Learning to Trust Page 5

  He’d showered and changed while she’d been working. Hell, he probably had more in his luggage than she did in her wardrobe, even though he’d traveled light. One suit, just in case he needed to confront officialdom, and a bunch of casual wear. “You don’t have any Brantley clothes?” he teased as he got to his feet. The casual sportswear his company sold would suit her lifestyle here.

  She cast him a mischievous smile. “Too expensive for me. Most of my clothes are secondhand or discount. They fit, they’re clean and they’re all I need.”

  “None of those are words I ever expected to hear from a society princess.” But none the worse for that.

  She shrugged. “I discovered the difference between what really matters and what doesn’t.” But she didn’t tell him what it was.

  They left the apartment and clattered down the stairs, but when he would have opened the car for her, she shook her head. “No, we’ll go to local centers to start with.” She sighed. “There are a lot in Naples, but most of them we can walk to.”

  Twenty minutes’ walk took them to the first shelter. She showed the picture of Byron that they had, the one from the railway station. For a security picture it was pretty good, but when Jon had first seen it, he’d had to work to connect it with his brother. Not the polished, fun-loving man he’d known, but a scarecrow with long, unkempt, filthy hair, and clothes so dirty that the logo on his T-shirt was unreadable.

  People who’d seen him recently would have little problem identifying Byron from the picture. Jon watched Lina hug the organizer, the woman behind the depressingly mundane counter holding an array of food. And he wondered. He’d have thought she’d try to get away from these places, if she’d told him the truth about kicking the habit. After all, not all drug habits involved needles.

  But that morning he’d searched her apartment thoroughly. The books on her shelves were well read. Her cooking utensils, though few in number, were clean. She had little in the way of food. Probably ate in the café, but the snacks and drinks he’d discovered were either sealed or exactly as described on the label. No “works,” a collection of utensils used for drugs, typically syringes, no blackened metal spoon or roll of kitchen foil, no unlabeled pills, nothing. He’d even checked the floorboards. Habit more than anything else. Years spent scouring Byron’s bedroom for illicit contraband had given him the knowledge of where to look and what to look for.

  His search was as much his problem as hers. Last night meant much more to him than he was ready to admit. At the time he’d taken it as an opportunity to fulfill a desire he’d felt for a long time. Now he knew one night would never be enough for him. Not with her. And that bewildered him. He could take an inventory, but it wouldn’t encompass why he felt so different about her. He could find excuses but none of them worked. Celebration, relief, jet lag…oh, and the fact that her body was so hot. Those reasons all worked, but it didn’t explain why he felt such raw hunger for her.

  He should tell her what he’d done, the panic that had driven him to search, to make absolutely sure she was off the junk—but he wouldn’t. She didn’t deserve that, and he wouldn’t hurt her by telling her he doubted her, even for a moment. It was his fault, his problem and he’d have to learn to deal with it.

  Standing at the edge of the large room now, hands shoved in his pockets, Jon saw depressingly familiar sights. He’d searched places like this in New York, in Rome, and now here in Naples. They spoke a different language, when they spoke at all, and they came for the food they needed. And for contacts. Everyone knew that some of the shabbily dressed individuals sitting at the tables were police and other agents. It was part of the game. So they wouldn’t say anything too revealing, but maybe he could appeal to them. If only he spoke more Italian, specifically Neapolitan.

  Thank God one of them did.

  Lina took her time, first embracing the woman in charge and exchanging her news, before she introduced the man leaning against the wall. “It’s an old friend from New York.”

  “Old friend, eh?” Maria nudged her, but from Maria, a nudge could knock a person sideways. Her powerful arms, strengthened by a lifetime in kitchens and canteens, flexed with as much muscle as any Mr. Universe. “He’s a very good-looking old friend. Are you sure there isn’t more to it?”

  Heat rose to her face. “There can’t be. He goes home soon. That’s why we’re here, Maria, and why I can’t stay and help today.”

  She tutted. “A shame. They enjoy your chats.”

