Wildest Dreams (The Contemporary Collection) (31 page)

Rone caught her arm, pulling her toward him. She needed no other urging. Propelling herself across the seat, she caught the door frame to help drag herself out.

Rone’s grasp was so strong as she pushed to her feet that she stumbled against him. He steadied her a scant instant, then took her hand, whirling with her away from the car.

Hot metal, burning wires; she could smell them.

They broke into a run, stumbling over the dry, weeded runnels of water drainage, tripping in the ivy escaping from the embankment ground cover, getting as far away as they could while the seconds counted down.

Behind them they heard a soft, fluttering rumble, almost like a gas furnace igniting. Then came the roar.

The concussion, with its crackling, searing, suffocating heat struck their backs. They ducked, diving forward, falling headlong. They covered their heads, hugging the ground.

The worst was over in only a few moments. Sitting up with caution, they shielded their faces from the incredible heat with their arms and turned to look. They had to; they couldn’t help it.

The orange-and-yellow flames leaped upward, licking at the fresh green of the trees, whipping the sky with black tails of smoke. The interior of the car was a caldron of boiling red heat.

Almost, almost, they had been in that car. Breathing in harsh, lung-wrenching gasps, they sat watching.

On the motorway behind them, cars were slowing, a few stopping. An argument broke out with loud voices and much waving of arms. A man stepped from a red car and made his way down to where Joletta and Rone sat.

“Well, my friends,” Caesar Zilanti said as he approached within hearing distance, “a lucky escape, yes?”

He leaned to offer his hand to help Joletta stand. She took it automatically, her face blank as she stared at him. Glancing beyond him at his car, she said, “Where did you—”

“He was following us,” Rone said as he got to his feet unaided. “I’ve been watching him for miles.”

“Kilometers, perhaps, but otherwise, yes,” the Italian said with the lift of a shoulder. His dark gaze rested on Joletta. “The signorina is so beautiful that I did not like to lose sight of her so soon.”

Rone put his hands on his hips as he faced the other man. The look on his face was harsh with skepticism. “It would be interesting to know how you managed to catch up with us today.”

“These tourists buses,” the Italian said with a shading of disparagement, “they are very predictable. At your hotel in Paris I talk to the driver who told me your tour director always tries to stop for lunch at the Movenpick cafeteria near the lake in Lugano on this route. I finish my business in Paris, I go to this place, but the signorina is not alone; I see her go into the park with you. The bus leaves and you two are not on it. I walk in the garden. The rest was easy.”

“If you saw the bus leave us, why didn’t you offer a lift?” Rone’s tone was neutral, but the chill in his eyes was not.

Caesar smiled, his eyes hooded under his dark and heavy brows. “How could I know what game you were playing? It seemed possible you wished to be alone with the signorina, and who could blame you?”

It was plausible, Joletta thought, but whether it was likely was something else again. Rone seemed to think that Caesar might have been following them more closely than he was willing to say. Could the Italian know something of the break-in at the hotel in Lucerne? Yet how could he? What earthly connection could he have with it, or with this accident?

She was suddenly beginning to feel weak and her hands were trembling. She not only felt terrible, she looked terrible, she knew it, and all she could think about was the fact that she was going to have to talk to another set of police from another country before she could lie down and rest.

“However you got here,” she said to Caesar in slow weariness, “I’m glad to see you, since this is your country. Maybe you can tell us what we do now?”

“There are two possibilities,” he said, lifting a hand to rub at his chin. “The first of these is to drive away with me, at once.”

Joletta blinked. She glanced at Rone but could tell nothing from the set expression on his face. To Caesar, she said, “But — aren’t we required to file a report with the police, notify the rental company of the damage, things like that.”

“Why give yourself the trouble? This is Italy; you do what you like, and hope the carabinieri and rental-car people don’t find you to ask questions.”

“I think we’ll give ourselves the trouble anyway,” Rone said deliberately.

“As you like,” the Italian said with a smile and a shrug. “Leave it to me.”

Rone said nothing, but the look on his face was sardonic.

The carabinieri were courteous and gallant and sartorially impressive in their perfectly tailored blue uniforms; they were also in no hurry to end their investigation. They regretted they would not be able to apprehend the truck driver instantly, but with so little to go on — anyone could see the difficulty. They were sorry that such a terrible accident had to take place in Italy; it was to be hoped that it did not give them a bad impression of their fine country and that the rest of their stay would be happier. How fortunate it was that no one had been seriously injured; Signor Adamson was certain his cut had stopped bleeding?
Va bene.
Then there was only the towing charges and the indemnity for the damage to the rental automobile. They had insurance, of course?
Bene, bene.
Ah, well, it was only a matter of signing a few dozen forms then.

It was late when they reached the quay in Venice where Caesar had to park his car. They were not so far behind the tour bus, as it happened; they recognized it parked on the quay and saw their luggage being unloaded onto a conveyor, which was sending it along to be piled onto a water bus for the trip to the hotel. It was possible, Joletta said as they walked toward the hotel, that they would be able to make the gondola ride and dinner that was included with the tour.

“Excuse me, please, but no,” Caesar cried as if in pain. “I beg you will dine with me, instead, both of you; I have a cousin who owns a restaurant renowned for its food. Afterward, there will be time, if you like, for the gondola. Not this tourist business, a flotilla of boats racing around a few short turns and then back to the landing with hardly time for the gondolier to break into a sweat. No, a true gondola journey, very dark and romantic, this I promise.”

By this point Caesar had proven himself a valuable ally, arguing their case with the carabinieri with all the passion the circumstances seemed to demand, putting Joletta and Rone into his car with tender care, and offering to guide them the short distance to the hotel while fending off the other guides and offers of water taxis they didn’t need. Joletta, glancing at Rone, found him looking at her.

