went well, but this is the first store totally dedicated to it.” He grimaced. “My mother thinks it’s crazy, but she’s not a shareholder so as long as she doesn’t say it in public, I think we’ll survive.”

“I didn’t think people liked soccer over here.” The display made her homesick.

“Some do. And there are a lot of European tourists around here.”

She moved forward when someone jostled her. Immediately the door opened and Franco stood there. She wasn’t stupid enough to throw herself into his arms, however much she felt like it, but she gave him a warm smile.

Franco stood aside and they entered the shop. “It’s good to see you.”

Inside, glass cases contained what were presumably icons of sport. Signed jerseys, bats and footballs of both shapes. Trophies. “I don’t suppose you have the European Cup here?” she said.

Franco laughed. “No. Though…?”

He cocked a wicked glance at Jon, who laughed too. “I’ll see what I can do.”

That made Franco, his son Aldo, and Lina laugh and it effectively broke the ice. Aldo glanced around, his gaze taking in the half dozen browsing customers. He impressed Lina with his attention. In the hooded top with the company badge on the pocket, he looked cool and knowledgeable.

He murmured “Excuse me,” and moved away, approaching a couple browsing a cabinet containing several sports balls.

Franco smiled at his son. “The customers, they can order the company’s ordinary range, but this is tourist area, and they like this.”

Lina narrowed her eyes. “Your English is suddenly very good.”

Franco grinned. “Yours too.”

Meaning they both had secrets. But Franco still spoke slowly and hunted mentally for words from time to time. The tourists probably loved it, and he had Aldo and his assistants to help him. But suddenly he switched to the heavily accented Neapolitan they both spoke so well. “I have news. For both of you. I don’t want to tell you in public, so would you step through to the office, please?”

She swiftly translated for Jon, who nodded his agreement. They followed Franco to the back of the shop, where they found a small office, furnished with a desk, filing cabinet and computer. Obviously not meant for guests, there were only two chairs, so they opted to stand.

Franco tried English, but shook his head and turned to Neapolitan. Lina translated as he paused after every sentence. “I have had a visit. From a representative of the Colleghi.”

Alarm sparked Jon’s eyes to blue fire. “Let them try anything here. I’ll have them arrested.”

“No.” Franco shook his head. “There is no need. He told me that yes, they fired the shot at you that night, but it was only meant to scare you. A warning. You left after that, and as far as they were concerned, that ended the matter. They did not bomb the café.”

Jon raked his hand through his hair. “Jesus, are you sure?”

Lina thought rapidly. “The police said the bomb wasn’t like the ones the Colleghi usually set. If they had wanted to set an example, they would have used a typical one. They did not.” She had to say it twice, in Italian and in English, to make sure both men understood. “I think I believe them.”

“I do too.” Franco frowned. “As you say, they’d have made sure everyone knew they set it. They might have ensured that everyone left. They are not compassionate, but business minded. Murder is more serious and would have forced the police to examine the case more thoroughly. It was to warn rogue traders off their territory. Not revenge or a punishment.”

Jon closed his eyes for a second. “I don’t like it. That they can find you so easily, that we can’t find any fucking proof of anything.”

“I think we have our proof.” Lina glanced at Franco, who nodded. “To disclaim the attack—that makes it almost certain they didn’t do it.”

Franco agreed. “If they discover who did it, they will punish them. I paid my protection, all but the last few months and I made that good, thanks to you. They have to show that their protection means something now. So they will look for whoever did it.”

“If I find them first, they’ll be hard to trace.” Lina hardly recognized Jon’s low growl, but she shivered in response to the threat. She had no doubt he’d carry out his threat, given the chance. He nodded to Franco. “Thanks. Can you give us a minute or two?”

Franco needed no translation for that. He glanced at them both and left, after saying something in a low tone that made Lina blush.

Jon faced her, near enough so she could reach out and touch him, so close she could feel his body heat. “It kills me that I can’t look after you the way I want to.”

She swallowed. “What way is that?”

