Deadly Memories
Susan Vaughan
Silhouette Intimate Moments
August 2006
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During her Italian vacation, Sophie Rinaldi accepted a family friend’s hospitality and her stay was more than pleasant — until she overheard her host making plans to sell weapons to terrorists. Now her life was in danger and only an unseen protector could keep Sophie — and America — from harm.
Embittered government officer Jack Thorne expected a cut-and-dried surveillance case, but this was anything but. He was way too attracted to Sophie — who was either a witness or accomplice to an international smuggler’s crimes. Fighting a deadly threat, he tried to rein in his feelings for Sophie until he knew she wasn’t about to destroy them both….
Read an Excerpt from: DEADLY MEMORIES
Six days later
Jackson Thorne strained for a bead on his enemy.
The savage hatred always coiled in his belly stretched and sharpened its claws in anticipation. Only sheer will and concentration on his goal kept his hand steady and his expression impassive.
He adjusted the lens focus and swung the view beyond the rows of grapevines and ancient lime trees, across the flower beds, until he acquired the mellowed redbrick villa.
There. The damned murderer lived in there.
If only he had Sebastian Vadim in the crosshairs of a rifle scope instead of Leica seven-by-forty-two binoculars. Patience, patience, he mouthed. Duty forATSA first. TheAnti-Terrorism Security Agency needed Vadim’s contraband and information.
As the new addition to this Nuclear Interdiction Task Force, Jack had to do his part. Intelligence from Interpol had prompted the American and Italian anti-terrorism agencies to cooperate on this mission — to find and confiscate a stash of weapons-grade uranium. First they had to nail Sebastian Vadim for possession.
Afterward, Jack’s chance would come.
He’d waited five years to exact vengeance. Five years of investigating alias after alias, lead after lead. A few days more would make no difference.
“Nobody there but the cook and one bodyguard,” drawled Jack’s companion beneath the grapevine’s sheltering leaves.
“The other security mug — the Italian — drove him and the woman somewhere before you got here. De Carlo and a couple ATSA operatives tailed them.”
Disappointment deflated Jack’s tension. He lowered the binoculars and sank prone onto the rich Italian soil. He drew a deep breath of air spiced with ripening grapes and sun-heated loam.
Leaning on one elbow, he eyed the other ATSA officer, who reclined with his frayed cloth cap shading his face. Jack also wore a work shirt and trousers — cover as farm labor if anyone at the villa spotted the task-force surveillance team in the vineyard. “Any idea where Vadim went?”
Leoni affected a shrug and popped two sticks of chewing gum in his mouth to join the wad distorting his cheek.
Three others — Italian cops — were strung out along the same vine row but close enough for conversation without electronics.
When no one else replied, Leoni said, “Sometimes he takes the babe sightseeing in Venice. Sometimes they go to Treviso or the beach at Jesolo for a long lunch. Don’t expect them back until three or four. De Carlo’ll alert us.”
De Carlo, a commissario, an investigative officer, Jack recalled, was the task-force leader. “And Vadim hasn’t done anything suspicious? Contacted anyone?”
“Nothing that would give us an excuse to move on him.” The man unscrewed the cap on his bottled water and drank. “Wiretap?”
Leoni roused himself enough to shake his head. Jack suspected he was part of the task force mainly because he spoke fluent Italian. “Local polizia put up a roadblock of red tape. Vadim’s been a good citizen so far, spending liberally and living peacefully.”
“Hereabouts, he’s a wealthy business consultant,” another officer added. “They have no idea he’s a major player in the diamond-smuggling trade. We’re not ready to share intelligence with them.”
Leoni chuckled. “Just for grins, I tried to wire in anyway, but Vadim has a scrambler. With his black-market connections, he can get anything.”
The video officer spat into the dirt. “He will not get away this time. If the uranium charge does not stick, Interpol now has given us enough evidence on the smuggling.”
“For now, we wait.” Jack had read all that and more in the Interpol report, but impatience had goaded him to ask anyway. He laid the binoculars beside him on the ground.
