The Wedding Gamble Page 6

“Buon giorno.” The gondolier—dressed in the skinny black trousers, black and white striped shirt, and flat straw hat she recognized from half-a-dozen romantic movies set in Venice—welcomed them into his boat.

  “Buon giorno.” David spoke the words with the assurance of a native. He settled his arm across her shoulder. “My wife is very anxious to get started,” he said. “Aren’t you, dear?”

  The word “wife” still sent a jolt of surprise through her. “Oh…yes,” she stammered. “Please.” The sight of Victor and Charlie turning the corner and moving toward them lent urgency to her words.

  “Then we will begin.” With a smile, the gondolier pushed off from the side and guided the boat into the canal. “Signora, signor, relax and imagine a magical evening in Venice. The stars are shining,” he indicated the realistic starlit sky overhead, “and the night is filled with romance.”

  She sank low in the cushioned seat and tried to relax. Under different circumstances, she would have enjoyed the ride. The architecture around them mimicked her idea of Venice, though perhaps cleaner than the real thing. The shops that lined the canals tempted the eye with colorful displays while jugglers, a fire-eater, and other street performers added to the feeling of being transported to another time and place.

  But David’s arm across her shoulder was rigid with tension, and every time she looked to her left, she thought she caught glimpses of two familiar figures trailing them on the walkway beside the canal.

  “There is a tradition in Venice,” the gondolier said. “Couples kiss as the gondola passes beneath each bridge. For luck and love.” He winked. He was a young man, perhaps college-aged, with an open, friendly face. He probably made great tips, she thought.

  “We wouldn’t want to pass up the chance to improve our luck,” David said. His eyes met hers. Play along with me, they telegraphed.

  She nodded, watching over his shoulder as Charlie and Victor dodged a family taking a photograph in front of a statue of a horse and a man in multi-colored tights juggling bowling pins.

  “Here is the first bridge,” the gondolier announced.

  David pulled her closer, and she tilted her face up to his. Should I close my eyes? she wondered. But how could she close them with Charlie and Victor drawing ever nearer? And after all, this wasn’t a real kiss between lovers—only a show meant to fool people.

  Then his lips found hers, and she forgot that the kiss wasn’t supposed to be real. The sensations spreading through her were real. The rush of blood in her veins and the pounding of her pulse were real. Her eyes drifted shut, and she leaned into him, wanting him closer. She was dry, barren grassland and he was renewing fire, engulfing her. He gripped her shoulders tighter and slanted his mouth more firmly across hers.

  “Hrrrmph!” The loud throat-clearing jolted them apart. The gondolier wagged a finger at them. “We have many more bridges,” he said. “You must pace yourselves.”

  “Of course,” she murmured, her face burning. She smoothed her skirt primly across her knees, avoiding David’s eyes. What did it mean, that he could kiss her like that? Was it all part of the act? Or did he kiss every woman he met with such passion?

  “How far ‘til the next bridge?” David asked.

  She stared at him. Had he enjoyed the kiss so much he couldn’t wait for more?

  The gondolier laughed. “Only a short while,” he said. “Now I will sing for you.” He began to sing, in a rich, clear tenor, startling in its beauty. “O solo mio…”

  David leaned in closer. “When I give the word, follow me out of the boat,” he said softly. His breath tickled her ear, distracting her so that his words scarcely made sense. He squeezed her hand. “Can you do that?”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I don’t know yet, but when I decide, we won’t have much time. I need you to trust me.”

  She nodded. “All right.” She did trust him. He might be driven, determined, and even dangerous, but she’d never doubted that he wanted to protect her.

  The walkways became more crowded as they approached a section of busy shops. The voices of a group of madrigals competed with the singing of their gondolier as he guided the gondola beneath yet another bridge. David grasped her hand tightly. “Now,” he said. He stood and pulled her up beside him.

  “Sir, you must remain seated,” the gondolier protested.

