Page 72 of Chasing Caine
“This is officially the most humiliating thing I’ve ever done.” She covered her face with my shirt again.
Behind me, one of the men splashed into the water.
“Come now, surely you’ve done worse.” I lifted her, not as effortless as the other times I’d picked her up. Sprinting after Umberto followed by hours of walking and hiking. Not to mention the uneven and potentially slippery ground I was on. And I was transporting the most precious cargo. “What about that time at Caruther’s when I was hitting on you?”
Behind my shirt, she chuckled.
The man in the water held the edge of the boat close as I approached with her in my arms.
“You were so nervous, you were shaking.” I waded cautiously through the water, steadied by the stranger. “Do you remember that?”
“Yeah, that was pretty bad, too.” She moved the shirt as we reached the side of the boat. The helmsman stretched down for her, and she slung an arm around his shoulder as he eased her up.
The bodyguard holding the boat helped me in, then followed.
It was utilitarian, not a leisure craft. There was a seat at the helm, one next to it, and two directly behind. The man carrying Samantha placed her sideways on the cushioned back row seat—which would have held three abreast—and she tucked one arm over the chair back.
I took my shirt from her and donned it, then held out a hand to the older man who sat next to the controls. “Antonio Ferraro. I appreciate your help.”
“Pasquale Fiori.” His shake was firm, conveying a level of power and control which reminded me of my Uncle Giovanni. “Do you have any family in Rome?”
“Sì.” I lifted Samantha’s leg to sit next to her and prop it on my lap. Running a hand along her shin, I maintained focus on Pasquale as the engine roared back to life. “I grew up there and have aunts and uncles in town.”
The boat started slowly, heading away from the peninsula.
“I know several Ferraros in and around Rome. But I see a slight resemblance to Andrea Ferraro, the art conservator. Any relation?”
Unexpected. Three men recognizing my family name in the same week. First Carabiniere De Rosa, then Riccardo at the gallery, now Pasquale. My family was well known in certain circles, but how did this man fit into that circle? “He’s my uncle. I work for the family business in the States.”
The motor revved higher, and the boat sliced through the channel. At the first bump, Samantha latched onto my arm, biting back a wail.
Pasquale instructed the helmsman to slow to a more even speed and a fraction of her tension released. “I have a doctor onboard my yacht. I think we should take her to see him before you head to the island.”
Samantha grimaced when the helmsman radioed ahead, no doubt focused on how embarrassing all the attention was. “I’m fine.”
“Stop saying that, bella. No arguments.” I reached back to loosen the death grip she had on the frame of her chair. Perhaps the contact would help relax her. I returned my focus to Pasquale. “We’ll take you up on that offer.”
Chapter 24
Samantha
Itwasn’tjustayacht. It was a small destroyer masquerading as a superyacht. All it needed was guns mounted to the sides and maybe a missile launcher. There was a helicopter parked near the bow and probably torpedo bays under the waterline.
I didn’t like this guy. This Pasquale Fiori, who knew Antonio’s family and didn’t bother to introduce the two meatheads accompanying him. Unnamed beefy guys with military-short hair and aviator sunglasses weren’t the type I wanted to hang out with.
At least, not while I was injured and at a disadvantage.
Antonio spoke with the guy in charge the whole way, chatting about his project in Pompeii, about Pasquale’s current trip around the Italian coastline, and the last time each of them was in Paris.
We crested a wave and the rib boat lifted, then slammed down onto the surface. I squeezed Antonio’s hand as pain ricocheted up my leg.
Antonio shifted back and forth the whole ride, between the calm confidence that was his default and concern for me, mixed with more than a little guilt. Playing around at the grotto should have been perfect. Relaxing, like the rest of the hike had been. And if no one else had come down the path, maybe we could have made love in the cave and just walked carefully to Termini in the moonlight.
But, no. Pathetic me lands wrong and we both end up—another bump and I swallowed a cry—suffering the consequences. He hauled me all of two feet down and I twist my ankle? After all the crazy stunts I’d pulled in my life?
The motor slowed as we got closer to the yacht. Balconies dotted the upper half of the black hull, three decks painted white above that. Building dimensions or anything interior, I could estimate with fair accuracy, but coming up on the ship from the rear made it difficult. Two hundred feet long, roughly.
Wide teakwood stairs fed out of the lower deck to a platform resting on the water. The helmsman expertly navigated the rib, swinging its stern so we were alongside.