Charade (4 page)

“What does it say?” Jeff demanded. “Are they from Martino?”

Sasha pursed her lips, buying time to decide how to respond. Given what was going on at Athena Academy, this mysterious message could only be about the kidnapped girls.

Which meant they had found a way to allow Sasha to help!
And it also meant she had to get rid of her sexy guest. Fast.

“It’s from my father,” she lied finally. “He feels awful that we couldn’t attend the wedding together. He thinks it’s time to talk.”

“Man, that’s huge.” Jeff rested a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Are you ready for that?”

“Honestly?” She gave an audible sigh. “It bothered me, too, avoiding him the way I did. Gianna and I—and her sister Vittoria—were inseparable when we were little. We played in that ballroom on bad-weather days while Dad and Uncle Antonio sat nearby talking. Obviously they were up to no good, but still…”

“Still, it was innocent in its own way,” Jeff agreed. “I get that, you know. You think I’m constantly judging you, but the truth is
,
I get it. That’s the only reason I’ve ever thought you’d crack under the strain.
Because it
is
a strain.
He’s your father. You love him. I
get
that.”

Sasha stood and looked him in the eye. “Thanks.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I could call him. Or I could blow it off. I’ve done that before. But either way, I need to think it through.
Alone.
I’m sorry.”

“No problem. I should be going anyway. This was sort of nuts from the start. Not that I planned it.
At least, not from the start.”
His handsome face flushed. “Did I mention how good you look?”

Sasha felt her cheeks redden. “You look good, too. I guess we were set up by our own hormones.”

“Yeah?”
He chuckled. “I like that.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “You’d better go.”

He nodded, but didn’t move toward the elevator. “I know this sounds corny, but I’m gonna remember that kiss for a long, long time.”

“Me, too.”
She gave him another, more wistful smile. “Too bad I wasn’t wearing the bra-cam, or we’d have videos of it. For old times’ sake.”

“Actually…” He rested his hands on her hips as he’d done just before their kiss. “I’m kind of glad you
weren’t
wearing a bra.”

“Mmm.”
She brushed her lips across his,
then
pulled free quickly.
“Definitely time for you to go, Agent Crossman.”

“Yeah.
I’ll call you.” He cleared his throat,
then
explained, “To let you know what happens with Vincent.”

“Right.”
She bit her lip again. “Bye, Jeff. And thanks.”

Her words brought a smile to his lips.
“My pleasure.
Get inside, Camper. And lock the door. The security in this dive sucks.”

His expression—not to mention his tone—was so seductive, she felt herself beginning to melt again, so she gathered up the flowers and the box,
then
bustled past him, calling good-night over her shoulder. Then she followed his instructions by engaging the dead bolt as soon as she was inside the condo.

“Ohmigod,” she told herself, leaning against the door and exhaling with exaggerated need. “What was
that
about?”

It was a question she could have dwelled on—and drooled over—for hours, if Athena Academy hadn’t been waiting to hear from her.

When Sasha dialed the number supplied in the e-mail from AA.
gov
, Allison Gracelyn, an Athena board member who now worked for the NSA, answered on the first ring, saying only that a car would be arriving for Sasha in ten minutes. That gave her just enough time to don a pair of black jeans and a stretchy purple V-neck sweater. Then she grabbed her favorite butter-soft black leather boots and a cozy parka, along with her purse, and headed for the door.

Unfortunately, her
third
unexpected caller of the evening was waiting in the hallway. And this time, it really was the much-expected Carmine Martino, who asked pointedly, “Going somewhere?”

Oh, crap,
Sasha complained to herself. But aloud, she kept her cool. “A delivery guy just dropped off some flowers. But he took off before I could give him a tip. So I wanted to catch him—”

“He’ll live,” Carmine assured her, his thick voice indicating he had had too much to drink. “The real question is, who the fuck is sending you flowers in the middle of the night?”

“A client, if you must know.”

He grinned.
“The fat one that got trapped in her zipper?”

