GARRET PULLED his small rental car into a spot that was barely bigger than the car itself and killed the engine. He eyed the cobblestone “street” that was no wider than an alley and glanced at the buildings jutting up almost directly from the street itself. The muted colors stood in stark contrast to the blue sea he knew lay down the hill from this tiny village just west of the Cinque Terre in Italy.
He could drive no farther into the town, as cars were prevented from doing so. He assumed at some point that hadn’t been the case. But with tourism came traffic, and cars not suited to the tiny roads, and drivers even less suited. So, at some point, the town must have just decided not to allow any traffic into its center. But it was a small town; walking wouldn’t take long.
He’d called in some favors and spent his flight from New York to Rome studying a map of the area. He was parked on the east side of the village; Marco Baresi’s villa lay on the west side, down closer to the water. The aerial photos showed a three-tiered building that stepped down the hillside, with abundant patios and outdoor space, along with a set of stairs down to the ocean. It was one of the larger homes in the area, though not quite large enough to be considered ostentatious.
Having caught the red-eye out of New York, Garret had bought a first-class ticket that allowed him to catch a little sleep during the nine-hour flight. But given that he’d also just flown up to New York from South America the day before, he was travel weary and in need of some coffee before confronting Kit. A little reconnaissance wouldn’t hurt either.
It was close to noon and the small town was as bustling as he imagined it got when not in tourist season. It was early spring and, unlike Windsor where spring was only just starting to claw its way from under the blanket of winter, the weather here was about as perfect as could be. The flowers were in bloom and people were out and about.
He made his way toward Baresi’s villa. Walking past the author’s non-descript but charming gate that led into the courtyard of the house, Garret found a café one block away. Ordering an espresso and a small pastry, he took a seat in the window and watched. He didn’t expect Kit or Marco to come out of the gate, but he felt the need to lie in wait for just a little while. Or maybe he was just delaying.
He sighed, finished off the last of the pastry, downed his espresso, and rose. Three minutes later, he was ringing the bell on the gate, his heart pounding in his ears.
An older woman answered, her gray hair pulled back into a bun. She was tall, thin, and wearing slacks and a blouse. Garret didn’t know how he knew, but there was no doubt in his mind that she was the housekeeper of, and gatekeeper to, Marco Baresi’s sanctuary.
“Buongiorno,” he said.
Rather than answer, she inclined her head.
“Is Kit here?” he asked, reverting to English.
She tilted her head and studied him.
“I’m Garret—”
“I know who you are,” she said in English that was only slightly accented. Her words gave him some semblance of hope, after all. If this person knew him, Kit must have said something.
“You’re expecting me, then?” he asked.
A ghost of a smile played on her lips. “I’m not sure if ‘expecting’ is the right word,” she countered.
Not sure what to make of that statement, Garret opted to take the reins in hand and asked, “May I come in?”
Her brown eyes never moved from his face. After ten seconds that felt like an eternity, she gave a single nod and stepped back from the gate. Not wanting to give her the opportunity to change her mind, he quickly stepped through the thick wooden gate and into a lush courtyard.
“I’m Imelda.” She offered her name but not her hand in a measured greeting. Garret nodded in response.
“Come, follow me.”
And Garret did. With every step through the colorful courtyard and into a stunning room, his heart beat a little faster. It didn’t help that this floor of the villa sat on top of the cliff and the big, picture windows—windows that looked out onto the Italian Mediterranean—gave it the appearance of being about to tumble into the sea below. Of course, Garret knew from the maps he had studied that there were two levels below them, but from this vantage point, it was hard to tell.
Glancing around the room, both hoping and fearing he’d see Kit, he took in his surroundings. After a quick perusal, it was clear to Garret that this top floor was the “public” floor. Not that Baresi opened his house to the public, but if he held parties or hosted an event, this was the space where he would do it. Most of the area consisted of one large room banked with six-foot windows, maximizing the view of the bay below. But to his left stood another, smaller room where perhaps Marco wrote or held business meetings, and behind it looked to be a kitchen—not a full kitchen, but the kind of kitchen that a caterer could use to prepare food and drinks.
