Dust to Dust (12 page)

The taxi came to a halt in front of a small boutique hotel. He knew that Melanie was amused by what she surely thought was his macho insistence on paying the driver. As they got out of the cab, Scott looked up. It was a beautiful building, late seventh century, with winged cherubs adorning the eaves. Scott knew the hotel; he had been in the bar, but he'd never stayed there. It was upscale and private, and he found himself suddenly grateful for the fact that his credit card had no limit.
Don't leave home without it,
he mocked himself.
You never know where trying to save the world—and your own sanity—will take you.

Apparently Melanie knew the hotelier. He welcomed her warmly, with a long hug and a rush of Italian so fast that Scott could pick out little more than
bella, mia amica,
and
bella, bella,
once again. Then the man was staring at him—a little suspiciously at first, but then he seemed to warm to him, and he offered him not just a handshake but a kiss on both cheeks. Scott awkwardly smiled and patted the man's back in return.

“Signore Marchetto has a room for you right next to mine. He's rearranging a few things. We need to get an
espresso or cappuccino in the bar and give him a moment or two.”

“Great,” Scott told her.

They wandered into the bar. “Cappuccino?” he asked Melanie.

“Yes, that would be fine.”

He ordered, determined to show her that he had some facility with the language.
“Due cappuccino, per piacere,”
he said, smiling—idiotically, he was sure. He could also order
una birra.

She kept her eyes downcast as he ordered. He thought he saw her secretly smiling.

“All right, why do you speak Italian so well?” he asked.

“College. I was here, and I like languages.”

“So helpful when you're a dog trainer,” he said. “I guess that pays well, though, seeing as you flew first class. Or is Lucien rich enough to foot that bill?”

“That's a rather rude question, isn't it?” she asked.

“Hey, Virgo, we have to get to know one another,” he pointed out.

“Actually, dog training can pay very well. And, to answer your other question, Lucien is in nice financial shape. He got into the collectible craze very—
very—
early, anything from art to artifacts, and he's invested well.”

“Of course,” Scott said.
“Grazie,”
he added, as their waiter delivered their coffees.

“Prego, prego,”
the waiter said. He smiled at Melanie, barely noting Scott.

Scott sipped his cappuccino, watching her. Finally he shook his head. “You're such a liar.”

“Okay, that's
really
rude.”

“But true.” He leaned toward her. Her deep blue eyes with the golden highlights met his squarely. A smile teased at her lips, and he wanted to scream. He could tell she liked him, but she was refusing to open up to him in any meaningful way. “What is it you're not telling me?” he asked softly.

She shook her head and leaned closer, as well. The soft waves of her hair fell over his hand, and he felt a sudden deep, burning urge to touch her. More, to hold her, to sweep his hands from her breasts to her thighs, to know her completely, make love to her with his hands, mind and body. He gritted his teeth, trying desperately to control his raw thoughts and keep his mind on the conversation.

“Whatever I'm not telling you, I'm not telling you for a reason,” she replied, her tone hushed but heated, her face close to his. “I admit that you're caught up in this, but you're not one of us. You're not one of the Alliance.” She met his gaze for a moment, then pulled back—as if carnal thoughts had suddenly occurred to her in the midst of her heated argument. A blush rose to her cheeks. “Look,” she said, her tone still soft, “please stop. We're here…together. You're looking out for me, I'm looking out for you. Let's solve this puzzle and find out if we're both going to wind up locked away for the rest of our natural lives, or at least until the world explodes. Leave the rest of it alone, please.” Her hand fell on his, an almost ethereal touch, like a brush of butterfly wings, and yet that slight contact seemed like an ember of fire against his skin, concrete
proof that the hint of gold in her otherwise cobalt eyes did indeed come directly from the sun.

He nodded slowly, realizing that he needed to take his time with her, and smiled. “All right. No more twenty-questions.”

Before she could respond, Signor Marchetto came in to tell them that their rooms were ready, so they should follow him, and the cappuccino was his treat.

Scott paused as the other man handed Melanie two keys and pointed down the hall. Scott had assumed they would be taking an elevator, or at least following the stairs to the second floor. But as Melanie spoke to Signor Marchetto in rapid Italian—to make sure he didn't catch what was being said, Scott was certain—they moved down a long hallway and made a left. They reached a door, and, to his surprise, Melanie opened it and ushered him in.

At that precise moment he felt as if he had the libido of a high school boy. Hope soared in his bloodstream.

But the door merely led to a pleasant salon, beautifully furnished with eighteenth-century pieces in white and gold that contrasted nicely with the dark wood paneling. There was a room on each side of the living area. She pointed to the left, and he felt like an idiot—and was glad he was the only one who realized just how stupid his thoughts had been. He almost laughed aloud at himself.

“Signor Marchetto is so sweet. He definitely did a little rearranging to get us this suite. I know we're tired—a night on the plane, the time change—but let's shower and head right out.”

It was a statement, but it sounded as if she were asking him. He was touched, and the fire in his loins reignited. There was definitely something going on between them, and he was sure she felt it, too.

“Sounds fine to me,” he told her.

There was a knock on the door. The bellboy had brought their bags. Scott thanked the man and tipped him. Melanie took her suitcase and rolled it into her room without another word.

When he went into his room, Scott realized that Melanie must have asked for these specific accommodations. The three-room suite faced a rear courtyard with a gate to the street, and each room had a door to the private shaded space. They could come and go unseen, at all hours. She definitely knew the place and he wondered when she had been there before. Students did not usually stay in a place like this, and why would a dog trainer have come to Rome?

