Page 25

CHAPTER 25

She would remember that. Maarja remembered everything Dante had ever said to her, because it was safe. It was important. If she was going to live through this, she needed him. He was either going to save her…or kill her.

A man who was going to kill her wouldn’t perform a wedding ceremony with her.

Would he?

The side door wasn’t normal-sized. It was narrow and short, made to fit a hobbit or maybe to give the 1940s milkman somewhere to put his deliveries. Dante held her elbow as she stepped onto the slick concrete stairs and down the steps. He followed her at close quarters. He opened the gate that led into the next house’s backyard and shoved her through. They walked through somebody’s backyard, avoided their handkerchief-sized garden, went through another gate into the next backyard, then down a narrow side yard, through another gate, and…they stood at the back of the Live Oak Restaurant and Inn.

The brick building was old, and long, and thin, a former brothel converted into a world-class restaurant and a few suites expanded to rent for fifteen hundred dollars a night. And up. Most people who lived in Gothic couldn’t afford to stay here. Certainly she never had. But she’d eaten in the dining room, rubbing elbows with movie stars and jet-setters who traveled to Gothic to enjoy Senor Emilio Alfonso’s Spanish creations.

With his hand on her spine, Dante directed her into the side door here, as narrow and low as the last one, and she found herself in the small restaurant kitchen, aflame with cooking burners and full of ovens toasting iron pans of bread, cheese, vegetables, and thin slices of exotic meats that, oh, God, smelled like heaven to someone who planned a cheese and veggie plate before falling into bed.

Senor Alfonso, justly famous for his four-star restaurant in Barcelona, Spain, directed his small staff with energy and enthusiasm. Catching sight of Dante and Maarja, he shot them a welcoming smile and gestured them toward the small table in the far corner of the kitchen. Not in the dining room, the kitchen! They were as private as it was possible to be. No one could see them or know they were here. How had Dante arranged this in the convenient here and now? Maybe he had put the bottle in her sock drawer?

She chewed on that thought as he seated her on the bench against the wall, slid the table closer, then snuggled against her, effectively trapping her and touching her. Leaning in, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

In a low voice, she said, “Someone tried to frame me for theft. You involved me in some bizarre ceremony—”

“Wedding ceremony,” he corrected.

“You seem to think my house needs protecting, that I need protecting.”

“I will always protect my wife.”

She took a breath and let it out. One battle at a time, Maarja. “You have people impersonating us, dressed like us, leading them , whoever they are, astray. You rent a house we can walk into so it looks like we’re people we’re not—”

“Bought it.”

“And we sneaked through dark backyards to have dinner in the Live Oak Restaurant kitchen!” She leaned forward, got in his face. “What’s wrong? Really, Dante? What isn’t wrong?”

Oblivious to the moment, Senor Alfonso appeared at the table carrying his gambas al ajillo served in a miniature cast-iron skillet sizzling with olive oil. He placed the shrimp in front of Maarja where the scent distracted her with its garlicky goodness. “The senorita loves these, I know.” Pulling a corkscrew and a bottle from his expansive apron pocket, he expertly opened the wine, producing two glasses, and poured a taste for Dante. “From Rioja, as you requested.”

Dante tasted it. “Excellent. One of my favorites.”

One of the sous chefs arrived with a cutting board with small wedges of tortilla Espanola surrounded by toothpicks of Manchego cheese topped with pimento-stuffed Gordal olives, and a basket of crusty bread.

Already the tiny table was getting crowded.

Already her stomach growled.

Senor Alfonso gestured. “Eat! While we prepare more!”

What could Maarja do? Her hostility toward Dante was completely understandable, but Senor Alfonso didn’t deserve the anger overflow. She smiled and thanked him, and while she did, Dante tore off a small chunk of bread, dipped it in the bubbling oil, and when she turned her head to glare at him, he put it to her lips.

Him, she could be rude to, but Senor Alfonso and his sous chef stood beaming and waiting, so she let Dante feed her and…she collapsed against the back of the bench. Man, it was good. For one moment, while she chewed, she closed her eyes to allow the full fruity taste of the salty oil and the tough bread fill her senses…and when she opened them, the chefs had retreated and Dante was looking at her as if he craved sex rather than food…

“Shrimp?” He didn’t wait for her agreement, but used the tiny fork to spear one. He blew on it to cool it, then took it in his fingers and put it to her lips. She tried to take it from him, but he coaxed, “You’ll love it. Senor Alfonso said so. Just a bite.”

It was a shrimp.

It was also surrender.

But she was tucked into the corner behind a table with a big broad-shouldered guy leaning toward her, who smiled like he knew stuff he shouldn’t know, which probably he did, considering he’d been watching her on her own damned video camera… She bit into the shrimp and chewed and moaned.

“Fuck.” He shifted as if he was uncomfortable.

“No,” she snapped.

He wasn’t listening, he was too busy choosing the best bits for her, murmuring about the briny olives and the six-month-old cheese and the way the bread crust crumbled and fell into the oil…and each word was foreplay. Senor Alfonso and his staff kept bringing tapas, hot and cold. Ludwig, the restaurant’s stuffed shirt continental waiter/ma?tre d’, poured wine, keeping their glasses topped off, while she mellowed and admitted secrets like, “These patatas bravas are fabulous, but I really love a big baked potato with bowls of crisp bacon, sour cream, grated cheddar, and Irish butter lined up in front of me.” And, “Now that I’ve tried Jamón ibérico , I can die happy.”

Dante nodded and looked as if he filed it all away for future reference, which niggled at her in a worrisome way.

Finally, she had to lean back and shake her head. “No more.”

Dante chuckled, loud and deep in his chest. “We’ve just begun.”