Mad, Bad and Blonde - Cathie Linz [6]
Caine Hunter had his instructions. Keep an eye on Faith West, keep track of her actions and report them back to Chicago. He knew a lot about her already: children’s librarian, jilted bride, handy with a gun. Her team from the library in Las Vegas where she’d worked two years ago had come in second place in the city’s Corporate Challenge, an event where organizations compete in various sporting events. She’d aced the shooting event.
Caine was only mildly impressed. She still seemed like a spoiled little rich girl to him, with her fancy wedding in one of the most prestigious churches in Chicago, a fancy banker fiancé and a condo in Chicago’s trendiest Streeterville neighborhood. Not that the wedding or the fiancé had panned out for her in the end. Too bad, so sad.
No one had ever accused him of being the sentimental type.
He’d say this for Faith West: she didn’t drive like a librarian . . . more like race car driver Danica Patrick. Driving in Italy, especially around Milan, was not for wimps.
Yet here she was, weaving in and out of traffic, music blaring. Was she really that reckless or just plain stupid? Hard to tell at this point, but Caine aimed on finding that out . . . among other things.
Faith’s knuckles were permanently white by the time she reached the small town of Positano. The infamous road of a thousand curves on which she’d been traveling clung precariously to the steep cliffs and was narrower than her parents’ driveway at home. That didn’t stop huge tour buses from barreling around blind curves, hogging the entire road and making her fear for her life and her sanity.
But she’d done it. She’d made it here. Alive. In one piece. Jane Austen would be so proud.
“Welcome to the Majestic Hotel, Mrs. Anderson.” Huge terra-cotta urns filled with flowers bracketed the reception desk adorned with colorful majolica tiles. The lobby, with its antiques and artwork, was a study of understated elegance. “We have the honeymoon suite all ready for you and your husband.”
Her stomach clenched. This was no honeymoon, and she had no husband. But she did have sunshine, breathtaking views and the scent of citrus blossoms in the air. “It’s Ms. West. Faith West. Not Mrs. Anything. I called ahead to explain the change . . .”
“Oh yes, I see the note here. I’m sorry for the confusion, Ms. West. If you could show me your passport, please.” He raised his hand, and a uniformed bellman immediately appeared with her luggage. “Paco will take you to your room.”
She’d spent hours over the past winter, poring over guidebooks and surfing websites trying to decide where to stay—the Grand Hotel in Sorrento or the Capri Palace Hotel on the island of Capri? But Positano had held her under its spell and, while she planned on visiting both Sorrento and Capri during her stay, this was her ultimate destination. The room didn’t disappoint with its private terrace displaying a colorful bougainvillea-framed view of the pastel, sunlit town hugging the rugged cliffs that plunged down to the blue waves of the Mediterranean.
John Steinbeck was right. This place was a dream.
The dream was interrupted by the sound of her stomach growling. She needed to eat something and fast. The hotel dining room was serving for another hour, Paco the bellman informed her in a sexy Italian accent, his liquid brown eyes gazing at her with Latin approval.
Faith was starving. But not for male attention. She handed Paco his tip and showed him the door.
She barely had time for a fast bathroom stop where she looked at the thick towels and large tub longingly before hurrying down to eat. Knowing that nearby Naples was the