He rubbed the back of his head and sighed. “Really? I want to lock you up somewhere safe until all this is over. I can’t bear the thought of you in danger.”

His words surprised a laugh out of her, if a bitter one. “I’ve managed on my own for most of my life.”

“And you’re still alive. Unlike Byron.” He dropped his hand to his slide with a soft slap of flesh against fabric. “Why did you survive and he didn’t? What made him so vulnerable?” Before she could reply, he gave his own answer. “Because he had impossible dreams. Didn’t he? What did you think of the art he created? Honestly?”

She answered as tactfully as she could. “Some of it was interesting. But he didn’t delve deep enough. When he started to get somewhere, he backed off. Scared, or didn’t want to go there or something.”

“The way we were brought up. Not to probe. ‘Leave well enough alone’ was one of my mother’s favorite phrases. But you were taught to look deeper?”

He was trying to find answers, ones she didn’t have. She didn’t want him agonizing like this, didn’t want him to feel such pain over his brother’s death. So she told him the truth. “When he painted when he was high, the results were worse, if anything.” She swallowed. If he chose to walk out, then she wouldn’t blame him, but she had to tell him. “Sometimes it’s better to face the truth. Deep down, Byron was the most selfish person I ever knew. He referred everything to himself. When your father died, his first reaction was to wonder how he felt about it. Not how he could help you, or how he could console his mother. When his art failed, when he had that exhibition and hardly any of them sold, it wasn’t his fault. Never his fault. Always someone else’s.”

She reached out and took his hand, aching to see him standing there, listening. He didn’t push her away but stood still as a statue, except for his chest moving slowly with every breath.

She couldn’t tell how he was taking this. After all, it was only the word of one other person. A person who happened to be a junkie. “Byron was a lost soul because he wanted to be. When we ran away, I did it for—well, never mind that now. But he thought it was exciting, an adventure. He dared me to do it, and I did. We cut up our credit cards, laughing at the confusion we’d cause. When I think of what you and your mother must have gone through, I’d take it all back, Jon. Everything.”

With a low murmur of “No,” he tugged her hand, pulling her forward and into his arms. “Don’t get upset. I knew that, I guess. I just needed someone to tell me. When Byron disappeared, he suddenly became a saint to our mother. No, strike that, he was always a saint. She has some of that trait, too. She said he’d gotten in with a bad crowd, blamed you for it, and the wild set you ran with.”

“He gave me my first fix.”

His hand burrowed into her hair, separating the strands, sifting the mass through his fingers. “I didn’t know that. I believe you because it’s so like him. Daring, trying new things all the time. He did it when we were kids. The first to buy a motorbike, the first to do a hundred along Madison Avenue at four in the morning. He nearly killed both of us. He never grew up, did he?”

“No. When I decided to get clean and stay that way, I went back to see him, to try to get him to come in. He offered me junk. Crack, to be precise. It’s cheaper than heroin. He thought it was good of him to offer it. I walked away. I couldn’t do anything else.” She lifted her head to stare at him, the view obscured by the tears that clouded her eyes. “I’m sorry. I should have stayed.”

Gently he swept away her tears with his thumbs. “No you shouldn’t. None of it is your fault. If anything, you did more than the rest of us to keep him alive. Never, ever blame yourself.” He bent and softly kissed every trace of her tears away and then touched his mouth to hers in a sweet kiss. She opened her mouth, ready to accept anything he wanted to give her, but he drew away. “My mother always spoiled him. Dad had little patience, so I became his favorite. He taught me to follow after him. Tried to get Byron interested. Even went along with his desire to be an artist, but when the experts and the public rejected him, even our mother asked Byron to give it up.”

“Yes. That was when he decided to run away. Your mother shouldn’t have called him Byron, you know. It gave him ideas.”

“What do you mean?”

She gave a wry smile. “The poet, Lord Byron. He ran away from England when it got too hot for him. They said he’d fucked his sister, among other things, so he ran away to Switzerland with his friends. They played at being Bohemians. I think Byron, our Byron, imagined himself in the same mold. But Lord Byron was good, wrote great poetry. I read it.”