  “They need someone who’s been there to talk to them.” And someone who knew just how cold it could get on the pavement at night. Stones retained the cold and delivered a deep-down chill like nothing else could. “I’ll be back. But Jonathan needs my help. He’s looking for his brother, Byron.”

  “A lost soul, is he?”

  She grinned. “You sound like the sisters.” The smile disappeared when she remembered Byron as she’d last seen him—pasty-faced, thin, shivering. She swallowed back her tears, as she had so often in the past two years. “Yes, he’s a lost soul. But his brother’s tracked him down and apparently Byron got the train to Naples last month. He’s an addict, so someone must have seen him.” She pulled the photo out of her bag. “Here. Have you seen him? He’ll speak Italian with a Roman accent, and a slight trace of American.” She didn’t bother to specify which American. After all, they all sounded the same, didn’t they?

  Maria studied the photograph. “No, I’m sorry, my dear. I’m sure I would have noticed if I’d seen him.” She sighed. “He must have been handsome once.”

  “He was.” She took the photo, and gently slid it back in her pocket. “But you know what happened to him.”

  “Yes I do.” Maria smiled brightly. They were all good at that kind of smile, if they helped in the shelters. “I thank God every day for you and the others like you. The people who beat it.”

  “We had a reason to.” She turned and glanced around, smiling at the people she knew. Some smiled back, even, showing how much they’d accepted her. But she never told them where she lived, always checked that no one followed her home, and they only knew her as “Lina.” Because however much they liked her, she couldn’t trust them. They’d do anything for a fix. Anything. She should know. She’d been there, too.

  They couldn’t linger today. So she collected Jon and left.

  Three shelters later Lina was beginning to feel a sharp sense of dread. She’d started with the larger ones, the places where the homeless went as well as the addicts, and she’d asked a few people about Byron. One remembered him scoring from one of the dealers who hung around the railway station. Weeks ago. When he’d first arrived, most likely. Other than that, nothing.

  Not a fucking thing. Which all led to one place.

  After two more shelters, she was as sure as she could be. Jon had remained silent for the most part, happy to let her do the talking and the asking, but after that last one he stopped her, placing his hands on her shoulders. “What’s wrong, Lina?”

  Meeting his clear gaze, she couldn’t lie to him. If she was right, there wasn’t much point, anyway. She swallowed and then took a deep breath. “We’ve visited five shelters, Jon. I took care to pick the biggest and best known, the ones a stranger would gravitate to. There are a few smaller ones, but not many. We’ve covered the city. And we only got one sighting of him, most likely on the day he arrived here.”

  He nodded and his grip on her shoulders tightened momentarily. “So we need to check the morgues. Go to the police.”

  No avoiding it. “I think so.”

  “Which first?”

  If he’d died, it was probably from an overdose, not a criminal act. “The morgues. But not today. It’s getting late.”

  “Okay.” He breathed deep, obviously controlling his emotions. “Do you have to work tomorrow?”

  She wouldn’t, even if it meant losing her job. “I’ll talk to Franco.”

  They walked back to the café hand in hand, not knowing who needed more comfort. They di
dn’t speak.

  When they returned, she gave him the keys to the apartment and went into the café. After she’d explained, Franco scratched his bald head, frowning at her. “As far as anyone is concerned, you are building your life now. It would be this Byron you spoke about before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you leave him?”

  Nobody had ever asked her before Jon, and now Franco wanted to know. The sisters had understood, and nobody else had cared before. “Because he was too far gone. He wouldn’t do it, go through it. The sisters said I had to get away, go somewhere new, and so I came here. They gave me your address, Franco. You’ve been good for me.”

  He flipped his fingers in a gesture of dismissal. “You are a good worker. If you had not been, I wouldn’t have helped you, you can be sure of that. I can switch shifts around, but I want you to work tonight instead.”

  That seemed reasonable, so she ran upstairs to get her apron and tell Jon. He came down with her, so she could introduce him to Franco properly and he could get something to eat.

