Chapter Four

Monday morning, Sunday tried to put the fact that she was gone from New York would today become public and tried to concentrate on the drive up to the Giotto house. The night before, she’d spent a fun evening with Daisy Nash, and now she was full of optimism that her job would be just what she was looking for.

Carmen greeted her like an old friend and showed her to the little office where Sunday found a state-of-the-art laptop set up for her, as well as a comfortable chair and solid oak desk. A couch completed the room, of which one wall was solid glass looking out over the valley below.

Sunday shook her head, chuckling in disbelief. “How am I supposed to concentrate in the face of that?” She indicated the view and Carmen smiled.

“You’ll do fine. Listen, anything you need, come find me and please help yourself to anything in the kitchen, food, drink. You have a mini-fridge with water and sodas, but anything else, please, really, help yourself.” Carmen glanced at her watch. “I’ll do lunch for one o’clock, okay?”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Carmen rolled her eyes, smiling. “See you later. Oh, bathroom at the end of the corridor on the right.”

Sunday sat down at the desk and pulled her reading glasses from her bag. Two fat journals sat at the side of the desk—presumably the ones Giotto wanted transcribed. She wondered why he hadn’t done it himself but when she opened them, she realized why. The handwriting was neat but incredibly tiny, the script beautifully rendered. Instantly Sunday knew this would be the work of months rather than weeks and she was relieved. She’d wondered how on earth transcribing two diaries could take more than a few weeks, at least, but now, seeing the thickness of the books and the writing that covered every page? Yeah, she’d be okay for a few months.

She flicked on the laptop, saw it was set up with every piece of software she could hope for, and spent an hour or two setting it up the way she liked it. Then she took one of the journals and sat on the couch to read through the first few entries, curling her legs up under her and winding her hair up into a bun.

She soon got absorbed into the diary. Ludovico Giotto had been a man of vision, of incredible intelligence and warmth, that much was obvious even from the first few pages. They dated back almost fifty years to when Ludo’s father had brought his young wife to America to begin their family. Already a billionaire, Giovanni Giotto had doted on his four children, especially his eldest, Ludo, but had also been determined they would have the best of everything only when they had learned to appreciate it. He had sent them to prestigious colleges on the understanding that, afterward, they would all give five years of their lives to voluntary service. All of them, except his daughter Perdita, had fulfilled their promise. Perdita, Ludo’s adored youngest sibling, had never lived to go to college, succumbing to tuberculosis when she was eight.

Ludo, and his surviving sisters had worked even harder after that, and not only had given their promised five years but extended that promise to their future spouses and children.

We all lived lives of great privilege, Ludo wrote, but none of us ever took it for granted. We saw many among our peers and our father’s peers who lost everything and had no way to pull themselves up, for they had never witnessed or experienced true hardship. We, at least, knew nothing in this world is certain, and certainly nothing we had in material worth meant anything in the long run.

“True story,” Sunday murmured to herself and looked up from the book, rolling her neck. Her journalistic senses were tingling in a way they hadn’t for a long, long time and she wondered idly if River Giotto would allow her to work on an official biography of his father and his family.

She closed the book and went to the computer. Opening up a browser window, she paused. Monday. The first day that Marley Locke officially didn’t show up for work. Would it be torturous to see if her absence had made any news? That’s presumptuous, she thought, shaking her head. No. Behind the scenes they would be wondering, even worrying, but nothing would be said on screen until it had to be.

And then … God, she could barely even think about the lengths the FBI had gone to protect her. An unidentified Jane Doe matching her description. Someone’s daughter, someone’s baby, would be used as a decoy. Someone from the police would ‘identify’ the body as Marley’s. A suicide. Or an accident. Marley Locke would be officially dead.

Sunday shivered. What a life. She stood up and stretched, closing the laptop. She didn’t need to know what was going on in New York, it would just upset her. Focus on your job.

At lunchtime, she shyly went to the kitchen and Carmen waved a spatula at her as she hovered around the stove. “We’re having omelets. I hope that’s okay? His majesty isn’t eating, so it’s just the two of us.”

For some reason, Sunday felt relieved. After reading River’s father’s diary, she felt as if she would want to pepper the man with questions, and it really wasn’t an appropriate time for that.

Carmen flipped a stunning-looking omelet onto a plate for her. “It’s just veggie—we have meat-free Mondays here, much to River’s disgust. But it keeps him just a little healthier.”

“He likes his meat?”

“He does. Red meat, red wine, cigarettes. That’s River’s fuel. Thankfully, I’ve banned smoking in the main house.”

Sunday giggled. “You really are the boss.”

“I have to be. River takes artistic temperament to the nth degree.” Carmen’s smile faded. “But he’s going through a hard time at the moment, so I’ll let him rant and rave if he wants to.”

She didn’t offer any further information and Sunday didn’t feel as if she had the right to pry. They chatted happily while they ate their lunch, Sunday complimenting the chef on the light, fluffy omelets. She finished it all to Carmen’s approval.

“Good girl.”

“I’m never one to say no to food.”

“Favorite?”

