Never Coming Home (34 page)

‘Devlin.’

‘Devlin,’ he agreed. ‘That’s who I am now.’

The man I’m in love with?
Kaz clenched her hand against the rough fabric of her jeans, shaking down her hair to hide her expression. She’d listened to his words, flat and matter-of-fact, but she’d watched his face too. Seen the pain and the loneliness of the unwanted child, and of the man, valued only for what he could be made
into
. He didn’t know, she was sure of it. He’d buried that so deep too, along with the child Stuart. He didn’t know how much he’d lost. Lost children. Damaged.

She hugged her knees. You and me both. Two peas in a bloody pod. And now he was Devlin, and she was pretty sure that she was in love with him. But could
he
learn about love? Would he even want to?

‘You okay?’

‘Oh. Yes.’ She raised her head. A breeze was blowing up. She slid off the rock and held out her hand. ‘Thank you for telling me.’ She looked up into his face. ‘I will respect your confidence.’ It was formal, but it seemed the right thing to do.

The ghost of a smile dispelled his worried look. ‘I know you will.’ He put a finger under her chin, to tilt her face further up. ‘Don’t worry, Kaz. It was a long time ago. It doesn’t hurt.’

She nodded and took his arm, a coat of anguish lying over her heart. Hurt, and he doesn’t even know it.

Devlin watched Kaz across the tiny dinner table, tucked into a corner of the bistro. It was a popular place, pleasantly full and humming with conversation and the scent of good food. She was wearing a deep purple dress, with shiny narrow straps, and a bizarre-looking necklace, which might have been lifted from the neck of a tribal statue. A purple stone winked like an eye when she moved. She was feeding him
frites
, dipped in garlic mayonnaise, from a bowl in front of her.

You
would
kill for this woman
. He clenched his fingers on the stem of his wine glass. He assessed her carefully, checking. She’d been very quiet on the way down from the château, but she looked fine now. He didn’t want her thinking that there had been anything wrong with his childhood. It wasn’t anything special, the mix of tedium and powerlessness that you had to endure, until you got old enough to do something about it. His training for the job, now that had been pretty brutal – weaponry, tactics, combat, languages, so that you could disappear, wherever you were. He’d valued that. Even now, he still did it. He’d picked up Bobby’s speech patterns – a spasm across his chest when he remembered Bobby – and now, being around Kaz was bringing up the English in his speech, he was sure of it.

Satisfied that she wasn’t brooding about his non-existent unhappy childhood, he relaxed into his surroundings, listening to the snatches of conversation around them. Someone had a new baby; someone else was leaving for Paris on business in the morning and was hoping to get lucky tonight. The couple in the corner were arguing amicably over the colour to paint the bathroom. It was ordinary, normal family stuff. He didn’t have a clue about any of it. The char-grilled lamb cutlets on his plate; now that was a completely different matter. He stopped analysing and started to eat.

The quiet dinner in the bistro developed into a party, once
word got around that Mademoiselle Katarina had returned. Curious villagers thronged in, swelling Jean’s coffers as another
bottle circulated. Kaz was breathless and a trifle tipsy when they finally made it upstairs. The clock on the town hall was chiming twelve. She collapsed backwards onto the covers.

‘The witching hour.’ For some reason that seemed to be very funny.

Devlin was switching on table lamps and drawing blinds. Soft pools of gold lit up the sheen of antique furniture, and traced designs in shadow over the faded, time-washed rugs that covered the floor. Kaz stretched, and felt warmth floating over her skin.

Devlin sat beside her on the bed, looking down at her. She couldn’t focus on his face properly.

‘You’re sober,’ she accused. She’d seen that the bottle of excellent local wine, bottles, she corrected herself, had passed by him more often than they’d stopped. ‘I’m not,’ she confided happily.

Devlin was smiling in a very promising way. Kaz wriggled closer.

