following Griffin toward the lobby doors. The man was tall, wearing dark slacks and a sport coat, his pale blue shirt open at the collar. Mirrored sunglasses masked his square face and reminded her of the guard from the Smithsonian. The BMW pulled up the street slightly, just out of sight, with only its back bumper in view. She didn’t like the way this looked, the driver waiting, ready for takeoff. Quiet area, few witnesses…
The man approached the lobby doors, his hand poised inside his jacket, and she decided that if this was a hit, if he did have a gun, he could easily take out Griffin, then her and the doorman, who paid them little attention. Time for a distraction, she decided, loosening the belt on her robe, allowing the terry to fly open, revealing her black underwear and bra as she walked. “Darling?” she called out, loud enough for the man to hear. “Is that you?”
All at once, the doorman, Griffin, and the man tailing him turned her way, and she put a little extra swing into her step to make sure her robe stayed open. “Darling?” she called again, seeing the man reaching into his coat toward the small of his back. “I seem to have left my key somewhere.”
The man following Griffin hesitated, and she caught a glimpse of the butt of his gun in his waistband. Griffin turned on his heel, but stopped as the lobby door opened, and out stepped the woman with the little towheaded toddler, who fled from his mother’s arms, laughing as he ran right between the suspect and Griffin. His mother ran after him. “Gianni! Gianni!” she called out. “Vieni a me subito!”
Sydney’s heart thudded at the sound of the child’s laughter. Directly in the line of fire. Griffin stepped toward the man, stopped when he saw the boy, no doubt worried about the same thing. And what could she do, armed with nothing but a bottle of prosecco? Maybe she could throw it at him, distract him enough to give Griffin a shot—assuming Griffin was armed. Instead, she strode up to the man, shouting, “You’re late!” He looked at her in confusion, his gaze flicking down to her exposed skin. “You promised to meet me.”
His expression hardened. Dismissed her. He turned away. Again started to draw his weapon. She came up behind him. Grabbed the bottle of prosecco in her pocket. Shoved the top of it into his back. Grasped his arm with her free hand, and hoped the Bureau’s reputation extended to this country. “FBI. Capisce?”
He froze. The mother ran up, grabbed her child, then retreated back into the hotel, blissfully clueless.
“Reach for that gun,” she said, “and you die.”
“You’re making a mistake,” the man said in English, his accent thick.
“Not as big as yours,” Sydney replied. The understatement of the year, she thought, pressing the prosecco harder against his back as Griffin appeared at her side, taking the man’s gun, slipping it into his own waistband. He raised a brow at the sight of the small bottle, but otherwise said nothing, and she dropped it into her pocket, cinched her robe closed, as Griffin placed the man in a discreet wristlock. From the corner of her eye, she saw the driver step into view. He looked as though he was ready to approach, investigate. “What about his friend?”
Griffin looked that direction just as the driver ran back to his car, sped off, wheels screeching across the cobbled drive. “Looks like your friend abandoned you.”
“He’ll be back.”
“But you’ll be gone. In the meantime, walk quietly into the lobby,” Griffin said, with a slight twist to the man’s wrist to ensure compliance. The doorman opened the glass door, let them in. Griffin said something to him in Italian, and Sydney overheard the word carabinieri and assumed he was asking that the police be called. That and no doubt something about an office, since the doorman ran up to the desk, and the well-dressed man from behind the counter rushed forward, and ushered them into a room just off the lobby.
Griffin said something to the manager, who nodded, then left them alone. The moment the door closed behind him, Griffin shoved the man in the chair, drew the gun on him, and told Sydney, “You don’t happen to have a spare pair of handcuffs to go with that lethal weapon, do you?”
She smiled. “Unfortunately, no. Budget cuts have really taken their toll.” She withdrew her sash from her robe. “Will