Fate Book Two (6 page)

Dakota Danger.

I grabbed my carry-on bag from the first-class overhead compartment and tripped over someone’s suitcase, landing in the aisle in front of a plane full of people.

Shit.

~~~

It didn’t take long to find Nikki Hunt. Her home, which had been featured in several issues of the Italian
Architectural Digest
, was constantly under the watchful eye of the paparazzi and a stop for the occasional tour bus. Located just outside of the Appian Way archaeological park, her lavish historic villa was what one might expect: a few acres of horses, a circular fountain with nude gods, a roman-style pool (obviously), and beautiful stone archways on every door and window, all nestled between lush greenery and within walking distance of the Tombs of Via Latina. Not that I got to see the tombs with my own eyes, because I was stuck in my car, living vicariously through Google Images, but the second-century structure—with its two-story construction, pitched roof, and pillars on the ground floor—seemed like a nice place to hide Paolo’s body.

Oops. Did I think that?

“No, Dakota. No murder,” I mumbled to myself.

An elderly man walking his dog barked at me—the man, not the dog—as he passed down the tree-lined street sprinkled with the occasional dilapidated two-thousand-year-old ruin that resembled pieces of gutted castles.

Not understanding a word the dog walker said, I smiled and waved politely. “Yep. I’m just another photographer parked outside of Nikki Hunt’s house. Nothin’ to see here.”

He made a rude gesture with his hands and kept on going. As for me, I returned to my task of touring Rome via smartphone, given I had only a few short days to track down Paolo and would be glued to Nikki’s every move until he showed his deceitful, smug face.

I glanced at my watch, and it was almost 6:00 p.m., with no signs of the shoe princess. I could only hope she wasn’t out of town, parading her centerfold-worthy body around the French Riviera or on one of her infamous million-dollar shopping sprees in Manhattan. I think what really got under my skin, besides the fact she was sleeping with my ex-fiancé, wasn’t that the woman flaunted her wealth and killer blonde-bombshell looks, but that she got to live her life out in the open. She didn’t care if people took her picture or knew where she lived. I, on the other hand, was relegated to a life in the shadows, like a damned cockroach. Frankly, it felt a little unfair.

Suddenly, a blond man—pinstriped suit, tall, crazy good-looking, and in his mid-twenties—came out of the gated driveway and began approaching the ridiculously long line of parked cars filled with awaiting paparazzi. One by one, they drove away.

What was he doing? Threatening them?

The man approached, and when he knocked on the window, I smiled and rolled it down but didn’t speak.

He said something that sounded…well, very Italian, and then handed me a card.

What the…?
It was Nikki’s itinerary for the night. She actually told the paparazzi where she would be and at what time.
What a publicity whore. Must be nice to be free.
Yeah, I was so jealous.

“Cocktails” at Nur Bar, 9:00 p.m.

“
Cena
” (dinner) at Glass Hostaria, 11:00 p.m.

“
Danza
” (dancing) at Goa Club, midnight.

“After Party” at the Palazzo Manfredi Hotel, 3:00 a.m.

“Uhhh…
grazie
?” I said and began to roll up the window.

“You’re American?” he asked with a thick Italian accent.

I stared up into his big green eyes, trying not to look like a deer in headlights as I debated lying to him. But those dang Europeans spoke every frigging language on the planet. I could say I was German or Spanish or Romanian and he’d probably start rattling away in those languages.

“Yep.
Americana
,” I said.

His brows lifted. “I went to school there. New York. Which part are you from? No. Wait. Let me guess. You are Californian?”

Okay. It was time to deploy some of my father’s good advice: Keep the lies simple. “Yeah, the O.C. I guess my accent gives it away every time.” I added, “Like, yanno?” for good measure.

He planted his hands above the window and leaned toward the car, lowering his head a bit closer. “So what brings you all the way to Rome?”

Oil di wey…
His accent was way thicker than I was used to with Paolo, so I had to really listen hard.

“Um, yeah.”
What’s my story?
I tried not to look nervous, but no doubt my sweaty brow and shifty eyes weren’t helping. “Well, I work for a tabloid in Hollywood. We’re doing a feature on Nikki.” I tapped my hands awkwardly on the steering wheel. “My first big assignment.”

