Lost in Italy (12 page)

Her stomach knotted, shoving aside suspicion.  Despite what she’d just been thinking, the thought of being by herself was scarier than any conspiracy she could dream up right now.

She rushed after him.  “You’re not leaving me here.”

Trent paused, his attention focused on the sudden death grip she had on his arm.  “I can’t take you with me, what if we run into more cops?  One of them might recognize you.”

“I’ll duck down in my seat.”  She fought a lump of fear rising in her throat.  “Please, Trent, don’t leave me alone.”

He rested both hands on her shoulders, his gaze locked with hers.  “No one knows of my part in any of this.  You’re safe here.  Take a little nap, and I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Why can’t we just pick up a battery on the way to Milan?”

His thumbs rubbed up and down her neck in a light, comforting caress.

“Halli, you’re exhausted; I can see it in your face.  Things won’t magically be over once you’re at the consulate.  You need to get some sleep.”

“I won’t be able to sleep.”  She thought of how she’d almost passed out at the police station, but at that point, she’d considered herself safe.  Now he was going to leave her alone after multiple reminders that the bad guys were still out there, guns at the ready.  Shoot first, ask questions later.

“You’re safe.  Fix yourself something to eat and just close your eyes to rest,” he suggested.

Mutely, she shook her head, imploring him with her eyes to take her along.  He keyed in the security code and gently but firmly pushed her away.

“Make me something, too, would you?  I’m starving.”

Without waiting for an answer, Trent stepped into the garage and shut the door between them.  Halli reached for the handle, then pulled back and swung around to face the kitchen.  With one arm hugging her stomach, she pressed her other hand hard against her lips to still the tremble in her fingers.  Both hands clenched into fists as she fought the emotions trying to turn her into a helpless puddle of terror.

All she needed to do was think things through calmly, rationally.  He’d be back soon and they’d leave for Milan.  At the consulate she’d get the help she needed and—

Her gaze swept the room for a phone.  There!  On the far wall.  She could call Ben!  Her fingers shook as she dialed his cell phone number.

Answer the phone, Ben.  Please, answer
.

By the eighth ring it switched to voice mail.  Thank God it wasn’t the Italian recording like earlier when Trent had informed her cell service around the lake could be spotty after she’d gotten her hopes up.  At the sound of her brother’s voice, she dissolved into tears, left a somewhat hysterical message asking why and where they were, but when her words came out garbled beyond recognition, she hung up mid-sentence.

Determination made her reign her emotions back under control and the second message was a bit more successful; she apologized for the blubbering, told him she was okay, and she’d try the hotel.

The front desk of the Grand Hotel confirmed Trent’s claim that no Sanders had registered yet.  Halli hung up, new worry gnawing at her gut.

Why haven’t they checked into the hotel by now?
 
When they came back and didn’t find me, the next logical step would be to check in at the hotel and wait for me there.
 
They had to come back to look for me, so where are they now?

She redialed the hotel and left a message for Ben in case they showed up later.  Then she called his cell phone, forced herself to remain calm as she waited for the voicemail to kick in, and left a third message.

“Me again.  Not sure where you guys are or what’s going on, but I’m okay.”  She laughed, knowing Ben would when he listened.  “Yeah, I know, not so believable after the last two messages...but
really
, I’m fine, so don’t worry about me.  I’m going to the Consulate General in Milan.  It’s like an embassy.  Meet me there in the morning by ten.  I’ll wait out front for you.”

She hung up the phone and slumped into a nearby chair, relieved to have a solid plan in place once more.  Ben and Rachel would meet her in Milan and everything would be okay.

Energy drained from her like she’d pulled the plug in a tub.  God, Trent was right, she was exhausted.  Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since arriving in the country.

He had plenty to eat in his refrigerator, but in the end it was easiest to just warm a can of Spaghetti O’s.  At last,
something
familiar.

As she ate, she thought about Trent’s hesitation when she’d questioned his part in the situation.  And he’d swiped her camera on the way out, taking with him the only tangible evidence she had of this entire unbelievable day.

After he’d refused to explain his involvement.

“I need you, sweetheart, it’s as simple as that.”

Why did he need her if he had the video?  What use was she to him?  None of it made sense.

The canned pasta in her stomach churned, and what was left in her bowl lost its already limited appeal.  She returned to the kitchen, dumped her leftovers in the garbage and deposited her dishes in the sink.  Leaning back against the counter, she gripped the edge so hard numbing tingles shot through her fingers.

How is he involved in this whole thing?

Impulse propelled her to the drawer where he’d stashed her purse and camera.  A quick rummage revealed nothing of significance and she slammed it shut before moving on to another one.

Halli worked her way through the house, not quite knowing what she was looking for, but somehow the systematic progression of her hasty search kept her in a semi-state of calm.  Taking action instead of letting things happen gave her a tiny sense of much-coveted control.

One of the bedrooms smelled odd.  A combination of fresh paint and the scent of new carpeting mingled in the stale air, suggesting it’d been closed up for awhile.  All the drawers and closets were empty save one.  When she saw men’s clothes along with boxes of cameras and film equipment, something clicked in her mind.  Trent’s brother had been a documentary film maker, just like their father, Greg Tomlin.

Her gaze scanned the room again, this time comprehending the fresh paint and new carpeting.  Of course.  This must have been where he’d died.  The furnishings looked new.  As if they’d been hastily replaced, instead of someone taking the time to find antique pieces like in the guestroom she’d used earlier.

The hairs on the back of her neck pricked and a chill raced down her spine.  Backing up, she rushed from the room and slammed the door, unable to stomach the thought of Sean Tomlin’s lifeless body on the bed as the newspapers had reported.

