Page 51 of Be Still My Unbeating Heart

“I can’t—” De Luca broke off as a couple of teenagers passed by. They eyed the inspector and Bastian, then turned and whispered to each other. De Luca’s ears turned pink.

“You can’t what, dear?” Bastian asked.

“In the boat…the kiss was…”

“Kiss?” Whitby said, her head swiveling between them.

De Luca ignored her, grimacing as he told Bastian, “We have to focus on the case. If we don’t find the killer, the council will destroy you. And Vernazza.”

There was something else, though. Bastian could see it in De Luca’s pinched expression. The constant shifting of his eyes. The hands stuffed in his pockets.

He’s hiding the truth from you.

What was it? What was stopping De Luca from giving in to what he wanted?

“What have I missed?” Whitby asked.

“Nothing,” Bastian and De Luca said in unison. Bastian smiled, waiting for De Luca to smile back, but his mouth remained downturned. The poliziotto rubbed the back of his neck again, then seemed to realize what he was doing and dropped his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he told Bastian, blue gaze shining. “I just can’t.”

Bastian gave him an understanding smile, even though he didn’t understand. Not at all. But it was for the best. The case came first. It had to, if he wanted to see another sunrise.

“It’s your move, love,” he said softly.

De Luca sighed. “The witness is Kerstin Grönberg. She owns an olive grove just north of the town.”

“Olive lady,” Bastian said, a jolt of recognition traveling through him. “Salvador said something about an olive lady.”

“I thought he was a fraud,” Whitby drawled.

Bastian’s mouth twisted. He had thought the same, but he remembered what Salvador had said about Whitby and her blood, and it troubled him how close to the truth the man had been.

“Heisa fraud,” he said. “But it’s all we have to go on. Besides, we can’t ignore the fact that somebody filed a witness statement that is patently a lie. We must speak to her. Now.”

18

Bastian smelled the olive grove before he saw it.

They had walked north of the town, up a steep hill into the surrounding countryside, and the sudden greenery was a shock after the bustle of Vernazza. A breeze stirred the trees, but the sun radiated an intense heat. Bastian felt his skin humming with warmth, and it made him lightheaded, even though he had applied more sun cream after he fell in the sea.

He caught Whitby giving him a searching look, as if she knew the sun was affecting him. Her concerned gaze went between Bastian and De Luca, and it seemed she could tell Bastian was struggling with his attraction to the poliziotto, too. That his rejection hurt. He winked at her in reassurance. He was fine. Even if he wasn’t, he couldn’t rest yet.

De Luca had unfastened the top two buttons of his polo shirt—it reallywashot out—and little curls of dark hair poked through the fabric.

Don’t look, Bastian told himself. He had to respect De Luca’s boundaries, even though the memory of the kiss was still fresh onhis lips. If De Luca wanted to keep this purely professional, then so be it.

You can stop looking at his ass, too.

Whitby trotted ahead of them down a little lane. They reached a house with a terracotta roof, and beside it, the olive grove climbed the hilly landscape. Two dozen large, twisted trees stood in neat rows, their thin, bladed leaves hissing, the aroma of wood and bark intermingling with the greasy scent of olives. Similar to olive oil but purer. More intense.

“Nice place,” Bastian mused. “Doesn’t exactly screammurderer.”

“Evil wears many masks,” Whitby said.

“I’ll try the house,” De Luca said, but then a woman stepped out from behind one of the trees.

She wore gardening gloves and a cream-colored sun hat, her tightly curled black hair framing a round, pleasant face. The sun gleamed against her dark skin. A gathering basket full of green olives hung at her front, the straps looped around her shoulders.