“First time in Rome?”

“That obvious?” I laughed awkwardly.

“Maybe. How long are you staying?” He flashed a flirty smile.

“Oh. Uh…just a few days, then I’m heading back. Like, yanno?”
Stop that. He gets the point.

“Too bad, I could’ve shown you around a little.”

“Yeah. Too bad.” I tried to keep my smile sweet and cheerful.
Nope. I’m not shady. Not me.

“Well,” he thumped his hand on the top of the car a few times, “guess I’ll be seeing you tonight.”

I stared at him.

“You are going to be stalking Nikki with the rest of the paparazzi,
si
?” he asked.

“Oh! Yeah. Of course. See you there at…” I looked at the itinerary, “Nur Bar.”

He winked. “Looking forward to it.”

I made a little wave as he walked back toward the gate.

“And wear something nice,” he called out. “I’ll see if I can get you inside one of the stops.”

I gave him a thumbs-up as he disappeared inside. He might actually prove helpful if I spotted Paolo tonight. But what sort of places were these? I’d brought nothing but three pairs of jeans, tees, and the essentials.

As I Googled each spot and absorbed their intimidating swankiness, my brain tortured me with fabricated visuals of Paolo and Nikki dressed in expensive, cool clothing, riding from place to place in their limo, enjoying the hell out of themselves. Me? Yeah, I was there, too. Frizzy red hair, wrinkled XL Hollister tee, and jeans. I began to see why Paolo would choose that life over one with me. Fun and glamour versus…well, just me.

I sighed and started the engine of my ridiculously tiny red Fiat and hit the button on the GPS to head back to my sad, dark, “cash only” hotel room with brown shag carpet and cigarette burns on the furniture.

Glamorous.

CHAPTER FIVE

Although the neighborhood reminded me a little of Soho in New York—funky, hipster feel with plenty of cafés and restaurants—the fashion options were not the same. I’d been to three stores, and with the pleather microminis, fishnets, and see-through halter tops, I was convinced that the local boutiques only catered to the everyday nympho on a budget. What I wouldn’t give for a Thrift Town with vintage treasures waiting to be unearthed and united with their intended fashion soul mates. I’d once had a pretty nice collection of ’50s stuff, mostly jackets and rhinestone pins, to go with my extensive collection of jeans, flip-flops, and T-shirts, but that was one more piece of me I’d had to leave behind. Thankfully, the money my father had socked away for me in offshore accounts allowed me to keep donating to my favorite animal shelter near my old house where I used to volunteer. All of those little homeless Sparkys and Garfields were going to have a very, very cushy place to crash while they also waited for their soul mates—the human ones, I mean. Because, as Mother Teresa used to say, “The biggest disease today is not leprosy or tuberculosis, but rather the feeling of being unwanted.” Maybe that’s why I’d always felt such an affinity toward unwanted pets—giving them a second chance felt like I was righting some cosmic wrong.

But this…?
I held up a pink patent leather tank dress with peekaboo circles all over the torso, leaving just enough material to make it legal.
Nothing can right this wrong.

I looked at my watch.
Less than an hour.

Next I grabbed a silver-sequined, backless dress that scooped down so low in the front that my girls—C cups and the only really nice part of my body—would be halfway out all night long. The hem was so short that I would be making very personal thong-and-cheek contact with any surfaces I sat upon.

Guess I’ll be standing tonight.
It was either that or I’d have to carry around a giant bottle of Lysol.

I glanced at my watch again.
Dangit.
I hadn’t showered or straightened my frizzy hair yet.
This dress will have to do.

I grabbed a pair of black hooker heels and headed to the register, thanking “goodness” (whoever the hell
she
was) that Mandy, my best friend since the first grade, wasn’t around to witness my sad little style episode. Mandy had always been my fashion north and ensured I never went anywhere looking like a trampy clown.

After I paid, I rushed back to my dingy hotel room, a few blocks away from the Campo de’ Fiori market—a farmers’ market huddled around a statue of the philosopher Giordano Bruno. No, I had no clue who he was nor had I seen the market either. It seriously sucked to be in Rome in the fall and not have time to see anything except the airport, Nikki’s awesome house, and the view behind the wheel of my car.

