Chapter 6

MARCO LUCCHESE FROWNED IN annoyance. His manicured fingernails tapped on the inset leather top of his desk making muted ticks. A new cell phone lay on the desk in mocking silence. It hadn't rung all day. Where the fuck was Julian Blackmore and Bianca?

The news out of Madrid had been a disaster. One dead, two in hospital. Thank God the dead one was his only contact. They would not lead the polizia to his doorstep. But FUCK! Marco slammed his fist down onto the cell phone. How hard could it be to eliminate two fucking people?

The study door opened. Marco glanced up, his hand smoothing back hair that had fallen over his forehead. Aldo entered with enquiring brown eyes. For a man capable of cold violence, his eyes were remarkably feminine, Marco noticed, not for the first time. He felt the familiar desire ignite inside him but tamped it down.

"Here," he said, shoving the cracked cell phone across the desk. "Get me a new one, please."

Without missing a beat, Aldo picked it up and slipped it into his pant pocket. "Of course. Any news?"

"Nothing."

"Perhaps they returned to Mr. Blackmore's home?" Aldo suggested.

"He's not that stupid," Marco countered.

"Nothing from border agencies?"

"Not yet. This waiting is annoying me," Marco snarled.

Aldo stepped back from the desk silently. He knew better than to be in the line of fire when Marco lost his temper. He could be unpredictably vicious. Marco was completely amoral. "I will get a new cell phone, Marco," he said softly, turning and gently closing the study door behind him.

Marco Lucchese leaned back in the chair and glared out through the glass doors and across the well manicured lawn. He looked at his yacht. It was all at risk. He could lose everything if she lived. Why couldn't that fucking audit of her inheritance have waited until she was eighteen? Until it was too late? Picking up a Mont Blanc pen, he threw it across the study in anger, an anger fuelled now by a hint of fear. Hiring Julian Blackmore to be the patsy might have been a mistake.

I KEPT AN EYE on the locksmith as he worked at the larger floor safe. Bianca sat on the floor next to him studying every move he made. He'd assured me he could open the lock without exposing the contents. I didn't have that much trust so I watched him.

"Et voilà," he announced after almost an hour of work, turning the handle, the door edging ajar.

Bianca moved with him as he settled his tools at the smaller wall safe and went to work, the high-pitched whine of his drill grating my teeth. I stepped up to the big safe and, shielding it with my body, took a peek inside. Guns. Rifles. Boxes of ammunition. Why would I need an arsenal in my home? You couldn't travel with guns so why have them? The safe was useless now, the lock ruined. Maybe I'd dispose of the weapons. The more I was finding out about myself the less I was liking me. First was my explosive violence. Now I had an armoury in my home.

Closing the safe door I returned to my vigil, my mind more happily distracted with memories of waking up with Bianca in bed next to me. She'd been awake, her remarkable blue eyes studying me, her cheek resting on the pillow. The way emotions emerged was just fascinating. It started with pleasure and evolved into a slow smile, her eyes twinkling.

"Bongiorno, Julian," she'd said.

"Morning, Bianca," I'd responded, rolling so I could kiss her cheek, taking the opportunity to inhale her aroma deeply. Nuzzling her was exquisitely pleasurable. She'd turned her face just the smallest bit and our lips brushed. It still amazed me such a simple little kiss could feel so sensual. It had elicited a very fast physical reaction, too.

Watching the locksmith, Monsieur LaPoussan, work the second safe, my mind toyed with something that had been bothering me. I hadn't figured it out but there was a niggling itch that I'd missed something, or I'd seen something and not recognized its importance. It was something here, at home. But what?

Closing my eyes, I went over our arrival with Bianca. Step by step I reviewed our movements. We'd both been somewhat awed at the sight of the house. Bianca had expressed her like of the decor. I'd liked it, too. I liked the taste it showed; quietly elegant. We'd explored the bedrooms and ... No. It was something else. Something earlier.

I mentally went back to the entrance of the drive, the Audi nosing around the curve, that first glimpse, the impression of a medieval home. The ... That's it! The turret! It had narrow slot windows in it yet we'd not found any stairs inside leading up to it. Why?

Was it a fake? Was it there for aesthetic purposes only?

"Et voilà," the locksmith announced, the small safe door cracking open slightly. "Celui-ci était plus facile," he commented. Clearly he was right, it had been easier. It had taken him only fifteen minutes to open it.

"Merci," I thanked him, handing him the agreed fee. He gathered his tools, smiled at Bianca and wished us a good day.

As soon as the front door closed, I returned to the study to find Bianca inspecting the contents of the small safe. She was carefully piling bricks of cash on the credenza and inspecting papers. "You own this house," she commented, placing papers next to the cash. Reaching in, she withdrew two passports and inspected them. "You're Canadian," she observed. "No, wait. You're Swiss and your name is John Blacksmith," she said, offering me both passports.

