This time of night, the sunbathing gazebos were used for, um, not sunbathing—though people were stripped down as though they were—so she kept walking, listening to the sighs and murmurs with not a little envy. How long since she’d been on a date? Or was hit on when not on the job? Or hit on during the job? Ages.
The beachside restaurants kept the drinks coming, from glass after glass of Valtellina-produced wine to limoncello to (ugh!) grappa to cappuccino ordered only by tourists who didn’t know any better. She learned quickly the best way to make an Italian wince was to order a cappuccino after lunchtime. And as she got closer to the main bar, she could hear the American.
“I thought I didn’ like vermouth, but it’s good! Or at least not terrible. D’you know, it used to be medicine? I mean, people used it like medicine? Cuz it tasted bad, I think. S’not, though. Med’cine, I mean. Think I better switch, though. Somethin’ not vermouth, so I’m not too hungover. Gotta fly back to the States. Hate flyin’ hungover. C’n I have a Rob Roy? Or a Gibson?”*
Yep, that was him: Rake Tarbell, happily drunk off his ass at nine o’clock at night, cheerful and occasionally vulgar, generous with his money and a smile for everyone: the life of the party. She’d never seen someone try so hard to convince themselves they were having a great time. And she’d been to Disney World four times.
And ohhhh, boy, he was practically hanging a PLEASE ROB ME sign around his neck. He’d caught the attention of at least two of the locals, large men with big hands and small eyes, who smiled with their teeth while the rest of their face stayed slack. Dark shorts, dark T-shirts—it was unseasonably warm for spring—and one of them sporting a too-small T-shirt, which he’d probably lifted from a tourist.
Locals … or employees of the Colorado asshole. Or independent contractors. How much did hired muscle make, anyway?
The life of the par-tay was too blitzed to notice or, if he did, see them as a threat. She wasn’t sure he had ever seen anything as a threat. Rake Tarbell was a determinedly happy fellow.
He flaunted his money
“Rob Roys! Like, all over the place! I want wall-to-wall Rob Roys for everyone! Who wants to suck down Roys with me?”
and had huge mother issues
“M’not sayin’ she’s evil, but she’s really kinda terrible, but in a loving an’ maternal way. So maternally evil. Meevil?”
which were only topped by his brother issues.
“I mean, he’s always all ‘Rake is terrible’ and I’m all ‘You’re the terrible one, you terrible brother who’s all terrible because you’re terrible!’ You know how annoying it is when the biggest, most anal, uptight asshole you’ve ever known looks zactly like you? Guy’s gotta lighten up. Gotta smile more and be a dick less.”
No question about it, Rake Tarbell was a hot mess. The best part? He had no idea how much trouble he was in. Even if you discounted the Lillith factor.
“No, huh-uh! M’cards work, they’ve been workin’ all day ’cause they work.”
Though he might be figuring it out.
“Run the other card! One of ’em’s gonna work. Run all the cards! Let’s keep the party going!”
Hmm. Might take longer than she thought.
Alas. Denied of Rob Roys, he soon staggered out of the bar, beach-bound—though what a broke drunk could do at an Italian man-made beach when it was nearing midnight she hadn’t a clue. She could imagine what the two grim fellas were going to do. Street crime wasn’t terribly common in Lake Como, which wasn’t to say it didn’t exist. And that’s assuming they were your average tourist rollers. They might be involved in something quite a bit darker. Hence, her contract.
Time to be a rodeo clown: “Thanks for the cash!” she called, knowing a shambling Rake wouldn’t turn, knowing his followers would. “I’ll just try to find our car and then we can hit the next bar! It’s over here, right?” In other words, Don’t go after the rider, you big strong bulls, come after the clown. It’s what I’m here for.
Probably shouldn’t have dropped out of college. Coulda been a doctor, a teacher. Something with dignity. Or at least a steady paycheck.
So they followed her and she took care of them and one of them had quite a lot of cash and cards, which was excellent.
And … she was reassessing her mark. He was a rich, careless jerk who didn’t give a thought to anything beyond his own pleasure. Who loved being the life of the party and treated booze like it was some kind of elixir of life.
And had come to help her, though he was so drunk, he could hardly stand.
Dammit. He’s a mark. And a jerk. And possibly a father. Never forget. She couldn’t imagine what his reaction would be. Would he bother curtailing his lifestyle at all? Or just dump his daughter on a series of nannies? What about his brother, his mother, the grandmother? Would they help? Hinder? She had no clue. Families were not her forte.
“Toldja you’d be safe with me, hon.” The father of the year belched gently, and swayed like a beginner learning the hula. Which was excellent; it made that whole “never forget he’s a jerk” thing much easier.
“You didn’t, but that’s fine. Some friendly advice, pal? Maybe don’t fan yourself with hundred-euro notes at night in the open in a strange country?” Hell, Rake was lucky that the men had been a random smash-and-grab team. Could have been a lot worse, as she’d warned her employer.
“S’not strange, it’s Italy!”
“Even so.”
“Spoilsport, you’re jus’ like my brother.”
“That’s not nice,” she said reproachfully. “I know you don’t like your brother.”
“Cuz he’s the worst!” For some reason, reaffirming his brother’s awfulness seemed to cheer him, and as they left the alley, he again started toward the beach. This time, she fell into step with him. “Norm’ly I’d buy you a drink, but my cards are broken.”
“Thanks. I don’t drink. They’re not broken.”
“No, they are!”
“They’re absolutely not broken. They’ve been canceled by a third party.”
“An’ I used up all my cash in that betting pool. It was a fas’ pool! An’ I thought I knew football, but they do it different here.”
She smothered a laugh. “They sure do. Don’t let the name fool you. The NFL has nothing to do with anything in this part of the world. You’re lucky you didn’t lose your shorts. What are we doing, Rake?”
“Hi, I’m Rake, s’nice to meetcha.”
“Yes, I know. But what are we doing?”
He’d stopped on the shore, the water a foot or so away from his Gucci-clad toes. “You ever skip rocks across a pond? Me neither,” he added before she could say anything, “but always sounded fun. S’broken anyway, can’t use it.”
He shook his wallet like it was a remote with weak batteries, wound up like Roger Clemens (if Clemens were simultaneously drunk and having a seizure), and let it fly. She heard the sploosh! as the wallet hit, and sank, and didn’t know whether to laugh or laugh a lot. “Aw. Didn’t even bounce once. Lame!”
She stared out into the darkness. “I can’t believe you did that.”