  “We need to get off here.” David thrust a handful of bills into the gondolier’s hand. “My wife isn’t feeling well. She’s going to be sick.”

  Whether it was the bribe or the prospect of her throwing up in his boat, the gondolier swiftly propelled the boat to the side of the canal. David leaped onto the walkway. She leaped too, the prow of the boat veering back toward the middle of the channel as she jumped, so that her right foot just caught the edge of the pavement. David tugged her hard, and she gratefully collapsed against him.

  “Let’s get out of here before Dumb and Dumber spot us again.”

  He led her, not away from where they’d last seen the two thugs, but toward them. She spotted the two men ahead and her steps faltered. “Come on,” David urged. He hurried toward the madrigal singers gathered at the foot of the bridge their gondola had just glided under. Without pausing, he plucked a floppy velvet beret from the head of one of the women and shouldered into the group with Laura beside him.

  The woman glared and started to protest, but one smile from David silenced her. Scarcely missing a beat, he glanced at the sheet music she held and joined in the song, in a rich bass that drew a second, more appreciative look from the woman. Laura stared as Charlie and Victor raced past, scarcely glancing at the singers.

  When the song had ended, the crowd around them applauded. David returned the cap to the woman with a bow. “Thank you for playing along with my little joke,” he said.

  She smiled at him, eyes shining. “Anytime—”

  But before she could complete the thought, they were off again. They raced toward an exit, Laura running to keep up. She was breathless, as much from excitement as exertion. They burst outside, the brilliant sun bouncing off the white marble of the steps blinding her. David hailed a taxi, and she dove into the back seat beside him.

  “Take us to Fremont Street,” he told the driver.

  “Sure thing.”

  The taxi crept through the heavy Vegas Strip traffic. She sagged against the seat, shoulder and thigh pressed against David’s, his hand still tightly gripping hers. They didn’t speak. She chewed her bottom lip—a habit she’d abandoned her junior year of high school, when a snooty classmate told her it was “common and unbecoming.”

  There was nothing common about the events of the last twenty-four hours. Nothing common about her hasty marriage or gangsters pursuing her, and certainly nothing common about the man beside her.

  He leaned forward, shoulders stiff with tension. The lights of Fremont Street shone ahead, the bright pinks and purples and oranges gaudy and visible even in daylight. “Do you see them?” she asked.

  David gave a single jerk of his head. “Let us out here,” he told the driver as the taxi pulled beneath the canopy of lights arching over Fremont Street. He paid the man and they climbed out. After they threaded their way through the crowd and crossed the street, he hailed a second cab.

  He gave the driver the name of the hotel two doors down from theirs. “Do you think the two cabs will throw them off the trail?” she whispered as they headed back toward the Strip.

  “I doubt they’ll go to the trouble of interviewing the cab drivers,” he said. “But if they do, I’d just as soon make it difficult for them.”

  She fell silent, overcome with weariness, dreading even the short walk to their hotel. She was hot and sweaty, and her feet hurt. Perhaps being a spy evading the bad guys wasn’t so glamorous after all.

  “You doing okay?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Just tired.”

  “Not exactly what you planned for your Vegas vacation?” he said.

  “This has d
efinitely been one birthday I’ll never forget.”

  He tensed. “I thought you were here for your sister’s bachelorette party.”

  “Yes, that’s the reason we came to Vegas. She forgot all about it being my birthday.”

  He frowned, but said nothing else.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  His eyes met hers, as sad as she remembered from last night. “Running from thugs is not the way you should be spending your birthday,” he said. “You could have been hurt, even killed.”

  A shiver raced through her, and she struggled to steady her voice. “I’m fine. Nothing happened.”

  “I need to get you back to your sister,” he said. “Where you’ll be safe.”

  “You mean where I won’t slow you down.”

  “I have a job to do. I can’t do it when I’m worried about putting you in danger.”

  Maybe he was right, and she really was in danger. But so was he. “I can help you,” she said. “And you still need for Zacolli and his men to believe you’re married.”

