Lost in Italy (36 page)

She slammed the faucet handle off and transferred the pot to the stove with a loud bang.  Once the burner flamed and water sizzled on the underside, she faced him with her arms crossed.  Prepared for whatever he threw at her.  Ready to fight.

He didn’t want to fight with her at all—and he missed the
Wet & Wild
T-shirt.  “Which underwear did you pick yesterday?”

Her brow furrowed even as color bloomed in her face.  “What?”

He shrugged, wondering himself where the question had sprung from.  Not quite the mood lightener he’d intended, but hard to take it back now.  He tried for an innocent smile.  “Easier than the last question, isn’t it?”

“You’re on drugs, aren’t you?”

“Antibiotics.”

She rolled her eyes and reached to give the tomato sauce a vigorous stir.  Red droplets spattered onto the stovetop.  A couple landed on her arm, making her hiss in a breath and drop the spoon in the pan.  Trent resisted the urge to jump up and make sure she was okay as she ran water over the scalded spots.

“Aren’t we supposed to be discussing tomorrow?” she
sai
d.

“After we eat.”

A quick flick of her wrist turned off the faucet, and then the burner under the pot of water.  “The sauce is going to take at least an hour.”  She started cleaning up from her earlier preparations, throwing a glance at the camera before rinsing a wash cloth in the small galley sink.  “Do you really need to watch that again?”

He picked up the camera and turned it in his hands.  “I’m hoping to figure out a way to make a copy.  Not—” he added when she looked over in alarm “—to use for myself.  For insurance.  Back up.  Just in case.”

“In case what?”

Their eyes met.  She dropped her gaze and the collapsible table shuddered under the force of her sudden scrubbing.  The surface wasn’t dirty, and he didn’t really need to give voice to the answer that hung in the air between them. 
In case everything goes to hell and one of us ends up dead.

“I should watch it,” she said, then scrubbed harder.

“No.”

“But then I can testify—”

He reached out a hand to stop hers.  “It’s not going to come to that.”

Distracted from taking the finish off the table, she pulled away and scanned the cabin walls.  “Do you have
any
video equipment on board?”

“Stereo only.  The boat’s my getaway.  No TV, DVD, computer, or internet.”

“What about Giovanni and Concetta?”

“Simone didn’t have a computer, you think they do?”

She sighed her frustration.  “No.”

“Besides, with me being a fugitive and all that, I’d rather—”

“No, I get it.  Better not.  What about your friend George’s place?”

He shook his head.  “Security alarms.”

Her attention returned to cleaning.  Trent didn’t see any difference between the before and after, but Halli didn’t let up.  She moved from table, to sink, to the tiny bathroom.  Her constant movement made it impossible for him to concentrate.  Every time he started thinking about a strategy, something she did would distract him.

When he heard the shower running and the door remained open, exasperation finally got the better of him.  “Damn it, Halli, relax, would you?”

The water shut off and one step brought her into sight.

“The boat’s not going to get any cleaner,” he stated.

“When I’m stressed at home I work in my garden.”

“You want me to talk to Giovanni anyway?  See if he’s got something for you to dig up?”

She ignored his joke and gave him a quizzical look.  “How do you stay so calm?”

“Do I look calm?”

Her expression immediately reflected his own frustration.  “Like you’re kicked back on the beach with your third margarita in hand.”

“My old acting coach would be so proud.”  Again he rested the camera in his lap.  “Just come and sit.  Or stand and stir the sauce.  But your constant”—he waved a hand in the air—“flitting about is getting on my nerves.”

“
‘Flitting about’?
”

He shrugged.  “My last role was a Regency romantic comedy.  It’s the first thing that came to mind.”

She returned to the stove and set the water to boil again.  French bread was cut as she muttered about forgetting to save some garlic.  Trent was fine with warm bread and fresher breath.  Next she whipped up what he guessed was the previously mentioned sponge cake with more ingredients pulled from her bottomless grocery sack.  While the cake baked in the tiny galley oven, the pasta was added to the water, tomato marinara stirred more carefully this time, and fresh fruit sauce and homemade whipped cream set in his small refrigerator.

Despite the fact that she no longer ‘flitted about’ like a bird on speed, his concentration came no easier with her precision completion of each task.  He slid from behind the table and removed himself from her disturbing presence by heading topside.

A swift scan of the area revealed nothing out of the ordinary.  Strange that security had become a habit already.  He touched the pistol at his back for reassurance and then, despite having just told her he’d rather not contact Giovani, he dialed the phone.

The older gentleman didn’t sound surprised to hear his voice and listened as Trent gave him the abridged version of the situation.  Giovani and Concetta had always treated him as if he were their son, ever since George had introduced them after their first movie together.  He felt he owed them the explanation and was relieved he’d called when Giovani assured him they didn’t believe the lies on the news, offering faith and support in a way Trent’s father never had.

After also confirming they did not have a computer or video equipment he could use, he pocketed the phone.  Then he tried to avoid thinking of his father and the fact that he felt no obligation to call him despite the news reports that were sure to have reached the location of his latest project.  After their last phone conversation about Sean’s death, he seriously doubted the Great Greg Tomlin would believe anything else he had to say, so why even bother?

Warm evening air brushed against his bare arms and Trent doubled his effort to banish his father from his mind by surveying the untamed Italian vista before him.  The sun rode a downward decent in the cloud-free sky toward the surrounding mountains, casting a golden hue across the rippled lake and everything else in its reach.