  At night the café stopped serving meals at eight, and after that, it became a bar that served snacks. Lina found Jon a bowl of that day’s special, mussels in white wine with ribbons of linguine. She put the plate in front of him. “Please, eat. You can’t change anything tonight.” She murmured very quietly because nobody here knew she was anything but a girl from Rome who’d wanted a change of scenery. Five years ago, her face had haunted the gossip magazines and chat shows, mostly being ridiculed by the hosts. But people didn’t expect to see Bellina Mazzanti Forde here, so they didn’t see her, and she no longer wore makeup, and dyed her hair a boring mouse. Even Franco didn’t know her other existence, and he thought she only spoke stilted English.

  Jon put his hand over hers and squeezed it. “Thank you. This smells very good.” He tried a smile.

  “Stay as long as you like. I imagine you don’t want to be alone.” She straightened up.

  “No.”

  Most people who frequented this place were workers, either in the tourist industry or fishermen—the few that were left in Naples itself—or people involved in shadier activities. Not tourists. Although she loved all the city, thought it had its own beauty, this area wasn’t the most salubrious.

  They were just north of the Piazza Garibaldi, where a few hotels were situated. The occasional tourist hurried by, hiding their valuables, peering inside the café, but not pausing. If they knew how good the food was, they might think again. Franco had grown fat on it.

  She glanced back as she headed for the bar. At least rich-boy Jon was smart enough not to wear his Rolex, and to wear jeans and T-shirts without obvious logos or designer symbols. Even expensive running shoes could get a man killed. But this area hadn’t been as bad as some of the ones they’d visited today. Every city had its seedy side, and she guessed that Jon had seen his fair share of New York’s if he’d gone searching for Byron in the past.

  Behind the bar after they closed the food area, she laughed and chatted with patrons, fended off busy hands and never had to appeal to Franco, as she’d done when she first came here. Then she’d been confused, exhilarated and exhausted all at the same time. That little apartment meant more to her than any other place she’d ever lived, just because it had seen her own personal renaissance.

  Jon sat and watched her, exchanging nods with the locals and getting by with rudimentary Italian and hand gestures. He grinned when a man motioned to her, and denied that he was a tourist—an easy mark, in other words. She hadn’t known how to explain him, but he seemed to be doing it himself very well. Before the evening ended, the sideways looks the clientele had shot him, the wary way they’d treated him, had all gone. When he tugged at his shirt she had to restrain a laugh. She knew what he was saying. She exchanged a glance with him, brimful of laughter. The connection shot straight through her, deep inside. Right to the heart.

  Franco closed the café at eleven, after the last customer had straggled out the door. He cocked a brow at Jon and addressed Lina. “He must be good in bed if his Italian is as bad as it sounds.” Franco had lived here too long to take anyone at face value. “You take care. I have his measure. Is that right? He sells T-shirts?”

  She smiled broadly. “That’s right. Chinese knockoffs. I bet he was offering to get some for your clients. It’s legit, well, that is, he pays for them before he sells them.”

  “But the logos are different?”

  She shrugged. “Probably. You know how it is.”

  In this part of town, selling counterfeit T-shirts was almost respectable. As long as you worked for the right people.

  They’d watch the stupid American trying to break in on their business, but nobody would do anything until he actually made a move. They wouldn’t cause any trouble unless they caught him muscling in on their territory because lawyers were expensive, even the ones they’d bought and paid for. But even more expensive would be to lose face, so one false move and they’d ensure he didn’t do anything else. The families were back to their original business—making money rather than making politics.

  In the safety of her room, she warned him. “You’d have to pay for a pitch, and a premium for protection.” She saw the puzzlement on his face. “A pitch is a spot to trade from. They’re not free.”

  He grinned. “That sounds familiar. My grandfather used to tell stories about the Italians in New York. I know it existed, but I don’t think he had as much to do with them as he claimed.”

  “What were your origins? I mean—”

  He laughed and kissed her forehead. “I know what you mean. No affiliations. Not Italian, not Jewish, not Irish. My family settled on the West Coast. They made their fortune there before they came to New York. My grandfather was the first Brantley to set up business in the garment district, and we still have relatives in California, who run the business there. How about you?”

