Page 128 of Sinful Crimes for the Artistically Inclined
He turned his head in the animal way humans do when they feel that sensation. Automatic. Something he wouldn’t have done had his guard not been worn down those last few relaxing days of the holiday.
The man who’d been staring kept staring, and Joe held his gaze for a few very long seconds, until the man dipped his headto another man, sitting next to him, and whispered something. That man commenced a similarly cool and unflinching assessment of Joe. Joe dragged his eyes back to Percy, only to realise he’d seen the whole thing.
“Roman stare,” Percy said softly.
Joe’s eyes flitted back to the pair, who’d now got another patron at their table interested, and he tried to laugh it off. “Yeah. Must be.”
But that table was almost silent, nothing but a whisper moving around at record speed, heads nodding, eyes squinting, until one of them yelled, “Joe!”
Exactly as if it meant nothing, Joe took a sip of wine and smiled placidly at Percy. Percy mirrored the smile.
“Joe Bruno!” the man shouted.
Someone to their left, who’d arrived just after them, who’d been drinking an apéritif behind a newspaper, got up and left. He bumped Joe’s arm on the way past, not that Joe noticed. Joe was busy with the charade, like a man who’d spent half his life mentally preparing for this moment. He stretched out a hand to fiddle with the candle, and made some comment to Percy about the bread, so stupid and so pointless that he’d forgotten what he said a moment later, but at least he’d said something.
Percy kept up the game, and he spoke about the bread too, then about bread in general, and Joe wanted to fling himself on Percy’s chest and be held there safe and sound forever.
But the man was at his table now. And he was standing between them, and he was asking, in Italian, “Are you Joe Bruno?”
“He doesn’t speak Italian,” Percy said.
The man flipped to English, his eyes still on Joe. “You look familiar. Are you Joe Bruno?”
“No.” Joe’s throat was dry, tight. “You must be thinking of someone else.”
A phone shrieked somewhere behind Percy. Joe jumped.
The man said to Joe, “What’s your name, then?”
Percy stood, easing the man back with a shoulder as he stepped in front of Joe. “You’ve got the wrong man.”
Maybe that was the wrong thing to do. Joe was touched, but horrified.
“Percy Ashdown?” a waitress called from the kitchen.
The man stepped back against the next table, but remained there, watching Joe, with no comprehension of the mess he was about to get himself into.
“Percy, don’t,” Joe whispered, closing a hand around Percy’s wrist.
“Percy Ashdown?” The waitress called, but Joe didn’t hear it.
Percy moved his spare hand to the man’s chest, speaking in that soft, firm, terrifying tone he kept for occasions like these. “Sit down at your table. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself unable to walk out of here.”
“Doctor Ashdown?” came the third call, even louder now.
A tense standoff ensued, but the man had no desire to be hit, and he had enough insight and gossip to return to his friends as a successor, anyway.
Percy watched him sit, then leaned low over Joe, withdrew his dagger from his pocket and placed it on the table before Joe. Joe covered it by instinct, even as Percy’s whispered words in his ear shocked him into action. “There’s a phone call for me, but no one knows we’re here. That means we’re being watched. I’m going to take it. If anyone comes near you, kill them. Don’t think twice.”
“Stay,” Joe whispered desperately.
“We need to know what she knows.” He dropped a kiss on Joe’s cheek and slipped smoothly from Joe’s grasp.
Percy took the phone from the waitress and held it to his ear, searching through the restaurant, out to the street.
Cleo’s voice rang out loud and clear across the line. “Rome? How predictable.”
“I’ve already sold the sheath,” Percy replied. “It’s gone. If you want it, you can take it up with the new owner.”
