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Though he drove like a demented bat out of hell, it became obvious they weren’t going to make it to the airport in time to catch the flight. Lily called and canceled their reservations and made new ones for another flight, and after that he actually took his foot off the gas pedal occasionally, so she dared to keep her eyes open.
“Why did you shoot Dr. Giordano?” she asked, watching the traffic instead of him, because the fact that he’d deviated from the plan bothered her. Had he noticed that moment when she’d become emotional, and been afraid she might botch the shot?
“I wondered when that subject would come up,” he muttered, and sighed. “I did it because it was personal to you, and because you didn’t need the guilt I knew you’d feel afterward.”
“Salvatore Nervi was a personal hit, too,” she pointed out. “I don’t feel one shred of guilt about him.”
“That was different. You actually liked Dr. Giordano, before you found out what he was doing. Killing him would have hurt you.”
He was probably right, she thought, leaning her head back against the headrest. In setting up the hit on Salvatore, she had been carried along on a tide of pain so great it had overwhelmed everything else. But between then and today, she had found sunshine again; somehow, killing Dr. Giordano would have blotted out some of the sun. She didn’t understand it. Giordano was a righteous hit, perhaps the most righteous of all—but she was glad she hadn’t done it. It was that gladness that both puzzled and upset her. Was she losing her edge . . . and had Swain noticed? Was that why he’d done it?
He reached over and took her hand. “Stop fretting about it. It’s done.”
It was done. Over. Finished. She felt as if a door had closed behind her, sealing off her past. Other than go to Greece with Swain, she had no idea what she would do next. For the first time in her life, she was adrift.
They reached the airport and turned in the Mercedes to the rental company, then made their way to the ticket counter and checked in. They had a couple of hours to kill before their flight and they were both hungry, so they went into one of the airport restaurants. They chose one of the rear booths from which they could watch the entrance, though checking in had been totally uneventful. No one had tried to detain them; no one blinked an eye at Lily’s name. It was unnerving.
The restaurant was one with multiple televisions on the wall so the patrons could keep up with news, sports, and weather while they ate. They both looked up when they heard the name “Nervi” mentioned.
“In shocking news tonight, Damone Nervi has announced that the explosion that devastated one of the Nervi properties late this afternoon has resulted in the death of his older brother, Rodrigo Nervi. The brothers lost their father, Salvatore Nervi, less than a month ago. Damone Nervi has assumed leadership of all the Nervi holdings. The explosion that killed Rodrigo Nervi is believed to have been caused by a faulty gas line. Authorities are investigating.”
Lily and Swain looked at each other. “Rodrigo wasn’t there,” she hissed.
“I know.” He looked thoughtful. “Son of a bitch. I believe there’s been a coup.”
Lily had to agree. Damone had evidently seized the opportunity to kill Rodrigo and make the murder look like an accident. It must have been an impulse, a spur-of-the-moment decision precipitated by the destruction of the laboratory. But Damone was widely reckoned as the brilliant one, the one with the Midas touch; would he have acted so impulsively, when the outcome could just as easily have resulted in his own death?
The only other possibility was that Rodrigo’s death wasn’t an impulse at all. And that could be only if—“My God,” she blurted. “He planned the whole thing.”
Three weeks later, Lily woke from a late afternoon nap to hear Swain out on the terrace, talking on the satellite telephone he’d wrangled from somewhere, saying angrily, “Damn it, Frank—No. No. Fuck it, no. All right. I said all right, but I don’t like it. You owe me, big-time. Yeah, I said you owe me, so you’d better be damn sure you’re right.” He slammed down the phone and walked to the low wall of the terrace, where he planted his hands on his hips and glared out at the blue Aegean.
She slipped from the bed and went out through the double doors onto the terrace, walking up behind him and sliding her arms around his waist. She laid her head against his bare back and kissed his warm shoulder blade. “You finally got to talk to Frank?” Frank was his friend who had been in the car accident. Two weeks earlier Frank had been moved out of ICU into a regular hospital bed, but he’d evidently been guarded by someone who had been adamant that he not be disturbed. The day before he’d been moved into a rehab facility, but judging from the way Swain had sounded, their first conversation hadn’t been to his liking.
“The hardheaded son of a bitch,” he growled, but he caught one of her hands and pressed it to his chest.
“What’s wrong?”
“He wants me to do something I don’t want to do.”
“Such as?”
“Take a job I don’t like.”
That wasn’t welcome news. In the three weeks they’d been in Greece, on the island of Evvoia, they had slipped into a lazy routine that felt like heaven. The days were often cloudy but definitely warmer than in Paris, with highs often reaching into the seventies. The nights got cold, but that was all the better for cuddling in bed. Today had been almost perfect, sunny all day long, and so warm Swain had been shirtless most of the day. Now that the sun was setting, the temperature would drop like a rock, but for just a few minutes more they were comfortable.
They made love; they slept late; they ate whenever they wanted; they strolled through town. They were staying in a house on the mountain slope above the port town of Karystos, with a spectacular view of the sea. Lily had fallen in love with the house, a simple white house with bright blue shutters and an air of peace. She could have stayed there with him forever, though she knew the idyll would eventually end.
Evidently it was going to end sooner than she’d expected. If Swain took this job he didn’t want to take—and Frank was obviously twisting his arm to take it—he would have to leave the island. She could stay here without him, of course, but the big question was: Did she want to? An even bigger question was whether she’d have the option of going with him. They still hadn’t discussed the future; the present had been so very pleasant she had luxuriated in it, letting the days drift past.
“If you take the job, where will you have to go?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Then how do you know you don’t want it?”
“Because I won’t be here.” He turned in the circle of her arms and kissed her forehead. “I don’t want to leave.”
“Then don’t.”
