WHAT THE HECK WAS that phone call? I slam the phone down when I hear the dial tone, stretching out on the bed, burrowing beneath the sheets. I don't want to come out until all my thoughts are sorted, so beneath this tent of duvet cover and comforter, I'll probably suffocate.

How dare she threaten me to do something that I was already planning on doing?

And not even offer me any help with it, to boot?

And how did she even find the hotel room that I'm staying in?

"Christina?" Antonio's voice echoes through the room, exiting the bathroom most likely. I try not to picture him shirtless, wearing a towel. It doesn't work. "What are you doing under the blankets? Are you building a fort or something?"

"I'm fine," I blurt out. "No problems... at all. Just... I like thinking here. You know. It's a nice, peaceful thinking place."

"Okay..." he says uncertainly. "Well, are you done thinking? I thought we could go to dinner."

"I'm done," I say, even though I'm not even close to finding any answers. Pulling the blankets off of my head, I scoot out from under the covers to find that Antonio is, indeed, shirtless and wearing a towel. "Can you put on a shirt, please?"

"Why, is this distracting you?" he asks, opening up the small steamer trunk he brought with him.

"No, because the restaurants say, no shirt, no shoes, no service," I say, ignoring the blush that tints my cheeks at his words. I wish I could dive back under the covers again. But sadly, life is out there, the world is out here, and both of them are waiting for me to face them or be conquered.

"I didn't realize you cared so much about etiquette," he says, picking up a shirt and pulling it over his chest and shoulders. When his head has cleared the collar, he continues. "You don't strike me as a stickler for the rules."

I get out of bed, planting both feet on the ground as if to solidify my stance. What stance, exactly, I'm not sure yet, but I know I will find out. Soon. As soon as my heart stops going crazy and my mind stops racing like it's going down Route 60 in an old-school Cadillac during a California summer. "Why is that? Because I'm with you?"

Brushing my hands against my thighs, I check to se if my outfit is dinner-appropriate. A red dress that makes me feel like I'm dressed to kill? Check. Matching lipstick? Also, check. Mascara that's waterproof? Check and check. (And, the diamond necklace that he gave me to top it off, hanging around my throat like a collar, like a reminder, like a threat. Against whom, of what, I'm not sure anymore).

"You look lovely," he says softly. "I'll be the envy of every man in Monte Carlo."

My eyes widen as I spin around, my back to the mirror. "Every man in the city? You exaggerate, Mr. Cavalli."

"I never do." He puts an arm around my waist, his fingers splayed against my hip. We make our way to the restaurant, but a feeling of dread keeps worming its way through my stomach, an unwelcome guest refusing to leave.

Once seated and having ordered, Antonio fixes his attention not on me or any conversation we're having, but... on a couple at the table a few feet away from us. He leans forward, his hand over mine, but his gaze distant. "Don't look now, but..."

"Ah. monsieur et mademoiselle, I have brought you some bread, yes?" The waiter hums La Vie en Rose to himself and I am irrationally annoyed as Antonio drops my hand. The speakers are playing an upbeat jazz song in French and English, Formidable by Charles Aznavour.

"Merci," I say before the man leaves, still humming the song.

Antonio rubs a hand across his mouth as though hiding a grin. "There's a tip in store for him, to be sure."

"But is it a large one?" I try to joke. His words remind me of scripture. Store up your treasures in heaven, for where your treasures are, your heart will be there also. Where is my treasure? Where is my heart? It feels caught between two different worlds, half0-sliding into Antonio's hands and half-drawn to the idea of bringing the Cavallis' to justice. Mired in fear and doubt and faith.

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "As I was saying, there's a couple a few tables away from us, and the woman keeps looking at us."

"Is she blond? Beauty queen features?" I ask. It could be Delilah.

"Did you grow eyes in the back of your head?" He raises an eyebrow, his foot skimming against my bare calf beneath the table.

"No, I just, um, made a friend this afternoon, while you were... taking care of business." I twist a strand of hair around my finger before I stop myself, remembering, suddenly, the way Lucas would scold me for fidgeting. Antonio doesn't seem to mind. But the thought only reminds me of Lucas and the dead drop we had set up around the property, which will now lie abandoned, empty until I get back. Unless Lucia is filling it.

I don't know how to feel about her. Destiny or Lucia or whatever she calls herself. On one hand, there's no jealousy there. I don't love Lucas any more, if I ever did at all. On the other, I fear that he might hurt her. There's a sense of innocence that surrounds her, despite the unsavoury surroundings she might have been placed in. I don't want her to get hurt by associating with him or with the FBI.

But I have enough problems on my plate to worry about hers.

"Really?" Antonio takes a sip of his water, his body stiffening. Something tenses in the pit of my stomach. I feel like he can see through my skull and into the thoughts that run through my head. "What did you tell her?"

"We were just chatting." Do I sound defensive? Like a liar? Can he see the sweat beading underneath my collar? All of a sudden, the lights above us feel like the spotlight in an interrogation room. "It's her first time in Monte Carlo, too and she's an American, too."

"I didn't mean to sound defensive." His shoulders relax, his jaw unclenching. He didn't mean to sound defensive? How must I have sounded? "In my line of work, I guess I'm not used to making friends so readily."

I butter a croissant and let the flaky bread melt in my mouth. "So your only friends are your family?"

He shrugs. "Essentially."

"That sounds awfully lonely." For that one split instant, I hate who I am becoming. I hate the deception I am putting on, the sympathy I have for him, the feelings I hold that I can no longer distinguish false from genuine. I hate that I have confused morality with emotion, and I've replaced what's right with what feels right.

