Untraceable (16 page)

The lightning
cracked close by again and I involuntarily
twitched.

He gathered me
against his body and sighed, “You don’t like the
lightening?”

“I love it when I
can watch it from a distance. But, when it’s this close, it’s
pretty scary.”

“I guess sometimes
God has to bring what’s dangerous close enough to remind us that we
should be scared—then He reminds us He’s here,
too.”

“I love you,
Micah. I know making a change isn’t easy for you, but I want you to
know that it means so much to me that you’re willing to do
it.”

“Before I met you,
if someone said I’d be getting rid of my guns, it would have been
the same as if they told me I was going to get rid of my arms. Am I
willing to do this? No, but I guess I’m learning that becoming this
new person means doing what isn’t easy. I’m going to change for
you, for our son, and for me.”

There was another
brilliant flash outside the French doors and a tremendous boom as
the lightning must have hit somewhere in our yard. I let out a
little squeal and ducked so deep against his chest muscles I nearly
pushed him onto his back. “I’m really glad you decided to come out
here, because I’d be terrified if you weren’t.”

He gave a soft
laugh, wrapping both arms around me and one leg over me as he
cocooned me with his body, “It didn’t take me long to get out here
after I watched the weather and saw what was coming. I have an
obsession about protecting you, even from Mother Nature. That’s
why, when you began to tell me about Jonathan, it raised the hair
on the back of my neck and all I could think about was about your
prayer, and us being separated again. I went a little
over-board.”

“I’d
say.”

“But, I still
don’t like him. Something isn’t right.”

“Like
what?”

“His name for
instance.”

“What’s wrong with
his nam—” Another burst of lightning, ended my question, but not
Micah’s response.

“Rossi is the most
common name in Italy. It’s like his name is John
Doe.”

“I really do think
he’s an architect.”

“Maybe he is, but
please, for me, be cautious.”

The rain began
pouring in torrents against the building as the lightning seemed to
move farther away.

He kissed me slow
and deep and then smiled, “It’s going to rain for at least an hour
or two. I can think of a few things to take your mind off the
storm.”

“Show me,” I
teased as I let my hand slide down past his
brakes.

The storm was
forgotten.

CHAPTER Nine

Micah made good on
his newest promise early the next morning as he called the airport
and scheduled a private flight home. He was taking his small
arsenal out of the house and delivering them to his father. He
actually said he would prefer them to be in David’s hands, but
since he was trying to convince his brother to give up the life of
a hitman, he decided his father would be the better keeper; at
least until he could arrange to have someone melt them down. He
certainly didn’t want something to happen and have his father get
blamed for murder.

The plane wouldn’t
be ready until ten and I was telling him I wanted to go with him,
but he absolutely refused due to the nature of what he was
transporting.

“I’ve been with
you when they were in the trunk,” I reminded
him.

“Yes, but that
couldn’t be helped at the time. I’ll be careful and I’ll be back
around six tonight, unless Dad keeps me later, but I’ll call if
that happens.” He kissed me and backed out of the garage in my
Aston Martin because he couldn’t fit everything into the
Vet.

Around eleven
o’clock a Federal Express truck pulled up to the house and the
driver stepped out with a large cylinder; the house plans had
arrived. I called Jonathan and told him that I had them, but we’d
have to arrange another day to meet because Micah had the only car
he’d allow me to drive (other than Mom’s, but she wasn’t
home).

“I could stop by
and pick them up, if you like?”

Micah wouldn’t
like him showing up here while I was home alone, but Mom would be
returning around three, so I told him that would be fine if he
could stop by around three-thirty or four o’clock. Mom made it home
a little after three and Jonathan pulled in promptly at
three-thirty.

“Beautiful home,”
he remarked as he climbed out of the Ferrari.

“It’s my mother’s,
but thank you. Come on in and I’ll introduce
you.”

He nodded and
followed me inside. I had the plans out of the tube and unfurled on
the dining room table. After introductions, he looked them over and
confirmed the changes we wanted. The original plans were for
thirty-eight-hundred square feet and four bedrooms with two of the
bedrooms sharing a bath. We wanted to add about two-thousand square
feet to the plan, an extra bedroom and for each bedroom to be a
suite with its own bath.

“Did you two
decide about the guest houses?” he asked as he accepted a bottled
water that my mother offered him.

“We decided on
two, one is a two bedroom and the other is a three. I’ve ordered
the plans and they should be here in a day or two. Can you draw
something to give me an idea of the arrangement you were talking
about? I haven’t quite got how this common courtyard is going to
work.”

“Of course,” he
said as he rolled up the plans and placed them back into the
mailing tube. “Let me have the plan book so I can get some
dimensions and I will put together a site plan. If you and Micah
want to keep me as your architect, I really need to go out and see
the property as soon as possible so I can get an idea of the
landscape.”

We were walking
out to his car as we discussed when we might be able to meet
there.

“It’s a bit of a
drive,” I warned him. “It’s about two and a half hours north of
here.”