Sunday considered. “A good flame-grilled steak and a bloomin’ onion. God, onions. I can be summoned by someone just frying them near me.”

Carmen laughed. “Then I’ll remember that.”

Sunday thanked her for lunch again and went back to her office, feeling happy. If this was to be her life now, then she felt blessed. Going back to the chapters she had read, she began to transcribe them onto the computer, and by the time she looked up from her work, it was dark outside. She stared at her reflection in the window. She saw sad eyes, dark hair escaping from the messy bun, the tiny glint of the nose stud in her ear. She had to admit, she looked nothing like the polished news anchor she had been only a few days ago, but in a strange way, she felt she looked more like herself.

Just after seven, she packed her bag and walked through the house to say goodbye to Carmen. As she walked into the kitchen, she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to look out of the window. Across the courtyard, the far wing of the house stood mostly in darkness. Was she imagining it or was there a figure silhouetted against the black, watching her?

Sunday squinted. Yes. He was there … somehow, she knew it was her mysterious employer. Feeling awkward, she raised her hand halfway in greeting then let it drop. Weirdo. She turned and walked away from the kitchen, running into Carmen in the driveway and bidding her goodbye for the evening, without mentioning the incident.

The apartment was cold again and Sunday decided that, while the heating did its job, she would go out to eat supper. There was a diner along the block and, gratefully, she huddled down into a corner booth.

A young, punky-looking waitress whose nametag read Cleo came over. “What can I get you?”

Sunday scanned the plastic menu quickly. “Oh, um, black coffee and a … um …”

Cleo grinned at her suddenly. “I’ll give you a minute, honey, don’t worry. Nice tattoo. I’ll get your coffee.”

Sunday smiled her thanks at her. Really, people were so nice. The place was pretty full, obviously a favorite haunt of the locals, and when later on, Cleo brought Sunday a stacked burger and fries, Sunday could understand why. She moaned as the savory burger juices hit her taste buds, and the salty, hot fries crunch satisfyingly under her teeth.

One good thing about not being on camera anymore, she thought with a grin to herself, is no more calorie restrictions. She had warm apple pie for dessert and then groaned as Cleo offered her a second helping on the house. “God, no, that’s so kind, but I will actually explode.”

Cleo grinned. “Daisy said you were nice. We’re buddies.”

“That makes sense. I hope we will be too.”

“Right back atcha.” Cleo looked around to see if her manager was watching then slipped into the seat opposite Sunday. “Listen, just a quick word of warning, friend to friend. Daisy tells me you’re working for River?”

Sunday nodded. Cleo sighed. “Then watch out for Aria. Daisy won’t say this, but Aria’s a grade-A bitch. She’ll make trouble for you if she can. Ignore it.”

“I will, thanks. Not here to make any enemies.”

Cleo grinned at her. “You are nice. Hey-ho, boss is back. Listen, let’s have coffee soon, yes? Not here, I mean.”

“I’d love to.”

Sunday lingered over her coffee, not wanting to leave the warmth of the diner. Cleo, having finished her shift, had left a half hour before and Sunday had made sure she got the generous tip she had certainly earned.

Cleo had thanked her and left her cell phone number. “For whenever or whatever,” she’d said.

Sunday was reading news stories on her cellphone when she heard someone come into the rapidly-emptying diner. She looked up and saw a man, tall, with shaggy dark curls, brush snow off of his coat. He glanced across at her and their eyes locked.

Sunday felt a jolt through her entire body. The man was spectacular looking, a ruggedly handsome face, but it was his eyes that got her. Light green and thickly rimmed by black lashes, they gazed at her without wavering. She felt that glance everywhere.

Time seemed to freeze but then he walked over to her booth. “May I?”

Oh, darn it. Why did he have to have that deep, sexy, gravelly voice too? She nodded dumbly. He sat down opposite her. Another waitress drifted over and took his order for black coffee. He looked at Sunday questioningly.

She shook her head. “Just one, please.”

Sunday felt like a lovestruck teenager and she cleared her throat, trying to stop her face from burning.

“You’re new here.” A statement, not a question, but she nodded anyway.

“Sund—”

“No names.”

A thrill of something shot through her and suddenly she knew that whatever was going on here, she was going to let happen. She wanted this man, whoever he was, and she didn’t need complications. A one-night stand? Yes, please. She let the desire show in her eyes and his mouth hitched up in a satisfied smile.

His arrogance was compelling and strangely sexy and Sunday grinned back at him. “You’re very confident.”

“I know what I want.”

“And what’s that?”

“You. I don’t like to mess around or play games.”

“Me neither.” Sunday straightened her back. “Nor do I want complications.”

“Then we agree. Do you have a place nearby?”

“Yes.”

He tilted his head onto one side. “Are you’re sure about this?”

“Like I said, no complications. You want to fuck? Let’s fuck.” Sunday couldn’t quite believe the words were coming out of her own mouth, but what the hell? New life, new rules. The last thing she wanted was a relationship with anyone, but her body had needs, for chrissakes.

Her suitor gazed at her for a long moment, then grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet. “Let’s go, beautiful.”