“She isn’t fat.
Not at all.
It was a defective zipper….” Sasha narrowed her eyes in warning. “Go away, Carmine. If you want to visit, come back at a decent hour.”

“I don’t want to visit. I want to collect on my bet.” He pushed her into the living room, then closed the door behind them and warned, “No more tricks.”

Sasha’s training, both from Athena Academy and from her boutique-but-effective karate classes thereafter, would have allowed her to teach him a lesson, but she knew it would raise questions about her seemingly innocent lifestyle, so she decided on a different tactic. “We can sit on the sofa and talk.
After
I get these roses into water.”

“Sitting on the sofa is a good start,” he said with a leer. “Hurry up. I’ll pour the booze. Where is it?”

“Check the sideboard. I have a little of everything. The glasses are on the top shelf.”

With her purse still clutched under her elbow, she grabbed the flowers and headed for the kitchen. Once there, she fished out her cell phone and address book, thumbing until she found the number for Antonio Martino’s
consiglieri.
Dialing rapidly, she listened to the ringing as she shoved the roses into a vase.

“Who is this?” a gruff male voice answered.

“This is Sasha Bracciali. Don’t talk, just listen.”

The man was apparently good at taking instructions, because his only reply was soft, steady breathing. Encouraged, Sasha hid the cell phone among the blossoms,
then
returned to the living room, where Carmine was waiting for her with two glasses of red wine.

Setting the vase on the sideboard, Sasha insisted in a firm voice, “I don’t want any trouble, Carmine. You need to go home and sleep it off before you do something we’ll all regret.”

“You’re so full of yourself,” he retorted, slamming the glasses down,
then
stepping to within inches of her. “We can do this friendly, or we can just do it. It’s you’re choice. Either way, you’re gonna thank me for it.”

“My father would be furious if he knew you were doing this.
Your father, too.”

“Fuck ’em both.
And you.
Literally in your case,” he added with a grin, reaching for her neck with one hand while his other began unbuckling his belt.

But the sound of a phone, ringing from inside his jacket, stopped him, at least momentarily. “Fuck! Who the fuck…?” He pulled out the phone and scowled at the display. Then he grimaced. “I gotta take this. Don’t go away.” Flipping it open, he asked carefully, “Pop? Is everything okay?”

Sasha watched as his eyes widened with obvious fear. “Sure, Pop. I was just—yeah, yeah, I got it. I’m going.
Fuck…
Yeah, yeah, I’m going.”

Sasha backed away, trying not to let Carmine see how entertained she was by his transformation. Not that she blamed him. She had heard some fairly gruesome stories about Antonio Martino’s temper, and she imagined Carmine had felt the sting of his displeasure more than once in his twenty-nine years.

“You bitch,” Carmine
whispered,
his face purple with anger. “I can’t believe you had the fucking nerve to call him.”

“Shh…” She put her finger to her lips,
then
inclined her head toward the roses. “He’s still listening. You’d better go, Carmine. We’ll just chalk this up to all the excitement over the wedding, and a little too much Chianti. Okay?”

“Bitch,” he repeated, but fear had returned to his voice. And while he clearly wanted to threaten her—or worse—he settled for flipping her off, Martino-style. Then he stormed out of the condo, slamming the door behind himself.

Sasha retrieved the phone and held it to her ear as she walked over to re-secure the dead bolt. “Zio Antonio?
Multo grazie.
I know he wouldn’t have hurt me, but I was still scared.”

“I’m very disappointed in my son,” Antonio assured her solemnly. “First he ruins Gianna’s wedding day,
then
he dares threaten an angel like you.
And after I spoke with him this very evening about the need to treat you with respect.
Can you forgive us?”

“I’m just so grateful for the rescue.”

“Anytime.
Any place. I hope you know that, Sasha.” The don paused,
then
said bluntly, “Your father will be very angry about this.
And with good reason.”

“Except he won’t ever know,” Sasha promised. “It’s not like I talk to him these days. And even if I did, you took care of everything. So why bother?”

“You’re a good girl,” Antonio told her in a husky voice. “And my son is a fool. Sleep well,
cara
mia.
Don’t worry about a thing.”

