A phone rang somewhere far away.
What was she doing? Even with the folding doors latched, they were in a lobby. Strangers could open those doors, see them, post a picture on the internet. One careless keystroke could ruin their careers. Her shoulders stiffened.
Wulf’s breath slipped across her neck like a noose. During the day he’d seemed like other men, but he had secrets. She couldn’t forget what had happened on the helicopter ride, the lies and half-truths he’d told since, and under no circumstances could she fall deeper into his web.
In the mirror, he blotted out every bit of her except a blur of dark hair and one of her eyes. Her sclera completely circled her iris, like a horse she remembered from a trip to the Meadowlands with her stepfather. Right before the mare had tried to jump the wall in front of her seat, its eye had been a giant white-rimmed spot of fear, like hers now. The horse had broken a leg and men had dragged out screens and downed it right there, on the track. She rolled her head and saw the lobby lights through the slats of the louvered doors. Her stomach spun.
“Stop.” She pushed his shoulder. “Stop!” Anxiety quivered in her tone.
His deltoid jumped under her palm. Then, one long heartbeat later, he pulled away. “You’re right.”
Immobilized, they locked stares while their pulses slowed. She shouldn’t have regretted the right decision this much.
He stood and offered his hand. “I’ll say good night at the elevator.” As soon as she reached her feet, he let her go. “Share tomorrow with me.” His request was quiet. “Please.”
She thought she saw need in his expression, not merely desire, and his ten combat tours weighed on her conscience. “You’re willing to do more sightseeing after today’s fiasco?”
“Fiasco?” He glanced at the imprint they’d left on the couch, and his mouth slowly turned up and into another wicked promise. “I think not.”
She fingered her collar and hoped he wouldn’t ask about her itinerary. She’d probably blurt you. “Get one thing straight. We’re not going to—” She couldn’t say it. A doctor, and she couldn’t spit out have sex.
“We will. And soon.” His outstretched arm indicated she should precede him into the lobby. “But you’ll have to ask very nicely.”
“Not a chance. I won’t—” She spun to contradict him. He raised an eyebrow as if daring her to issue a challenge or an ultimatum, either of which would have been an absurdly bad idea, so she gave up and strode toward the elevator.
“Tomorrow it’s my turn to choose where we go.” Following, he opened the elevator cage without guidance from his eyes, which were occupied staring at her legs.
“You could lose a finger that way.” She pointed at his hands.
“Not worried. Much as I appreciate you in a skirt, wear pants for my plans.”
“What plans?” She stepped into the space, but he didn’t follow.
“I’ll be here again at nine.” He shut the doors. He really wasn’t going up.
“What plans?” If she rattled the folding metal she might lose that finger, but he was toying with her.
“A ride you won’t forget.”
The image of herself straddling his hips and looking down at him weakened her knees to the point that she reached a steadying hand for the control panel. She knew how his eyes would look half-closed with his face taut below her, because that was how he watched her, but the fantasy couldn’t become reality. Not unless she traded her career for it.
Then the outer doors closed, removing temptation for at least nine hours.
The under eye concealer from her mother didn’t match Theresa’s soldier tan, so dark circles advertised her sleepless night. She’d rejected her travel-stained jeans for cropped black pants—“pedal pushers” on her mother’s list of outfits—and a black-and-white plaid shirt that tied at her waist like a fifties cliché. Thankfully her mother hadn’t been in a Bond girl phase.
This morning’s double-thump knock caused her heart to pick up speed even though she wasn’t startled. She’d brushed her teeth twice, just in case Wulf tried to pick up where they’d stopped. Before she reached for the knob, she wiped her palms on her pants.
Wulf’s faded jeans outlined every bulge of his thighs, and the stand-up collar of his black leather jacket emphasized the cords of his neck. Complete with finger-tousled hair and a half grin, the man leaning on her door frame looked like a very bad boy.
“Will this work with your mysterious plans?” She held out her arms, then dropped them. It was silly to worry about her clothes, and worse to invite him to stare.
He stared.
If she crossed her arms over her chest, she’d appear defensive. If she didn’t, he’d notice her nipples through the cotton.
His smile deepened. He’d noticed.
She stuck her fingers in her pockets, thrust her elbows out and hunched her shoulders forward, which lifted the starched shirtfront away from her chest.
“Do you have different footgear?” he asked after his gaze reached the floor.
“What’s wrong with these?” She pointed the toe of her ballet flat at him.
“No protection against the road.”
“Why would I—”
He pulled his arm from behind the door frame and showed her two motorcycle helmets.
“Not a chance.” Becoming that personally acquainted with Roman traffic was not on her to-do list. “Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes.” His boots crushed the carpet pile while he swung the helmets as if to hypnotize her. “You really, really want to go for a ride with me.”
Of course, as medical personnel she had a responsibility to monitor Wulf to ensure he didn’t freak out again like he had at the Mouth of Truth.
Her rationalization almost sounded legitimate.
“Yesterday I shared you with thousands of strangers.” He headed for her closet. “Today’s for the two of us.”
“I intend to survive this trip.” She followed him, eyes on the helmets. “That means no motorcycles.”
He hunted on the floor. “These—” a running shoe dangled between his thumb and first finger, “—are the sturdiest shoes you have?”
Three pair of boots at Caddie, useless at this moment. “Nothing’s wrong with my shoes. They’re perfect for visiting the Borghese Gallery.”
“It’ll be another four hundred years before I—” He snapped his mouth shut and picked up her purse, which looked so ridiculous in his grip that her last resistance melted. “Come with me.”
Draycott settled once more into his chair after his foray to the street next to the Hotel d’Inghilterra. In less than the time it took his Earl Grey to steep, he’d popped a button-size tracking device on the frame of Wardsen’s motorcycle. With no need to hurry when his target and the brunette doctor emerged from the elevator, he rather hoped they became busy upstairs.
Two days ago Wardsen’s bread crumb trail—airfare in Karachi, clothes and shaving gear in Dubai—had led to Rome. One phone call, and Draycott had possessed the name of the only traveler the Bagram Air Field office of Black and Swan had processed during the last ten days who’d had a similar destination: Captain Theresa Chiesa, M.D. Unsurprisingly, she also hailed from Cadwalader. Aviation flight manifests also listed the doctor on two recent Special Forces missions, and her credit card had been swiped at the terminal thirty feet across the lobby.
He enjoyed a slow sip of his favorite tea blend. After yesterday’s debacle at the Basilica of Santa Maria—only the worst novice asked to photograph a target like Wardsen—he’d assumed lobby surveillance until experienced professionals arrived. This pathetic crew was only authorized to follow at a distance via the global positioning system.