second, he was a captain.
He could count several high-ranking officers as friends. He had excellent relationships
with various embassy policy wonks, diplomats, even with secretaries and clerks.
You never knew who would be useful and when.
He knew that sounded cynical, but he also knew that the world wasn’t run by do-gooders
and optimists.
If it were, why was he alive and Alden dead?
He tried not to think about Alden too much, but what was “too much?” Once a month?
Once a week? Once a day? Truth was, his brother popped into his head at the damnedest
times. John could be laughing at a joke, and Alden was there. Working at his desk
and bam, Alden was with him.
The worst times were when he was with a woman and all at once, he’d realized that
Alden would never experience her whispers, her sighs.
Talk about quick turnoffs.
The more fulfilling his own life became, the more he realized what Alden would never
have.
Sometimes, in the dark of the darkest nights, he also faced the realization that this
existence, full as it was, was not truly what he would have chosen as his own.
But if a man didn’t choose the life he led, he could surely live it the best he could.
Get the things he wanted, and he knew what those things were.
Success. Power. He wanted what Halvorson had, and more. And he knew that he could
get it. After a few years of being more and more valuable to the general, doors were
opening to him.
Part of it because he was more and more visible. He’d become an indispensible part
of the team.
Part was that he was a West Pointer and therefore a member of an elite and exclusive
group.
And part, to his surprise, was that even now, out of the Point, there were high-ranking
army officers who wanted to toss back a shot of Scotch with the Johnny Wilde who’d
scored that fantastic win over Navy.
Five years in, a major’s gold leaf insignia was only a heartbeat away.
And he had a mistress.
Her name was Angelica. Angelica Bellini, and she was everything a man could want.
Fiery. Bright. Beautiful, so beautiful that just looking at her made his heartbeat
quicken.
She was tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, with the temperament of a tigress. Her body
was lush, and she was insatiable in bed.
Their relationship was stormy and passionate, and completely off the books. Angelica
might be all a man could want, but she was not what the army would want for a young
captain who was on the fast track to the top.
She was smart, but not formally educated.
She spoke her mind; she didn’t believe in subtlety.
She was charming when she wished to be charming, hell on wheels when she didn’t
In other words, she was the product of a small, unsophisticated Sicilian village.
John had taken a week’s vacation in Sicily. He returned the following month and bought
a very old, very handsome house that stood tucked against a jagged mountain in splendid
isolation.
It was a wild and beautiful place; he loved that about it. It was a far cry from the
world he normally inhabited.
Moving among important people, powerful people, was exciting, but there was just enough
in him of the Johnny Wilde he’d once been that he needed to break free every once
in a while.
Sicily was the place to do it.
After he bought the house, he bought a motorcycle, a used 350-cc Mark 3 Desmo Ducati
that could outrun and outpower anything on the treacherous curving roads. He rode
at all hours, but especially very early in the morning, just at dawn, and again late
at night, when the moonlight kissed the sea. He loved the bike’s speed, the predatory
growl of its engine, the very real danger of riding full throttle along roads that
clung like vines to the ancient cliffs.
Nobody in the village knew him as John Hamilton Wilde.
Nobody knew him as an officer and a gentleman.
He was simply Johnny Wilde—Gianni, he was called by the few people who knew him well
enough to address him by name.
He was a
He could count several high-ranking officers as friends. He had excellent relationships
with various embassy policy wonks, diplomats, even with secretaries and clerks.
You never knew who would be useful and when.
He knew that sounded cynical, but he also knew that the world wasn’t run by do-gooders
and optimists.
If it were, why was he alive and Alden dead?
He tried not to think about Alden too much, but what was “too much?” Once a month?
Once a week? Once a day? Truth was, his brother popped into his head at the damnedest
times. John could be laughing at a joke, and Alden was there. Working at his desk
and bam, Alden was with him.
The worst times were when he was with a woman and all at once, he’d realized that
Alden would never experience her whispers, her sighs.
Talk about quick turnoffs.
The more fulfilling his own life became, the more he realized what Alden would never
have.
Sometimes, in the dark of the darkest nights, he also faced the realization that this
existence, full as it was, was not truly what he would have chosen as his own.
But if a man didn’t choose the life he led, he could surely live it the best he could.
Get the things he wanted, and he knew what those things were.
Success. Power. He wanted what Halvorson had, and more. And he knew that he could
get it. After a few years of being more and more valuable to the general, doors were
opening to him.
Part of it because he was more and more visible. He’d become an indispensible part
of the team.
Part was that he was a West Pointer and therefore a member of an elite and exclusive
group.
And part, to his surprise, was that even now, out of the Point, there were high-ranking
army officers who wanted to toss back a shot of Scotch with the Johnny Wilde who’d
scored that fantastic win over Navy.
Five years in, a major’s gold leaf insignia was only a heartbeat away.
And he had a mistress.
Her name was Angelica. Angelica Bellini, and she was everything a man could want.
Fiery. Bright. Beautiful, so beautiful that just looking at her made his heartbeat
quicken.
She was tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, with the temperament of a tigress. Her body
was lush, and she was insatiable in bed.
Their relationship was stormy and passionate, and completely off the books. Angelica
might be all a man could want, but she was not what the army would want for a young
captain who was on the fast track to the top.
She was smart, but not formally educated.
She spoke her mind; she didn’t believe in subtlety.
She was charming when she wished to be charming, hell on wheels when she didn’t
In other words, she was the product of a small, unsophisticated Sicilian village.
John had taken a week’s vacation in Sicily. He returned the following month and bought
a very old, very handsome house that stood tucked against a jagged mountain in splendid
isolation.
It was a wild and beautiful place; he loved that about it. It was a far cry from the
world he normally inhabited.
Moving among important people, powerful people, was exciting, but there was just enough
in him of the Johnny Wilde he’d once been that he needed to break free every once
in a while.
Sicily was the place to do it.
After he bought the house, he bought a motorcycle, a used 350-cc Mark 3 Desmo Ducati
that could outrun and outpower anything on the treacherous curving roads. He rode
at all hours, but especially very early in the morning, just at dawn, and again late
at night, when the moonlight kissed the sea. He loved the bike’s speed, the predatory
growl of its engine, the very real danger of riding full throttle along roads that
clung like vines to the ancient cliffs.
Nobody in the village knew him as John Hamilton Wilde.
Nobody knew him as an officer and a gentleman.
He was simply Johnny Wilde—Gianni, he was called by the few people who knew him well
enough to address him by name.
He was a
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