He set his suitcase on the long bench at the foot of his canopied bed and looked around the room. It, too, was beautifully appointed. There was a modern bath to his right, but there was also an antique pitcher and bowl on the dresser. The bed itself was huge and set on a low dais, and piled with pillows and covered by an ornate spread.

He found fresh jeans and a knit short-sleeved shirt; it was warm out, and he was sure they would be doing a lot of walking—above ground, if not below. He dug out his sneakers, clean socks and briefs, and headed into the bathroom.

The hotel might be old, but the plumbing was blessedly modern. A powerful spray of delightfully hot
water fell from the showerhead, and for a moment he found himself leaning against the tile and just letting it cascade over him, sluicing down his skin to his feet. At first he couldn't help but imagine how fine it would be if she suddenly cast all reason to the wind and suddenly walked in to join him. He could feel the steam rising around the two of them, and almost imagined he could reach out and touch her, elegant and wanton, flesh sleek and vital, slick from the caress of the water. He rued his thoughts, then felt the exhaustion of the last few days weighing down on him. With his eyes closed, he could almost have fallen asleep right there.

He roused himself with a violent shake. He didn't want to sleep. Not now. He didn't want to dream. He wanted to find Sister Maria Elizabeta, and perhaps he even wanted to tread the catacombs of his dreams in life—no matter what horror might arise to greet him there.

He swiftly scrubbed himself, washed his hair and stepped out to towel-dry briskly, hoping that would help him to wake up. It did. The shower had been more restorative than he could have imagined; he didn't feel the time lag or the hours in the plane.

He dressed quickly and headed into the salon. Melanie wasn't there yet. After a few minutes he tapped on her door. No answer. He waited, tapped harder and listened for the spray of the shower.

Then he cursed as he realized that she had ditched him.

 

Melanie wasn't particularly happy about what she had done, but she was certain that she was doing the
right thing. The more time she spent with Scott, the more she was discovering that she cared about him. He was easy to like; he was honest, intense, funny, polite and charming. What was there to dislike? And she was also finding him far more attractive than she wanted to; she needed her distance. But she kept finding herself feeling stirred by the sound of his voice. She had caught herself studying his hands on the airplane, and liking them. Long hands, long fingers, the nails blunt and clean, somehow masculine, somehow sensual. Her heart fluttered annoyingly when he leaned close, and she often felt tempted to lie back and let him solve the problems of the world, while she basked in the security and protection he seemed to offer.

But that wasn't the way it could be. He was strong, but he was mortal. And he had absolutely no idea of just how bad this could get. She might look like a powder puff, but she had a much better sense of what they might be up against.

She'd seen enough through the years.

She had showered quickly, donned jeans and a tank top, tied a sweatshirt around her waist, grabbed sunglasses and put on her best sneakers and run out like a bat out of hell. She was pretty sure he still didn't know exactly where to go, but she did.

The church where she was headed wasn't far from the Coliseum. And not far from it was the Appian Way, where once upon a time, crosses and their bloody burdens had lined the Way. After Spartacus had led his slave revolt, and he and his men had been captured, history held that six thousand men had been executed
via the Roman cross. That had been before the time of Christ, but the Romans had not forgotten their favored method of mass execution. Since then, many a martyr—or common thief or murderer—had met his demise upon a cross along that road.

She reached the church, certain that she was in the right place. Santo Stefano's was in the tourist books, though it was off the beaten track. A great deal of work had been done on it in the last years, but it still wasn't something everyone longed to see.
Rotondo,
or built in a circular fashion, it was ancient and majestic—and boasted eight panels depicting various saints' martyrdom. They were grisly images, gory, many seeming to drip with the blood of those who long ago fell victim to torture. Great columns rose in a circle outside the church, and the architecture alone was fascinating.

But she hadn't come as a tourist.

There were actually a few people in the church when she arrived. Apparently the grotesque went over well with teenage boys. She noticed a German family—the mother was reading from a guidebook—with a boy of about thirteen, and not far away, a Spanish father was telling his son, who looked to be a similar age, the story behind the murals. Catholic priests, he said, might be called upon to travel to pagan regions, where they might well meet a fate like those depicted in the bloody panels. Even now, a missionary into the world of the non-Christian must be prepared, and learning how those who had come before him had met their end with fortitude and unshaken faith was important. Melanie
wondered if she could have managed to face such horrible torture—and remain true to any faith.

She looked around the church until she saw a young priest hurrying toward the exit. She ran after him.
“Per favore, un momento, padre.”

He stopped, turned back to her, and studied her long and hard.
“Si, bambina, si?”

She told him that she was seeking Sister Maria Elizabeta. He looked weary, as if he were often asked about the sister.

He shook his head. “She is not here.
Questa e' alla chiésa,
this is a church. The sister, she does not live here. She lives at the convent.” His English was good, just a little stilted.

“Can you tell me where that is?”

“It would not matter. You would not see her. She prays. All day. She has taken a step away from the world. And when she worships, it is not at this church.”

That startled Melanie. She was so certain she had read the signs correctly.

“Please, it's imperative that I see her,” Melanie said. “It's a matter of life and death,” she said. She prayed she didn't sound overly dramatic. “Please, I swear, I'm not a reporter or anything. I wouldn't hurt her in any way. I simply need to see her.”

He studied her for a long moment and then seemed to soften. “When she worships, it is at San Giovanni in Catacombe.”