AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Jesus,” he whispered. “Connie. I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” She stood up. “It’s been nice seeing you. Just forget about…about what I said, OK?”
“Connie! Wait. Don’t go. Walk with me, will you?”
She hesitated. “John. You don’t have to be nice to me.”
“I’m not being nice to you. I just…” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I had some bad news a little while ago. I came here to get away from it and it would be good to have company.”
He watched the display of emotions dance across her face. Then she nodded.
“If that’s what you want.”
“It’s definitely what I want.”
He walked toward her; she fell into step beside him.
They walked for a long time.
He told her about the Point; she told him about the University of Texas at Arlington, where she was studying to be a nurse.
After a while, she asked if everything was all right.
“You looked so sad before.”
He was tempted to brush the question aside. Instead, he told her about Miss Cleary. How good she’d been to him. How shabbily he’d treated her.
How he’d just discovered that she was gone.
“Oh, John!” She slipped her hand into his. “She knew you loved her. I’m sure she did.”
“Yeah. I hope so.”
Impulsively, she turned to him, rose on her toes and kissed his cheek.
“You’re a good man, John Wilde.”
“The hell I am.”
“You are. Alden always talked about how great you were.”
“He did?”
“Darned right, he did. He was crazy about you.”
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. She smiled; he smiled back.
“Hey,” he said, “how about we get something to eat?”
“Thank you, but I don’t want to go to your father’s party.”
John grinned. “That makes it unanimous.” He tucked her hand into the curve of his arm. “Let’s go to Annie’s. I haven’t had one of her giant if-you-can-finish-it-you-don’t-have-to pay-for-it steaks in years.”
Connie laughed. “Nobody can finish one of Annie’s steaks.”
“Says you.”
“Wanna bet?”
Her expression changed. “Bet what?” she whispered.
Then, she was in his arms.
He didn’t think. Neither did she. She snaked her hands under his shirt. He tore hers open. Yanked down her shorts as she fumbled at his fly.
A second later, he was inside her, holding her up in his arms, her hands clasping his shoulders, her mouth locked to his.
He came hard and fast; she cried out as he did.
Still deep inside her, he took her down to the grass with him, knelt between her thighs and drove into her again.
Her nails clawed his back; she arched against him and as her orgasm tore through her, he came again.
Spent, he collapsed against her.
They lay holding each other for long minutes.
Then he helped her to her feet.
She crossed her arms over her breasts.
“Don’t,” he said softly.
She shook her head. “I’m so embarrassed…”
He took her hands and kissed them. Then he dressed her, zipped his fly and put his arm around her waist.
“Come on.”
“No. It’s OK. I’ll walk back to my car myself.”
John clasped her chin, leaned in and kissed her again.
“We’re going to my car,” he said firmly, “and then to the Magnolia Inn.” He put his arms around her. “And we’re going to do this the right way.”
“John…”
“Or do you really want the mosquitoes to make a meal out of our butts?”
She smiled, as he’d hoped she would. Then she giggled and, finally, she laughed.
Half an hour later, after a quick stop at a drugstore for condoms, she was in his arms again, this time in a queen-size bed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
COULD YOU FALL in love with a country?
Yes, Johnny decided, yes, you could.
Italy was spectacular. He loved everything about it. The cities, the towns, the ruins, the food, the wine, the people.
The women.
Man, the women! Bellissima!
Johnny’s boss, Brigadier General Pete Halvorson, thought so, too.
Halvorson had translators on his staff, but he made it clear that he saw himself as part of the “new” army. That turned out to mean that Halvorson, a short, overweight bachelor, saw the benefits of having a tall, good-looking, charming military aide beside him, rather than a run-of-the-mill translator, at the endless cocktail parties he attended as part of his job
Simply put, General Halvorson liked the ladies. The ladies liked catching the attention of a general, but they adored catching the interest of Second Lieutenant John Hamilton Wilde.
Not a problem.
There were more than enough beautiful women to go around.
Not that it was all fun and games.
Halvorson had a job to do, and he was good at it.
Days were filled with meetings; John was responsible for making sure his boss had whatever facts he needed at his fingertips.
To that end, he read the seemingly endless reports and documents that came in over Halvorson’s fax machine and by diplomatic pouch, researched whatever had to be researched, and turned it all into comprehensive and comprehensible notes.
He studied Halvorson closely, absorbed the intricacies of behavior that went with being part soldier and part diplomat.
Best of all, he made contacts that would prove to be invaluable.
By the end of his first year as Halvorson’s side, John was a first lieutenant.
By the end of his second, he was a captain.
He could count several high-ranking officers as friends. He had excellent relationships with various embassy policy wonks, diplomats, even with secretaries and clerks.
You never knew who would be useful and when.
He knew that sounded cynical, but he also knew that the world wasn’t run by do-gooders and optimists.
If it were, why was he alive and Alden dead?
He tried not to think about Alden too much, but what was “too much?” Once a month? Once a week? Once a day? Truth was, his brother popped into his head at the damnedest times. John could be laughing at a joke, and Alden was there. Working at his desk and bam, Alden was with him.
The worst times were when he was with a woman and all at once, he’d realized that Alden would never experience her whispers, her sighs.
Talk about quick turnoffs.
The more fulfilling his own life became, the more he realized what Alden would never have.
Sometimes, in the dark of the darkest nights, he also faced the realization that this existence, full as it was, was not truly what he would have chosen as his own.
But if a man didn’t choose the life he led, he could surely live it the best he could. Get the things he wanted, and he knew what those things were.
Success. Power. He wanted what Halvorson had, and more. And he knew that he could get it. After a few years of being more and more valuable to the general, doors were opening to him.
Part of it because he was more and more visible. He’d become an indispensible part of the team.
Part was that he was a West Pointer and therefore a member of an elite and exclusive group.
And part, to his surprise, was that even now, out of the Point, there were high-ranking army officers who wanted to toss back a shot of Scotch with the Johnny Wilde who’d scored that fantastic win over Navy.
Five years in, a major’s gold leaf insignia was only a heartbeat away.
And he had a mistress.
Her name was Angelica. Angelica Bellini, and she was everything a man could want. Fiery. Bright. Beautiful, so beautiful that just looking at her
made his heartbeat quicken.
She was tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, with the temperament of a tigress. Her body was lush, and she was insatiable in bed.
Their relationship was stormy and passionate, and completely off the books. Angelica might be all a man could want, but she was not what the army would want for a young captain who was on the fast track to the top.
She was smart, but not formally educated.
She spoke her mind; she didn’t believe in subtlety.
She was charming when she wished to be charming, hell on wheels when she didn’t
In other words, she was the product of a small, unsophisticated Sicilian village.
John had taken a week’s vacation in Sicily. He returned the following month and bought a very old, very handsome house that stood tucked against a jagged mountain in splendid isolation.
It was a wild and beautiful place; he loved that about it. It was a far cry from the world he normally inhabited.
Moving among important people, powerful people, was exciting, but there was just enough in him of the Johnny Wilde he’d once been that he needed to break free every once in a while.
Sicily was the place to do it.
After he bought the house, he bought a motorcycle, a used 350-cc Mark 3 Desmo Ducati that could outrun and outpower anything on the treacherous curving roads. He rode at all hours, but especially very early in the morning, just at dawn, and again late at night, when the moonlight kissed the sea. He loved the bike’s speed, the predatory growl of its engine, the very real danger of riding full throttle along roads that clung like vines to the ancient cliffs.
