They stopped in the dining room on Val’s insistence. Tam sipped an espresso while he inhaled cornetti, salami and cheese sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, coffee cake, and God alone knew what all else. She rolled her eyes through the inevitable lecture about her not eating enough, cut mercifully short by a chime from his cell phone. He clicked on the message.
“Henry will meet us at a stazione di servizio on the Autostrada,” he told her. “Thirty kilometers from here.”
They were very quiet on the Autostrada, speaking in short, terse phrases of practical things. Acting like colleagues, not lovers. His tone was polite and distant, his teasing charm gone. She missed it.
She had only herself to blame, though. She was the one who had mandated that they lock all tender emotions in a box. But not to kill them. Oh, God, no. To protect them, rather. To keep them off the gunnery range for as long as possible. To give them a fighting chance.
They might die anyway, she reflected bleakly. Things so often did.
Henry Berne, Val’s friend, was waiting for them in the dining room of the Autogrill restaurant, sipping a cappucino. He rose to his feet when they approached, eyes widening appreciatively as he checked her out. He was a handsome man, huge and muscular, square jawed, barrel chested and blue eyed, the classic American football player type. Inches taller than Val, even. They shook hands. His accent as they murmured introductions marked him as American, from the Midwest, although accents could deceive. Her own often did.
They sat down at the table. Berne’s eyes lingered on her in the silence that settled over them before getting down to business. He cast a speculative glance at her, then at Val.
“I could have met you at your hotel, for breakfast,” Berne said, his voice neutral. “Getting nervous, Val? You don’t even want your friends to know where you’re sleeping? What, dontcha trust me?”
Val shrugged, unoffended. “Just being careful. You must not take it personally. Surely you are not getting your feelings hurt.”
“Me? Fuck, no.”
“Good,” Val said in a businesslike tone. “What have you got for me?”
“Not a lot. Two days isn’t long enough to do surveillance. But I already heard the rumors about Stengl rotting away in a luxury clinic, so it makes sense that it’s near his daughter. And this place here looks promising.” Berne pulled a file out of a battered briefcase and pushed it across the table. He opened it, and tapped an address scribbled on a scrap paper-clipped to some photos.
“Yesterday and the day before, she went to this address outside Nocera at around five o’clock,” he said. “It’s a private clinic. High security, no advertisement, no information available on the Internet.” He plucked out a photo, and tapped it. “There’s the entrance. Biometric security. I’ve seen a retina scan machine and a full palm and five fingerprint lock. There’s no going in without Ana herself, unless you want to bring one of her eyes and one of her hands with you.”
“Messy,” Val observed.
“Yeah, a little. She stayed for more than an hour both times.”
Tam stared at the photo. At this distance, it was hard to be sure that the woman with her back to the camera was Ana, presenting her hand to the palm lock. But Tam couldn’t rule it out, either.
There it was, a direct link to the worst nightmares of her past. And she felt nothing as she stared at that frozen image. How odd.
She dragged her attention back to the men’s conversation.
“Take care,” Berne was saying quietly. “Word is out that you are persona non grata. There’s money to be had in telling them where you are or even where you’ve been. Don’t stay in one place for long.”
Val’s face was shuttered. “Just long enough to do what needs to be done.”
Berne passed another scrap of paper across the table to Val. “Come to this address in Salerno today. I’ve arranged for some goodies for you. Hope you have a big budget. This guy’s not cheap.”
“Not a problem.” Val tucked it into his jacket. “Thank you. As soon as we conclude this matter, I will be contacting you for the details, of our next adventure.”
“I can hardly wait.” Berne turned his gaze to her and gave her a knowing smile that bugged her. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway? What did he think he knew about her just from ogling? She gave him a dazzling smile and watched his face go blank.
She didn’t like him, but that meant very little, since she tended not to like men at all as a rule. Except for the McCloud Crowd. Though ‘like’ was the wrong word, considering how intensely they annoyed her. She trusted them, rather. Which she supposed implied liking.
And she really liked Val. Which she supposed implied trust.
God help her. She was actually starting to trust the man. It gave her the shivers. This emotional stuff was way too complicated for a cold bitch like herself.
“…to go? It is time we moved, Tamar.”
She wrenched her attention back to the two men, who were looking at her oddly. Berne rose to his feet and slapped Val’s shoulder, jerking his chin toward her. “Watch yourself, buddy,” he muttered.
Watch yourself, her ass. Watch out for what? Tam observed the guy walk out with unfriendly eyes.
“You trust him?” she murmured to Val.
He slanted her a wry glance. “Yes. He’s saved my life more than once. And I have returned the favor. We have been friends for years.”
“But you didn’t tell him what hotel we were in.”
“It is no reflection upon him.” Val shrugged. “Caution is a habit. And I like to keep things as simple as possible. It makes the process of elimination easier. It is a protection for him, too. PSS is his life.”
“But not yours?” she inquired.
He gazed straight back at her, unsmiling. “Not mine.”
It was a perfect day for a drive up the twists and turns of the Amalfi coast. Tam felt a funny tug inside herself, an odd longing to take a step out of time, a vacation from reality. Just to give her a chance to take a deep breath and enjoy this man, this place. There was a glowing sparkle to the air, even in winter. The place seemed soaked with light: the craggy, pale rocks, the scrubby silver-green foliage that clung to them, the verdant stairsteps of terraced gardens, the ancient white villages hanging precipitously over the sea.
But time raced relentlessly forward. In too short a time, they had reached the home of Ana Santarini. It was an exquisitely restored Renaissance-era masseria perched on the crest of a hill overlooking the sea. A wrought iron gate hummed aside to let them in, and they drove down a road bounded by ancient stonework. On one side, there was a sheer drop to the brilliant blue sea; on the other, an orchard of olive trees centuries old, each one like a gnarled goblin statue.
That bitch Ana had done well for herself, Tam reflected. Although one needed a look at the mafioso husband to be sure it was worth it.
A big, grim-faced man stopped them at the end of the driveway, looked them over, and showed them where to park. They were led into the house and left in a large, lovely salon with vaulted ceilings painted with original frescos, and decorated with priceless antiques. An enormous veranda looked out over the sea.
A woman stood by the window, dramatically posed, ass jutting out. She turned at their entrance and flashed a calculating glance at Tam before wrapping a dazzling smile of welcome across her face. Not Ana. This was a striking thirty-something. Fake redhead. Lots of makeup, fake tits, and big, rolling green eyes. Must be Donatella.
Tam hated her on sight. She sensed that