‘I can see that.’ The amusement in his voice sparked her indignation. She started to wriggle away again, but he caught her, rolling her on the bed and trapping her, slightly awkwardly, between both arms.

‘Look. No hands,’ she giggled.

‘I have a hand.’ He proved it by planting it on her waist, to hold her in place. ‘And I have this.’ His mouth slid over hers and her brain did a long slow glide that had nothing to do with any wine. ‘You taste of blackberries and plums.’

He’d finished with her mouth and was nibbling his way along her jaw. ‘And you smell of vanilla and fresh green grass.’ He was nuzzling the pulse point behind her ear now, making her heart jump.

She lost the thread for a moment as his mouth travelled down the length of her throat.

‘Shower gel,’ she gasped, as his mouth hit the slope of her breast and began to move down. ‘I
 
… I suppose you don’t need to know that.’

‘No.’ He’d found something impossibly delicious to do with his tongue, that involved licking her skin and then blowing gently on it.

‘You have a fabulous mouth.’ Kaz writhed as he found a sensitive spot. ‘Don’t stop.’

‘No intention. No intention at all.’

Chapter Forty-Eight

The sun was already heating the air over the police station to shimmering point.

The Inspector paused on his way in, to survey his domain. Clean windows and paintwork, no litter, the public notices up-to-date and straight in the glass cabinet. Exactly as he liked to see it. A swell of proprietary pride puffed his chest. He acknowledged it, grinning. And why not? A mild obsessive-compulsive with a liking for order. So?

He fumbled the pristine white handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe a bead of sweat from his forehead. The temperature was already in the high twenties, at this hour of the morning. What it would be like later in the day, down in the centre of Florence
 
…

He folded and replaced the handkerchief and strode up the steps, pausing in the doorway, with a frown. Early as he was, someone else had been earlier. There was a man loitering in the vestibule, clutching a large briefcase.

The forensic scientist who had been working on the DNA in that distressing case of the British child –
Signora
Elmore’s daughter.

His presence here
 
–

The Inspector stepped forward, with a quick glance at the officer at the desk. He was engrossed in completing a pile of forms.

The forensic scientist’s face lightened when he saw him. Some of the tension lifted from the thin shoulders.

‘Inspector? I
 
…’ His voice tailed off and he shuffled his feet.

The Inspector crossed the hall to him. ‘You have something? Something new,’ he said softly.

A nod.

‘Come to my office.’

Once behind a firmly closed door, the technician recovered some of his composure. He delved into the briefcase that he’d been clutching against a slightly concave chest and held up a folder.

‘The full results of the tests.’ Clearly he wasn’t going to say any more.

The Inspector smothered a sigh, took the folder and sat behind his desk, gesturing the young man to a seat. ‘I’m not going to like this, am I?’

The scientist’s eyes widened. ‘Inspector?’

‘Never mind.’ The Inspector opened the folder and looked at the neatly tabulated results and lines of formulae. There were graphs, too. The crucial conclusion was, of course, right at the bottom of the page. The Inspector forgot himself so far as to swear. ‘You’re sure of this?’

‘Certain.’ The young man nodded. ‘It changes things, doesn’t it?’ There was an air of suppressed excitement about him, now that he’d delivered his burden.

The Inspector nodded curtly, already reaching for the phone. ‘We need to speak to
Signora
Elmore, as a matter of urgency.’

Chapter Forty-Nine

Kaz watched the early morning ferries criss-crossing the lake, shielding her eyes as the sun hit the water. She looked up as Devlin dropped a handful of paper onto the table and his body into the chair beside her. Her mouth had gone a little dry. She couldn’t help it. The way he moved got to her, every time.

‘Properties that have changed hands, lakeside, in the last two years, which should more than cover the time that Oliver would have been house-hunting.’ He was examining the papers. ‘Not so many, when you add up all the requirements.’

‘Big, secluded, accommodation capable of being converted into a studio and a place to store several million pounds’ worth of art in progress,’ Kaz recited the list.