  “Maybe. But the sooner I can figure out a way to get you safely out of here, the better.”

  The cab dropped them off, and they walked in silence back to their hotel. When they were finally in their room, she sank gratefully into a chair. “That was exciting,” she said. “But exhausting.”

  “Why don’t you take a shower and relax?” he said.

  A shower sounded wonderful. “You won’t leave, will you?” She searched his face. It would be just like him to sneak out for some other dangerous encounter under the misguided belief that by going alone he was sparing her worry and keeping her safe.

  “I promise I won’t leave.” He sounded sincere. And she’d said she trusted him. Time to put that trust to the test.

  …

  David dropped onto the bed and leaned back against the pillows, listening to the muffled cascade of the shower. He needed to review his strategy for dealing with Tommy at their meeting tonight, to devise an argument or trick that would finally persuade the useless lug to do the right thing and testify against his murderous father.

  But his thoughts refused to focus on such grim matters, returning over and over instead to the woman on the other side of the bathroom door. The image of Laura naked, water cascading over every sensuous curve, made coherent thought impossible.

  If he was really her husband—a man who’d won her heart with love instead of trapping her with trickery—he’d be in that shower with her, running soap-slick hands over every inch of her silky flesh, letting the water rinse them clean as he pressed her back against the tile and buried himself between her legs, her cries of passion filling his ears.

  That he allowed himself to indulge in such fantasy even for a moment, much less long minutes, proved how much she’d affected him. He never let anything distract him from his work. He’d devoted every waking hour of the last eight years to pursuing and taking down men like Frank Zacolli. The work got him out of the bed every morning. It drove him all day and filled his dreams at night. His obsession had killed relationships with women and prevented him from getting close to anyone.

  Desperation had led him to pull Laura from the Vegas crowds—had it really been less than twenty-four hours ago? Yet he couldn’t help thinking of his mother’s belief that fate guided his hand. His ma would have liked Laura. What mother wouldn’t appreciate such a sweet, generous young woman? This morning, when he had first heard Laura’s tale of the spoiled sister’s wedding party, he’d thought her too generous, a pushover who let others take advantage. Then he’d watched her alternately rage at and charm Zacolli’s two thugs and been blown away by the strength and passion behind her giving nature.

  Laura was no pushover. She sacrificed for her family out of love and a genuine desire to see them happy, but she didn’t let anyone—not her sister, and certainly not a stranger who dragged her up and down the Strip in crazy capers—push her too far.

  She’d been scared today. He’d seen it in her eyes. But he’d also seen her gather her nerve and find a reserve of strength he doubted a harder, less-giving woman would possess. She didn’t expect anything in return—she hadn’t even wanted to accept the ring—but he wanted to show her how much he appreciated the effort she was making.

  He leaned over and picked up the phone beside the bed. He had six hours before he needed to meet Tommy. He intended to make the most of them. By the time she emerged from the bathroom fifteen minutes later, he had changed into a fresh shirt, combed his hair, and pulled himself together.

  Or so he thought, until he turned and found her, all pink and glowing, wrapped in an over-sized towel, another towel swathing her hair. Damp curls escaped the terry cloth turban at her neck, and she smelled of the hotel’s vanilla-and-spice shower gel, which at that moment he would have voted the most erotic scent in the world.

  She smiled apologetically and padded past him toward her suitcase, which sat atop the dresser. “I forgot clean clothes,” she said, but all he heard was I’m completely naked underneath this towel.

  “If you want, you can use the shower now,” she said as she searched through the suitcase.

  Right. A cold shower. Ice cold. He doubted even that would be enough to wash away the desire that gripped him like a teenager who’d discovered an unobstructed view of the cheerleader’s locker room. He was just as powerless to turn away from Laura now.

  “That was just what I needed,” she said. She turned to face him again, holding the towel closed with one hand and a bundle of clothing in the other.