Why would I need different passports? Never mind. "Bianca, do you remember seeing a door upstairs that might lead to the tower?"

"No." Excitement emerged on her face. "Maybe you have a secret room! We should find it!" Jumping up, she headed out of the study almost running. "Andiamo!"

Smiling at her enthusiasm, I did as instructed and followed her. We hunted and, amusing me, Bianca started knocking on the walls of each bedroom. Eventually I stopped being amused by her and common sense took over. There was a more scientific approach. Orienting myself, I led Bianca to the room directly below the turret.

The corner bedroom was, like all others, tastefully done. Dark, almost ebony hardwood floors matched the wooden bed frame and solid headboard. The bed had cream-colored sheets and a thick matching quilt. Below the window was a wide chest of drawers. Against one exterior wall was a matching bookshelf with a few books on the shelves and small knick-knacks.

To the right was a dark wood closet door. There was nothing in the room that could be a hidden entrance. About to turn away and check the bedroom next door, I noticed faint scrapes on the floor from the closet door. It looked as if the closet had been used heavily. Why?

Opening it, both Bianca and I poked our heads in and inspected the empty interior, the few empty hangars looking rather sad. Bianca pushed past me and started her wall-knocking again.

"Here! Listen!" she exclaimed excitedly, her knock echoing back with a hollow thunk. With both of us crowding into the closet it made it too dark to see. I switched on the overhead light.

A click sounded, part of the wall popping open to reveal the shape of a door perfectly camouflaged to be invisible. Bianca tugged it open. She shouted something and raced up circular dark wood stairs. I followed.

The room above was a twenty-odd foot circle. A modern glass desk curved around a quarter of the room. Next to it stood a computer rack with blinking server lights. Twin blank wide-screen LED monitors sat on the desktop, a modern roller chair waiting in front. Metal filing cabinets lined the wall. Everything was spotless and neat, almost spare.

"What is this place?" Bianca asked.

"Damned if I know."

Four hours later Bianca tried her hand at cooking dinner, a simple pasta Alfredo with a Dijon vinaigrette red leaf salad. I sat at the kitchen table with a bottle of Moretti pale lager and sipped while watching her. She looked good in her newly purchased short skirt and matching short-sleeved blouse. She'd tied her blonde hair with a blue ribbon at the nape of her neck, her short ponytail thick and bushy.

The hidden room had been very revealing. It was like learning about a stranger. I remembered nothing about me from what I'd read but questions had been answered. It made it easier to understand me and easier to like myself.

My fighting skills were answered; five years in the British Special Air Service. I found an old photograph of me at about eleven years old with my arm around a younger green-eyed boy, his smile revealing missing teeth. I remembered nothing about him and I wasn't sure if that was good or bad. Did I want to remember? The files suggested my life had been very solitary before. Did I want that back?

The filing cabinets revealed files on each child I'd gone after and the extensive research and planning that went into each. In the newest file I found research on one Bianca Vecchi, fourteen years and three months old, orphaned when her parents were killed in a car crash. The vineyard and estate was sold to a multi-national drinks company for thirty-two million Euros, the money put into a trust fund for Bianca in accordance with her parent's wills.

Marco Lucchese, brother of Bianca's mother, was appointed sole trustee. He apparently had no job, no income. More research detailed my search for her; the interviews I'd conducted with anyone who had seen the kidnappers, how I'd identified their nationality, discovered the make and model of their van. More papers outlined exhaustive research tracing the van through petrol station security cams and eventually the success, the van reported seen outside of Cordoba.

The file had two pictures of Bianca, one of her as a grinning seven-year-old standing in front of her handsome parents, rolling fields of cultivated grape vines behind them. The other was Bianca at twelve in a school uniform, her smile missing, her eyes lacking sparkle, lacking brightness. I didn't like that Bianca. She saddened me.

Searching though the filing cabinets I amassed knowledge of several years of my work, some kids taking months to track down, some retrieved almost immediately. It became clear I had very few morals. If killing would save the child, apparently I would kill without hesitation.

"Try this," Bianca ordered, extending a wooden spoon towards me, her hand underneath to catch drippings. I tasted the white sauce.

"Needs salt."

"No it doesn't," she countered. "E 'perfetto," she announced.

I rose to help, draining the spaghetti. Bianca tucked into her meal with verve, as if she had a bottomless pit for a stomach, murmuring her pleasure every so often. I ate more slowly, too absorbed with watching her. There was a sparkle in her eyes, the brightness that she'd shown in the photo of her at seven years old, none of the emptiness of the older photograph. I wondered if I'd been responsible for bringing that sparkle back.

"Why do you only help kids?" she asked.

I shrugged. I really didn't know.

Bianca swallowed and smiled. "I knew you were a good guy from the first time I saw you," she stated.

