Consumed by Fire (4 page)

Evangeline’s tiny room on the third floor was sweltering, and she turned on the noisy fan Silvio had brought her. When the storm finally hit, the heat might disperse, at least a little bit, but until then she was sticky and tired. She couldn’t afford the air-conditioned second- and first-floor rooms, and she liked the view up here. She was so tired that all she wanted to do was collapse on the snowy white bedspread. She’d probably leave her outline in dust, she thought, and sank into the small chair beside the window as she tried to pull herself together. She must have gotten a touch of sunstroke. Once away from that man’s mesmerizing presence, she was having second thoughts. Granted, he was gorgeous, but she’d seen pretty men before, and good looks were of little importance to her. She considered herself a woman who looked for character rather than beauty, though his particular beauty had temporarily distracted her. She needed to sleep, she needed to shower, she needed to curl up into an embarrassed little ball like a hedgehog, not that hedgehogs got embarrassed, she thought dazedly. Maybe she’d just slip down on the rug and sleep there.

She had to come up with some excuse about dinner. It wouldn’t be the first meal she’d missed in her life, and once she managed to talk herself into a shower she’d probably be so exhausted she’d sleep through the night anyway. It didn’t matter that she was starving. Thinking she might indulge in a one-night stand was all well and good, but she knew that was the last thing she’d ever do. It took her a lot to decide to go to bed with someone, and those rare decisions were usually fueled by weeks of worry and a generous amount of alcohol. She had no intention of drinking, and even then it took her weeks to get comfortable in bed with someone. No, she was definitely not having dinner with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Irresistible.

It was a plan. She pushed herself up from the low-slung chair, grabbed her wrapper and the thin towels the villa supplied, and headed for the shower room two doors down. She didn’t dare take a bath—she’d probably fall asleep and drown. A nice hot shower and she’d simply call Silvio to leave a message for her unexpected Romeo, and then go to bed and forget all about him.

There was no one in the hallway, and chances were he and his partner were on the first or second floor, with the ensuite bathrooms and the reliable air-conditioning. He looked like a man who went first class all the way.

The shower room was empty, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she locked the door behind her and began to strip off her dusty clothes, tossing them on the floor beneath the shower spray for her own particular variation on a laundry. She bathed quickly and efficiently, dried herself, and wrapped her robe around her. That particular purchase had been a mistake—she’d bought it because it was lightweight, but it was a little too flimsy to wander hotel corridors in. She had even looked into replacing it, but everything was too expensive, and the thing wasn’t that indecent. She unlocked the door and peered out; the hallway was still deserted, and she dashed back to her room, her wet clothes in her arms.

The bed looked so inviting she wanted to weep—her legs were on their last ounce of strength and her head was pounding, but she still had to drape her clothes over the small Juliet balcony so that they’d get the last of the day’s heat. Her window faced an alley and she leaned forward past the old fan to catch a glimpse of the hills beyond. She smiled briefly, taking in a deep breath of the soft night air. It smelled of olive groves and flowers and the distant storm, and she knew she’d remember that smell when she was ancient. She loved it here so much. Somehow she’d find a way to return, even on an untenured professor’s salary.

When she turned, heading for the bed, she saw the tall green bottle in the ice bucket and frowned. What was a bottle of wine doing in her room? But when she drew closer she saw it was bottled water, and she reached for it, too damned thirsty to question its presence or even to look for a glass, twisting the cap and pouring a good long swallow down her throat.

It was bliss. It had to have been delivered by mistake, and it didn’t even matter if she were charged Silvio’s exorbitant prices for it. It was worth every drop.

She saw the card a moment later.
Compliments of James Bishop
. She wondered if she should spit the water out.
The hell with that.
She took another long slug. Even if the man made her wary, this was simply a thoughtful gesture and nothing more, and she wanted this water.

She sat on the narrow bed. If she fell asleep without doing something to her hair she’d wake looking like a crazy woman. She quickly braided it, stripped off the damp wrapper and lay down on the bed, letting the fan-driven hot breeze blow over her body. A moment later she was asleep.

She woke in deep shadows and fumbled for the tiny alarm clock she travelled with. Eight thirty. Half an hour to the dinner she’d forgotten to cancel. Half an hour to dinner and she was absolutely starving.

She pushed herself to a sitting position, blinking owlishly. She’d slept hard and deep, dreamless, and it took her only a moment to bounce back into full wakefulness. Her headache was gone, she was clean and rested, and she felt like an absolute fool. What was wrong with her? A gorgeous man wanted to take her to dinner and all she could do was wonder what hidden agenda lay beneath that gorgeous face. When in the world had she become so paranoid?

Well, for one thing she wasn’t usually the object of the attentions of gorgeous men. A man like that could have anyone he wanted, and there was no lack of gorgeous women in the mountain town of Cabrisi. Why would he want her?

She was being ridiculous. He didn’t
want
want her; he just wanted company for dinner. And for that matter, so did she.