“I won’t,” Sasha assured him softly, genuinely grateful for his solicitude.
“Ciao,
zio.
”

Aware of the fact that Allison Gracelyn worked in Washington D.C., Sasha half expected the Athena Academy limousine to take her to O’Hare Airport so that she could meet with the board member on the East Coast. And if not, then to Arizona , where the Gracelyn family lived, and where the school itself was located.

But to her surprise, the driver took her to the nearby Grand Union Hotel and instructed her to go directly to Room 2003. And so after a quick stop in the restroom to check her appearance—Allison was something of a heroine to her after all—Sasha made her way to the twentieth floor.

Allison answered the door right away, greeting Sasha with warm enthusiasm. “Come in. It’s great seeing you again.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”

“You make an indelible impression,” Allison assured her. “We met at the welcoming reception when you first came to our school, and then again at your graduation. Correct?”

Sasha felt a surge of pride that this lovely, accomplished woman would remember such details. Of course, it was probably all in a file somewhere. And Allison undoubtedly attended
all
the initiations and graduations—

“At the initiation, you and I spoke about the portrayal of Italian-Americans in movies and on television. But at your graduation, all you wanted to talk about was your acceptance to the School of Design. Your enthusiasm was contagious. And I hear your success has been electric, as well. We’re all very proud of you.”

Sasha bit her lip. “I’m so flattered you remember all that.
Especially considering everything that’s going on.”
Daring to grab Allison’s hands in her own, she demanded, “Is there any news?”

“Come and sit with me.” Allison led her to a large table and motioned to one of the overstuffed chairs that surrounded it. Once they had settled in, she explained. “One girl has been rescued. That’s the good news.”

“Oh! That’s such a relief. But…”

“The other girl is unharmed. Unfortunately we were unable to rescue her.
Mostly because she didn’t cooperate with us.”

“Why not?”

Allison grimaced. “She wants to investigate from the inside.
To learn who masterminded the kidnappings, and for what purpose.”

“Cool kid.”

“I suppose. But she’s driving us crazy in the process.”

“I can imagine.” Sasha took a deep breath,
then
said in a rush, “I really appreciate getting all this information, especially firsthand like this. But I’ve got to ask. Why are you telling
me
of all people?”

Allison gave her a confident smile.
“Because you—of all people—are the perfect person to help us recover the missing student.
Assuming of course, that you’re willing.”

T ossing his car keys onto his cluttered desk, Jeff Crossman strode to the only window in his sparsely furnished studio
apartment,
then shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and stared through the miniblinds at the neon lights that illuminated the freezing Chicago night.

“Un
-effing-
believable,” he murmured to himself. “You kissed Big Frankie’s daughter? You must be out of your effing mind.”

He could just imagine what Winston Lowe and Chuck McBride—the younger, less-experienced agents on his Organized Crime team—would say if they heard about this. Those guys had been openly and obnoxiously wild about Sasha Bracciali from the start, to the point where the Special Agent in Charge—namely Jeff—had had to pull rank on them more than once, warning them to cut it out when the compliments started flying too thick and fast.

“You’re an effing hypocrite, Crossman,” he assured himself now, although that characterization wasn’t completely true. He had never denied that she was pretty—okay,
smoking
hot—but he had been determined his team would treat her with respect. She was, after all, a nice, decent girl trying her best to do what was right.

But he had also seen her as a liability, and now as he stared out into the night, with the haze of their kiss beginning to fade, he focused on other, less sexy parts of their incendiary encounter. In particular, he reminded himself of her accusation: that he had been conducting a vendetta against her.

Those words had shocked him, but didn’t they hold a grain of truth? He
had
been uncomfortable with the idea of handling her, right from the start. Not because of her social and financial advantages, real or imagined, but because of her motivation.
Because to Jeff, motive was everything when it came to evaluating an asset.

He could respect straight, uncomplicated revenge as a motivator. It actually made things simple. And he also appreciated the most common incentive of the garden-variety snitch—cold, hard cash.