not too far ahead. If we could come up with a description—”
“No...it’s okay.” The last thing she wanted to do right now was talk to the police. “Petty theft is an everyday occurrence, and besides, the guy’s long gone by now. I’m just thankful to have my bag. Replacing my ID would have been a nightmare.”
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts and shrugged. “I’m just happy I could help.”
She knew he was American from his accent. Just over six feet tall, he was dressed casually in gray chino shorts, a black T-shirt and a black baseball cap. Dark brown hair, brown eyes and good-looking... Okay, very good-looking. Not that it mattered.
“Are you all right?” His gaze dropped to her knee.
“I think so.” She glanced down at the trail of blood on her leg just below the hem of her dress, where she’d scraped it on the rough pavement. “It’s nothing. But thank you again. I’m not sure how you were able to get it back, but you really did save me a lot of hassle.”
“Not a problem, but hey...” He caught her eyes as she looked up. “Why don’t you let me buy you a cup of coffee? It will give you a few minutes to catch your breath and clean up your knee.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to, but I’d like to.”
She hesitated. Maybe a cup of coffee wouldn’t hurt. The diversion would help calm her nerves and right now she definitely needed to calm down.
“I saw a little café just around the corner,” he continued, glancing back down the street. “What do you say?”
“Okay.” She answered before she’d had a chance to really think about it, then immediately questioned her decision. She’d gone out with a few men since moving here, but never more than once or twice, and certainly not with a stranger. She pushed away the concern. It wasn’t like this was a date. He was just a friendly American who’d come to her rescue.
“I never got your name,” she said as they sat down at one of the small outside tables at the busy café a minute later. She signaled to the waiter and ordered two espressos in Italian, then pulled out a package of tissues from her bag and started dabbing at her knee.
“Joe Bryant,” he said, settling into his chair. “From Virginia.”
“Talia Morello, born and raised in Texas, actually,” she said.
“For a Texan your Italian is flawless.”
“My father was Italian and has family here, so I ended up spending most summers in Italy while I was growing up. What about you, though?” she asked, wanting to shift the conversation away from herself. There were things—personal things—he didn’t need to know about her. “Are you here on holiday?”
“The trip’s work-related, actually.” He pressed his fingers against the table, then pulled out his badge. “I went for the tourist look today, but I actually work for the FBI’s art crime team.”
“Art crime team?” She glanced at the badge, panic settling in as she repeated his words. This couldn’t be another coincidence. She received a message demanding some artwork and now the FBI’s art division was here? She searched her brain for a connection, but nothing made sense.
“Listen, I know this is going to sound crazy,” he said, breaking into her thoughts, “but I know who you are. I’m actually here because I was hoping for a chance to ask you a few questions about your husband.”
The familiar scenery around her began to blur. The line of shops down the avenue sprinkled with tourists, the smell of pizza baking, purple and red flowers wilting in the afternoon sun...
She’d moved to Italy to escape the questions.
“I know he was a police officer,” he continued. “I know he was accused of stealing from a number of police raids, that he was murdered and that the murderer was never caught. I know you were even questioned once as to whether or not you were involved—”
“I was cleared of any charges—”
“I know, and I’m not here to accuse you of anything. I’ve gone through the reports and they clearly show that no evidence ever led back to you.”
Not that that fact had stopped the accusations. She bit the inside of her cheek. She’d worked so hard to put Thomas and his murder behind her, along with the shame in discovering he’d been involved in something illegal. And now everything about today was forcing her to dredge it all up again.
“Listen,” he said, as the waiter slid two espressos in front of them. “This isn’t how I planned to approach you, but it is very important that we talk.”
“Agent Bryant—”
“Please...you can call me Joe,” he said, handing her a business card with the FBI logo on it along with his name. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”
“Joe... Thomas died a long time ago.” She ran her finger over the card before looking back up at him. “And even though his killer was never found, his case was eventually closed. So unless you have the name of his murderer, I don’t know what you could tell me that would matter at this point.”
“I don’t have that, but what if I told you that some new evidence has surfaced regarding his case?”
New evidence? Was that what all of this was about? A wave of nausea swept through her. There had to be a connection between Agent Bryant—Joe—this recently surfaced information and whoever had sent her that threatening text message.
“What did you discover?” she asked. “More evidence of his guilt?”
If that was what he was talking about, she didn’t want to know. Not after all this time. Not after moving to Italy to start a new life, a life without the stigma of his murder and his betrayal. She and Thomas had just celebrated their six-month anniversary days before he’d been murdered. The chief had come to her house personally to tell her what had happened.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” he’d said, “but Thomas was shot tonight after a drug bust gone wrong.” He’d hesitated from where he’d sat across from her in their living room. “And unfortunately, we have solid proof pointing to the fact that he was involved—possibly for quite some time—in stealing evidence, both money and drugs, from a number of raids.”
At that moment, everything she knew and believed about the man she’d fallen in love with had been completely shattered.
“Not more evidence of his guilt,” Joe said, adding a packet of sugar to his drink. “But we have found a lead to the person who murdered him.”
“I don’t understand.” Her hands shook as she took a sip of her espresso. “How is the FBI’s art crime division connected to Thomas’s murder?”
She needed to know. Because if there was new information on the case, she’d have expected to hear the update from Thomas’s department. Not the FBI. And while she might want to forget the past, a part of her also needed closure. Which was why as much as she wanted to stand up and walk away, she knew she wouldn’t be able to until she heard what he
