Pleasure's Fury Page 15

  He heard Leila approaching, her steps not exactly hesitant, but slower than normal.

  “I’m fine,” he said before she could reach him. “If you can go down, you should. Maybe you’ll see something. I’ll wait here.”

  “There is no shame, Karl. You were trapped for days.”

  “And he beat and tortured you while I watched. Helpless. And here I am. Still helpless.”

  She was silent so long, he thought she’d left, but then he heard the brush of a shoe on stone and she knelt behind him, pressing her front to his back once again. Her arms slid around his waist, her cheek resting on his shoulder.

  He put his hands over hers, and rather than pushing her away, he pulled her more firmly against him.

  “I will be fine,” he said softly. “Go. Find the clue that solves the case.”

  She propped her chin on his shoulder. “Am I Sherlock or Watson?”

  “It’s Dr. Watson, so I’ll be Watson. Good hunting, Sherlock.”

  She kissed his shoulder, and then she was gone.

  He heard the quiet murmur of their voices, and then those faded away. He didn’t let himself think about where they’d gone. Instead, he would enjoy the view. From below, it would be nearly impossible to realize this odd geological feature was here. The height of the trees all around obscured it from view. With no regular path or road near them, plus the fact that they were on well-protected private land, it meant he didn’t have to worry about a random hiker passing by.

  Karl frowned.

  That raised a very interesting point. How had Ciril known about the caves? More than that, how had he known how to get to them without passing by the villa or running afoul of any of the villa guards?

  Karl climbed to his feet and turned in a slow circle. It was possible he’d come upon the area by accident, but only in the way that zombies were theoretically possible. It wasn’t probable.

  Six—Ciril—had known he and Leila were members. He’d known where they would be, and when.

  This was the truth no one wanted to face. Or maybe it was the thing everyone was being very careful not to say to them.

  Someone inside the Masters’ Admiralty was giving Ciril information.

  If he’d thought of it, he knew the task force of knights would have too. If not them, then the other librarians would have, and made sure the task force was checking that angle.

  But Karl had a terrible feeling there was more to it.

  The cave was the key.

  Antonio said that members of the Masters’ Admiralty knew about the cave, and Ciril had a relative who was in the Masters’ Admiralty. That might answer the question as to how he knew of its existence.

  That didn’t explain how he managed to pinpoint the exact location. It wasn’t as if he could spend months poking around to find it, based on some old family story. The cavalieri would have caught him.

  And how did he get two bodies and an unwilling captive—one of the dead trinity had been alive and forced to help move the bodies of his wives—past the villa’s security? To do that required up-to-date information, which couldn’t have been acquired from a long-dead relative.

  Karl’s stomach, still uneasy from before, sank.

  Ciril had help. That much was clear.

  But Karl was now fairly sure whomever it was had to be someone in authority.

  Someone in authority in Rome, who knew the details of their security.

  Karl looked back toward Villa Degli Dei.

  Shit.

  The walk back was quiet. Once he’d led them to the road, Antonio hung back with Leila. Karl walked slightly ahead of them, his shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets.

  Antonio was still cursing himself for being thoughtless. Just because he had learned to compartmentalize his emotions, especially when it came to work, didn’t mean other people weren’t affected.

  Leila was fierce and felt things with an intensity he could admire if not emulate. Karl was calm, with a dry wit he clearly used as both a defense and coping mechanism.

  On the surface, it seemed that Leila should have been the one to panic, but it had been Karl, which he would have realized might happen if he’d thought about it. Leila had been in the military, she was a sniper—a killer by definition. That meant she knew how to shut down her feelings of horror and revulsion when faced with human suffering and death.

  Karl, however, didn’t have that kind of training. And like an asshole, Antonio had dragged the man to the place where Ciril’s last victims had been found.

  Though Antonio was a little puzzled as to how Karl had recognized the place. News of the murder had been kept quiet until the clues from the cave revealed the reappearance of the Domino. Then he’d had to forward details about what they’d found to all the other territories. Still, someone like Karl shouldn’t have been exposed to the crime scene photos.

  Unless someone in Germany had shown them to him to see if he, as an archaeologist, saw anything that Antonio’s sister or James Rathmann had missed.

  Antonio put the questions away. He’d ask Karl later, after he’d had time to recover from the panic attack, about how and why he’d been shown the crime scene photos.

  Unfortunately, neither he nor Leila had noticed anything. The cave still smelled of the industrial solvent they’d used to clean up the blood and remove any DNA evidence. To the outside world, Lorena, Christina, and Nazario would simply disappear. Their property was dealt with by Rome’s finance minister, and all three had been legacies, so there was no one to report them missing.

  It was another price members had to pay—abandoning the right to seek out mundane justice, if doing so meant risking the secrecy of the Masters’ Admiralty. It was one of the reasons he’d kept looking into the case. The victims’ families knew that the death of admirals would take precedence over finding the person who’d killed their loved ones, and there was nothing they could do about it. No one they could rage at and demand justice.