‘You’re sure about it not being a rental?’

‘Oliver likes to own things.’ Where had that knowledge come from? A new clarity when it came to her father?

‘There’s really only one.’ Devlin pushed over the paper. ‘Special feature – temperature-controlled wine cellar, which might be modified to store paintings?’

‘Sounds exactly what we’re looking for.’

‘It’s the other side of the lake, at Bardolino.’

Kaz’s heart was beating faster than it should. ‘Shall we go and look?’

They took the ferry. The boat puttered gently from pier to pier, letting off passengers and taking them on. Mostly holidaymakers and tourists, a few locals with business in another part of the lake and time to spare.

Devlin offered her a pair of field glasses as they neared Bardolino. She’d stopped wondering where he got these things. If she’d wanted an elephant or a balloon ride or a toffee apple no doubt he’d have conjured it up. A package had been waiting for them at their hotel last night. Hand-delivered. Kaz didn’t ask what else it had contained. She had a pretty good idea. The thought of Devlin with a lethal weapon didn’t bother her. She put the glasses to her eyes and focused where he pointed. Her breath came out in a startled hiss. ‘That’s it.’

She handed Devlin the glasses, waited while he raised them.

‘It might be a carbon copy of the château. The size, the tower, the outbuildings.’

‘Did you see the skylights in the roof?’

Devlin let the glasses drop. ‘Oliver’s studio.’

They were back at the hotel, waiting for the hire car.

‘We don’t have to go there ourselves. I can send someone.’ Devlin was pacing the room, which was enough to get Kaz’s attention. Devlin didn’t often pace. ‘Let me send someone. To reconnoitre.’

‘We may as well do it ourselves; if we have the wrong place we apologise and leave. If not
 
…’ She savaged the inside of her lip. Her heart was drumming uncomfortably in her chest, but she had to do this.

Then she could love Oliver and hate him
and walk away from him
.

She crossed over to stand in front of Devlin. ‘No one is forcing me to do this. He’s my father.’

‘He’s dangerous.’

That’s what I thought about you when I first saw you. That, and hot sex on legs. Still do.

She saw the bafflement in Devlin eyes when she smiled.
No, I’m not going to explain.

‘Oliver hires people to be dangerous on his behalf.’ She edged her mind around the fights and the tantrums that were dim memories from her childhood. ‘He’s 66 years old.’

‘That’s not old.’

Their eyes locked. She kept hers on Devlin’s face. Saw the precise second that he gave in
 
… and loved him for it.

Hey – wait one damn minute here.

Can’t now. No time.

‘What?’ He was staring at her.

‘Nothing.’ She tried to sound calm. It must have worked, because he stopped glaring at her. Now she wanted to reassure him. ‘I go to the house. I call my father every foul name I can think of. I walk out. Nothing simpler.’

‘Yeah? And what’s he doing all this time?’ Devlin demanded, frustration clearly spiking.

‘Sitting in a chair with his mouth open, wondering where I learned words like that?’ She had to be flippant; she was too close to the edge. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands. Her heart was trying to climb into her throat.

Forget Devlin, focus on Oliver.

She’d tried to imagine the scene when she confronted her father, but she hadn’t been able to do it. She wanted grief, she wanted guilt. ‘He won’t hurt me.’ She had to hang on to that.

‘Nothing I can do is gonna talk you out of it, short of knocking you out and tying you up,’ Devlin was grumbling for form’s sake. She knew there was concern under the growl. It warmed and hurt, in about equal measure.

She laid her hand on his arm. ‘I
will
be all right.’

She could see he wasn’t convinced, but he knew when to stop wasting breath. She watched as he stalked over to the dressing table to pick up her phone and punch buttons. He held it out to her. ‘I’m coming with you. I’ll stay outside,’ he forestalled her protest. ‘You leave this switched on. You need me, if anything seems off, in any way, you hit three on the speed dial.’