"I have you." He tilts his glass toward me and I clink mine against it without thinking, without pausing to let his words sink into me. Because if they do, I will be lost. I will drift asea, unmoored, unanchored, and God, I want an anchor. I need an anchor, even if it drags me to the bottom, because at least then I'll be sure of where I am. I'll be sure of who I am. "Cheers."

I echo it, trying to smile. "Cheers."

"YOU'RE LATE," I SAY when Lucas walks in, hair dishevelled from the wind and cheeks rosy. "Dinner's been on the table for half an hour."

"I got held up at the shop," he says, examining the spread. I may have ordered takeout, on his credit card, and put it onto some Corelle plates, but that doesn't change the fact that now it's cold takeout. "The mechanic found a bomb in my car."

"He found a what?" I almost drop the wine bottle I was holding and carefully set it onto the small, circular dining table to prevent that. "In your car?"

"You know, a bomb. Hiroshima, Nagasaki, World War Two, that sort of thing." How can he be so casual? I understand that I grew up in a family of people who were all trying to survive and also killing each other at times, but his nonchalance takes the cake. "Except, y'know, small enough to fit into a car. Right next to the engine."

"But... in your car... Why? Who?" I frown. "Were they trying to frame you or kill you?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. All I know is, whoever it is, I should be finding out shortly. The mechanic's son is bringing it over tonight."

The furrow between my brows doesn't budge. My voice quavers when I speak and I hate it. "Did I do this?"

"What? No, Destiny, what are you talking about?" Lucas drops his bags onto the floor and walks over to me, folding me into his arms. He smells like engine oil and sandalwood, a less than stellar combination. "You didn't do anything. I was FBI way before I ever set foot in that strip club."

I look up at him, fighting back the tears that suddenly threaten to overcome me, and push at his chest. "Take a shower. You stink."

"You just said dinner's been waiting for half an hour," he says, pointing toward the food even as he backs off and shucks off his jacket.

"Yes, well, I can reheat it. You smell like someone crossed a cologne shop with a mechanic's garage," I say, pinching my nose for good measure.

Lucas chuckles. "Yes, mom."

His words hit me like a punch in the gut even as he drops a kiss on my forehead and, whistling to himself, goes to shower. The water turns on, beating against the porcelain walls of the tub, and I mechanically begin to gather the plates and reheat the cold food in the kitchen. The fried rice goes in the microwave, the orange chicken in the oven, the bok choy in the steamer. He never took me to meet his mother. I don't know his family. What he knows about mine, could fit in an FBI dossier. And it is in fact written into an FBI dossier.

I am practically living with--and have lived with--this man for months. Yet we both haven't met the others' families and barely know anything about each other. Do I want to remedy that? Or should we just keep skating on thin ice, avoiding the cracks?

By the time the food is piping hot again and Lucas is out of the shower, hair damp and a boyish grin on his face, I know I have my answer. I felt real fear and concern at the thought that he might die from a car bomb. When I met Christina Martell, a bolt of pure jealousy ran through my veins, one that I did my best to ignore but couldn't. He's met her mother.

They went to high school together, Destiny. Get it together.

"Ah, the sweet smells of home cooking," he jokes as he pulls out my chair for me.

I smooth my hands over my olive green sweater and try to smile. "Yes, didn't you see me flying out to Thailand this morning to harvest my own rice and stir-fry it myself?"

"I wondered who took the private jet," he says, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. "Destiny, can I ask you something?'

Uh oh.

"Go ahead." I gesture with my mouth full of sweet and sour pork, hoping I will have to chew for a very long time before I can answer him.

"If you could do anything in the world, what would you do?" His gaze is wistful.

Well, that was unexpected. "An excellent question."

"That just translates to I don't have an answer and we both know it." A smirk tugs on the corner of his mouth. "I mean unless you planned on stripping forever? I don't know if I could date you, in that case."

His words are reassuring in a way. I knew guys who date the girls that worked at the strip clubs I worked at, and they always gave me such creepy vibes. Not to mention the way they both disdained their girlfriends' professions and pocketed a generous half of their tips.

"Really? Why ever would that be?" I joke, reaching for more rice. I spoon some onto my plate, lowering my gaze to avoid his.

"When I'm with a girl... she's all mine. I don't want to share her with anyone. I know you may think it's hypocritical, considering how we started out, but..." He shrugs, his expression turning sheepish.

I dodge the blush of affection that threatens to overwhelm me. "Well, since you asked, I think I would like to be a nurse."

"A nurse?" He raises his eyebrows. "Interesting. I never pegged you as a medical professional."

"I mean, I'm not," I say. I have only a high school education and I was raised to marry passably well and produce babies. Not exactly typical career woman stuff. "Or, not yet."

"I can picture you in scrubs," he says thoughtfully. "I think you'd be really good at it, Destiny. You should do it."

His words warm some tender, hidden place within the pit of my stomach. A part of me that was worried he would discourage me from my dreams. A part of me that thought, no man cares about what's in your brain. Just about how you look. After all, wasn't that why Marco and I had never suited each other in the first place?

"Okay, but you have to promise me I won't have to use my nursing skills on you," I say, picking up a single grain of rice with my chopsticks before pointing it at him. "I'm not going to stitch you up if you stagger back here with a bullet wound."

No, I saw far too much of that growing up.

"I promise to only get injured near hospitals, or preferably in the hospital's emergency room so that you can use your skills to tend to all the other patients there." Lucas grins as he holds up one hand, as though he's swearing the Hippocratic Oath.

"Thank you," I say, pressing one hand to my heart. "I'm touched."

And, to my surprise, I find that I really am. This thawing heart of mine has cracked, and I don't know where the pieces will fall.

Hopefully, into his hands.