  Karl waited for them on the first-floor terrace. He watched them with sad eyes as he and Leila mounted the wide steps. Leila went to him, not speaking, simply sliding her arms around him. Karl bowed his head over hers.

  Antonio held himself apart, but only for a moment. The need to be with them, to comfort and protect them, was too great. He went to them and wrapped his arms around both. If he could, he would keep them with him, safe, forever.

  Forever.

  After a few moments, Karl slid an arm around his waist and rested his head against Antonio’s. Longing and need swelled within him, and before he realized what he was doing, Antonio pressed a kiss to Karl’s temple.

  The terrace door opened.

  “Antonio, the ammiraglio wants to see you.”

  Antonio looked over the top of Karl’s bent head at Saverio, who had one hand on the open door and was leaning out.

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  Antonio reluctantly released Karl and Leila.

  “What is it?” she asked in English. He and Saverio had been speaking Italian.

  “My father.” Antonio took a step, then looked back at them. “I will meet you in our room.”

  When he stepped inside, he found Saverio watching him.

  “Our room?” the cavaliere asked.

  Antonio felt vaguely uncomfortable. If he’d been someone else, he might have blushed. “Where?”

  “The admiral is in his office.”

  Antonio started walking, Saverio on his heels.

  When they reached the door, Saverio held up a hand to stop Antonio from entering. “I got a message from Grigoris. If he can, he’s going to get a flight to Rome. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

  Antonio frowned. “Why?” Grigoris was leader of the task force. His place was in Bucharest, leading the hunt for Ciril.

  Antonio realized the answer to his question a moment before Saverio spoke.

  “He wants to talk to Karl and Leila.”

  Antonio wanted to say no. After what Karl had been through today, the la
st thing he needed was to be questioned yet again about what he’d been through.

  But if Grigoris was coming here, it meant he was out of leads.

  Karl and Leila would have to talk to the other man, but Antonio would be there with them. He would protect them to the extent he was able.

  He nodded and opened the door to the admiral’s office.

  His father stood by his desk, reading over the daily dossier his assistant prepared. Antonio knew it would have reports from Lorenzo and the finance minister, copies of any important communications, and a schedule. Normally his father was in his office as the sun rose, the dossier read over first thing.

  The admiral must have been out for the morning. He was still wearing his overcoat. His hair was dark, though his close-trimmed beard and mustache were pure white.

  Antonio kept clean-shaven.

  “Admiral,” Antonio said in greeting.

  Giovanni finished reading, then looked up. His expression was firm but almost…sad?

  Resolved. He looked resolved.

  “I do not have much time.” He glanced at his watch and sighed. “I wish we could do this later, over drinks, and talk as a father and son should.”

  Antonio had no idea how a father and son “should” talk, and he doubted Giovanni knew either. As was his habit, he remained silent.

  “You did what no one else could. You identified a killer. You rescued people from other territories.” He put a slight emphasis on the last two words.

  Antonio stiffened.

  “It is…understandable…that you have feelings for them.”

  His father was talking to him about feelings?

  “But you must not let your heart be involved. You are like me, Antonio.”

  This was hell. He was in hell.

  “When you love, you will do so passionately and deeply. Once you are placed in your trinity, and you fall in love with them, it will be…” Giovanni raised his fingers and kissed them softly. Then he shed his overcoat, draping it over a chair, and walked to Antonio.

  Giovanni clasped Antonio’s shoulders. “You have feelings for them, but no future. Make love to them. Enjoy them if you want, but remember your future is here.” Giovanni released him to gesture out to the side.

  He might have been trying to say Antonio’s future was here in Rome. He might have been indicating Southern Italy in general.

  Or he might have meant this office. The admiral’s office.

  Antonio’s jaw worked as he fought to master his emotions.

  When he knew he had himself under control, he said, “They are not your concern.”

  “No. You are.”

  “I know my duty.”

  “Here, you know.” Giovanni touched his head. “But here is what I worry about.” Now he touched his chest.

  “Is that all, Admiral?”

  Giovanni straightened, his gaze turning sharp. “That is all you have to say to me?”

  “Yes.”

  Giovanni shook his head as he dropped into his chair. “You may go.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning, the first thing she did was check on Karl. She’d checked on him several times throughout the night too, padding out of her room and into Karl’s, creeping around until she could see his face in the moonlight.

  After his episode yesterday, she’d been worried he would have nightmares, but each time she’d gone in to check on him, his face had been lax and peaceful in sleep. He looked naked and vulnerable without his glasses.

  He hadn’t had his glasses when he’d been strapped to the chair either.

  Karl may have slept well, but she hadn’t. She’d tossed and turned in the times between checking on Karl.

  She’d finally fallen asleep just as the sky was starting to lighten. She’d gotten a few hours of sleep—the sun was fully up when she hopped out of bed and headed for Karl’s room.

  He wasn’t in bed. The covers were pulled up, though rumpled, indicating the bed hadn’t actually been made.

  Maybe Ciril had him. Maybe Karl couldn’t handle it and had jumped off the balcony.