  “My mother was from Milan. That’s why I came here, because I thought nobody would know me. And they don’t. I’m Lina Mazzaro here, a girl from Rome, an ex-addict who moved to start afresh.”

  “So Franco knows you were an addict?”

  She nodded. “He was brought up by the nuns in the same order that saved me, but he was an orphan, a street child. They keep in touch. So when Sister Francis asked him to take me, he had to agree. The sister used the similarity of their names for all she was worth, and reminded him what their namesake was famous for. Caring for animals and the poor. Sheltering the sick. He said he’d send me back if I didn’t work hard.”

  He drew her close and curved his arms around her. “I want you, Lina. Please let me make love to you.”

  Her mouth twisted. “You mean fuck.”

  “No. Not necessarily. Don’t close your mind, Lina. I wanted you once, you know that.”

  “When you were a lot younger, and so was I. Before—before everything went wrong.” With any luck he’d assume she just meant the drugs. Why should she mean anything else?

  For answer he bent his head and kissed her. So gently, she hardly felt the press of his lips at first. When she opened her mouth, it felt like a natural development. As if there was no other option. He explored her gently, licking the roof of her mouth until she melted into him. She’d never felt this way before, as if this had to happen, no other choice.

  He guided her to the bed and they undressed each other slowly. Not in a tantalizing way, no teasing, not ripping each other’s clothes but as they got in the way, they were removed, gently and carefully. It felt natural. Almost as if they’d done it many times before.

  Shared kisses increased as the clothes decreased. He finished one kiss only to touch his lips to her cheek, her nose, and then returned to her mouth as if he couldn’t help himself. She returned them, sought them, each caress building her desire. His body against hers felt warm, not hot.

  She sought its warmth, found comfort in it, as well as an exquisite friction she refused to deny herself. He cupped her breast, brought his thumb to
her nipple and repeatedly rubbed the pad against it, whispering encouragement to her when she gave him a soft groan of delight.

  With his other hand he stroked down, shaped her body and curved his palm around her bottom, using his hold to tug her closer.

  They kicked off their underwear and stood naked together. They pushed aside the bed coverings and lay down together, side by side. There was only just room. He kissed her, stroked her and she returned his caresses. She learned his body, a small dent where he’d had some kind of minor accident on his hip, the shape and feel of his nipples, the way they hardened into sharp points under her fingers. She slid down the bed to kiss them, taste them and he gave a sigh of pleasure. “That feels so good.”

  “Salty.” She licked again, gathered him up into her embrace and kissed down to his navel. He tasted different, sharper, lower down, where his chestnut pubic hair began to grow. Intrigued to find auburn glints in it, she combed her fingers through and kissed his balls, first one, then the other. She wanted to bring him comfort and solace, as well as hot sex. She knew what they’d find tomorrow or the day after. He deserved this respite.

  His erect cock hardened even more under her fingers. When she kissed up the strong muscle at the center, heading for the sensitive tip, he sighed and touched her shoulders and hair, stroking her, caressing her. He neither encouraged nor discouraged, but accepted and enjoyed.

  She licked away the precious drop of liquid that gathered there, and took it into her mouth to suckle before releasing it to kiss the tip. She sucked it again, loved the way it filled her mouth. His response fascinated her, the way his belly tensed under her cheek, his groans, his whispered encouragement.

  She didn’t stay too long. She wanted more. When she finally released him, he passed her a wrapped condom he must have picked up from the bedside table. He accepted her, accepted what she wanted to do for him. To him.

  Her pussy nudged his upper thighs when she sat up, leaving a patch of moisture. He looked so fine, felt so good. But she wouldn’t hurry this. She opened the condom and slid it on, but had to break eye contact to ensure she was doing it right. It had been a long time. He didn’t offer to help, although she knew he would if she asked. But she wanted to do this on her own. She lifted, parted her labia with her fingers, touched her clit, which was hard and ready for attention. This was not its night. Another time. Tonight belonged to him.