He gave me a sly
smile, “I do not mind driving. And, in my car, the drive might not
take that long. You should give it a try.”

I laughed, “Yes, a
fast car can make a difference—unless you have a husband who thinks
horsepower and motherhood don’t mix.”

“If he does not
approve of your Aston Martin, I doubt he would like me tempting you
with my Ferrari.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t
like that at all. But it’s not my Aston Martin that he doesn’t like
me driving.”

I could see the
confusion on his face.

“It’s my other car
that he doesn’t approve of—a car that I’m afraid would leave your
Ferrari in the dust.”

“The Enzo is one
of the fastest cars in the world, Leese,” he chided
softly.

“Yes, it
is
one
of the fastest, but it’s
not
the
fastest—I have a Shelby Ultimate Aero in
that garage.” I stated, pointing to the end door. “And, other than
some of the non-street-legal cars on the racing circuit, I can beat
anything on the road.”

“Mamma mia! A
Shelby? I am a bit of a sports car connoisseur. Would you mind if I
took a look at it?”

“Not at all. Just
give me a minute to grab my keys.”

Minutes later he
was practically salivating over my ‘baby.’ I cranked it up so he
could listen to the engine purr—he was clearly
impressed.

“I have had my car
up to 210 on the Autobahn. How much speed have you gotten out of
her?”

“I got it up to
242 on a military airstrip. If I’d had a little more runway, I’d
have maxed out over 250.”

“I can see why
your husband wants it to stay in the garage, but what good is such
a perfect piece of machinery if it is unused? Surely you can
control your need for speed around town.”

“I think he’s more
worried about me finding someone who wants to race, actually,” I
laughed.

“You race?” The
surprise was evident.

“Not really, but
our first date I ended up racing his car against a—a friend. Ever
since then he is certain that if I get behind the wheel, I’ll find
someone to challenge me.”

“Well, if he
changes his mind and gives you a little freedom with this car, I
would love to see what it can do—no racing, of course. That, I
agree, in your condition, would be foolish.”

“You know I
actually hate it when people call pregnancy a ‘condition.’ It makes
it sound like I have a disease.”

“My apology. So
you prefer if I say preg—pregnant or expecting?” He blushed
slightly.

“Guys have a
little trouble with the ‘pregnant’ word, so expecting is
okay.”

“My wife said the
same thing when she was expecting our daughter—not that she
disliked the word condition, but she said I stuttered when I said
she was pregnant.”

I had noticed when
we met in the bookstore that he didn’t have a ring on his hand, so
it caught me off guard when he mentioned his
wife.

“I didn’t realize
you were married. Is she here in the States?”

He didn’t reply.
He turned off the engine and handed me back my keys. His eyes were
filling with tears as he stood and lowered the door, “I—I should be
going.”

“Are you okay?” I
asked, not sure if it was a good idea to be too personable, but he
seemed so upset that it was only natural to reach out and touch his
arm.

“I am a widower,”
he answered quietly.

“I’m so sorry. Was
it recent?” Unless Jonathan was older than he looked, surely they
couldn’t have been married very long.

“Eight months ago,
but,” he said, quickly wiping his eyes and walking out of the
garage toward his car, “it feels like it was yesterday. I came here
to the U.S. to get away from the memories.”

“So you’re raising
your daughter alone?” I didn’t want to be nosy, but he mentioned a
daughter.

“No. They were
both—both killed by a drunk driver,” he choked
out.

Wow—what do you
say to someone that has gone through such a tragedy? Sorry was
simply too mundane, plain, and inefficient. “It must be so
difficult for you to deal with that kind of loss; I can’t even
imagine.”

A look crossed his
face that I could only describe as intrigued.

“You are the first
person to say it that way. Everyone else states it in the past
tense; it must
have
been so
difficult. But you said it correctly; it is something that I deal
with every day.” He sat down in his car, laying the plan book on
the passenger’s seat. “I will call you as soon as I have the
renderings ready,” he said softly. “Ciao, Leese.” But there was no
energy in the words to tell me goodbye.

Micah didn’t make
it in until after nine. When I told him about the plans and
Jonathan coming over to pick them up, he wasn’t happy with
me.

“I told you to be
careful,” he reminded me as we sat on the edge of our bed preparing
to undress for a long and relaxing shower.

“I was careful. I
didn’t invite him while I was here alone and I didn’t offer to meet
him somewhere. I really don’t think you have anything to worry
about. He mentioned his wife and—”

“And you believe
he’s married?”

He was asking it
as a question, but the tone of his voice was telling me that if I
did he would be disappointed. “Micah, he’s a widower. He said his
wife and daughter were killed by a drunk driver in Italy and he
came to the States to get away from the memories. Why would anyone
make up that kind of story?”

“To get a
beautiful young woman to let her guard down,” he stated, lifting my
chin. “A good liar will have you believing anything he
says.”

“I don’t think he
was lying.”

“My point
exactly.”