  The part of her brain that was still thinking straight, despite the sleepless night, pointed out that this villa was using advanced security protocols now that they were here, meaning it was all but impossible for someone to reach the front door without being checked three times, let alone get inside.

  Also, a fall from this height probably wouldn’t be deadly.

  The sleep-deprived, panicky part of her that wasn’t thinking clearly raced to the bathroom door and threw it open, expecting to find him dead.

  Karl jumped, the razor he was holding nicking his skin before flying out of his hand and clattering to the floor.

  He whirled to face her, saying something in Dutch. Then his eyes widened as he looked at her.

  “What’s happened?” he said in English.

  “You’re here. You’re alive.”

  “Alive? Leila, what has happened?” He hurriedly wiped his hands on the towel resting by the sink, then came over and gently laid his hands on her shoulders.

  “Leila?”

  “I was…I was worried about you,” she whispered.

  His gaze softened. “I’m fine.”

  There was a tiny line of blood working its way down his throat. She couldn’t stop staring at it.

  “Leila. I’m okay.”

  “I was…you have to be okay.” The words were out before she could stop them. “You have to be okay, so I can be okay.”

  Karl squeezed her shoulders, then guided her to sit on the closed lid of the toilet. “You wait while I finish, then we’ll go get breakfast, yea?” His accent had deepened with his concern. It was cute.

  That thought made her relax, and the panic that had gripped her retreated. She nodded.

  Karl grabbed his razor off the floor, rinsed it, and then finished shaving.

  She went from watching his face in the mirror, to watching the way the thin white shirt and dark blue pajama pants hugged the muscles in his shoulders, arms, and ass.

  When he was done, Karl turned to her, his face clean-shaven, his glasses on. His brows were drawn together in a frown, but that was to be expected. She smiled at him, and his frown relaxed.

  “Do you think they have coffee ready yet?” she asked. The words were as much a signal that she had calmed down as a request for caffeine, though given her lack of sleep, she’d certainly need the latter.

  “Here? Yes, I’m sure they do.”

  Staying in the villa had opened her eyes to the fact that even the best hotels didn’t provide the level of care and service that a dedicated team of cooks, housekeepers, maids, and other various helpers could. It was like being in another world—one that Antonio was accustomed to and Karl seemed at ease in. Karl was more impressed by the art on the walls than by the fact someone would have a beautiful breakfast spread and hot coffee prepared for them, as if by magic, when they were ready, without them ever having to put in a request.

  Maybe there were sensors in the doorjambs that alerted the staff when they left their rooms. If that was the case, she’d probably given someone fits last night as many times as she’d come and gone.

  Karl opened the closet door and pulled out a robe, then shook it out and held it for her. It was only then that she realized she was wearing nothing but the tank top and shorts she’d slept in.

  She slid into the robe and belted it, then walked with Karl to the sitting room near their bedchambers, which had become their preferred place to spend time in the villa.

  Karl opened the door for her, and she walked in—then stopped in her tracks. “Oh!”

  Karl was right behind her. “Uh…”

  There was a stranger in their room.

  Karl slid an arm protectively around her from behind. She heard him fumbling to open the door, which had closed behind them.

  The stranger looked up. “Good morning. There is coffee, pastries.”

  He spoke Italian, but she’d heard those words, or s
imilar, enough over the past few days to understand them.

  He was tall, impressively so, with the long, lean muscles of an athlete rather than a man who went to the gym. His gold-streaked brown hair probably hung to his shoulders when wet, though it had a slight wave to it that made the ends curl a bit. His thin face—with a straight nose and dark slashes of eyebrows—was unshaven, but in that way that seemed purposeful rather than unkempt.

  He was standing, feet braced apart, and working on a laptop resting on a stack of books on top of a small table, essentially creating a makeshift standing desk.

  He flashed them a smile—and it was a good smile—then went back to working on his computer.

  He must be villa staff. Was he the cool IT guy? Maybe the Wi-Fi had gone down.

  Leila looked back at Karl. He was watching the newcomer warily, but when the man ignored them in favor of his computer, Karl shrugged.

  They headed for the sideboard, which, as always, was laid out with a spread that included traditional Italian breakfast breads and cookies, fruits, some hard-boiled eggs, and the all-important caffe latte.

  They filled plates and took them to the table by the tall window. After a silent struggle, they ended up sitting beside each other rather than across, where they could both keep an eye on the stranger. Leila took Karl’s hand and gave it a squeeze. She didn’t need to say anything. She knew why he didn’t want to have his back to the door or to a stranger.

  She’d been like that for years, part of her military training, but she doubted Karl had felt the need to keep his back to a wall before Ciril.

  They were halfway through their breakfast biscotti—the IT guy had started humming some song she didn’t recognize in a lovely tenor—when a commotion in the hall made her put down her cup.

  Karl went stiff beside her.

  Someone was yelling in Italian. Then another voice, not precisely yelling, but responding with clipped, hard words.

  Antonio.

  She glanced at Karl, whose eyes were wide. He looked at the IT guy.