To his right was a staircase with a wrought iron railing that led down, and it was down these stairs that Imelda led Garret. And just as the purpose of the top floor was obvious, it was equally as clear upon entering this middle level of the villa that he had entered the private sanctuary of one of the world’s literary geniuses. Books were strewn everywhere—on the floor, on the large dining table that sat in the middle of the room, and on the coffee table near the sofa to his left. There were even books on the counters in the kitchen—a kitchen that looked as though it was used for everyday cooking—that lay to his right.
There were big sliding doors that led out onto a terrace built on the roof of the floor below, and from where he stood, he could see a large round table, four chairs, and strings of overhead lighting. Potted plants were everywhere, containing flowers of all colors and sizes in bloom. It was the perfect place for a romantic dinner. Garret clenched his jaw and began to look in earnest for Kit.
If the maps he had seen were accurate, and he had no reason to think otherwise, beyond the wall to his left was a hallway that led to two bedrooms. Also to his left was another stairwell that led down to the lowest level of the house.
Following Imelda down, Garret held a not-so-fleeting thought about descending into hell. But then, when they hit the landing, all thoughts of hell vanished—or at least suspended themselves. The views were breathtaking. It was hard for him to imagine better vistas than what he’d seen from the top floor, but where the top floor was meant to awe a visitor, the views from this floor were meant to enchant.
This being the only level with earth outside, its doors led to a small patch of grass and a garden that Garret could only call whimsical. From where he stood, he could see narrow paths leading who-knew-where, arbors thick with hanging flowers, and benches scattered about. Being built on the cliff, it wasn’t a huge area, but it was filled with the same kind of sensual expression as Baresi’s novels—the kind of place that made one want to ask questions rather than seek answers.
“So, you’ve come.”
Caught up in the view, Garret hadn’t even noticed the author himself sitting at a desk on the far side of the room. He willed his eyes away from the landscape to peer at Marco. Never in his life had he met Italians as non-expressive as Imelda and Marco. Finally, unsure what to think or do, Garret simply nodded.
Still holding a sheaf of paper in one hand and pen in the other, Marco regarded him for a long moment. Then he sighed and rose.
“Thank you, Imelda,” he said, dismissing his gatekeeper. Without a word, the woman turned and disappeared up the stairs.
“Can I get you a drink?” Marco asked, walking toward a small refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of sparkling water.
Garret shook his head. “I’d like to see Kit,” he said.
Marco gave a small laugh as he poured himself a drink. Making a small toasting gesture, he answered, “I’m sure you would.” As Marco took a sip, Garret waited.
Finally, Marco spoke again. “You hurt her.” Coming from a man who knew how to use words like no one else of his generation, the short, concise statement said more than just those three words. And again, as he had with Caleb, Garret felt the weight of guilt take his breath away.
“I know,” he managed to say. “How is she?”
Marco gave a shrug. “Physically? She is healing. Emotionally, it’s hard for even me to say. You took care of what you left to take care of, did you not?”
The flash of worry he saw in Marco’s eyes gave him some hope. Obviously, Caleb had told Kit why he had left—as Garret had asked him to do—and Kit had told Marco. It didn’t surprise him at all. In fact, he wondered if he might eventually have an ally in the author. The man cared deeply for her, of that there was no doubt, and Garret knew Marco would no more want something bad to happen to her than Garret would.
Garret nodded. “Two days ago, Louis Ramon was found dead outside a popular club in Bali where he’d been visiting some friends. It was a club known for its drug scene. Poor Louis stepped outside to try some of the best cocaine Indonesia had to offer and overdosed on a nearly 100 percent pure sample.”
Marco shook his head. “Drugs. A bit cliché, but effective, nonetheless.”
“Marco, I made it to the bottom and back!” Kit’s happy voice suddenly filled the air.
Garret spun toward the garden in time to see the top of her auburn head appear at the edge of the cliff. With bated breath, he watched as she came into full view, making her way up the stairs that led into the garden from the beach.
