Sounding like a bigger promise than a few hours of his day, his words recalled the helicopter crash aftermath. Her hand trembled as she brought the squeeze tube to her lips without looking away from his reflection. Automatically, she stroked the shimmering wine color across the bottom curve while she watched him. The nerves and muscles connected to her quivering thighs urged her to pivot into his arms, but her brain rejected risking her career. “Don’t—”
Outside, metal grated on metal, as if a car scraped a steel post.
Wulf spun in a blur, hands up and forward of his body, to face the window.
The metallic rasping stopped.
The speed and intensity of his startle reflex reminded her that he was a Special Forces soldier, trained to be fast and alert. He was also a mystery, and the only way to find answers was to spend time together.
In a few seconds the low hum of the room’s electronics and muted street noises released him from his defensive position. He stared into her eyes, his gaze heated by what she guessed was a mix of adrenaline and embarrassment spiking his system like a potent drug.
Her hands braced on the vanity behind her hips. The starched edges of her dress sleeves rubbed the underside of her arms where she supported herself. He was six feet away, but it was almost as if he stroked her body, because she could feel every seam of her clothing where it touched her skin. She swallowed, at a loss for her next words as he continued to stare. She wanted to ask if he was fine. She wanted to tell him to stop staring. She wanted to lay her palm on his cheek and whisper that he was allowed to relax because this was a vacation. But his gaze pinned her into unmoving, unthinking, unbreathing silence.
Then he turned away. By the time she exhaled, a chasm separated them.
“Unless you put out a Do Not Disturb sign, we’re leaving.” He spoke from the entry, his back to her. His head hung low, and his hands gripped the door frame above his shoulders, as if he waited for a whip to descend.
She, the good girl, the smart jock, the girl picked first in intramurals but not for house parties, had reduced him to a penitent. Gathering her self-control along with her purse, she decided they both needed fresh air.
He must’ve heard her footfalls on the carpet, because he opened the door and held it. Without exchanging a word, they let the elevator deliver them from temptation. Each ding as they passed a floor unwound her tension another notch. In the populated safety of the lobby, she found her voice. “You’ve visited Rome before, haven’t you?”
“I lived here for a while.”
“Lucky you. When?”
“Before I joined the army.”
He couldn’t have been more than thirty, and to be a staff sergeant he would have been in the army at least eight years. “An exchange program? Or with your family?” She preceded him through the outside door.
“Exactly. Last night you mentioned the double-decker bus tour, so I bought tickets.”
“That sure of me, were you?” She turned and caught him staring at her butt.
“Hopeful.” The oversized paper stubs in his hand and the crinkles around his eyes mollified her into a smile. “Rome’s the Eternal City. I’m eternally hopeful.”
“Well, I’m hopeful about some espresso, if you pick up the pace back there.” She whipped forward, her take-charge voice damping her desire to let her hips sway.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Our next stop is Bocca della Verità,” Theresa read from the guidebook as the bus rolled through narrow streets. “After we visit the Mouth of Truth we can lunch across the river.” The past three hours with Wulf had been perfect. Following breakfast, they’d strolled to the Ara Pacis Museum, where he’d touched her back to alert her to stairs or ramps while she immersed herself in the audio tour. He didn’t roll his eyes or interrupt while she absorbed the art. As they left, he’d plucked a straw hat from a street vendor and settled it on her head. He’d been right about the sun on the uncovered top deck.
“Shall we de-bus?” she asked, the part of her that struggled to maintain an appropriate distance restraining her hand from touching his shoulder.
“You’re in charge.” He folded the tourist map with a soldier’s ease.
Perhaps he didn’t notice when his trousers brushed the bare skin between her knee and her hem, but she did, because she wanted to stroke her palm across the fabric. She imagined it would be warm from his leg, and smooth under her fingers, but she ordered herself to sit like the frieze of Octavia until the shuffling of other tourists released them to exit.
In the shade of the front portico at the Basilica of Santa Maria in Cosmedin, they waited their turn to approach the giant stone face. The parents of a boy, four or five years old, urged him to poke his fingers in the carving’s mouth while they took a picture, but he crossed his arms and tucked both hands securely in his armpits.
“He has the right idea,” Wulf whispered. “Don’t reach in farther than you can see.” Then his body tightened like a tourniquet, and he dropped his sunglasses from the top of his head to his nose while he slid behind her.
“Surely you don’t believe in the Mouth of Truth?” She twisted to see him.
“Do you?” His stance altered, as if he poised on the balls of his feet, while he tugged her hat across her forehead until it tipped awkwardly toward the floor. The line inched forward as the family left, replaced by Japanese tourists.
“It wouldn’t matter if I did. I don’t lie so it won’t bite.” She pushed the brim out of her eyes. His stance and his face reminded her of his reaction to the noise this morning.
“I don’t intend to stick my hand in.” On the way up, his palm passed hers coming down and again he jammed the hat to her eyebrows. “Leave it.” His voice sounded lower and uninflected, like a command instead of a request.
“You don’t lie that much, do you?” She’d intended to pat his arm and reassure him that for right now she wasn’t dwelling on his lies, but he must have thought she wanted to remove her hat because he intercepted her hand. His clenched fingers revealed his tension, although he knew how to check his strength so his grip didn’t crush her. If she could’ve seen behind his mirrored lenses, she suspected she’d have recognized his on guard squint. Was it the crowd that had tightened his screws? Being in Rome, in civvies, and away from their duty station didn’t sanction holding his hand, but he seemed to need reassurance—justification enough to twine her fingers with his. “The story about liars is only a legend.”
“I lie to everyone. To you, to the army.” The corner of his mouth drooped, and his voice grated across his vocal chords, its smooth cadences replaced with sandpaper. “Even to my team.” Her fingers fluttered in empty air as he abandoned her and made a fist against his thigh. “My whole life is a lie.”
She didn’t know how to respond, so she rested her hand on his upper arm. His muscles quivered, tense and on guard like his fist and jaw. “We can go.”
“No, you want to do this.” He gestured her forward. “Be quick.”
The blank eyes and raised brows carved on the ancient stone resembled a face frozen by fear more than a truth-seeking river spirit. She cradled her right arm across her torso. He had a point about sticking hands into dark holes.
“You don’t have to do it either,” he whispered in her ear. His shoulders walled off the sunlight. “But the line is waiting.”
She couldn’t recall the last time she’d told a lie. This was a silly myth, so she closed her eyes and shoved her hand in the opening.
Nothing happened. She started to turn, but he gripped her upper arms and kept her facing the stone.
“I’ll snap a picture of both y’all,” an American voice offered.