He came out of the bathroom of his third story room, steam following him out and stood at the window, a towel around his waist.

Yes, here, at the Mattucci estate, he could feel his heartbeat slow—the nap helped, of course—but last night, at dinner in the summer kitchen, as Tessa, their hostess, had called it, he’d sat under the array of stars that cast upon the glorious skyscape and told himself to calm down.

RJ wore a navy-blue smock—a sort of wispy floral dress, her hair down, windblown, her skin tanned, and she’d never looked more beautiful. The ring on her finger sparkled in the moonlight, and she wove her fingers into York’s as she laughed at some story Santini told.

He barely looked at Winchester, not sure what to add onto his crisp apology.

Win had shrugged, then smiled and said, “Nothing my stunt guys haven’t done to me!”

Ha. Ha. Ha.

But York had been serious, at least for a moment, and he knew he’d scared Winchester. A man didn’t struggle that hard, without precision, if he wasn’t panicked.

So, yeah, he’d overreacted, and only RJ’s voice behind him, and maybe Roy’s, from the side of the pool had brought him back to himself.

To the man he wasn’t, not anymore.

He stopped by the mirror over the bureau, checking on his wounds—even the two punctures looked less inflamed, so maybe this time out might be exactly what his body needed, too. He pulled on the new clothing RJ had purchased for him yesterday in Lucca while he slept—a pair of cargo shorts, a white collared linen shirt. Flip-flops. Like they might be on vacation.

She’d also purchased dress pants, a pair of faded jeans, a swimsuit, a couple more tee-shirts and a silly straw hat to match her own.

Apparently, for romantic walks in the vineyard.

Oh, he needed to find a preacher because one more star-strewn walk, and stop off in the garden behind the pool, and he might not let her off at her door down the hall.

Who said he wasn’t romantic?

He came out into the hallway, the smell of bread rising from the kitchen in the house, and headed downstairs. Tessa was in the kitchen, kneading dough on a floured table.

“What are you making?”

“Gnocchi. For dinner.”

“I smell bread.”

“Ciabatta. For dinner.”

“Tessa, you spoil us.”

“It’s in the blood,” she said, winking. “I believe RJ is outside, with Hana.”

He’d gotten the story from RJ yesterday, before dinner—that Mads was not, in fact, Hana’s father, that the little girl did not seem sick, despite being in a cancer hospital in Heidelberg, and that RJ believed she was actually an orphan, kidnapped from Russia.

Which, of course, accounted for why RJ spoke Russian to her.