Run To Rome

“I should watch it,” she said, then scrubbed harder.

“No.”

“But then I can testify—”

He reached out a hand to stop hers. “It’s not going to come to that.”

Distracted from taking the finish off the table, she pulled away and scanned the cabin walls. “Do you have any video equipment on board?”

“Stereo only. The boat’s my getaway. No TV, DVD, computer, or internet.”

“What about Giovanni and Concetta?”

“Simone didn’t have a computer, you think they do?”

She sighed her frustration. “No.”

“Besides, with me being a fugitive and all that, I’d rather—”

“No, I get it. Better not. What about your friend George’s place?”

He shook his head. “Security alarms.”

Her attention returned to cleaning. Trent didn’t see any difference between the before and after, but Halli didn’t let up. She moved from table, to sink, to the tiny bathroom. Her constant movement made it impossible for him to concentrate. Every time he started thinking about a strategy, something she did would distract him.

When he heard the shower running and the door remained open, exasperation finally got the better of him. “Damn it, Halli, relax, would you?”

The water shut off and one step brought her into sight.

“The boat’s not going to get any cleaner,” he stated.

“When I’m stressed at home I work in my garden.”

“You want me to talk to Giovanni anyway? See if he’s got something for you to dig up?”

She ignored his joke and gave him a quizzical look. “How do you stay so calm?”

“Do I look calm?”

Her expression immediately reflected his own frustration. “Like you’re kicked back on the beach with your third margarita in hand.”

“My old acting coach would be so proud.” Again he rested the camera in his lap. “Just come and sit. Or stand and stir the sauce. But your constant”—he waved a hand in the air—“flitting about is getting on my nerves.”

“‘Flitting about’?”

He shrugged. “My last role was a Regency romantic comedy. It’s the first thing that came to mind.”

She returned to the stove and set the water to boil again. French bread was cut as she muttered about forgetting to save some garlic. Trent was fine with warm bread and fresher breath. Next she whipped up what he guessed was the previously mentioned sponge cake with more ingredients pulled from her bottomless grocery sack. While the cake baked in the tiny galley oven, the pasta was added to the water, tomato marinara stirred more carefully this time, and fresh fruit sauce and homemade whipped cream set in his small refrigerator.

Despite the fact that she no longer ‘flitted about’ like a bird on speed, his concentration came no easier with her precision completion of each task. He slid from behind the table and removed himself from her disturbing presence by heading topside.

A swift scan of the area revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Strange that security had become a habit already. He touched the pistol at his back for reassurance and then, despite having just told her he’d rather not contact Gi

ovani, he dialed the phone.

The older gentleman didn’t sound surprised to hear his voice and listened as Trent gave him the abridged version of the situation. Giovani and Concetta had always treated him as if he were their son, ever since George had introduced them after their first movie together. He felt he owed them the explanation and was relieved he’d called when Giovani assured him they didn’t believe the lies on the news, offering faith and support in a way Trent’s father never had.

After also confirming they did not have a computer or video equipment he could use, he pocketed the phone. Then he tried to avoid thinking of his father and the fact that he felt no obligation to call him despite the news reports that were sure to have reached the location of his latest project. After their last phone conversation about Sean’s death, he seriously doubted the Great Greg Tomlin would believe anything else he had to say, so why even bother?