The bustle of the morning markets on the wharves had quieted to the ever-constant bells that echoed over the water.  He’d spent enough time on the lake that they were normal, predictable, relaxing.  Occasional carefree laughter of children, or the call of a parent added to the end of day tranquility.  Mixed in with the damp, musty smell of the shoreline soil was the more pleasing scent of dinner simmering below.  His stomach growled in anticipation.

A brief sense of peace washed over his unsettled nerve endings and ironically, he immediately thought of Halli.  This was the Italy she’d come to see and experience.  Not the one with murderers and guns and her sister getting shot while her brother was being held for ransom.  To think he’d envied the Midwest upbringing he’d imagined she’d had.  Parents in prison made his father look like a saint.  She deserved so much more, like the garden tour this morning.

Their kiss replayed yet again.

That’d be a nice bonus—
really
nice—but this was about giving her experiences to remember beyond the bad stuff.  It was the least he could do in exchange for the tantalizing aromas wafting up from the galley.

“How about we eat up top?” he called down to her.  “It’s a nice night.”

“Sure.  This’ll be done in about ten more minutes.”

Trent used the time to set up the table, then made a few trips below for a small linen table cloth, dishes, wine, water, and two long, tapered candles.  Once everything was ready, he stood back to survey the scene.  The wine glasses sparkled in the flickering candlelight and the seat Halli would occupy faced the lake where lights were starting to wink on across the water.

Perfect.  Ambiance…lighting…he snapped his fingers. 
Music
.

He met Halli at the short set of stairs.  Flattening against the side to allow her room to pass with two covered serving dishes, he said, “I’ll be right back.”

Once the smooth, seductive tenor of
Luciano Pavarotti flowed from the
Scappare’s
speakers, Trent returned to find Halli staring at the romantic setting, a dish still in each hand.  He took one on his way past, set it on the table, and started to turn back for the second.

She was already beside him, setting the dish on the linen covered table.  “What is all this?”

Suspicion underscored the casual question. 
Trent
knew exactly what it looked like, and he’d
be lying if he didn’t admit—to himself—the thought of seducing her made his pulse beat faster.  But he could honestly say his intention here was nothing so selfish.  He wanted and expected nothing more than to give her an evening to take home to
Wisconsin
.

“A truce,” he declared.  “A few hours to put everything aside and not worry about tomorrow.”

For a moment, she stood there, staring at the table, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.  Then she shook her head with dismay.  “Ben can’t put anything aside.  How can I just forget what he’s going through?  Or Rachel?  In fact, I should call her.”

Trent caught her arm when she would’ve gone back down below.  “I’m not saying you forget, Halli, you just let it rest.  Give your mind a break and clear your head so we can come up with a strong plan of attack for tomorrow.  There’s nothing better you can do for Ben right now, and Simone promised to call if there were any problems with your sister.  Let her rest, too.”

She didn’t look completely convinced, but at least when she pulled free from his light hold, it was more of an afterthought, not a jerk.  Her gaze swept over the picture-perfect scene and he glimpsed longing in her expression.

“You really think this will help?”

“It’s worth a try.  Besides, a trip to Italy wouldn’t be complete without an authentic Italian dinner.  While I apologize that you had to make your own, I figured the least I could do is provide the rest.”  He gestured to the small bench seat facing the water.  “After you.”

One last, slight hesitation and she sat with a quiet, “Thank you.”

Trent uncorked the bottle of Chianti and scooped up both glasses.

“Oh, no.”  She held up a hand and he stopped pouring with her glass only a quarter full.  “You think better on a full stomach, I think better without alcohol.  You saw what happened last night,” she protested when he set the glass in front of her, half-full.

“You were stressed, jet-lagged, and exhausted, of course it knocked you out.”

“Sure, o-kay.  That was it,” she said with a wry grin.

He poured himself three quarters of a glass.  Before sitting down, he reached back to pull the gun from his waistband and laid it on the table within reach.  Much as he hated the reminder, he wanted protection ready and available.

Halli stared at the weapon as he sat.  Without a word, she transferred her attention from the gun and removed the covers from the dishes to serve.  Trent found he couldn’t look away from her face.  Candlelight softened the pink tint across her cheekbones and picked up the reddish highlights in her hair.  Their knees brushed under the cramped table, sending instant warmth through him.

Latent desire flared in his veins like a match to gasoline.  He shifted, and then immediately wanted to press his leg back against hers.  He second-guessed his noble gesture of a friendly romantic dinner.  This was going to be torture without the sensual promise of his definition of dessert afterward.

But it was a torture he’d endure again and again if it would put a smile back on her face.  Whenever she smiled, truly smiled, those blue eyes sparkled and her whole face lit up with an inner beauty that took his breath away.  His chest tightened, and without warning, his heart thudded hard.  Suddenly, it felt like he’d just tossed her into his convertible and stepped on the gas all over again.

She glanced up, caught him staring, and gave a questioning lift of her brow and a self-conscious smile.  He quickly took a gulp of wine before leaning forward for an appreciative sniff of his full plate of steaming pasta.

“Smells great.”

Her shy smile came a little easier, and his heart beat faster.  He picked up his fork and twirled pasta onto the tines.  Time to stop acting like a virgin teenager; he hadn’t played that part in years.  Maybe he should channel Shain.

Shain West appreciated and enjoyed the women in his scripted life, but he never actually fell for them.  Trent straightened, shoved that last thought as far away as possible, and concentrated on his plate.

His first forkful brought forth an involuntary moan of approval.  “Tastes even better.”

“It’s just spaghetti.”

Savory flavors of basil, tomato and just the right amount of garlic lingered on his tongue.  “Doesn’t change the fact that it’s
really
good.”