The BMW jerked him awake an hour, maybe more later as Ziggy turned onto a gravel road. He sat up. “Where are we?” They were winding up a hill toward a beautiful stone home, set amidst vast fields of grapevines and olive trees. The sun was high upon the white stone, glinting off the tile clay roof and if he wasn’t mistaken, he thought he spotted a pool half-hidden behind cypress trees.

The road dipped down and he lost the view, but — “This is your villa?”

“It’s a beautiful day to be alive,” Ziggy said.

If you lived here, it was.

They pulled up into a large courtyard under the shadow of the three-story stone house. Another house, smaller, sat off to the side. The courtyard was cordoned off by tall cypress trees, beautiful flowers in terracotta planters.

Ziggy got out. “I’ll run into town later for a phone and clothing. For now, let’s get you guys inside, fed and maybe showered. It’s like riding with a car full of futbòl players.”

He didn’t think he smelled that bad. But maybe.

Instead of heading toward the double wooden door, however, Ziggy led them along the house to the back, through a cobbled corridor, to a pooled area.

He stood, just taking in the view of the pool, the vineyard, the buildings…

RJ.

He drew in a breath, about to shout her name.

But she sat on a chaise lounge, half-turned away from him, wearing a white sun dress, her legs and feet bare, her hair down, blowing in the wind under a wide-brimmed straw hat, holding an empty glass, and…

Laughing. Something bright and high and sweet and it drifted across the pool deck and caught him up, swelled his heart.

And then she reached out and touched the knee of the man across from her.

A man dressed in dark swim trunks, a loose shirt, open to show his waxed, perfect chest, who now turned to her and grinned, also laughing, as if he might be completely charmed be her presence.

And her, his.

Who—

The man got up, reached for RJ’s empty glass.

The wind caught his too perfect, thick dark hair, blew his shirt against his frame, and his whitened smile nearly caught a glare.

Winchester. Marshall.

Actor.

CIA mole.

Traitor.

Possibly, assassin.

York stilled, painfully, completely aware of his ripe smell, his soiled clothing, his four-day beard growth, the ache in his back, and the way his jaw tightened.

Oh sure, she was just fine all right.

York strode toward her, unable to think, unable really to respond to Roy’s shout behind him. Even unable to look at RJ, who also stood, calling out to him.

He’d worked up a good head of steam by the time Marshall rounded the end of the chaise lounges, two glasses in his hand, and frankly, nothing was left in his head but one thing.