In the hall, as she leaned against the wall to take a couple of deep breaths, her gaze focused on the door at the end, the room she’d heard Trent in earlier when she’d made her escape.  A likely place to store things he wanted kept private.  Heart still pounding wildly, she hurried across the carpet and twisted the door handle.

There was no doubt it was Trent’s room.  One hundred percent
male
was stamped on the heavy, walnut furniture of the four poster king bed, two dressers, a desk and a black leather chair.  On the walls, stark black and white outdoor photos complimented the dark bedding and drapes.  The pictures reminded her of Ansel Adams and she wouldn’t be surprised if they were originals.

She made it halfway across the room before a part of her balked at violating Trent’s personal privacy.  Then she thought of him ransacking her purse and quickly forgot her hesitation.  She started with his dresser drawers, but the only thing of interest she found there were designer boxer briefs and a box of extra-large condoms.

Lovely.  Just what she wanted to know.

Mentally blocking the memory of their earlier kiss and the feel of his hard body, she headed for the desk.  In the third drawer, she hit pay dirt.  Buried on the bottom, a leather bound notebook sat atop a thick stack of newspaper articles.  Articles about Sean Tomlin’s suicide.  Thumbing through them, she saw a couple she’d read back in the States.  She’d been as shocked and saddened as much of the world, especially since it’d never been made public until his death that Trent’s brother had fought a battle with depression most of his adult life.

Though not as renowned as their legendary father, Sean Tomlin’s last two documentaries had garnered rave reviews from critics and audiences alike.  Through her job in public television, Halli had watched and respected his work even before he grew in popularity.  He’d been a rising star, unafraid to tackle subjects others shied away from.  The world had lost something special when he died.

She set aside the clippings from the US publications and the local Italian newspapers, and opened the leather bound book.  Inside were pages of notes printed in bold handwriting that matched the note she’d found on the bed after her shower.  The first couple pages seemed to be random thoughts jotted down as they’d come to his mind, though after a page, she began to see a pattern.

Paper crinkled in the silent room as she turned the next page, unable to keep herself from reading.  She had to skip a section of blank pages before she found what looked like journal entries.  They weren’t dated, but it became very clear they’d been started only a few days after his brother’s death.

Halli backed up and sat on the bed, her eyes devouring the less concise, more...
passionate
handwriting.  His words were at turns angry and anguished; at himself, his brother, and his father.  The ink was dark, the indents for each letter grooved deep into the paper as if the hand writing them had pressed hard.

More than once, tears welled in her eyes as she read the emotion he’d poured onto paper.  This part of his personality was so opposite the playboy image he presented to the public she could hardly believe it was the same person.  He’d laid his soul bare in these pages, and suddenly it was too personal.

She reached up with both hands to wipe her wet cheeks before flipping past his journal entries and paging through the rest of the notebook.  A page toward the back snagged her attention with a glimpse of organization and she hurriedly located it again.  A detailed outline began at the top of one page and continued for a few more pages.  An outline of events leading up to and after Sean’s death.

It didn’t take long before Trent Tomlin’s involvement in this crazy situation became crystal clear.

“I refuse to let them kill you like they did my brother and Lorenzo,”
he’d told her
.

He didn’t believe his brother had committed suicide.  He was investigating his brother’s
murder
.

Chapter 7

Alrigo Lapaglia limped into his lakeside villa, rage simmering in his blood with each stabbing breath he took.  Twice the bitch had gotten away.  The car chase had caused one hell of a stir with no results.  He’d lucked out when his inside guy Stefano called from the Torno police station with the news that a lost American tourist by the name of Halliwell Sanders had turned up at their doorstep.  But no more had he had her in his sights, she’d escaped again.

With help.

And he’d gotten hit by a fucking truck.

He was done playing nice.  Mariucci and Casale had unsuccessfully questioned the two Americans they’d picked up about who they knew here in town.  Apparently, extracting the necessary information would require a professional.  The fact that the Halliwell girl had given some story about taking the wrong bus revealed she knew more than she should.

He didn’t care that the bullshit story actually helped him, all he wanted was her and the video, and then she could be taken care of for good.

Alrigo stopped at the door to his office, where his right-hand man sat at his desk.  “Where’s Eva?”

Nino Da Via looked up from his laptop and removed a set of black framed glasses as he sat back in Alrigo’s leather executive chair.  Placing thumb and forefinger into his mouth, he blew a piercing whistle.

Annoyance and impatience alternately nipped at Alrigo’s heels as he made his way across the room and poured a generous amount of
grappa
into a tumbler.

“What’s the verdict?”  Nino folded his hands across his stomach.  “You gonna live?”

Alrigo’s gaze narrowed, not fooled by his partner’s casual pose or tone.  He’d banged up his knee and busted two ribs, but didn’t plan to announce the injuries and invite ideas from the more ambitious men in his employ.

Nino’s glance dropped from the ten stitches along his hairline to his knee and Alrigo instinctively straightened.  It hurt like the devil without the brace the doc had given him, but now he wished he’d fought the pain more to conceal his limp when he’d entered.

He forced a smile, lifting his glass as he answered the question.  “For many long and prosperous years, my friend.  I see you got the window fixed already.”

Nino’s nod was as efficient as his actions.

“And the body?”

“I’ll take care of it tonight.”

Alrigo glared out the newly installed window.  He never should’ve plugged the bastard, but it really annoyed him that the man thought he’d be fooled by such a flimsy cover.  As if he was stupid enough to do business with an unknown buyer who was clearly not who he claimed.  Yes, Nino would dispose of the body, but the added complication of the man he’d shot being a retired
agente
of the
Polizia di Stato
pissed him off as much as the woman who’d caught the act on video.