At one o’clock the sun floated high among three puffy clouds. Temperatures climbed to a soporific sauna, incubating the cultivated vines and the watchers camped among their shady rows. “Unusual for early June,” said one of the Italians on a yawn. Everyone nodded in a doze.
Except Jack.
Downtime or not, his mind dwelled on his quarry. He didn’t need the CO’s report to know the relevant events.
The uranium courier’s trail had disappeared after Venice, but his kinship with Vadim was no coincidence. When De Carlo had interviewed Vadim, he’d denied any contact with his cousin and invited the officers to search the villa. They’d found nothing suspicious.
Other than Vadim and his bodyguards, a young American woman resided there. An overly courteous Vadim had introduced her as his houseguest.
Jack emitted a cynical snort. Guest was a euphemism. De Carlo’s report stated that her bedroom — beside Vadim’s — had been awash in Italian designer boutique clothes and silk lingerie with the price tags still attached. A check of Vadim’s credit card history showed he’d purchased them all. A man didn’t buy expensive clothing for a mere guest.
He raised the binoculars and used the rest of the time to study the villa. The house, part of it dating to the 1600s, was a sprawl of soft-red brick, native-stone chimneys and flag-stone terraces. It stood at the end of a long avenue lined with ancient lime trees. On one side was the vineyard, tended by the adjacent farmer cooperating with the task force. On the other side, opposite the watchers, Jack saw gardens, a swimming pool and guesthouses.
“They come,” one of the Italians said. “De Carlo says five minutes ETA.”
Jack’s adrenaline surged and his temples throbbed. Deep breaths calmed him. Photographs had put a face to Vadim, but now he was finally going to see his enemy in the flesh.
When Jack heard tires crunch on the gravel driveway and the purr of a powerful engine, he raised the binoculars.
A silver-gray S-Class Mercedes sedan rolled up to the portico, and the driver climbed out, a swarthy man in a lumpy sport coat. The Italian bodyguard, Jack recalled, one Guido Mazza. He made a small bow as he opened the rear door.
The diamond dealer eased smoothly from the backseat. He gleamed like his wares, in a tailored suit the same silver-gray as his luxury automobile. At a distance he looked fit, trim and much younger than the fifty Jack knew him to be.
Fifty is all you’ll have. Jack’s eyes narrowed as he memorized the man’s features.
Even teeth showing in a crocodile smile, bright and bogus, Vadim extended a hand for the woman.
Jack had seen photographs of her, too, snapshots taken with telephoto lenses. Hot as the Italian sun but with a freshness that surprised him. Sophie Rinaldi, aged twenty-seven, from Pelham, New York. An American tourist who after two weeks of touring Italy moved in with Vadim. She —
What he saw next short-circuited his thought processes. A slim foot in a red sandal extending from the Mercedes. Then a long, shapely, tanned leg. And the other.
“The guy is pond scum, but mamma mia, he sure can pick ‘em.” Beside Jack, Leoni had awakened.
The Rinaldi woman accepted Vadim’s proffered hand as she slid from the leather interior. After smoothing her skirt — a gauzy red thing that floated to her knees — she tossed back her hair and smiled.
That soft curve of lips sent a shock wave of heat into Jack’s veins. Need slammed into his groin. Never had the mere sight of a woman affected him with such power.
Why now? Why her?
Classic oval face, full lips, a mass of softly curling dark hair, toned feminine curves — the sensual Italian look. Hot but nothing special.
Except she wasn’t what he’d expected, even from the tele-photo shots. Softer, like her name, Sophie. With a breathless, otherworldly quality that kept his gaze riveted to her instead of to his target.
A fluke — effects of the sun and anticipation. He exhaled slowly, then again until the sensual vise began to loosen. He dragged his gaze from the woman to Vadim.
As the driver pulled the car around to the garage, Vadim and Sophie strolled toward the house. The diamond dealer leaned back his head and laughed at something she said. He brought her delicate hand to his lips and kissed her fingers.
The older man didn’t have his hands all over her, but why would he when she was in his bed every night? An assumption on ATSA’s part, but a logical one.
“Lucky bastard,” Leoni muttered. “He’s old enough to be her father.”
