The Lamplighters

Chapter Thirteen

Marla was panting by the time she reached the top of the hill. Her walk had taken her to higher ground, and air fresher than any she had ever breathed before. The trees had thinned out long ago, leaving her atop a gorgeous expanse of scrubland at the edge of the island. Pausing for breath, she saw a white building about a quarter of a mile away, its windows looking out to sea. She took a drink of already tepid water from the plastic bottle and began plodding down the sandy track towards the building.

As she drew closer to it, she saw that the building was a mansion house, constructed in the same luxurious style as the one she’d been assigned to take care of. Nearing the gate, she squinted up at the glimmering glass and white stucco through narrowed eyes. This house was much larger than “hers”—whoever the hell owned this place, they were a damn sight wealthier than she’d ever be, that was for sure.

Marla paused at the gate, feeling all of a sudden like an intruder on someone else’s property. By definition that’s exactly what I am, she was she thought—an intruder. Avoiding the gate, she opted instead to follow the perimeter white picket fence round back and take a peek at the garden. Verdant grass and simple hardy planting made the space look more like a bowling green than a garden. The lawn had been extremely well-tended, and was currently being nourished by the gentle rhythmic drizzle from dozens of sprinklers. Marla kicked off her shoes instinctively. Her hot feet demanded this pleasure of her, and carried the rest of her body forward before her brain could resist. The wet grass beneath her feet was actual heaven, and she padded across the grass with a saintly look on her face, laughing as the sprinklers suddenly spurted a cool cloud of summer rain on her face. Lost in the droplets, she spun and laughed and danced between the jets.

“Who the hell are you?”

The voice was male, hard and just a little Latin-sounding. Marla stood still and opened her eyes, suddenly feeling like a complete idiot. Dancing in the sprinklers. In someone else’s garden. Idiot.

“I’m Marla,” she replied. “The new girl.”

“Ah, the new girl. I should have known. I’m Pietro.”

Marla reached out and shook the hand that he’d offered. His grip was firm but his skin was very soft, almost feminine. Only premium cleaning products could soften a guy’s skin like this—that, and never working an honest day in a lifetime. This guy has to be a Lamplighter, thought Marla, trying and failing to remember what Jessie had said about Pietro. She looked up from his hand to his face. Dark hazel eyes peered back at her from within the frame of his olive skinned face.

“Let me fix you a drink,” he said as he turned and headed for the house.

Here we go again, she thought as she followed him.

Still giddy from her dance, Marla’s eyes wandered. Whoever this guy was, his ass was as pretty as his face.

The drink turned out to be a smoothie. An evil voice in the back of Marla’s head seemed to be crying out for an alcoholic hair of the dog. It would certainly help take the edge off her embarrassment at being found dancing in the garden. Marla managed to ignore the evil voice, instead watching Pietro intently as he chopped bananas and juicy berries and transferred them to a blender. Marla watched as he added a little cream and a handful of ice and hit the button. The blades whizzed loudly and made little purple and yellow waves on the inside of the clear plastic jug. Pietro then poured the concoction over some more ice into a tall glass, added a straw from the cupboard and placed it triumphantly on the work surface.

Flavors exploded on Marla’s parched tongue and she felt her shoulders relax instantly. She beamed at Pietro with the straw still between her teeth.

“You like?”

“I like,” she replied. “Better than chocolate. You’ve mixed those before.”

“I was a bartender back home for a while. Then I opened a little smoothie bar, but the local gangsters didn’t like me doing business on their patch.”

“Where’s home?”

“Sicily. Palermo. You’ve been there?”

Marla winced as she remembered her ex, Carlo, and his attempts to lure her away on a dirty weekend to Rome. She’d tried to convince him to spend the money on taking her out to a good restaurant in London for once. He’d gone to Rome without her.

“No. I’ve never been to Italy.”

“A shame. Palermo is beautiful, full of art and history. And you can swim in the sea there. I used to, almost every day.”

“You sound homesick. How long have you been out here?”

“A little over nine months. Can’t swim in the sea here. It pisses me off.”

“But you have the pool, right?”

“Not the same, not even close. The sea is alive, a pool is just dead. Dead water.”

“I’ve never, erm, thought of it like that myself.”

Pietro scowled, gulped down what was left of the smoothie straight from the jug, and began methodically scrubbing it clean at the sink.

Marla decided to break the cool silence that had crept into the kitchen. “Still, it’s a bloody lovely island, you have to admit.”

He laughed. “Bloody lovely? Whatever you say bella ragazza.”

“You’re making fun of me now.”

“I just don’t see the point in being in a paradise if you can’t even swim in the fucking sea, that’s all. Then it’s like a prison. You and I can be here, in a stranger’s kitchen. I can make you a smoothie. But the instant I ask you to the beach for a swim, for a party, Fowler and his fascistas will be there with the handcuffs ready.”

“Sounds kind of kinky.”

Pietro snorted. She could see real anger bubbling beneath his indignation now. He was tightly wound, this one. Maybe the island life was not for him.

