Page 87 of Forging Caine

“We should sabotage the engine.”

“Or poison the food?” I chuckled.

She smacked my chest and barged past me. “I’m being serious.”

“As am I.” My strides were longer than hers and I caught her, pulling her back against my chest. “I can’t keep doing this. Watching that man with the needle. And the way you collapsed.”

“What does he want?” Unlike usual, she didn’t soften when I held her. She was too wound up.

“The Concert. He says it belongs to him.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, bella.” I began sliding my arms around her, but she moved again, escaping me. “I’m sure half the words coming out of his mouth are lies, half-truths, or manipulations.”

“And yet he keeps going on about honesty.”

“Ironic, is it not?”

Honesty and trust were the two characteristics Samantha declared were most important in a relationship. And here was Pasquale Fiori, using those words as though he had some idea what they meant.

“It’s pathetic, that’s what it is.” She halted at the door, smacked a hand against it, and turned to continue her pace, but with a lower voice this time. Her brain was overcoming her rage. “Why are you so sure we should go along with him?”

“As he said, if he wanted us dead, we would be. He could have drugged me at the marina and left you behind.” I shrugged and dropped onto the edge of the bed. The comforter was plush, the mattress soft. It was late and the day had left me exhausted.

“And why did they have that needle ready to go?”

“He knew you met with the FBI. He must have suspected—”

“So he just keeps getting what he wants?”

I caught her arm as she attempted to pass and pulled her to me. “Until the FBI and every other police force around the world stop him, sì, I suspect he will.”

She gave a half-hearted tug, then stepped between my legs. “You should call Cristian. Get some advice.”

“I tried while you were still out. Several times.” I dropped my forehead to her chest. “I couldn’t get a signal, so I don’t know if we’re too far from land, in Canadian waters, or if they have some sort of jammer onboard.”

Her fingers combed through the hair over my ears.

“You should take Papa’s job.” I sighed. The onionskin letter didn’t get her into any trouble or danger.

“I’m not an art conservator.”

“I mean the investigator’s position.” Wrapping my arms around her waist, I pulled her closer. “You’ve been so focused on the FBI since our experience in Napoli last September, I assumed that was what you wanted.”

Her fingers continued exploring my scalp, to my neck, to my back. The FBIwaswhat she wanted. I knew it was.

“But the way you took that letter from Papa and ran with it. The light in your eyes when you figured out how to match the sheets up. Marone, it was beautiful.”

She made a noise of assent. “Your dad needed a hand.”

“But what if…” I pushed her back so I could see her. “Bear with me here, but what if we could work together? You’d be upstairs, I’d be downstairs—”

“The opposite of our offices at home.” She laughed it off, like it was a silly suggestion.

“You’d have travel opportunities. Think about it. Working on the provenance for some pieces would require you to visit archives in other states or in other countries.”

She cocked her head as though the idea were news.

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