That wasn’t how Jack would’ve put it. But close enough. At the sight of his enemy’s meticulously manicured hand on her slim one, hatred seared white-hot pain in Jack’s chest and in his temples.
He should shoot right now. But he wanted the son of a bitch to know who executed him and why.
The two continued their casual conversation as the woman tucked a soft wave of thick, dark hair behind one ear.
“Why the devil can’t we hear them?” Jack whispered. “No bugs or wiretaps, but what about mikes or EARS41?” The Electronic Acquiring Reconnaissance System was a high-tech listening system.
“We tried. He’s got blockers we haven’t cracked. So we hang out in the vineyard and tail them. Old-fashioned police work.” Leoni yawned as if ready for another nap.
When the couple reached the doorway — wide double doors with a massive knocker — Vadim gestured to indicate that he was staying outside. He pointed toward the swimming pool, where his other thug waited for him. Petar, with an unpronounceable last name, came from Cleatia, like his employer.
Sophie smiled. Rising on tiptoes, she placed a hand on his shoulder. She brushed a quick kiss on his mouth.
Vadim barely reacted. Jack’s face heated as though she’d kissed him. More heat dived south of his belt. He swore under his breath.
With a little wave, she pivoted, her flirty skirt allowing a glimpse of creamy thigh before she vanished inside the villa.
“Woman likes to tease. Like all of ‘em,” Leoni said as he angled his binoculars to follow Vadim. “A velvet trap.”
Tease? Maybe. More like torture.
But Jack couldn’t let himself be distracted by a woman. For damn sure not a murderer’s woman like Sophie.
Sophie. Shaken, he sat back on his heels. He nearly dropped the binoculars. How did she go from being the Rinaldi woman to Sophie?
* * *
The day after Jack’s arrival, he and De Carlo tailed Sophie and Vadim through Venice’s canals and winding streets.
Tailing them afforded Jack a quick tour of Venice, but not one he could appreciate. He felt only frustration grinding like rocks on a storm-tossed shore at being so close to his quarry yet helpless to do anything.
When the couple lunched in the fashionable Harry’s Bar, Jack and De Carlo washed down risotto di mare with a house wine in the cheaper trattoria down the street, where they could observe when the couple left. Jack didn’t need the other man’s reminder to limit the alcohol. He could afford no blurred senses or dulled reflexes. No amount of wine could smooth the edges of his hatred.
After lunch they strolled from shop to shop on the Merceria, a narrow street running between the Piazza San Marco and the Rialto. While Sophie bargained with shopkeepers, Vadim held her packages.
Jack and De Carlo followed, ducking behind displays and peering at merchandise. Jack’s ire grew as he observed Sophie laugh at her lover’s jokes. She hung on his every damned word. Excitement at a bargain and pleasure in the beauty of the day brushed her cheeks with color.
Every movement — the sway of hips, the flash of dark eyes, the tilt of chin — appeared natural, unaffected. Even if Vadim bought the artless act, Jack didn’t. He knew firsthand about feminine manipulation.
Still, he couldn’t help checking out her high breasts when she reached up to sweep her mass of hair from her shoulders and fasten it at her nape. And he wasn’t alone.
Seeing Vadim touching and leering at this woman fanned Jack’s hatred and stoked the flames to volcanic heat. His chest felt so tight with rage that he thought he’d explode.
Jack had made a solemn vow to mete out justice. He’d waited long enough. He wanted this operation done so he could take care of the slime.
If something didn’t break soon, he would act.
“And that should wrap up our plans, Ahmed,” Vadim said into the telephone. “Do you foresee any loose ends?”
“What about the woman?”
“She is upstairs packing at this very moment. The goods are well hidden. Having her transport them to London will arouse no suspicions.”
“And she does not suspect?”
Ahmed Saqr was a fanatic but a careful buyer. His continual worry irritated Vadim. He wanted the deal over, the danger out of his house. “She trusts me implicitly. She believes what I want her to believe.”
There was a rapid intake of breath — a gasp — on the line. “What was that?”
Click.
Vadim froze, his heart racing. Where was Sophie? But he feared that he knew. “Old friend, do you have someone listening on an extension?”
“Not I. What is going on?”
“I must go find out. I will call you back.”