As she reached the top, she blew some of her hair out of her face. “Marco? Did you hear me?” she called.
She had most definitely lost weight and he could still see the bruises and cuts on her legs below the skirt she wore, and on her arms, bare in her tank top. The cut at her throat looked to be healing but was still an angry red slash. She looked a bit pale, even though her trek to the bay and back had obviously brought some color to her face.
But she was smiling. And she looked as breathtaking as always.
“Marco?” she called one more time. And then she caught sight of Garret. Her smile faded and her step faltered. But to her credit she never stopped moving toward the house where he and Marco stood.
The top half of the farm door that led into the house from the garden had been left open and as she made her way toward them, she opened the bottom half of the door, then stepped inside. His eyes were glued to hers, but hers seemed to be bouncing every which way. For a split second or two, she would make eye contact with him, then quickly look away. Her eyes would flicker to the floor, then the bookshelves, then back to him.
“Water, my dear?” Marco asked, stepping forward with a glass of water for her—a glass Garret hadn’t even seen him pour, he’d been so fixated on Kit.
She murmured a “thank you,” glanced at Garret, then took a sip.
“Do you need to sit down?” Garret managed to ask.
Her eyes darted to him and lingered for a moment. He thought she might argue for the sake of arguing, but after a moment, she inclined her head.
“Yes, thank you,” she said.
He moved aside as she walked toward the sofa at edge of the room. As she sat at the far end, she closed her eyes for a second and he could see fatigue wash over her body. The walk to the bay and back must have been her self-prescribed physical therapy, and though she was obviously proud of herself for doing it, there was no doubt it had exhausted her.
A little unsure where to go from there, he cast Marco a look.
“I think you two need to talk,” Marco said. He dropped a kiss on Kit’s head and made his way up the stairs without another word. Leaving them alone.
Rather than sit on the couch with her, Garret took a seat on a well-worn wingback that sat at a ninety-degree angle from where Kit had perched. Bracing his elbows on his knees, he contemplated where to start. And not finding any brilliant answer, he just started.
“Caleb told you where I went?”
For a long moment she said nothing. Her eyes were cast down, focused on her fingers playing with the drops of condensation on her glass. Then she nodded.
“I also read about Louis Ramon in the paper yesterday. About his overdose. Did you have anything to do with that?” she asked.
His gut clenched, but he nodded. “I told Rosa Salazar what was happening—what he’d done to the young ballet dancer and what he’d done to you.”
“You had a man killed because of me.” It wasn’t a question. But stated so baldly, it made him wonder if he and her father weren’t so different after all.
“I know Drew told Mossad about him as well, so it’s possible that what I told Rosa had nothing to do with what happened to him. But it’s also possible that it had everything to do with it.” He wasn’t going to lie to her about this. Even though he desperately wanted to.
“So, he definitely killed her?” Kit asked.
Garret nodded. That much they knew was true.
“And me? Was there any chance it was anyone other than him who came after me?”
“No, it was him. His blood was collected from you, from when you fought him, along with DNA that was collected from the car he drove to Windsor. The car that he used to run you over,” he added.
Kit was silent for another long moment and he wished like hell he knew what was going on in her head.
“There was no way to extradite him?”
“It wasn’t likely. Indonesia has no extradition treaty with the United States. And though it’s possible he might have eventually landed in a country where the US could have extradited him more easily, the truth is, he knows just enough about his uncle’s business that the Salazar cartel would never have allowed it. He’s not particularly useful to them though, so they would have killed him themselves before the ink was dry on the extradition agreement.”
Her fingers tightened on her glass as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I don’t know what to think or feel, Garret. I’m trying, I am, but I just don’t...” Her voice cracked as she stopped.
He reached for her hand, and though she didn’t return his grip, she didn’t pull away. They sat that way for several minutes, and he gave her time to gather her thoughts. He desperately wanted to ask her how she felt about him. Even more so, he wanted to tell her how he felt about her. However, some tiny but strong, rational part of his brain knew they needed to have this conversation first.