"When was that?" I asked absentmindedly, twirling my fork in the pasta.

"When you came bursting through the door. You looked really angry. Did you know your eyes flash when you're angry?"

Four hours later Bianca walked into my bedroom with a pile of clothes. She placed them on a chair and carried her toothbrush, toothpaste, and hairbrush into my bathroom. Emerging, as I stared in wonder, she opened drawers in the dresser, found what she was looking for, shoved my stuff aside and carefully folded and placed her socks, panties, little bras, and camisoles in it.

I didn't say a word. This was fascinating. Bianca was moving in without asking. The pleasure it gave me was surprising. She opened the closet and grabbed hangers, carefully hanging up her new clothes. Another trip and she returned with a load of shoes which were carefully arranged in the closet.

"Bene," she announced with satisfaction. "I'm going to take a shower."

The kiss I gave her when we cuddled in bed lasted just a bit longer.

For almost a week life became seductively peaceful, almost idyllic. Bianca charmed me. She was opinionated and stubborn and considerate; a complex girl. When I'd annoy her she'd chastise me loudly in a stream of Italian, her finger shaking at me, eyes narrowed. She was beautiful in her stubbornness, ignoring me yet somehow always being in the same room I was in to make sure I felt her cold shoulder. Eventually I would apologize even if I wasn't wrong and her snit would vanish instantly, no recriminations, no lingering annoyance.

Life with her became more intimate, too, and I didn't try to stop it. Having no memory almost felt like being isolated from the world, like living in a cocoon. With Bianca in the isolated world with me I lacked the desire to uncover more of my past.

Days became busy with exploration, walking through Nice and discovering stores, cafés, and gourmet bistros for lunch or an early dinner. Evenings became cosy. We'd watch television together in easy comfort, Bianca selecting whatever Italian shows she could find on the satellite feed. Nights would bring on erections from cuddling and sweet chaste kisses that seemed to last longer every time. Mornings were lazy cuddling, kissing, and some sexy light groping.

It was too easy to forget about the danger hanging over our heads. I was too distracted. And one evening I became very distracted.

The sound of Bianca taking a shower filled the bedroom. I hadn't noticed that the bathroom door was now left open. I didn't really think about it, mindlessly stripping to my boxers and going to brush my teeth.

The mirror was steamed over. I wiped it. In the reflection Bianca appeared through water-splattered glass shower walls, her head tilted back as she shampooed her hair. Suds ran in clumps down a slender back to find the valley of her bum, some flowing through her butt crack, others sliding around compact rounded buttocks. The sight was incredibly sexy. It got even sexier.

To rinse, her head still tipped back, eyes closed, and her hands rubbing her hair, Bianca turned her back to the spray. She exposed her front and I discovered one of the sexiest sights ever. Bianca, at fourteen years old, had a gazelle-like body, slender, and very narrow-hipped. She was almost delicate with practically no curves. Yet she was all female, powerfully female, and I reacted, an erection developing.

Two small adolescent breasts mounded with perfect firmness topped with sexy light pink areolae and beaded little nipples. They were remarkable. The perkiness was astonishing, lower and upper slopes mirror images. Water and suds caressed the edges, flowing around and down her slender body.

Without realizing it I held my breath and followed the suds as they discovered her flat stomach, bony hips, and the sensual delta of her pussy. It was so small yet it appeared plump and mounded and full and, inhaling sharply, I noticed a dusting of blonde pubic hairs, just a small bush, her cleft clearly visible. My erection strengthened and rose, tenting my boxers.

She was a dichotomy, a gorgeous, sensual dichotomy - her body shape one of a young girl contrasted by the startling sensuality of adolescence, that alluring hint of maturity. Bianca was a naked Goddess.

She turned around presenting that cute ass, indents forming in each sweet buttock.

Rinsing my mouth, I left the bathroom quietly. My erection ached and pulsed from the sight. It was a very different girl that slipped into bed with me, her damp hair emitting the scent of shampoo. In her new pale yellow ribbed cotton camisole and matching panties, a very, very sexy girl cuddled up to me.

When I kissed her, her face upturned, big blue eyes staring at me intently, it felt like sparks going off.

"You saw me in the shower," she said softly, resting her head in the crook of my shoulder.

"Yes."

"Did you ... Am I..."

"Yes, I liked what I saw a lot. Yes, you're absolutely beautiful," I responded, knowing exactly what she was asking.

"Buona. Sono contento," she whispered, cuddling closer.

I fell asleep with a heavy erection and arousal and now a forbidden desire for Bianca.

Dawn broke. I woke up in the semi-dark with a heavy erection and arousal and a strong, strong yearning intensified by the delicateness of Bianca as I spooned her, the sensual scent of her, and a hand gently cupping a small breast over her ribbed cotton camisole. My erection pressed at her thighs and, with my eyes tightly closed, it was far too easy to imagine slipping her panties down and touching her, feeling that soft, thin, blonde pubic bush and plump pussy.

