“If you’re going to let people smack you, you might at least tend properly to the injury.” Blake made an imperious motion and the waitress trotted over. Aw, no. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t. Not here. Not now. They were grown men, dammit!
“Could I get a clean washcloth and—”
He groaned. “Blake.”
“—a bowl of water? And some ice?”
“First off, they’re not bringing you bowls of water and cloths.” He was pretty sure. She’d scampered off in a hurry. “This is not business class on a flight to Tokyo. Second, this happened two days ago.” Even as he was speaking, he knew he was wasting his breath. “Anything you do now will be window dressing.”
“And some duct tape for my brother’s mouth,” he called after her, then turned back. “If you sit still and take care of this, I’ll schedule the call to Mom for an hour later, so you can get a nap first.”
Rake tried, and failed, to keep the grin off his face. “Awwww. You do care!”
“Shut up.”
He batted his eyes at his big brother, who looked uncomfortable at being caught giving a shit. “I feel safer already.”
Blake groaned and covered his eyes. “Stop talking.”
“Such big strong arms! To go with your big strong feet!”
Ah, there was the familiar glare of death. “I hope you get blood poisoning and die.”
“No you don’t.” You grumpy jackass. Blake’s love usually came wrapped in a layer of prickly fierceness, just like Mom’s. How many times had Blake patched him up after a scuffle on the playground? The guy had learned to sew just so Rake could hide the rips from their mother. Money had almost always been too tight for new clothes. So eight-year-old Blake would be hunched over Rake’s torn jeans, forcing a needle through the denim while muttering a constant stream of “idiot” and “moron” and “at least go for their balls first next time, they were all bigger than you.”
“No you don’t,” he said again, just to be saying it.
“No.” His twin sighed, and gave him a crooked smile. “I don’t.”
Three
Venice, now
When he finally flopped out of the canal and onto the dock like a furious, grossed-out fish, a single thought dug into his brain.
Time to question my choices. Which? All.
He let the patter of excited tourists wash over him like background music as he struggled to his feet. The people who’d helped him out of the canal were, understandably, reluctant to touch him, but still wanted to help. He was surrounded by locals, a very concerned gondolier, and the requisite Americans peering at him through their phones, keeping a safe distance even as they took pictures for social media. He and Blake agreed on one thing: American tourists were the Worst. He let loose with a raspberry in their direction, then shook himself like a dog.
“Eww!” one of the cuter ones shrieked, and fled, most of her tour group right behind her.
“It almost went in my mouth,” one of her pals whined, trotting to catch up.
“It did go in my mouth,” he muttered. “About a quart, I think.” He spat. Spat again. Prayed his mother would never, ever hear about the time he fell into the Grand Canal and, worse, spit (a lot) in public. He’d pay a thousand bucks right now for a ginger beer. And then a shower. This day, which had started horribly, could not possibly get any—
“Oh, hey, there you are.”
He blinked and looked up. Standing in front of him with her head tilted and one hand on her hip was one of the most oddly striking women he had ever seen. She was tall—the top of her head came to his nose—with the curvy figure of a fifties pinup star. Her face was a pale, freckled oval, her nose long over a wide, smiling mouth with a plush lower lip. Her eyes were a color he’d never seen before, like storm clouds, or dirty ice. Her hair was a light brown that shone with good health and fell in waves to her shoulders. Her neck was long, but her wrists were delicate and she had small hands. Her feet, clad in tan leather sandals, were extraordinarily long and narrow. She was wearing knee-length black linen walking shorts, a crisp khaki shirt, and a light linen jacket, also black and clearly tailored, with the sleeves shoved up to her elbows. But no jewelry, not even a watch.
It shouldn’t have worked. None of it should have worked. She was a mass of contradictions: flawless pale skin but freckles. Tall, but curvy instead of athletic. Long narrow nose, but full lips. Mouth too wide, eyes too narrow and oddly colored. Small hands but big feet. Expensive clothing but no jewelry. And she seemed delighted to see him, the first person that day who was. “I was worried I wouldn’t see you again.”
Add another contradiction; she had the smooth low voice of a radio-show host or a phone-sex operator, but spoke in a sort of slur, where all her words ran together, with odd inflections on some of the vowels: Wuz worr’ed I wouldn’t s’ya ‘gin.
He stared at her, dripping. “Wait, you know me? Do—do I know you?”
“Not really. We weren’t formally introduced.” She was fighting a smile, and losing. “Why’d you jump in the canal, you big dummy? Blech!” Why’dya jump inna canal, y’big dummy?
Blech? Did she just say blech?
“I didn’t jump,” he whined, “I fell.” And some goddamned sympathy would be goddamned nice, thanks very goddamned much.
This made her laugh, because she was probably a monster. “How can anyone fall in?” She made a vague gesture, which encapsulated the enormous canal, the vaporettos, the gondolas, the cruise ship passing by in the distance, and the several feet of docks anyone would have to obliviously wander past before plunging into the water. “It’s—y’know. It’s right there. I thoughtcha musta lost a bet’r something.”
“I didn’t lose a bet, I’m hungover. Possibly because I lost a bet.” Somewhere, he knew, Blake was laughing his ass off. He could sense it. He could sense the mocking laughter.
“Yeah, not surprised, alla vermouth you put away.”
“We were drinking together?” And he hated—fucking hated—vermouth. It had to be a lie. Vermouth, as any sane person knew, was the devil’s urine.
“Naw.” She was still grinning at him with her wide mouth and weird gray eyes. “You were drinking. I was buying, on account of how you tried ta help me.”
“Help you? What the hell is going on? What happened last night?” His voice rose to a roar. “How the hell did I end up in Venice?”
“Got me. I tracked you down to introduce you to your daughter, maybe.” She gestured to the child standing beside her, a slight brunette who was silently staring up at him with big dark eyes. Dickens orphan big. Victorian London match girl big.
“Jesus!” He’d been so busy gaping (and dripping), he hadn’t even noticed the kid until what’s-her-face drew his attention to her.
“Hi,” the child replied.
“What is going on?”
“Don’t play dumb,” the woman advised. “Unless you’re actually dumb. In which case you should try to hide it better.”
He opened his mouth to really let her have it, then bent forward and threw up on her shoes.