I showered, shaved, straightened my hair to a pristine shine—hoping it wouldn’t rain as forecasted—and threw on a little makeup. After, I put on the short-short silver dress and stood on the bed to see myself in the mirror. “Oh God. Please don’t let me drop anything tonight.” Short was an understatement.

I threw on a long black sweater I happened to have with me, just in case it got chilly, and slipped on my heels.

When I arrived at the first stop, it took me thirty minutes to find parking in the busy little neighborhood, and Nikki was already inside according to the real paparazzi. She was also
sans
Paolo.

I waited for about an hour before Nikki emerged in a skintight red dress that was scandalously short and showing major cleavage.

Oh goody, I fit right in.

She and her friends—three young women also dressed in dazzling shades of “nocturnal tart”—waved to the cameras and got into Nikki’s limo. I saw no signs of the hunky blond Italian guard from earlier.

The next stop—dinner—reminded me that I hadn’t eaten anything all day except for a PowerBar and an espresso. Not that it looked like anyone who went into the posh restaurant actually ate anything either. Thin, beautiful, well-dressed people showed up at the brick building in Jags, BMWs, and Ferraris, and then left looking equally as thin. Personally, I’d seen the menu, so I wasn’t sure how they resisted attacking the desserts.

On the third stop of the evening, the entourage of photographers, including me, beat Nikki to the club. The exterior of the place looked like a giant, shiny silver box that had eaten firecrackers, with lights bursting from the rooftop. After forty minutes of waiting, I wondered if Nikki would ever show, but the moment I was about to call it quits, her limo arrived. The parking valet opened the car door, and I realized why they were so late; they’d gone to pick someone up.

Paolo…
My fists instinctually curled, my heart filled with hard, cold stones, and my soul ignited into a screaming fireball, weeping its way to earth, where it smashed onto the cobblestone street beneath my feet with a sad little whimper.

Yeah, it still fucking hurt.

Worst of all, Paolo couldn’t look happier. Or sexier.

He wore dark sunglasses and a dark, tailored suit as if he’d just come from a lavish Oscar party. He’d also been working out a lot more because his size was a bit meatier, especially the arms.

Seeing him instantly flicked off the heinous scab covering my fresh wounds and evoked massive emotional bleeding. And as I stood there to the side of the nightclub’s entrance, behind the red velvet rope, trying to process that the last time I’d seen him was the evening before our wedding when he’d kissed me goodnight and told me how much he loved me, Paolo looked straight at me through his dark glasses and kept on walking.

Sonofabitch! No he didn’t.
No “Hello, nice to see you.” No “Hey, what are you doing here?” Nothing. I was invisible to him.

I wasn’t about to let him get away with that. No frigging way. I went back to my car, left my crappy prop camera in the trunk, and removed my sweater. I was getting into this damned club! And when I did, he’d wish he never met me.

I approached the rope, chin held high, trying to crank up my hotness factor a few notches, but the bouncer gave me one look and said something that didn’t sound very nice.

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand,” I said.

He repeated himself, and I was pretty sure he’d said that hookers weren’t allowed inside.

Just then, I felt a warm hand press into my bare back. I looked up and there was Mr. Green Eyes. He said something to the big mean jerk-face, who immediately reached for the rope to let us in.

“Thank you.” I flashed a smile at Green Eyes, trying to mask my imminent emotional eruption. “By the way, what’s your name?”

He opened the door and gestured for me to enter the club. The music pounded in my ears, and the lights flashed as vigorously as my pulse. I would strangle Paolo. He hadn’t even bothered to breathe in my general direction, yet I had been standing right in his line of sight.

“They call me Horse,” Green Eyes replied.

I noticed then how he wore a tight black tee and jeans that hugged his athletic, tall build. He was a largish kind of guy, but not colossal.

“I’m sorry,” I spoke loudly over the techno, “did you say Horse?”

“Yes. Horse.” He grinned devilishly.

That was unusual. “How’d you end up with a name like that?”

He folded his arms across his chest and glanced down at his groin. “It’s a nickname.”

“Oh.” I looked down at the bulge in his jeans and then at his face beaming with pride. “Okay. This is awkward.”