My forbidden desire intensified becoming almost painful, almost overwhelming. With great care to avoid waking her, I eased myself away from Bianca, slipped from the bed and closed the bathroom door. My orgasm was fast in arriving, exquisite in its short visit, missed in its passing, and useless at diminishing my yearning.

Cleaned up, I returned to bed. Bianca was in the same position, on her side facing away from me, her knee bent, one arm flung out to the edge of the bed, one under the pillow, her blond hair a tangled mess on the pillow. She was gone to the world, her mouth open. The covers draped over her. On her side Bianca's shapeless body had gained curves, her hip and butt a sensual swell.

My physical arousal was gone. What was left was even more exquisite. The aching desire for her was strong. Possessiveness arrived. I didn't want to share her with anyone, not ever.

Slipping under the covers, Bianca reacted in her sleep. She mumbled something and rolled over and into my side, her hand reaching across me, her knee rising over my thigh. Messy blonde hair tickled my nose when I kissed the top of her head and slipped my arm around her. Her face found the crook of my shoulder. She pressed against me and relaxed.

A moment later she hugged me with her arm, pressed herself to me and relaxed. It happened twice more before understanding dawned. Bianca was rubbing her pussy against my thigh! Bianca was humping me in her sleep!

Through my hand on her lower back I could feel her moves. Unable to resist, I eased my fingertips under the waist of her skimpy yellow cotton panties. They touched the top of her bum crack; very exciting.

Bianca pressed her pussy against me, relaxed, and pressed again. Her foot slipped over my leg and tightened as she pressed again, this time emitting a little murmur. Her small presses grew rhythmic, press, relax, press, relax. The sound of her breathing strengthened along with my mental arousal. I held her gently and drowned in her humping and, just as I felt a faint twinge in my penis, Bianca humped, pressed, and paused. She emitted what sounded like a quiet grunt and trembled. She humped, pressed, paused and grunted lightly, her body shivering. Another two incredibly sexy humps and shivers and Bianca relaxed. She melted into me. She'd cum in her sleep and I was pretty sure I would never experience anything so sexy again. Unbelievably I was partially erect and completely charmed.

As dawn brightened our room Bianca stirred. Her big Egyptian blue eyes opened. A beautiful smile graced her pretty face. She emitted something like a purr before rolling and stretching, arms above her head pressing her camisole tight against small perky breasts. "Buongiorno, Julian," she said with a smile, eyes bright. "I slept so well," she observed. "I feel good. How did you sleep?"

"Not as well as you," I replied with a smile. Rolling, I kissed her smile. Her arm languidly circled my neck. She murmured.

"Molto bello," she advised me before rolling out of bed and disappearing into the bathroom.

We spent the morning going through personal papers in my study. I moved the collection of guns and ammunition up to the turret room in preparation for Monsieur LaPoussan, the locksmith, to arrive and replace the broken safes with new ones. On one of my trips Bianca waved a paper at me, excitement making her eyes twinkle rather charmingly.

"Julian, you have a boat! Vieni qui. Guardi!"

She passed me a bill of sale for one 2001 Riva 33' Aquariva Sport. What was that? And who would spend that much on a boat? And, if I'd bought it, where the fuck was it?

Bianca leaned over and pointed at the name. "What's a Riva?"

"How would I know?"

"Where is it?"

"How would I know, Bianca?" I answered forcefully.

"Oh. Right. I keep forgetting." She turned her blue eyes up at me giving me a cheeky grin at her pun. "Maybe you should call them," she suggested, pointing to the marina listed at the top of the bill of sale.

The arrival of Monsieur LaPoussan with three assistants and two new very heavy safes distracted us. Bianca took it on herself to keep an eye on them, although I was beginning to suspect she was just curious. No, she was nosy I admitted. She poked her nose into anything and everything that caught her interest with no regard to my privacy.

Just watching her pester the locksmith with questions brought a smile to my face and an unusual warm feeling inside me. I had to resist the urge to grab her and kiss her. Bianca was a different girl to me today. She was a deeper, more fascinating creature, and I could not dismiss the sexual attraction I was feeling towards her. Looking at her I now saw a young girl in the full blush of beautiful adolescence and the combination was powerful indeed. I so wanted to kiss her deeply. What would it feel like to kiss such an attractive young girl properly?

A physical response in my pants distracted me. Turning away from her, I studied the bill of sale and dialled the number for the marina in Port Jean Saint Cap Ferrat. As the locksmith's assistants wrestled with a large safe, I talked to a marina manager. It seemed I did indeed own a boat and, "Monsieur Blackmore, le moteur a été entretenu. Vous pouvez les récupérer à tout moment."

I thanked Philippe and let him know I'd be over to collect the boat today now that the engine had been serviced.