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The kitchen led to a hall, then to a study. More white tile. A glass-and-stainless steel desk. A black leather loveseat angled toward it, a black leather chair behind it.
He left the study, walked past a white tiled powder room, stepped into a big living room. More black leather, more glass, more tile, but with an Oriental rug centered against it.
Satisfied that the first level was clear, he headed upstairs, walked from room to room. There were three big, handsomely furnished bedrooms. Each had a connecting bathroom. No white tile here. The bathrooms were marble. The bedroom floors were maple.
A safe house. Or an upscale weekend home. Matteo headed downstairs. This wasn’t what he’d expected, and he was delighted it wasn’t.
At least, Ariel wasn’t going to trapped inside a drab, depressing place that looked as if it had been lifted from Eastern Europe fifty years ago.
No question he’d watched too many spy movies.
He checked the lower level last. Pool table. Ping Pong table. Dartboard.
Gun safe.
He’d leave that for later.
He went back to the first floor and walked into the garage. Ariel was getting out of the Cherokee.
“You took too long,” she said.
He smiled. “Sorry. The place is okay. Actually, it’s great. I think I’ve watched too many spy movies. Aren’t safe houses supposed to be dark and gloomy? This place is pretty nice.”
Nice, Ariel decided a few minutes later, was the wrong word.
The house was beautiful.
They walked through the rooms on the first floor. Whoever had done the furnishing had great taste.
The second floor was fantastic. Three big, gorgeous bedrooms. All lovely, but the first bedroom was done in shades of platinum and black with touches of crimson, and the fireplace took up an entire wall.
“Pick one,” Matteo said.
Ariel looked at him.
“A bedroom. Choose one.”
A wash of soft pink rose in her face.
“For me?” she said softly. “Or for us?”
His body tightened. No surprise there. He wanted her; he’d been aware of wanting her all day, no matter what else he’d been doing.
The surprise was what happened in his heart. It gave a strange kind of lift. A kick. It was something he’d never experienced before and left him momentarily speechless.
She swung away from him.
“Never mind,” she said quickly. “I shouldn’t have—”
He was with her in an instant, clasping her shoulders, spinning her toward him, taking her in his arms and kissing her with a passion that left her clinging to him.
“For us,” he said roughly. “Always. You. Me. Us…”
“Matteo,” she whispered. “Oh, God, Matteo…”
She rose on her toes and kissed him, and he lifted her off the floor, carried her to the bed, and came down beside her.
Her mouth tasted like sugar.
Her tongue was silk against his.
Her hands, clasping his face, were cool, but her touch was urgent.
He could feel her heart racing and he bent his head, pressed his mouth to the cotton T-shirt over her breast, caught the raised nib and bit it lightly through the shirt.
Her sweet, excited gasp, the sudden lift of her hips, made him groan.
He was desperate to get her undressed. To feel her skin against his. How could fabric and buttons and zippers be such obstacles?
“Matteo.” She fumbled, one-handed, with the hem of her shirt. “Help me. I can’t—”
“Sweetheart. Let me—”
Her right hand tangled with his. Her left hand, the one with the cast, slugged him in the jaw. He laughed. She laughed. And then their eyes met and everything changed, laughter fled, and he shot to his feet, tore off his clothes, dug a condom from his pocket.
Smart of him to have stashed a couple there, he thought, and he opened the little packet and began rolling the condom on.
“Let me,” she said.
Her cool hands replaced his. He groaned; his head fell back as she worked the condom up. Lights flashed before his eyes. Cristo, he was going to come in her hands!
“Stop,” he growled, and he batted her hands away, finished getting the condom on, and then he reached for her, drew her to the edge of the bed, tried to be careful and gentle and slow as he removed her seemingly endless layers of clothing but, goddammit, it was taking too long, too long…
She moaned.
“Get me out of these things. Matteo. Please oh please oh please, get me out of them, I need to touch you, to feel you, taste you…”
The sound that broke from his throat was wild and fierce with need.
He grabbed her shirt at the neckline and ripped it away. Her hand and his tore at the zipper of her jeans. When it opened, he dragged the jeans down to her ankles and she kicked off her boots, toed off the jeans while he yanked off her panties and then he was above her, between her thighs, and he captured her face in his hand.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice raw and hard with demand.
Her eyes met his.
“Who am I?”
“Matteo.”
“Say it again.”
“You are Matteo,” she sobbed. “Matteo. Matteo…”
He entered her on one long, deep, possessive thrust. She sobbed his name and wrapped her legs around his hips and he pulled back, then rocked into her again.
She cried out. Colors flashed against her closed eyelids.
He threw back his head. Felt himself coming, coming…
Her muscles tightened around him. Her fingernails raked his back. He swept his hands beneath her, lifted her, plunged deep, deeper, deeper and when she screamed in ecstasy, he knew, with life-changing clarity, that he had fallen in love with her.
* * *
She fell asleep in his arms.
He wanted to close his eyes and go with her. His muscles ached; he knew he needed to rest for at least a little while. More than that, he simply wanted the pleasure of holding her, breathing her in, feeling the warmth of her against the length of his body.
But his head wouldn’t let that happen.
His mind was skittering in what seemed like endless different directions, all of them leading to one thought.
One name.
Tony Pastore.
Where was he?
Zach had said Pastore wasn’t close on their trail. Not yet, anyway. He spent a couple of minutes wondering how Zach could know that, what kind of contacts he had that would give him such information when it hit him that a man who could round up a car, cash, and a safe house in the blink of an eye was involved in things a lot more complex than providing bodyguards and high tech security systems, which was what he’d foolishly assumed Shadow Inc. did.
Until now.
Ariel sighed in her sleep and burrowed closer. He pressed a light kiss to her forehead.
It was impossible to think of her and Pastore together…
And there he was, back at ground zero. Tony Pastore. And Ariel. It didn’t make sense. How could she have been attracted to him?
Matteo had always known the real Tony Pastore. The bully. The tough street kid.
But Pastore the man had a patina of sophistication. He’d been written up in the Times, the Wall Street Journal, a couple of magazines. He gave millions to various organizations. A few years back, he’d funded a new building at one of the state universities. He donated money to museums, to the arts.
Pastore had told him how he’d met Ariel. At a charity event that brought together benefactors and artists. She’d have seen a generous man with an interest in the arts. He’d have seen the final piece he needed to complete his image as a man dedicated to the public good.
Was that how things had gone?
Ariel threw her leg over Matteo’s. His arm tightened around her.
No. It just didn’t seem plausible.
A part of the story was missing.
Pastore had found a way to
trick her into marrying him. There couldn’t be any other explanation.
And now, he wanted to get rid of her.
Pastore was out there somewhere, and, Dio, he was lying here in bed as if being in a safe house was sufficient.
He should have opened the gun safe by now.
Dammit, of course he should have.
Carefully, he worked his arm from around Ariel’s shoulders, eased his leg from hers. She made a sleep-addled whisper of protest and he stopped moving, stopped breathing until he was certain he hadn’t woken her.
Then he rose from the bed, pulled on his jeans, took a cashmere throw from the back of a chair and draped it over her, and went quietly down the stairs.
* * *
He went straight to the gun safe.
He punched in the combination. The door swung open, and he whistled under his breath.
Nine weapons were neatly snugged inside. Six handguns, two rifles. He recognized them all. Sig Sauers, Heckler& Koch MK23s, two AK47s. And the Ruger LCP.
He’d never shot with an AK47, but he’d worked with both kinds of pistols. Definitely, the best of the best.
