The couples mounted the steps, connected by hands or entwined arms, focused on each other. The singles talked fast into phones or stared at tiny screens. No one made eye contact with her. If she vanished, none of these people could describe her. None of them had seen her, except for the man who’d disappeared. The tight skin on the back of her neck told her that he’d looked at her. Carefully.
“I put Uncle Sal’s phone number in the black purse for emergencies. Call him.”
Tourists parted around the man, who appeared from the crowd at the bottom of the steps.
“Ohmigod, it is him. What’s he—”
“Who? Who?”
“Nobody.” Theresa answered her mother without taking her eyes off Wulf. He’d come for her. She couldn’t remember if she’d told him where she was staying, but maybe Jennifer had. She forced herself to sound casual as her mother pressed for more. “Just a guy.”
“A man? You met a MAN already? Is he Italian?”
He started up. In contrast to the men lounging with cigarettes or using mobile phones, he looked at her without distractions chiseling bits of his attention. As they locked gazes, his undivided regard made her aware of her mouth.
“Gotta go.” She licked her lips. “Call you later.”
“Wait! Be care—”
“Love you, Mom.” She disconnected as her tongue moistened her lips again. They hadn’t been chapped after her flights, but right now they’d become too dry.
Wulf reached the landing below her and kept coming. She could spot a fellow soldier halfway across a concourse at Newark by relying on posture and haircut and a dozen other cues, but in the violet evening light Wulf looked nothing like an American. His thighs pressed the seams of his linen pants until she might have believed he was a German soccer player or an Austrian skier during the off-season. The flat front of the pants emphasized that his stomach and abs were as carved as the marble statue in the fountain. She knew how those muscles looked and how they felt under her hand. They felt whole and healthy.
“Why are you here?” She held out a stiff palm to stop his advance, although she recognized his presence as inevitable. If the powers that be needed to keep tabs on her now that she knew about the hush-hush experiment, who better to send?
“Theresa.” His voice rumbled up the six steps that separated them.
She shouldn’t allow him to use her first name but—sayonara, self-preservation—she wanted to hear it again. “After our last discussion, I won’t believe you need a checkup.”
Although he was close enough to touch Theresa, Wulf suspected he’d have better luck if he stayed two steps lower to reduce his threat profile. He paused, eyes level with the hollow of her throat. Perhaps her swallow indicated nerves that matched his. “I had leave. Recalled you didn’t have a tour guide.”
“You already have a job. Three thousand miles away.” She crossed her arms, unbending.
“My boss thinks I need a break.” His voice came out as even as he intended, no hint of his racing heart.
She countered with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t buy it.”
“Can I convince you across a plate of pasta?” He touched his right hand to his chest, then held it out, palm open as if making an offering.
“No thank you.”
“There’s a wonderful restaurant on Via Margutta.” Let her agree, let her take his hand, because if she turned him down, he didn’t see how he’d persuade her to ignore what she’d seen on the helicopter. “Join me.”
Shaking her head, she refused, and he dropped his hand to his side. He hadn’t prepared for the way her white shirt molded her waist and outlined her breasts. Maybe Cruz would have expected the visuals to be this much fuller than her uniform had let on, but he was struggling to focus facing her pair of high and tights.
He’d been silent too long, staring, and her eyebrows had drawn together. Being civilized meant conversation, even if the Viking part of him wanted to throw her over his shoulder and run for a longboat, even if the red flowers printed on her silk skirt made him yearn to inhale her heady opium, even if she was sure to intoxicate more than any other contraband. “Poppies?”
“My mother’s unintentional homage to Afghanistan’s cash crop. At least, I hope it was unintentional. Sometimes hard to tell with her.” The slight warming in her voice nourished hope that if he kept her talking about clothes or her mother, she’d change her mind about dinner.
“Beautiful flowers.” She wore that skirt without knowing where he’d come from or where he had to go next week.
“And a useful painkiller for injuries.” The edge returned to her voice.
He’d come to Rome to win her trust, misdirect her if he could, mislead her if he had to, but not to argue. That wouldn’t help his cause. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” She might imagine her crossed arms posed a barricade, but they also deepened the shadowy cleft between her breasts. “Don’t think about what I saw on the helicopter? I was stuck in Kuwait for twenty-two hours. The airport had free wireless.”
She’d done the research he’d warned Deavers about. If he couldn’t convince her to stay silent, he’d lose his team. Loki had dangled her in front of his eyes to mock him, because no gods allowed men like him to have everything they wanted.
“Did you know I was an undergrad molecular biology major?”
That phrase, molecular biology major, carried a ring of doom.
“My thesis was a study of oxygen-carrying capacity in the blood of certain mammals. Specifically, I researched hemoglobin.”
“Ouch.” He let her see his wince. “You caught me.”
“Somehow I don’t think it was the only lie you’ve told.”
“I’ll concede one or two others.” He hoped his smile appropriately blended charm and contrition. “But I trusted you with the important stuff, remember? Helping Deavers with his wife, saving Nazdana and the twins. I never lied about them.”
“You’re not playing fair.”
Exploiting the softening of her mouth, he said, “Don’t forget Mir-Meena. If not dinner, what about a gelato?” He willed her to stop fiddling with her purse strap and agree, so he’d have a chance to salvage the life he’d built in Special Forces. “Have you tasted every flavor yet?”
While she studied him, he wondered whether desperation worked for him or against him.
“My favorite is nocciola, although I could be persuaded to try anything you want.” He gambled on her being too kind to kick him while he was down, literally, on a lower step.
Her eyes answered before her mouth did. The brown warmed like rocks kissed by the sun and the tiniest lines gathered at the corners. “You think that will make up for the complete line you fed me about hemoglobin?” A smile flitted across her lips, then disappeared, but he recognized opportunity.
“Come for one scoop, then let me know if you forgive me.”
“If I agree—and that’s an if—” she inhaled as if preparing to dive. “Does the dinner invitation stand?”
“It does.” He had his wish. He only needed one, but if granted a second, she could take another deep breath while he watched her shirt buttons stretch. A man in his position shouldn’t wish for too much, but maybe he’d be lucky.
“You’ll stop the bullshit? First lie, and I’m gone.”
“Promise.” He put his hand on his heart. Even to himself, his latest lie sounded sincere.
The three blocks to the vine-shrouded osteria left the hubbub of the Spanish Steps so far behind that Theresa pictured a Tuscan village. The restaurant’s interior was decorated in reds, blues and golds. Fringed lamps hanging between the ceiling beams cast light on a mix of paintings and gilt-framed mirrors. While she admired the decor, which felt more than slightly like a high-end speakeasy, Wulf requested a table, his Italian flawless.