She indicated his shirt that was marked with rusty drops of dried blood. The suggestion tentative, she said, “It’s possible you and I may need more time to clean up than the others in the tour group.”

“I can’t say I’m looking forward to having dinner quite as early as the older folks,” he agreed.

“How early?” Caesar inquired, then lifted his brows in disbelief as he was told. “No, never! This is Italy, I tell you. Nothing decent is ever served before ten, eleven o’clock.”

Rone nodded. “Your cousin’s restaurant it is, then, but I insist on buying.”

Caesar argued vociferously, offering every reason why they should take advantage of his hospitality, but the outcome was never in any doubt. Rone would pay. Caesar would pick them up in a water taxi at the landing near the hotel in a few hours.

Watching them shake hands as they parted, Joletta thought the two men had come to have a certain respect for each other, if no real liking. That did not explain why they were having dinner with Caesar. She wondered if Rone wasn’t expecting to have time to pump Caesar, to discover if he was what he seemed.

The keys to their hotel rooms had large brass weights in the shape of a bell attached, a potent reminder that they were to be left at the desk on leaving the premises. Joletta expected to have trouble with Rone, expecting him to insist that she share his room. To head it off, she began to state her case as they walked up the narrow stairs to the second floor, where it was located.

“There’s no need to say anything else,” he said before she had half begun. “I know you were embarrassed at being seen coming out of my room this morning, and I wouldn’t want that to happen again.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he answered in firm tones.

She gave him a grateful smile as she neared her door. “I didn’t expect you to be so reasonable, but I’m glad you understand.”

“I’m a reasonable man,” he said, and went on without pausing as he took her key from her to open the door, then stepped inside. “I’ll stay with you.”

She stood still for an instant. Following him, she closed the door behind her with more than necessary violence. “That isn’t what I meant!”

“I know,” he said over his shoulder. Moving to the window, he swung the two glass casement panels wide, then flung open the wooden shutters. Beyond the opening was a jumble of cream stone walls, red tiled roofs sporting television antennas, a verdigris green church dome, and a small bell tower, while down below was a lapping canal. He left the shutters open as he turned to face her. “I do know,” he repeated, “but I wouldn’t leave you alone after this afternoon if you had a SWAT team hanging from this window and your own security guard outside the door.”

She met his hard gaze for a long moment before she turned and dropped down on the foot of the bed that took up most of the room. Sighing, she said, “I was afraid you were going to make something out of the accident.”

“I thought we disposed of the accident theory in Lucerne. You might easily have been killed this afternoon.”

“And you.”

“Yes.”

Something in his voice made her send him a quick glance. He was watching her with what appeared to be bafflement overlaid with respect in his eyes. She looked down again, speaking almost to herself as she reached out to smooth the blue-and-gold tapestry bedspread on the bed. “It’s hard to believe.”

“That just shows what a blameless life you’ve led. It’s always hard for honest folks to recognize the sheer meanness of other people.”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There were things she had been turning over in her mind that she had not mentioned, things he had a right to know if he was determined to stay around her. Yet how could she suggest to him that the people most likely to want to harm her were her relatives? She couldn’t believe it herself.

Abruptly she lifted her hand from the bedspread. Swinging her head, she stared behind her at the wide expanse of mattress, the long headboard, the two pillows nestled side by side. She turned her wide gaze on Rone. Her voice was a note higher as she said, “This is a double bed.”

“Queen size,” he answered without a flicker of expression.

The air between them seemed to vibrate with tension. The minutes slid past. Joletta let her eyelids close with a snap. She leaned forward to prop her elbows on her knees and rest her aching head in her hands. “God,” she said, “how long is this trip going to last?”

Caesar’s love for his city and his country was genuine. It was in his voice as he pointed out the different buildings and monuments as they passed them on the way to dinner, and it was in his eyes as he gazed around him, looking for some other bit of stonework or rare architectural detail to bring to their attention.

Their water taxi took them to the Piazza San Marco, where they disembarked to walk to the restaurant located somewhere in the maze of streets beyond the square. The evening was advancing. The tourists were gone for the day; they had the square very nearly to themselves as they strolled over the gray paving stones and among the ancient buildings with their soaring Byzantine arches, carved stone fretwork, and hundreds of columns marching pale and ghostly in the light of an early-rising moon.

Caesar looked at Joletta’s rapt face as he walked beside her. “
Bella,
no?” he said softly.

“
Si,
” she said, grasping at the Italian since in that moment English seemed sadly lacking, “
bella, bella.
”

Rone, walking on the other side of her, chose that moment to point out a flight of pigeons wheeling in a perfect spiral about the campanile with the glow of moonlight captured under their wings. She smiled and nodded, and realized in some amusement that she had regained her enthusiasm for the trip.

It was heady stuff, having two tall, dynamic, knock-you-dead gorgeous men vying for her attention. Joletta enjoyed it, though she wasn’t at all sure what she had done to deserve it. She had never thought of herself as the femme fatale type. She had no inclination whatever to play one off against the other; she was, in fact, afraid tempers might flare between them. Still, to have them both walking along with her did wonderful things for her spirits.

At the restaurant the waiters seemed inclined to enter into the competition also. They bowed and smiled and murmured compliments and followed her progress with their eyes until she began to wonder if she was wearing a permanent smirk. It was all too much. More was to come.

As the salad course was removed their waiter, a slender blond man in his late thirties who moved with swift, deft grace, picked up Joletta’s serving plate along with her salad plate. She thought it was a mistake for a few moments, since both Caesar and Rone’s plates of gray-veined marble had been left in front of them. Then the pasta appeared, fettuccine in a delicate seafood-and-cream sauce. As the only woman, Joletta knew she should have been served first, but it did not happen that way. Both men were given their portions while she sat with an empty space in front of her.