CHAPTER NINE
It was another hot day and the garbage smell of the streets around her hotel had become even more pungent. Keira tried not to pay too much attention to the items of clothing strewn across the roads, nor the traffic jam of scooters and cars all honking one another in their haste to get wherever they were going. Rush hour must start early in Italy, she thought.
Stepping cautiously along the sidewalk—where there was one—Keira felt like a fish out of water. She was infuriating herself by being so cowardly. She was a New York journalist for Pete’s sake, and yet here she was tiptoeing like a cat burglar! And besides, everyone she passed seemed far too preoccupied with themselves, rushing on their way to work, busy, uninterested in the cowering American tourist sticking to the shad
