In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(104)

Sun-bleached vistas spread out around them, an undulating patchwork of orchards, fields. The sun beat down. She sweated in her white linen sundress and the crocheted cream mohair shrug she’d tossed over it in case it got cooler. Cats who were the same silver gray as the lichen-mottled stones darted like shadows. Fragrant wild herbs and flowers hung in ragged bunches from joints between the stonework.

Sam took her hand as they went inside the ancient arch that marked the entrance to the old town. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, still pissed about the phone call, but his hand felt good. Her fears and doubts were flooding in as she remembered Misha’s panicky hostility. This could be a trap, and she was dragging Sam into it.

And this might also be a blank, anticlimactic letdown.

But she couldn’t share her doubts with Sam. She’d maneuvered him into this against his will. She was so grateful for his brooding presence, but she wished they could be real partners, brainstorming, bouncing ideas back and forth. Supporting each other.

But she couldn’t impose her agenda on him by force. She cared so desperately about finding her answers, and he just didn’t. All Sam cared about was her. Keeping her safe. Making her come.

Right. And she was complaining? God. Life was so weird.

The Gelateria Del Corso was on a piazza near the town’s cathedral, in a small, lovely shopping district. There were tables, umbrellas, a handful of people having coffee or ice cream. Inside, behind the counter were two adolescent girls with hairnets and pimples, scooping gelato. Neither seemed good candidates for questioning. Where was the man who’d answered the phone? He at least was an adult.

They sat down, ordered. He had coffee-flavored gelato. She had crème caramel. She stared out at the pigeons strutting, the blueness of the sky behind the cathedral’s bell tower, wishing her fiction was reality. That she really was just wandering the charming hill towns of Italy, eating fabulous gelato with her gorgeous, complicated, demanding lover between bouts of incredible sex. Instead of . . . well, hell. She wasn’t even sure what she was doing, but whatever it was, Sam disapproved of it, with all the force of his outsized personality.

A dark-skinned man, Indian or Pakistani, entered the gelateria’s sheltered area, carrying an armful of long-stemmed roses. He proceeded to offer roses to all the women at the gelateria, flashing white teeth at each of them as they refused. He left a rose on each table, including theirs, and made the rounds once again to collect the unsold flowers.

Sveti picked up the rose he had left beside her and passed it to him with a smile. “Grazie, no.” It was the full extent of her Italian.

The man’s white teeth flashed, and he gave Sam an apologetic look. “No,” he said. “Lei è bellissima. Tenga pure.”

He backed away without taking the rose.

Sveti looked at Sam. “What did he say?”

“He’s just giving it to you, because you’re so goddamn pretty,” Sam said, disgusted. “He’s got quite the racket going.” He dug into his wallet, pulled out a ten-euro note, and held it out.

The guy wagged his finger in denial. Sam stood, towering over the guy, and held out the money again.

“Tenga,” he said in a voice that made the man’s eyes go big.

He extended his hand and Sam slapped the ten-euro note into it.

“Buona sera,” Sam said sharply.

“What was that about?” Sveti asked, when he was seated again.

“No guy gives you flowers when you’re with me,” he said. “You get flowers, I pay for them. Assuming he wants to keep those pretty teeth.”

“Wow,” she murmured. “That’s very primordial of you.”

“Babe, you have no idea.” He gave her a look that zapped her to her core. “There’s the guy I talked to, behind the counter.”

Sveti let out a measured breath and got up, tossing her half-eaten gelato into a waste bin. Sam followed close behind as she went inside. It appeared he was not going to volunteer his linguistic skills for this encounter. On principle. Whatever. She’d be a grown-up and manage on her own. She gave the man a big, radiant smile as she approached the counter. That got his notice quickly. He smiled back.

“Excuse me, sir. Do you speak any English?” she asked.

“Little bit. Little francese, little tedesco. More, for the pretty girls.”

“That’s wonderful. I’m looking for someone who might have been here recently. A young man named Sasha. He’s thin and pale, with dark hair and dark eyes, and he has trouble speaking. Have you seen him? Or heard of him?”

The man’s smile vanished. His eyes darted out toward the street. “No.” The warmth in his voice was gone. “I don’t see nothing like that.”

She pulled out her card. “If you do see him, could you give him—”

“No!” He waved her card away. “I don’t tell no one nothing.”

Sam reached for his wallet. “Mi faccia almeno pagare il gelato.”

“No, no, no,” the guy babbled. “No, il gelato è gratis. Offre la casa. Vada ora. Get out. Now. Please.”

Sam slid his arm around her waist and pulled her against him as they walked toward the exit. “Smile,” he muttered. “Kiss me.”

She obeyed without a thought, but was startled by his brazen answering kiss. He let her come up for air as they walked into the piazza, and leaned in to her ear. “Someone got there before we did and scared the living shit out of him. Which suggests that we’re being watched. Keep smiling, sweetheart.”