happily ever after. A man who’d take her to the opera and the ballet,
who’d buy her porcelain and caviar and diamonds.
Not a Degardovera. She would
never have a Degardovera. She would never eat sandwiches off paper towels or
visit relatives who lived in Mexican shacks with dirt floors.
He swallowed, mouth dry from
remembering the soft shoulders, the inviting thighs.
This wouldn’t do. He couldn’t
think about Autumn naked.
Had Fran seen her that way?
Hell.
* * *
Sam Bogatti had hung around Helen
all afternoon.
A nice little tourist trap. After
locating the pizza place, he’d wandered along the streets and browsed in the
shops where he bought his wife a candle and enjoyed a cappuccino. Then he’d wandered
some more. When he figured it was time for the photographer to put in an
appearance, he’d found a cold bench near the rest rooms and the pizza place.
There he waited.
And waited some more.
It was after seven before his
target walked by. A tall dark man trailed her, caught her elbow when she stumbled
on a rough sidewalk. She looked up at him and said something with a smile.
Pretty woman. Prettier than the
brochure picture.
Sam took his time getting up, and
then followed them into the building and down a corridor to the door of the
restaurant. When he entered, a gust of warm air blasted past him, air redolent
with marinara, sausage, beer, pine boughs, and wood ashes uncomfortably
reminiscent of the fire the night before. Country music moaned over the babble
of excited and inebriated hilarity.
He shouldered his way inside, but
couldn’t get anybody to seat him for fifteen minutes. What was up with that? He
hadn’t noticed a crowd coming this way. The line in front of him wasn’t that
long. He was a customer; they ought to be jumping to seat him.
Forget it. You don’t need the
stress.
These things happened, and he was
patient. He’d learned at the start you couldn’t be in this business and not be
patient.
As he waited, he chewed his gum
and looked over the restaurant. No, there weren’t that many customers but the place
was small. A male cashier did nothing but sit at the door and answer the phone
while a lone waitress in blue jeans and red-checkered shirt rushed back and
forth to the kitchen.
The harried woman did seating as
well as serving. When at last she motioned him toward a table between a
fireplace large enough to burn a small tree and the noisy party including
Autumn Merriwell, he didn’t hesitate.
What the shit. He hadn’t expected
the place to be full, and he certainly hadn’t expected to have to wait this
long to get inside, but here he was and he’d make do. Even if it did mean
sitting at a table where his back was against that of his target.
What frigging luck. A single man
at a table for four. His leather jacket and jeans might not stand out, but someone
could remember him.
His heart rate rose. Time for a
few mental stress exercises. Breathe, breathe. In, out.
Didn’t matter. Nobody’d connect
him to the people at the next table. He hadn’t spoken to them. They hadn’t
spoken to him.
Still, maybe he should change the
plan.
He chewed on his gum.
Nah, no need. He’d watch his
step, make sure he gave none of her group a reason to notice him.
He was good at fading into the
woodwork. Average height, average looks. His grasp of anonymity was one of the
skills that made him invaluable for these kinds of jobs. And when all was said
and done, this was one more routine assignment to wrap up before heading home.
Sarita, now. That wasn’t routine.
That woman hadn’t been anything close to ordinary.
He should’ve turned down the
contract.
But Bernie had given him plenty
of plum jobs in the past. He owed his old pal. Thanks to Bernie, he had enough
money stashed away for a comfortable retirement, and that day wasn’t so far away.
Another eight years—maybe ten; that would see his youngest kid out of high
school and through college—and he could swing it.
Sam took off
who’d buy her porcelain and caviar and diamonds.
Not a Degardovera. She would
never have a Degardovera. She would never eat sandwiches off paper towels or
visit relatives who lived in Mexican shacks with dirt floors.
He swallowed, mouth dry from
remembering the soft shoulders, the inviting thighs.
This wouldn’t do. He couldn’t
think about Autumn naked.
Had Fran seen her that way?
Hell.
* * *
Sam Bogatti had hung around Helen
all afternoon.
A nice little tourist trap. After
locating the pizza place, he’d wandered along the streets and browsed in the
shops where he bought his wife a candle and enjoyed a cappuccino. Then he’d wandered
some more. When he figured it was time for the photographer to put in an
appearance, he’d found a cold bench near the rest rooms and the pizza place.
There he waited.
And waited some more.
It was after seven before his
target walked by. A tall dark man trailed her, caught her elbow when she stumbled
on a rough sidewalk. She looked up at him and said something with a smile.
Pretty woman. Prettier than the
brochure picture.
Sam took his time getting up, and
then followed them into the building and down a corridor to the door of the
restaurant. When he entered, a gust of warm air blasted past him, air redolent
with marinara, sausage, beer, pine boughs, and wood ashes uncomfortably
reminiscent of the fire the night before. Country music moaned over the babble
of excited and inebriated hilarity.
He shouldered his way inside, but
couldn’t get anybody to seat him for fifteen minutes. What was up with that? He
hadn’t noticed a crowd coming this way. The line in front of him wasn’t that
long. He was a customer; they ought to be jumping to seat him.
Forget it. You don’t need the
stress.
These things happened, and he was
patient. He’d learned at the start you couldn’t be in this business and not be
patient.
As he waited, he chewed his gum
and looked over the restaurant. No, there weren’t that many customers but the place
was small. A male cashier did nothing but sit at the door and answer the phone
while a lone waitress in blue jeans and red-checkered shirt rushed back and
forth to the kitchen.
The harried woman did seating as
well as serving. When at last she motioned him toward a table between a
fireplace large enough to burn a small tree and the noisy party including
Autumn Merriwell, he didn’t hesitate.
What the shit. He hadn’t expected
the place to be full, and he certainly hadn’t expected to have to wait this
long to get inside, but here he was and he’d make do. Even if it did mean
sitting at a table where his back was against that of his target.
What frigging luck. A single man
at a table for four. His leather jacket and jeans might not stand out, but someone
could remember him.
His heart rate rose. Time for a
few mental stress exercises. Breathe, breathe. In, out.
Didn’t matter. Nobody’d connect
him to the people at the next table. He hadn’t spoken to them. They hadn’t
spoken to him.
Still, maybe he should change the
plan.
He chewed on his gum.
Nah, no need. He’d watch his
step, make sure he gave none of her group a reason to notice him.
He was good at fading into the
woodwork. Average height, average looks. His grasp of anonymity was one of the
skills that made him invaluable for these kinds of jobs. And when all was said
and done, this was one more routine assignment to wrap up before heading home.
Sarita, now. That wasn’t routine.
That woman hadn’t been anything close to ordinary.
He should’ve turned down the
contract.
But Bernie had given him plenty
of plum jobs in the past. He owed his old pal. Thanks to Bernie, he had enough
money stashed away for a comfortable retirement, and that day wasn’t so far away.
Another eight years—maybe ten; that would see his youngest kid out of high
school and through college—and he could swing it.
Sam took off
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