“I don’t like it, Garret. I know what he did and I know what happened to him is probably the best we can hope for—the best the family of the young girl he killed could hope for. But I don’t like it.”
He didn’t either, which was why, he suddenly realized, his new job had come at just the right time. He stood behind everything he’d done in his career, but that didn’t mean he had to be the one to keep doing those things.
“But then again, I can hardly judge, can I?” she asked. “I mean, look at what I did to my own father.”
He didn’t want her going there, but he knew he couldn’t stop it. Her father had been a nasty piece of work, and she had most definitely done the world a favor when she’d precipitated his car accident. But taking a life, even when it was justified, had a way of killing the soul just a little bit. Because it was almost as if you were admitting to having no hope—no hope in the justice system, to be sure, but more importantly, no hope in humanity, no hope that good could triumph over evil without becoming just a little bit evil itself. Hope, like life for people like he and Kit, was a frail thing. And if it shattered, there was no knowing just what would remain.
“Kit,” he said, rubbing his thumb over her palm.
She looked up, held his gaze for the first time since she’d come into the room, and asked, “You love me, don’t you?”
He wasn’t sure where her question had come from, but he was sure of his answer. “Yes, very much.”
“And if something happened like what happened last week, would you leave again?”
He wanted to say no. He wanted to assure her that he would never leave her again. But he’d done that. He’d said all those things to her and then left anyway. And so he told her the truth.
“Leaving you was the hardest thing I have ever done. Not because of what I was leaving you to do, but because I knew what it would mean to you that I did. I’d promised you I wouldn’t do that anymore and I broke that promise. But if it happened again? I don’t know, Kit.” He’d had a reason—a good reason—why he’d left and they both knew it. But still, he’d made a promise to her and broken it.
He paused, took a deep breath, then continued. “I had a choice. Someone was trying to kill you. Someone who had already killed another woman. Someone who had already successfully tracked you down, attacked you, and nearly killed you. I knew who that someone was and I knew how to stop him. My choice was to stay and wonder every day while you were in that hospital if he was going to try to kill you again. Wonder if one day soon he would succeed. Or I could break your heart by breaking a promise to you and stop him. I made a choice to break a promise to you and ensure your safety and the safety of other women who came into his life. I don’t like that I had to do it, but I don’t regret it, Kit.”
She looked at him with a thoughtful expression on her face. He tried not to get too excited by the fact that he was beginning to be able to read her again.
“I’m sorry, Garret,” she said.
The comment came as such a surprise that he drew back and frowned. “For what?”
She leaned forward, pulled their joined hands onto her lap, and wrapped her other hand around them. “I’m sorry that was the choice you had to make. Please don’t misunderstand—I’m still not sure how I feel about everything that happened. But I do know that the choice you had to make, between breaking a promise to someone you love and living indefinitely in fear that she’d be killed, isn’t one anyone should have to make.”
He had not thought of it that way, because in his mind there was no real choice. Oh, there was a choice, per se, but there was no way he would have been able to live with himself, or her, if he hadn’t done everything he could to protect her. He hadn’t lied when he’d said that walking away that day, leaving her lying in the hospital, was the hardest thing he’d ever done. But he’d had to do it. Even if it had meant she would never let him into her life again. At least she’d have a life to choose whom to let into. And that was what had mattered to him.
“I’m sorry too, Kit. I wish it could have happened differently. I wish it was something we could have talked about. I wish—”
She cut him off. “But it wasn’t different and we couldn’t have talked. It was what it was, Garret. What are we going to do from here?”
At her words, at her use of the word “we,” the grip on his heart that had held him so tightly for the past week eased. They may not be okay, and they most definitely weren’t going to go back to the happy-new-couple phase they’d been in before, but wherever it was they were going, they were going together.
He shook his head. “I don’t know, Kit, but maybe it’s something we can figure out together?”
For the first time in what felt like ages, he saw her smile at him.
“I don’t know either, Garret. But maybe we could go to your place in Mexico for a little while. Maybe find some of the humanity we’ve both lost over the years. And then afterward, we can figure it out together.”