Here, she decided.And no further.
—
She found Teddy again outside the bank of lifts. Absorbed in his phone, he didn’t look up as she approached. On the lift, he pocketed the phone and kissed her again. This time, he was rougher, his expression blank and hungry. He bit her lip and took both hands in his, squeezing until they hurt.
—
Outside, the business district was empty. No cars. No pedestrians. They walked alone through the streets. Coming around a corner, Teddy pressed her against a wall, kissing, grinding against her.
“That’s enough,” Nikki said, pulling away. “You’re hurting me.”
He pressed harder, trapping her. The cold concrete at Nikki’s back scraped painfully through her coat—against her shoulder blades and spine. He was muscular and large, and clearly well trained. She was shorter than Teddy by several centimeters, and far smaller. He was crushing her.
“You’re a fucking liar,” he hissed in her ear. “You said you weren’t there for Claire’s memorial—but people posted pictures of you there. I saw them. Why were you following me? Who the fuck are you? What do you want?”
Gone was the easy sensuality between them, the sense of a shared joke. Passion had morphed into violence—but in some confusing and horrifying violation, the intimacy had remained.
Nikki was suddenly conscious of her vulnerability. Under other circumstances, she would never have let an attacker get behind her guard. He was so much stronger, and furious.
Her heart raced. She pushed against him—indignation to cover her terror.
“I wasn’t following you. You asked me out,” she shouted. “What the fuck? Let me go!”
He tightened his grip.
“Who the fuck are you? Don’t lie to me. What do you want? Why are you stalking me?”
His right hand was clamped on her throat now, his face inches from hers. Panic and pain exploded in her body, contending with a rabid fury at letting herself be trapped like this.
Nikki twisted her torso rapidly to the left and down, rage and fear giving power to the action. This changed the grip on her windpipe. Using this momentum, she brought her right hand up and slammed her forearm down against his arm, forcing his hand away from her neck. This put him off balance and gave her the chance to put her right elbow into the side of his face. But he was strong and angry and her strike didn’t take him down. He grunted and pulled his arm back for a punch, but she ducked and kept into him with her elbows and knees. When he came in again for an attack, she redirected his momentum, and he slammed headfirst into the wall with a sickening thud.
Nikki danced backwards, ready to defend herself. He swore—but didn’t return for another attack. Instead, he was backing away from her. His hand went to his head, his eyes wide and shocked.
“Crazy fucking bitch,” he shouted.
Eighteen
It was a bad night. Valerio had needed several hours, ice on the back of his head, painkillers, and leftover wine to help him sleep. Once in bed, he discovered cookie crumbs and wrappers that Gemma had left behind, but he was too tired to change the sheets.
In the early morning, he was awakened from a shallow sleep by the clanging of church bells.
He made coffee, showered, took three paracetamol, and was out the door and on his motorbike before he had time to think about anything.
The weather was cooperating. Warm and clear. Good.
He made a brief stop at HQ to pick up some gear before heading out of Naples, taking the E45 south along the coast, Vesuvius in his periphery.
At an Autogrill outside Pompeii, he stopped to fill the tank and to piss. He was standing at a table, eating a crema cornetto and drinking espresso, when he saw a text from Nikki:Can’t sail today. Sorry. In London. Family emergency.
He called.
“You okay?” he asked when she picked up. “What happened?”
Her voice was that cold, matter-of-fact monotone she used when she was frightened. “My uncle fell down a flight of stairs. Broken femur, and a head injury.”
“Fuck!” said Valerio. “I’m sorry to hear that. You there now?”
“Yeah.”