“Now you are the one making fun.”

She enjoyed the way he spoke, though. Bloddy lovvly. He had a softer voice than Carlo’s had been, but the strange clumsiness of his English was very similar. Hell, was she really going to compare the poor guy to her ex-boyfriend all afternoon? Marla chuckled as she realized that was exactly what she’d be doing.

“No need to be so grumpy, I wasn’t poking fun, honestly.”

She beamed at him. Pietro tried his best to maintain his scowl. Eventually, the corners of his mouth cracked into a smile and they laughed out loud together.

Spontaneous laughter between two strangers can be a dangerous thing, thought Marla. In this case, it had led to Pietro inviting Marla to join him on the veranda. There, he had bewitched her with those hazel eyes of his and within minutes her Birkenstocks had been cast aside wantonly. And here she was, lying like a tart as he gave her the most incredible foot massage she’d ever experienced. In fact, it was the only foot massage she’d ever experienced. She giggled as his fingers skated the sensitive arch of her right foot, tickling her. Her giggle became an uncontrollable moan of pleasure as he applied pressure just beneath the ball of her foot. As his fingers and thumbs worked their magic, she relaxed into the springy cradle of the sun lounger.

Pietro had filled Marla in on the last few months of his life, The Consortium’s job offer giving him the catalyst he needed to throw caution to the wind and do something different for a while. The monotony of tending bar night after night, followed by the bitter failure of his own business venture had made coming to island impossible to resist. Marla detected a weariness similar to Jessie’s when he spoke after that however. Pietro was clearly bored as hell out here with hardly anyone to speak to, surrounded by an ocean he was forbidden from swimming in. His mood was too heavy and her small talk wasn’t enough to lift it. Their faltering conversation had switched to her reasons for coming to the island, and about her aspirations, her dreams. She’d avoided going into too much detail, but as she spoke, Marla had realized just how much she needed to be on this island right now.

The afternoon sun flared across the azure sky and she closed her eyes tightly for a moment, imagining herself on some endless vacation on this sun-trap island with her personal masseuse-stroke-lover literally on hand to pleasure her whenever she so desired.

“You have very good hands for a barman.”

The sigh that crept from her lips like dry ice made Pietro smile with pride at a job well done. His hands went to work on Marla’s left foot.

“I took classes. There are two things most people want in this world. One is a well-mixed drink. The other, a fucking good massage.”

Marla laughed dirtily, her own sound embarrassing her a little. Her calf muscles stiffened, their movement giving Pietro a clear signal to stop what he was doing. His fingertips felt and delivered the message and he gently ended the massage with two spiraling motions of his thumbs. Sitting erect, Marla raised her hands up to the sky yawning and stretching like a cat. The sun was dipping now, in a couple of hours it would be bedding down behind the treeline.

“It’s getting late. I’d better get going. Thanks so much for the foot rub, Pietro.”

“No problemo. Anytime.”

She stole a look at his muscular arms as he crouched down by the pool and rinsed off his hands in the clear water. His skin really was flawless, save for a beauty spot punctuating the point where his right bicep ended. Suddenly, Pietro looked at her over his shoulder. Marla quickly pretended to be looking beyond the pool, into the skyline. She stood up and slipped her tingling feet back into the now rather harsh reality of her sandals. Pietro stood up too and leaned in to air kiss her goodbye, once on each cheek.

Marla didn’t exhale until she reached the gate, turned and closed it. The breath seemed to shiver from her body. She’d felt sure Pietro had meant to kiss her full on the lips, but had decided against it at the last minute. Looking up to the house over the gate, she watched as Pietro ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair. He was gazing at his own reflection in the glass of the French windows. Then she remembered what Jessie had said about Pietro. Totally loves himself, that one. Her amusement at this lasted the entire journey back to her summerhouse. As she flopped down on the wicker furniture, she realized she hadn’t given another thought to the lack of reading material on the island. Tomorrow she’d find a pen and some paper and write some damn reading material of her own. Marla hadn’t felt this alive for months.

Chief of Security Fowler glared at his men. All these patrols, all this manpower and still they couldn’t get it together to find Anders. He asked questions and his men recapped the answers. Last radio transmission? Just before nightfall, sir. Nobody thought to check in before daybreak? Anders specified radio silence unless in the event of an emergency, sir. Last known coordinates? The dark side, sir. I know he was on the goddamn dark side, where exactly on the dark side? Don’t know, sir. May as well get out there and do it your fucking self, sir.

Imbeciles. Sir, yes, sir!

Fowler snapped his pencil angrily. They would now have to patrol the island in search of two targets—an unauthorized interloper and Anders, who could be injured and stranded somewhere. Anders, his best man. What a fucking mess. They’d better get some results or there’d be Hell to pay. He dismissed his men, tossed the pencil in the trash. When they were gone, he headed for his private sanctuary. The Snug was where he needed to be right now. While his men scoured every inch of the island in search of Anders, he’d locate that bastard interloper. Even if he had to keep watch twenty-four-seven, he’d find him.