  “Good.” He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her fingers holding the towel. If she let go, would it fall away, parting in slow motion and then sliding down to puddle at her feet, melting the last remnant of his self-control?

  “I’ll just go get dressed.”

  When the bathroom door shut behind her, he sank onto the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. I am so screwed.

  Chapter Six

  Laura stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Who are you and what have you done with the real Laura Nichols? She was acting like some fearless, Midwest version of a Bond girl. In her real life, she did not deliberately parade around half-naked in front of gorgeous, sexy strangers.

  And yes, that little foray into the other room, with her clad only in a towel, had been deliberate. True, she’d forgotten clean clothes, but it wasn’t as if the ones she’d been wearing had been dragged through the sewer. She could have put them back on.

  But then she would have missed seeing David’s mouth go slack and his eyes glaze over when he saw her. The man had been gobsmacked with lust.

  For her.

  That knowledge sent a thrill through her unlike any she’d experienced before. Winning Miss Congeniality in a sixth grade beauty pageant, being named Employee of the Month a record four times last year—nothing ranked up there with David looking at her the way he had. He’d stared at the hand that clutched the towel around her as if he could will her to let go.

  She’d been tempted. What would have happened if she’d released her hold and let the towel fall away? Who was she kidding? They’d have been on each other like dogs in heat.

  But she hadn’t been able to let go of that towel. It was one thing to fantasize about making love to him while sitting in the bath, but under the intensity of his gaze she’d morphed back into her normal, cautious self and scurried back to the safety of the bathroom.

  She unwound the towel turban and began combing her hair. Nothing in her life had prepared her to deal with rampant lust for a man she’d met less than twenty-four hours ago. Hot kisses in public were one thing; was she ready to get naked in front of the guy? The fact that she’d contemplated dropping her towel in broad daylight in front of David proved how far out of her comfort zone he’d forced her.

  She set aside the comb and frowned at her reflection in the mirror once more. Taking a deep breath, she unwrapped the towel from around her body.

  Definitely no Bond girl her
e. She had her assets—good boobs, and if you were a guy who appreciated a backside, she was your gal. But her rounded waist and plump thighs testified to her love of dessert. No one was going to mistake her for a swimsuit model, and nine-tenths of the women she saw in magazines and television shows did not look like her.

  David, not being blind, had to have noticed her extra padding, but clearly, he didn’t mind. That thought alone was enough to make her weak in the knees. But there was a difference between showing off curves with the aid of good tailoring and foundation garments, and exposing all that pale flesh to the light of day.

  Right. She wasn’t going there—yet. But maybe soon…When she emerged from the bathroom again, he was standing by the window, looking out. “See anything interesting?” she asked, keeping her tone light. Nothing happening here, hormones. Time to move along.

  “Did you ever wonder what aliens would think if they landed in Vegas first?”

  So instead of pondering his missed opportunity with her, he’d been thinking of aliens? Should she be insulted? “Um, I guess they might be impressed that we’d managed to cram so many wonders into a few square miles of desert. Or they might be appalled at the waste.”

  “Are you impressed or appalled?” he asked.

  “A little of both,” she admitted. “Sometimes I love it simply because it’s so different from what I’m used to. Other times, I feel I’m the alien, with no business being here.” He still hadn’t looked at her—because he was afraid to? Or because he didn’t want to?

  “I’m used to not fitting in, wherever I go.”

  He spoke without emotion, a simple statement of fact. But the bleakness of such a declaration filled her with sadness. “You strike me as a man who could fit in anywhere,” she said. “Isn’t that what undercover work is all about?”

  He shrugged. “I can play a part, make people think I’m one of them. But I know it’s only a role. Secrets like that set you apart.”

  Now she knew his secret. Did that make him less lonely? “David, I—”

  A knock on the door interrupted her. “I ordered room service,” he said as he moved past her. But he paused on the way to the door to retrieve his gun from the bedside table, holding it up and ready as he checked the peephole.