19. Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Nineteen
Lorenzo
I hear the exhaustion in her voice and feel the tension that remains in her.
Whatever has caused her dislike of her name is old. Old enough that one careless word brought it close to the surface.
I could press.
I know how to ask in a way that makes a person not realize they are being asked. I know how to use silence as an interrogation technique if words don’t work. She is not the only one who is good at getting information.
But Donna is already braced for that.
She expects me to dig.
So I do the one thing she is least prepared for.
I let it go.
For now.
I draw the comforter over us and keep my arm around her. She stays stiff for several moments, as if waiting for the next question.
None comes.
Gradually, her body softens against mine.
Her head settles beneath my chin. One hand rests against my chest, her fingers curled loosely against my skin.
We lie quietly for several minutes.
I listen to her breathing even out.
She is close to sleep when I ask, “Have you eaten?”
Her eyes remain closed.
“No.”
“When was the last time?”
“I had coffee earlier, remember?”
At the police station.
“That is not food.”
“Close enough.”
I look down at her. “Not nearly.”
She opens one eye. “I was busy. You remember the whole day of running around, right? The Rachel thing? Or has your brain leaked out of your ears?”
I lift a brow, not deterred by her attempt at a joke.
She sighs and closes her eyes again. “I forgot.”
Of course she did.
She remembers dates, addresses, faces, license plates, and details hidden inside badly kept records. She remembers to carry gloves, evidence bags, lock picks, and something bearing Rachel’s scent for Mocha.
Feeding herself apparently is too much to remember.
“I’ll go downstairs, bring up the wine, and have something delivered.”
That gets both eyes open.
“At this hour?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing delivers this late.”
“I know a place.”
She studies my face, suspicious even while naked and half asleep against me.
“What kind of place?”
“Italian.”
“Of course.”
“The food is good.”
“You sound biased.”
I am.
My family owns the restaurant, though I decide she does not need that information yet. If I tell her, she will accuse me of using family resources to get food delivered after closing.
She would be correct.
“They will deliver,” I say.
“Are you planning to threaten them?”
“No.”
“Vaguely intimidate them?”
“No.”
“Use the great and terrifying Conti name?”
“I intend to make a phone call.”
She watches me, still suspicious.
I stroke my hand down her back. “Do you want food, or do you want to interrogate me?”
“Both, apparently.”
“You can conduct the interrogation after you eat.”
She considers this.
“All right.”
She shifts beneath the covers, then grimaces.
“Actually, first a shower, I think.”
I grin.
She shoots me a look. “Don't look so pleased with yourself.”
“I am pleased with myself.”
“Ugh, men,” she says, pushing away from me.
My satisfaction deepens.
“You didn't seem to have an issue with us not too long ago.”
“That was temporary insanity.” She throws the comforter back and sits up.
Her hair is tangled around her shoulders. Faint marks color the skin along her throat and breasts. The sight of them stirs something possessive and deeply satisfying inside me.
She catches me looking.
“Stop staring.”
“No.”
She reaches for a pillow and hits me with it.
I catch it before she can pull it back.
“Do you require assistance bathing, dolcezza?” I ask, my voice deepening.
She sends me a heated look over her shoulder, and for a moment, it looks like she’s considering. Then the pillow hits me full in the face again.
I laugh and roll onto my back in time to watch her walk toward the bathroom, enjoying my view of that very lovely ass and those long legs.
“I take that as a no?”
“No,” she says firmly. “Stay out, you lech.”
The bathroom door closes behind her.
A moment later, I hear the lock click.
I grin and reach for my trousers.
“Very trusting,” I call through the door.
“I know exactly who I’m dealing with.”
The shower starts before I can answer.
I dress, still smiling, then head downstairs to retrieve the wine and make the call.
Mocha is lying near the foot of the stairs, watching me.
He lifts his head when I approach.
“She is showering.”
His gaze remains fixed on me.
“I am feeding her.”
One ear shifts.
“You are quite judgmental, you know,” I say, reaching into the pocket of my coat for my phone. “Trust me. I’ve taken good care of her. Very good care.”
His tail strikes the floor once.
I stop and look at him. “All right, what's it going to take for you to warm up to me? A treat? What if I give you a treat?”
His tail hits the floor again, a little more enthusiastically.
“A bribe, then.”
Mocha rises immediately.
I glance toward the kitchen. “You know where she keeps them?”
He turns and walks away without waiting for me.
I follow him into the kitchen, but instead of stopping in front of one of the cabinets, he sits at the back door and looks over his shoulder at me.
“You want me to let you outside?”
His tail sweeps across the floor in confirmation.
I unlock the door and pull it open. Cool air spills into the kitchen, brushing over my bare feet. Mocha bounds onto the back porch, then stops at the bottom of the steps and looks back.
The yard beyond him is larger than I expected, stretching behind the house in a wide sweep of grass bordered by trees and a tall wooden fence.
“You are outside,” I point out when he just stands there.
After a moment, I step onto the porch. The boards are cold beneath my feet.
Mocha turns at once and races across the yard. He disappears briefly into the darker grass near the fence, then comes charging back with a faded rubber ball clamped between his teeth. His ears bounce with every stride, and his tail swings high behind him.
He stops directly in front of me and pushes the ball into my hand. It is damp, slightly chewed, and coated with a thin layer of dirt.
I grimace. “This is what you wanted?”
Mocha backs away several paces and lowers his front legs, watching me with complete concentration.
I throw the ball across the yard.
He launches after it before it leaves my hand, his long body stretching into the run. He reaches it near the fence, scoops it up without slowing, then wheels around and races back.
