Fool Me Twice (Riley Wolfe 2)

She shook her head. “Kind of moody and introspective and thoughtful all at once. Pensive.”

One side of his mouth twitched upward in a quarter smile. “Yeah, well. I mean—I guess I am. All that stuff. Especially pensive,” he added, lightly mocking her use of the word.

“Okay. So what are you pensing about?”

He was all serious again, turning back to look out the window. “You don’t want to know,” he said.

“Yes, I do,” she said. Riley shook his head. “Riley, come on.”

He sighed and spoke without looking at her. “I’m thinking maybe I should just relax, enjoy myself. Treat this like my last vacation. Because it looks like it might be.”

“Jesus, Riley,” Monique said. “What happened to ‘there’s always a way’?”

“Maybe sometimes there isn’t,” he said, so softly she barely heard him. “Maybe this is that time.”

She watched him for a moment in silence. “Riley,” she said, when the silence was too much. “You can’t just . . .” She trailed off as she realized that he’d come around to what had been bothering her this whole trip, and more, that she didn’t know what she wanted to say.

“Yes, I can,” he said, forceful and bitter all of a sudden. “I can just. And at the moment I don’t know what else I can just.” He still didn’t look at her. “I have always believed that—I mean, you can make fun if you want—but, goddamn it, Monique,” he said, turning toward her at last. “I can’t see any way in at all—this one time that’s more important than ever because—”

He broke off abruptly, looking at her with an intensity that was a little frightening. For a long moment he held her gaze. Then he said, “Shit,” and turned to stare out the window again, toward the Vatican.

Monique wondered what he’d been about to say. She thought it might have been something about her—that this time she was in danger, that her life was on the line, too, and that raised the stakes. And she half hoped she was wrong about that—but the other half of her knew she was right and was oddly glad about it.

“I never thought I would ever have to give you a pep talk, Ril

ey,” Monique said at last. “The idea is totally crazy—Riley Wolfe, egomaniac, the self-appointed Best Ever, the man who always finds a way—I mean, Jesus, how could I ever pump up somebody who already thinks he can do anything?” She watched him, hoping for a cocky comeback, or at least a hint of a smile. Nothing. “But, Riley . . .”

Monique wanted to say something like, “You haven’t really tried,” or, “You always think of something.” Or even something horrible like, “It’s always darkest just before the dawn.” She wanted to say something, at least. But with the impeccable timing of waiters everywhere in the world, their waiter chose that perfect moment to interrupt. “Signorina,” he said to Monique, with a smile and a half bow. And then he rattled off a rapid but melodic speech in Italian. Monique caught a couple of words, but they didn’t add up to anything. She looked at Riley, raising an eyebrow.

“The first course,” he told her.

“Oh. Of course,” Monique said. “Um—what does he recommend?”

Riley and the waiter exchanged a couple of sentences. Riley glanced at her. “How do you feel about seafood? No allergies?”

“I love seafood,” Monique said.

Riley nodded and turned back to the waiter. She heard him say, “Sì, sì,” and then he was off in another stream of fast and incomprehensible Italian. Incomprehensible to her—the waiter clearly understood and approved. He bowed, smiled at Monique, and scurried away. “What am I having?” she asked.

“Deep-fried zucchini flower with caviar on shellfish and saffron consommé,” Riley said. “Arturo says it’s very good tonight.”

It was good. In fact, it was far beyond merely good, and the rest of the meal was, too. It was one of the best dinners she’d ever eaten. And the food seemed to snap Riley out of his mood of “pensing.” He took great delight in steering her through the various following courses and their wine pairings. He kept up a steady flow of cheerful conversation, speaking of what they’d seen that day and art in general, all the way through dessert and coffee, and there was no opening for Monique to attempt her pep talk.

Which was just as well, she thought. Because even if she came up with something to say that didn’t sound stupid, Monique wasn’t sure she could believe it. It really did seem as hopeless as Riley said.

But for the rest of the meal, and for the slow stroll back to the hotel, they both put it as far out of their minds as they could. Riley pointed out interesting sights along the way, peppered her with stories from history and from his own experience, and by the time they finally got to their room, Monique thought it had been one of the most pleasant evenings she could remember in a long time.

When she had changed out of her fancy dress, Monique returned to the sitting room of the suite, just in time to see Riley, dressed all in black, heading out the door. He saw her and paused in the doorway. “It’s probably pointless,” he said, “but I’m going to go take a look around.” And he turned to go.

“A look around where? What do you— Riley!” she said.

But he was already gone.

16

Giovanni Romanelli loved his job. The pay was not wonderful, but it was enough for what he needed. He shared an apartment with a friend, Paolo, who worked in a Vespa repair shop. And that had come in handy more than once, because Giovanni’s ruling passion was his Ducati Hypermotard. It was a few years old and needed tender loving care, and with Paolo’s help, it got just that. And it had to be said that the bike was a very big help with Giovanni’s other passion, tourist women. In his job with the Vatican Gendarmerie, he had a chance to meet many of them, and if he could only talk them into a ride on the back of his Ducati, racing through the streets of Rome, the motorcycle throbbing and purring under them—something about it worked on most women like magic.

Life was good for Giovanni Romanelli. Even now, when he was on night duty, patrolling the square by the Apostolic Palace. Vatican City, the world’s smallest independent country, closed its borders every night. Consequently, there were no tourists at all to be seen. In the dark and humid summer night, there was nothing to see at all except the other gendarmes, an occasional priest, perhaps one of the many domestic workers who served His Holiness and the lesser clerics in residence. So Giovanni had nothing much to do except eight hours of walking back and forth in the darkness. But the late duty was only temporary, just for a few weeks. And the women would seem that much sweeter when he returned to his regular hours during the day.