in the driver’s seat and started the car, trying to make sure he didn’t look uneasy, but he was.
He could have sworn they weren’t followed to the pier earlier.
It was instinct to pay attention to any car that seemed to be consistently going the same direction. None had, or else it had been done so skillfully he hadn’t caught it, and that was unlikely.
What did it mean?
Not sure.
Maybe her cell phone had a passenger. The evolution of tracking devices was ongoing, and he had contacts that kept up with the latest, but there was always something brewing in yet another devious brain.
He chose a pizza place that was appropriately casual a few blocks from the hospital and ushered her inside. Without being obvious, he tried to decipher her expression. Then he ordered a carafe of Chianti and a pepperoni, black olive, and green pepper pizza without asking what she preferred, because he was pretty sure she didn’t care. He waited until the waiter brought the glasses and their wine before saying anything to her.
She still looked stricken but not quite so shell-shocked. Nick poured her a glass, handed it over, and asked succinctly, “Can we go over this again? Who wants you dead?”
* * *
The man had a way with words.
A very straightforward way.
Reign was willing to go out on a limb and say a date with Nick Fattelli was pretty much an adventure every single time.
The restaurant was quiet and low-key, and it smelled of oregano and Parmesan. She was still shaken from the shooting and had to consciously take a deep breath before she picked up her wineglass. “I don’t know.”
At least the wine was smooth and mellow. Good choice. Her hand shook just a little, and some wine splashed out, but otherwise she thought she’d been pretty calm, considering.
She said carefully, “They shot Sal.”
The booth was actually very comfortable, even if it was hardly the most upscale place, and the jukebox in the corner was playing some sort of oldie. But she felt safe, and that was pretty important at the moment. Only because Nick was there, and maybe that was an illusion. This man sitting across the table, who was he? Complex, that was certain. Safe? Debatable.
“Oh yeah, they did.” Nick would never be a man to deal with less than the stark truth, she’d known that the moment she met him. “But, given what happened the night we met, do we both agree they were probably aiming for you? It takes some skill to shoot from a moving boat. They missed. He lost. They could have been gunning for you. I am not sure how often it happens in your life, but the sudden frequency of flying bullets your direction does send up flags.”
As if she didn’t already feel incredibly guilty. Sal had lost, but hopefully not his life. “You’ve shot at someone from a moving boat, Fattelli?”
“I’ve done a number of interesting things.” He sat back, wineglass in hand, his face shadowed. “It’s been established you know what I stand for.”
The closest he’d come to admitting it.
“Assassin?”
“Hey, let’s not get sophisticated. I’ve never said that.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon.”
In the end Nick was faintly amused. She could see it even in the inadequate light of the fake stained-glass fixtures. “Look, as awful as the evening turned out, I’m not actually involved in all of this. Don’t blame me.”
He had a point. Nick had been helpful, calm, and in command. Good man in a crisis—then again, a normal crisis didn’t involve the victims of gunshot wounds, but in his life, maybe it did.
“No.” She had to agree. Reign took a drink. The wine was truly Italian and delicious, but she was worried about Sal … and Nick was infuriatingly right: she couldn’t do anything at this point to help him.
Her grandmother had an old saying: “Misfortune comes in by the door left ajar.”
What door is open? She looked at the man sitting across from her. “What do you think is happening?”
“Unfortunately,
He could have sworn they weren’t followed to the pier earlier.
It was instinct to pay attention to any car that seemed to be consistently going the same direction. None had, or else it had been done so skillfully he hadn’t caught it, and that was unlikely.
What did it mean?
Not sure.
Maybe her cell phone had a passenger. The evolution of tracking devices was ongoing, and he had contacts that kept up with the latest, but there was always something brewing in yet another devious brain.
He chose a pizza place that was appropriately casual a few blocks from the hospital and ushered her inside. Without being obvious, he tried to decipher her expression. Then he ordered a carafe of Chianti and a pepperoni, black olive, and green pepper pizza without asking what she preferred, because he was pretty sure she didn’t care. He waited until the waiter brought the glasses and their wine before saying anything to her.
She still looked stricken but not quite so shell-shocked. Nick poured her a glass, handed it over, and asked succinctly, “Can we go over this again? Who wants you dead?”
* * *
The man had a way with words.
A very straightforward way.
Reign was willing to go out on a limb and say a date with Nick Fattelli was pretty much an adventure every single time.
The restaurant was quiet and low-key, and it smelled of oregano and Parmesan. She was still shaken from the shooting and had to consciously take a deep breath before she picked up her wineglass. “I don’t know.”
At least the wine was smooth and mellow. Good choice. Her hand shook just a little, and some wine splashed out, but otherwise she thought she’d been pretty calm, considering.
She said carefully, “They shot Sal.”
The booth was actually very comfortable, even if it was hardly the most upscale place, and the jukebox in the corner was playing some sort of oldie. But she felt safe, and that was pretty important at the moment. Only because Nick was there, and maybe that was an illusion. This man sitting across the table, who was he? Complex, that was certain. Safe? Debatable.
“Oh yeah, they did.” Nick would never be a man to deal with less than the stark truth, she’d known that the moment she met him. “But, given what happened the night we met, do we both agree they were probably aiming for you? It takes some skill to shoot from a moving boat. They missed. He lost. They could have been gunning for you. I am not sure how often it happens in your life, but the sudden frequency of flying bullets your direction does send up flags.”
As if she didn’t already feel incredibly guilty. Sal had lost, but hopefully not his life. “You’ve shot at someone from a moving boat, Fattelli?”
“I’ve done a number of interesting things.” He sat back, wineglass in hand, his face shadowed. “It’s been established you know what I stand for.”
The closest he’d come to admitting it.
“Assassin?”
“Hey, let’s not get sophisticated. I’ve never said that.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon.”
In the end Nick was faintly amused. She could see it even in the inadequate light of the fake stained-glass fixtures. “Look, as awful as the evening turned out, I’m not actually involved in all of this. Don’t blame me.”
He had a point. Nick had been helpful, calm, and in command. Good man in a crisis—then again, a normal crisis didn’t involve the victims of gunshot wounds, but in his life, maybe it did.
“No.” She had to agree. Reign took a drink. The wine was truly Italian and delicious, but she was worried about Sal … and Nick was infuriatingly right: she couldn’t do anything at this point to help him.
Her grandmother had an old saying: “Misfortune comes in by the door left ajar.”
What door is open? She looked at the man sitting across from her. “What do you think is happening?”
“Unfortunately,
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