The ball lands against my palm again.
I throw it farther the second time.
He tears across the grass, quick and powerful, paws digging into the ground as he changes direction beneath the ball. He catches it after one bounce and returns with the same eager focus.
By the fourth throw, his tongue hangs from the side of his mouth.
By the sixth, I have stopped grimacing at the slobber on my hand.
There is something satisfying about the simplicity of it. I throw. He runs. He returns and waits for me to do it again, his entire body alert with anticipation.
I am reaching for the ball when I remember the reason I came downstairs.
“I still have to feed her.”
Mocha drops the ball at my feet.
I take out my phone, make the call, and arrange for the restaurant to send pasta, bread, and dessert. While the manager confirms the address, I pick up the ball and throw it one-handed.
Mocha sprints after it.
By the time the call ends, he is already on his way back.
I slip the phone into my pocket and keep playing.
A few throws later, I hear a voice behind me.
“He’ll keep you doing that for hours if you let him.”
I turn and see Donna in a robe, hair damp, leaning against the frame of her sliding door. A wine glass dangles lightly between her fingers as she watches.
“He failed to mention that.”
“He always does.”
Mocha drops the ball against my bare foot, then backs away and waits.
Donna’s lips curve as I bend to pick it up again.
“You’re enjoying yourself.”
“We are tolerating each other.”
“Mhmm,” she says as she brings the glass to her lips for a sip.
I throw the ball toward the far end of the yard. Mocha bolts after it, cutting across the grass with his ears pinned back and his tail streaming behind him.
Donna steps out onto the porch, drawing the robe tighter around herself against the cool air.
Mocha reaches the ball near the fence, turns sharply, and races back with it clamped between his teeth.
“He likes you,” she says.
“He likes the person throwing the ball.”
“That is how he likes people.”
Mocha drops it at my feet again and looks up at me, waiting.
I glance at Donna. “You trained him well.”
Her expression softens as she watches him.
“He trained me too.”
I throw the ball again, and this time she comes to stand beside me as we both watch him take off.
“Did you have him when you were in the FBI?” I ask.
She turns to me and lifts a brow.
“Did some research on me, did you?”
“No,” I say. “Let’s just say I have a sixth sense about these things.”
She laughs lightly. “Of course you do.”
I reach for her glass with my clean hand and take a sip.
The wine has opened since we left it downstairs. The tannins have softened, leaving dark cherry and blackberry at the front, with cedar and spice underneath. Full-bodied, balanced, and expensive enough that Donna would probably accuse me of showing off if she knew what it had cost.
I hand the glass back to her.
“It’s better now.”
She glances down at it. “You can tell from one sip?”
“Yes.”
“What does it taste like?”
“Dark fruit. Cedar. A little spice.”
She takes another sip, considering.
“It tastes like wine.”
I look at her. “Philistine.”
She laughs into the glass as Mocha comes charging back toward us.
Mocha drops the ball between us, but this time Donna bends to pick it up.
She throws it deep into the yard, and he races after it without hesitation.
“You didn’t answer me,” I say.
“I know.”
“Was he with you then?”
She watches Mocha disappear into the shadows near the fence.
“No. I got him after I left.”
There is enough in her tone to tell me the subject goes deeper than the simple answer.
“Can you tell me what happened there? You obviously weren’t there that long.”
She's silent for a moment.
“No, I wasn’t,” she finally says. “I was at the top of my class. I became one of the youngest field agents. I was assigned to a task force, which is very rare for someone my age.”
She goes silent as Mocha comes bounding back, but this time, she doesn’t throw the ball; she just puts her hand out to pet him. He seems to sense her mood and drops the ball to go to her.
He presses against her legs, and she lowers her hand to the back of his neck.
“Something went wrong. Somehow a big bust got leaked; evidence went missing.”
I turn to her. “They blamed you?” I ask incredulously. “There’s no way you would—”
But she shakes her head. “No, they knew I didn’t do it.
In fact, they knew exactly who did it. A senior agent.
A senior agent who was a legacy. His father and grandfather were in the Bureau.
Which meant that someone had to take the fall for him.
” She takes another slow sip of wine. “I saw the signs. I knew they were going to pin it on me, so I cut out of there before they could ruin my reputation.”
Anger burns hot in my chest.
“They protected him and sacrificed you.”
Her mouth twists. “That was the plan. I didn’t let it get that far.”
“You should have exposed them.”
“I was going to,” she says. “That’s how I met Julian. I hired him to represent me. I wanted to bring the whole thing down. The agent, the supervisors covering for him, everyone who knew what they were doing.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“With what proof?” she asks. “The evidence they were already making disappear?”
I have no answer for that.
“Julian was the objective realist I needed. He recognized that I had nothing. Suspicion, motive, and a very convincing story. But that’s all. If I fought them, they would destroy my career and make me look vindictive while they did it.”
“So you left.”
“Yes.” The admission costs her. “Julian negotiated my departure, made sure I left with my record intact, and told me to build something they couldn’t take from me.”
“Your agency.”
“He helped me set it up. Licensing, contracts, the business side of it.” Her fingers move slowly through the fur at Mocha’s neck. “We became friends somewhere along the way. I owe him more than I like to admit.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t see it the same way.”
“Sometimes,” she says with a small smile.
“And the Bureau?” I ask.
Her expression hardens again.
“They moved on. So did I.”
I do not believe the second part, but I let it pass.
Headlights sweep across the side of the house.
Donna glances toward the driveway. “That was fast.”
“Dinner,” I say, then hold out my hand for her. “Come inside before you freeze.”