“Nah, that’s okay—it’s going to be flat tomorrow—I already checked.”
She smiled and shook her head. “Of course. Silly me.”
“It’s about 250 miles to your dad’s village. We could be there this time tomorrow. If you want.”
I thought she’d go for that, but I could see unease on her face, as well. Maybe she was afraid of building it up too much. Neither of us had been given a great hand when it came to family, but her dad was different. I could tell she was afraid of hoping too hard that there’d be some trace of him. Realistically, that wasn’t likely. He’d left Italy more than 40 years ago and Caro didn’t know if he’d left any family behind.
“No, let’s take it easy,” she said at last. “I’d like to see some more of Tuscany. I’ve heard of Montepulciano: they have good wine. And honey.”
She always made me smile. “How come you know all this food stuff?”
She stared back as if I was missing an obvious point. “I’m Italian, Sebastian.”
I laughed out loud, making the waiter at the next table spill the wine he was pouring. But I was too busy sweeping Caro’s hand into mine and kissing her fingers. A sultry look crossed her face, and I could feel myself getting hard again. Fuck me, I hadn’t had this much sex since I was 17 and with Caro for the first time—although there was that one weekend I went to Tijuana for Ches’s bachelor party. That had been memorable, too. But I didn’t want to think about what I’d done with other women—not anymore.
The waiter arrived with our order and smiled apologetically as I was forced to let go of Caro’s hand.
The food was good and I chowed down hungrily. I hadn’t been joking when I said I needed to consume some calories after breaking a fucking record for fucking; my stomach thought that someone had cut my damn throat. So we were quiet for several minutes as we ate.
But I could tell that Caro was distracted. I gave her a few minutes to ask whatever was bugging her, but she sat in silence, pushing the remainder of her food around her plate.
“What is it?” I asked at last, laying down my knife and fork.
“What do you mean?”
“You have that look on your face—like you want to ask me something. You can ask me anything, Caro.”
She looked surprised that I’d noticed.
“Well, there was something … did you mean what you said about quitting the Marines?”
My stomach clenched, but I kept a smile on my face.
“Sure. I mean, I re-upped two years ago, so I’d have to do another two before I punch out…”
She sucked her lower lip and looked down.
“Do you think you’d have to do another tour in Afghanistan?”
I wasn’t sure how much truth she wanted. The answer was ‘yes’, but I could tell she didn’t want to hear that.
“I don’t know, Caro. Most guys wouldn’t be sent out again that quickly, but … well, they’re short of interpreters, especially non-locals, and military intelligence...”
Fuck! I wasn’t supposed to tell her that I was working for Chair Force Spooks.
She saw my hesitation and leaned forward so our conversation was more private.
“Sebastian, whatever you tell me, that’s between us. I would never use it in my work.”
“I know that, baby, but there are some things I can’t tell you … and some things that it’s better you don’t know.”
She smiled sadly.
“They’re not going to be pleased that you’re dating a journalist.”
“Nope. Don’t think so,” I agreed, “although they couldn’t stop me...”
“So … I guess it would be better to keep this between us, just for now?”
I nodded, then leaned back in my chair.
“Would you give it up, Caro? Working in war zones, traveling all over the world?”
She didn’t seem surprised by the question—perhaps she’d been expecting it ever since our truncated discussion about having some rug rats of our own.
“I wouldn’t want to give it up completely, Sebastian, that’s the truth. But I could agree to a maximum amount of time I spent away in a year, maybe.”
A better answer than the one I’d expected. “Okay, I guess.”
I stood up and stretched, gazing around the restaurant for the bathrooms. I wanted to take a leak, but I was on a mission, too.
“Where are you going?”
“Restroom. I’m hoping they have vending machines that sell rubbers.”
She smiled. “We still have one left.”
Just one. Fuck that!
“Yeah, but that’s not nearly enough for what I have in mind … unless you want to do what we talked about earlier?”
She shook her head determinedly.
“That’s another discussion for another time, Sebastian. When you’ve finished this next tour: we’ll talk about it then, I promise.”
I guess that was the best offer I was going to get—for now.
The waiter pointed me in the direction of the bathrooms, but it was a BS mission.
“Fucking useless!” I fumed as I walked back to our table. “They didn’t have any in the restrooms and I checked with the waiter—all the nearby supermarkets and pharmacies are closed on Sunday evenings.”
“Oh, dear,” she said, although not sounding concerned. “Well, never mind. We’ll just have to get creative.”
“Yeah, okay,” I sighed. Why did women always want ‘creative’? I didn’t have a problem with it, but what was wrong with good, hard fucking and watching a woman come apart under me … watching Caro come apart under me?
She raised an eyebrow. “I hope you’re not getting bored with me already!”
I had to laugh at that. “You’re like a freakin’ drug to me, Caro. I can’t get enough of you. And I really like wake-up sex.”
She smiled, her quiet laugh heating my blood unintentionally. “We’ll figure something out. Don’t sweat it, Hunter.”
Nope. Wasn’t working. Still want to fuck hard.
But then again, we still had that one condom left—and I was intending to make the most of it as soon as possible.
The second Caro put her fork down and pushed her plate away, I was on my feet and hunting down the waiter to pay for our food. Then we were out in the parking lot and on the bike.
I accelerated hard, racing back to our cabin. I could feel Caro gripping me tightly, which turned me on even more.
I was so intent on getting back and getting naked, that my reactions were fucked. I groaned when I saw two Italian Polizia waving me down. Fuck, I thought I could get away with it on this road. Guess they were bored and trying to fill their quotas.
I pulled over to the side of the road and dismounted, pulling off my helmet and walking toward them.
“Sei Francese?” asked the first policeman, looking at the bike’s license plates.
“Americano.”
The policemen looked surprised.
“È questa la tua moto?”
“Si.”
“You have papers for this motorcycle?”
“Yes, in my wallet.”
I started to reach into my jacket when the younger officer immediately went for his gun.
“What the fuck?”
I raised my hands quickly, and the dumb fucker pushed me down to my knees, reaching for his handcuffs.
Caroline ran towards us with her hands out.
“No, per favore! He was just trying to show you his papers.”
“Signora, he was driving at 120km an hour; the speed limit here is 90km an hour,” said the older guy.
“Please, let him show you,” she said, her voice polite but firm. “I’ll get his wallet!”
She moved slowly so they could see exactly what she was doing. That was my girl—always cool in an emergency. She reached into my inside pocket and carefully lifted out my wallet.
“What am I looking for?” she whispered, urgently.
“The Certificat d’immatriculation—the papers in gray. Caro, I…”
“Just don’t speak, Sebastian,” she hissed. “Let me handle this.”
Probably a good idea.
She handed over the document that proved I was the bike’s owner, watching as the two officers looked at the papers even though it was obvious neither of them could read French.