He responded in Italian but when I turned to ask Irena what he’d said, she was already halfway to the front door.
“Good night, Angelo,” I said as the big guy made his way back to the car.
He nodded. “Buona note e sogni d’oro.”
I hoped that didn’t mean “Go sleep with the fishes.”
• • •
“GRACIE, ARE YOU IN THERE?” BENNETT knocked on my door, dragging me from a wild and wacky dream where I’d been slow dancing at Troppo’s on its flashy dance floor, trying, without success, to figure out who I was dancing with.
I peeled open my bleary eyes wide enough to notice that it was still dark outside. “Grace,” Bennett called again, “we’ve got a problem.”
The digital readout on my cell phone told me it was five fifteen in the morning. “Just a second,” I croaked, swinging my legs off the bed. I slipped on my travel socks and stumbled to the door. Once there, I groaned with frustration, having forgotten that I’d wedged my big suitcase against it. When I’d finally been ready to sleep, I’d discovered that I couldn’t relax knowing that nothing stood between me and angry Angelo except a lockless door with hinges that barely whispered. I hadn’t been crazy about the idea of anyone being able to walk in on me unannounced, so before I went to bed, I’d taken the precaution of jamming the luggage up under the knob.
“Hang on.” My voice was rusty, and my vision was blurred. I cleared my throat as my fingers found the suitcase’s handle and tugged at it, with considerable effort. “I did a much better job than I thought I did,” I muttered when it finally came free.
Awake now, I scampered back into the main part of my room. “Come on in,” I called as I pulled the bedspread off the bed and wrapped it around myself. I generally wore shorts and a T-shirt to bed—nothing revealing or particularly skimpy—but I still felt weird letting anyone see me in my sleepwear. I ran my fingers through my hair, working through the gentle knots, trying to make myself look alert and presentable. Fat chance of that, but Bennett didn’t seem to take even the slightest notice of my disarray.
“Nico’s man took a phone call about an hour ago from our charter,” he said.
Why is it when we’re swimming up to the surface of wakefulness, we must repeat things in order to track conversation? I heard myself say, “Our charter?”
“Yes, our flight,” Bennett said, “it’s—” For the first time since he strode in, he seemed to actually see me. Frown lines between his brows softened and one corner of his mouth turned up. “You look like you’re about twelve years old.”
I clutched the covers around me with one hand and rubbed my eyes with the other. “Right now I feel more like a hundred and twelve.”
“Late night?” Bennett said with more mirth than I felt like dealing with at the moment. “I hope you had fun, at least.”
“I learned a lot.” My mind finally engaged, I asked, “What kind of problem is there with our flight?”
“It’s been canceled.”
I sat on the bed. “And you have that board meeting tomorrow, don’t you? I know you can’t miss it.”
He grew pensive. “Makes me wonder . . .”
“What’s on your mind?”
With a reluctant shrug, he continued. “I’ve told you a little about the company we’re acquiring, WizzyWig. What I haven’t mentioned before was how much one of its vice presidents, Vandeen Deinhart, would prefer I disappear from the planet. Vandeen claims he’s afraid that he’ll lose his prestigious position with the company.”