She dressed for dinner when she was in Italy, except when she stayed in youth hostels. At home she’d eat a bowl of cereal in front of the television, but here she followed the custom and enjoyed it. She had one dress, a black wash-and-wear slip of a dress that skimmed her knees, and a pair of flat black shoes that were almost weightless. She unfastened the braid but her hair was still damp, and she did her best to comb it into submission, using barrettes to tame it before checking her diamond studs to make sure they were secure. They were so large they looked fake, which was just what she counted on. What would a penniless researcher be doing wandering around Europe with diamonds like those in her ears?

A penniless researcher who had an older sister with sticky fingers who’d always coveted the diamonds. The earrings had been a gift from her elderly aunt Evangeline, who clearly thought she deserved some compensation for being saddled with such a ridiculous name, but even the inherited diamonds didn’t make up for her parents’ idiotic choice of a name.

She glanced at herself in the mirror. The freckles were out in full force—a spattering of gold flecks from the bright Italian sun, and she’d developed a tan on her strong arms and legs. Her reddish-brown hair seemed relatively subdued, and at the last minute she grabbed the little bag that held her makeup and applied swiftly drawn lines around her eyes, followed by a couple of sweeps of mascara. It was light enough that no one would even notice. Then she gave in and pulled out the one lipstick she carried, a soft pink that was more a stain than anything else. She pulled back to look at herself. That was the best she could do, and it would have to be enough.

Enough for whom?
She wasn’t going to primp for Mr. Bishop. She looked for a washcloth, ready to wash the betraying makeup off her face, when she heard the muffled gong of the dinner bell. She was being an idiot, on every level. She was dressed, presentable, and hungry, and why she’d put on makeup was unimportant. Sometimes she just felt like dressing up. Tonight was one of those nights. She grabbed her featherweight shawl and left the room, ready to face the beautiful monster she’d created in her head and put him in perspective.

A slow cat-like smile curved Claudia’s mouth as she watched from the barely opened door across the hallway. The girl hadn’t even bothered to lock her room. Silly thing. She might think she’d left nothing of value in there, but Claudia knew better. Secrets, the information was far more valuable than iPods and credit cards, and could never be completely covered up. Let James play his little games with the creature—if it amused him she didn’t care. As long as he fulfilled his part of the plan, nothing else mattered.

Ah, but it did matter. James needed to remember why he was here, as an adjunct to someone who knew him as well as anyone. Which wasn’t much—James kept his secrets as did she, and he wasn’t about to cozy up to her and confess all. That thought was horrible. For now she simply took him at his word.

Not that she cared. He could just as easily have been sent as the active agent, with her as backup, but the sad fact was he lacked her total ruthlessness. He let ridiculous things bother him, like compassion, and mercy, and forgiveness. Those things were weaknesses, and it was little wonder she’d been put in charge of this job. He might have seen Corsini with a child and suddenly decided he deserved to live.

As for Claudia, she didn’t know why they had been charged with getting rid of Corsini, and she didn’t care. The Corsini family was involved in a dozen illegal operations, from drug smuggling to sex trafficking, but the old man was simply an accountant, an important cog in the machine, but not the
capo dei capi
. The organization that she and James served, ingenuously called the Committee, believed in compartmentalizing information. Things worked better that way. James held one piece of the puzzle, she held another. Solving puzzles was a game for children. As long as she could use her skills and ply her trade, the rest was for other people to work out. She was a weapon. All they had to do was point her.

The Committee provided her with an outlet for her complicated desires. A covert, multinational organization centered in London, it ostensibly sought to stamp out terrorism and international crime in ruthless ways no public organization could ever get away with, supposedly making the world safe. Claudia didn’t give a damn about politics, and she knew the world would never be safe. She preferred it that way.

She waited until the hall was empty. James had already baited his trap, and no one would be up here roaming the corridors. No one would see if she slipped into the girl’s room. She might not care about the people she was sent to kill, but those she chose on her own were different. Besides, she might have to answer to Madsen if it were traced back to her, and it always helped to know a little bit about her self-appointed victims. She might need a plausible excuse, and target practice wouldn’t do.

Evangeline was the last person down for dinner, late as usual, and she liked it that way. Most of the evening crowd was already seated, busy in conversation with dinner partners, and there was no sign of James Bishop. If he stood her up she’d be overjoyed, she told herself.

She glanced at the restaurant in the atrium of the small hotel. It was a Saturday night and the place was jammed—it was one of the best places to eat in Cabrisi and they took in guests from the various B and Bs in the town, even stealing diners from the Americanized hotel in the business district. There were a number of couples who were unfamiliar to her, and then the usuals. The American couple was on a trip to celebrate their retirement, and they held hands, so she assumed it was a second marriage. No one held hands after ten years. In fact, she couldn’t imagine her cool, practical parents getting close enough to each other to spawn two children, but in fact they had. The physical resemblances were indisputable, even though as a child she’d often daydreamed that she was adopted.