His eyebrows rose.
‘Again,’ I added, and promptly blushed.
He laughed. ‘I can’t think of any other reason you’d think it was a good idea to look for Ford at a gay festival.’
‘Think about it,’ I said. ‘Would the police ever think to look for a straight musician who’s wanted for murder in the middle of a gay festival?’
He almost looked impressed. ‘Yeah, good point.’
‘I’m going to have a shower,’ I said.
Nick threw himself on his bed and flicked on the television while I got a change of clothes and some toiletries out of my bag.
The bathroom was little more than a showerhead beside the toilet, and I realised I was going to have to leave my clothes outside the door if I didn’t want them to get completely soaked. I hung them on the outside doorhandle, then removed my current clothes, balled them up and threw them out a crack in the door.
As I predicted, the shower situation was a disaster, and the entire floor was covered in water by the time I finished. I’d left my folded towel on the cistern of the toilet and even that was damp. I dried myself as best I could, then opened the door to retrieve my clothes. Nick was staring studiously at the telly, but I was sure I could see him straining to catch a glimpse of me in his peripheral vision.
‘I have seen you naked before, you know,’ he said, his eyes still glued to the television. I slammed the door in response.
When I emerged, fully dressed, from the bathroom and sat on the edge of the other bed, I realised how close together we really were. There wasn’t even enough room to move the beds further apart.
Nick looked up at me. His eyes slid over my wet hair and followed a drop of water as it rolled over my shoulder and down my chest beneath my shirt. His gaze lingered on my breasts for a brief moment, and they began to tingle as if he’d touched them. I stood abruptly. Stupid body.
There was an awkward pause and Nick cleared his throat. ‘So are we going?’
I tried to sound upbeat. ‘The sooner we do, the sooner we go home.’
Nick stood up and slung his camera over his shoulder. ‘Then let’s go and find this clown.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
We were too early for the nightclubs, but Gay Village was already in full swing, as the owner of the pensione had predicted. For several hours, we roamed from bar to bar, from tent to pavilion, always on the lookout for Ford. But amid the vibrant colours and sounds of the festival, we saw no sign of him.
Finally, our rumbling bellies demanded that we stop for dinner. I pushed my way through a group of drag queens, almost inhaling a purple feather, and found a table outside a restaurant.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much leather and Lycra in one place before,’ Nick said as we sat down.
I laughed. The joyous vibe was infectious, and it was easy to forget that we were here for work, to forget that I usually hated the guy I was with, to forget about the sleeping arrangements for the night. I couldn’t keep the smile from my face.
I ordered pasta with Napoletana sauce, and was astonished by its exquisite simplicity and perfect texture. Ford had been right. The food here was amazing.
‘Good, isn’t it?’ Nick shovelled a giant forkful of his own pasta into his gob. Chicken livers, of course. The man loved his offal.
‘Sensational,’ I said. ‘The best pasta I’ve ever had.’
‘Let’s get some wine,’ Nick suggested. ‘This night’s been a bust.’
He didn’t wait for my assent, but signalled to the waiter and asked for a litre of Chianti.
‘A litre?’ I said incredulously. ‘The night’s not over yet. We’re still working, you know.’
He grinned. ‘I won’t tell Katrina if you don’t.’
‘That’s not really the point, Nick.’ But the temptation to let go of my tension and enjoy myself was already taking over.
‘Oh, lighten up, Burrowes.’ He clasped his hands behind his head and leant back in his chair. ‘When are you going to get another chance to sit in a piazza in Rome in the middle of a gay festival and eat and drink like a queen? Excuse the pun.’
‘I could think of a better time than when I have a deadline. And better company.’
‘Aw shucks.’
When the waiter returned with the carafe, Nick poured our glasses almost to the brim.
‘Steady on!’ I protested. ‘I’ll end up under the table!’
‘I’ve seen you drink, Burrowes,’ Nick said. ‘It takes a lot more than one glass of Chianti to get you under the table… or various other places.’
‘You don’t have to be vulgar.’
‘Didn’t hear you complaining at the time.’
I probably should have been offended, but the wine had relaxed both my mind and my limbs, and I was surprised to find myself laughing.
James popped into my head briefly, but I pushed him away. Everything at home was complicated, and this night, with the warm breeze, the good food and wine and the cheerful revellers, was so simple in comparison. Before I knew it, Nick and I had almost finished the carafe and were chatting and laughing like old friends.
I was gazing out at the passing festival-goers when a figure in dark clothes amid all the colour caught my eye. I sat straight up and squinted in an attempt to narrow in on him, but the wine, combined with my tiredness, had left my vision less than sharp. I couldn’t make out his face, but I could tell he was wearing a peaked cap. And I knew it was him because of the cold shiver that ran through my body.
‘Hey, there’s that dodgy guy from the market,’ I said to Nick.
Nick twisted around in his seat. ‘He’s looking right at us.’
The man turned away and disappeared into the crowd. I peered in the direction he had departed, an uneasy feeling stirring in my breast. There was something about that guy.
