Her Italian Millionaire (8 page)

He looked alarmed and stood up. “What's wrong now? I told you it was a happy ending. Come, I'll take you back to your hotel.”

When she stood up, the whole square spun around. She clutched the back of the wrought iron chair for support and looked at the empty wine bottle on the table. She must have drunk at least half of it, along with the wine at dinner, and she wasn't used to drinking so much. Marco's face was out of focus, but she could tell he was worried by the lines on his face. He took her hand and drew her to his side.

“Don't worry,” she said, feeling his hip press into hers. “I'm not going to cry. I'm fine.” She was filled with love for everything Italian - the food, the weather, the wine and especially the men - the singer, the waiter and Marco.

“Wait,” she said, watching the crowd disperse and the musicians pack up their instruments. “I want to tell the tenor...” She leafed through her phrase book and headed unsteadily for the small stage with Marco following behind her.

The portly, dark-haired singer with the huge mustache was rolling his sheet music up.

“
Mi scusi, signor
,” she said.
“Lei canta molto bene
.”

He smiled and bent over to kiss her hand. His mustache tickled her sensitive skin and she thought how romantic it all was, the song and the perfumed air and the full moon that hung over the square. If only Evie could see her now.

She felt Marco tug at her arm. She tried to shake him off, but quickly realized she needed his support. She had no idea where the hotel was. She didn't remember any of the narrow dark streets they walked through. It occurred to her Marco might be taking her somewhere else, like maybe putting her aboard a ship and selling her into white slavery. After she'd passed out from all that wine, Marco would sling her over his shoulder and head for the docks where he'd hustle her aboard a freighter bound for the West Indies. He'd get a few dollars for her from a stevedore, then he'd go to another fancy hotel where he'd repeat the whole scenario. But surely they were looking for younger women for the slave trade? Anyway, she was too woozy to do anything about it.

 Occasionally she stumbled on a cobblestone and she had to admit it was a good thing Marco was there to prop her up and steady her with his strong arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him and put her arm around his waist so she wouldn't fall.

A cat darted across their path and she let out a shriek. Marco pressed her back against the cool limestone facade of a darkened apartment building and put his hand over her mouth.

“
Silenza
,” he said. “You'll wake the neighbors.”

Her eyes widened. Her heart was pounding. She was afraid. Not of waking the neighbors, not of being kissed by a stranger, but afraid he wouldn't kiss her. Afraid her heart would burst it was so full, full of the night and the music and a dream come true. Somewhere a part of her brain told her the truth. She was a living, breathing stereotype. The innocent American so hungry for love she fell for the first Italian who crossed her path. But for once in her life her heart overruled her head and she stopped thinking.  

When Marco took his hand away from her mouth her lips felt cold. He braced his hands against the building, trapping her between his arms. Trusting her not to fall in a heap at his feet. Trusting her to want the kiss she knew was coming. The kiss she'd somehow known was coming since she first saw him that afternoon.

He took his time about it. First he said something like
in boca al lupo
and though she wanted to know what it meant, this was not the time to take out her phrase book or ask for a translation. She didn't need a dictionary to know what the kiss would mean. It would mean nothing. Nothing to him. Nothing but hello and good-bye.
Buona serra, Mrs. Jackson. Arrivederci, Mrs. Jackson.

 To her it would mean more. Kissing a stranger on a dark Italian street would mean she was ready to take a chance, to live again and to love again. Not him, of course. She might be a little drunk, she might be feeling jet lag and culture shock, but she wasn't crazy. Still, tonight...tonight she wanted him to kiss her.

When he did, she wasn't prepared for the shock waves that hit her like the waves on the Pacific shore she’d come from. She wasn't prepared to feel like the fires of Mt. Etna were getting ready to explode inside her.

She kissed Marco back as if she'd been waiting for this kiss for years instead of minutes. He groaned in the back of his throat and pressed his hard, hot body against hers. The fire raging inside her became a roaring bonfire, impossible to contain. She kissed him with passion that had been building for weeks, months, maybe years. And she blamed it all on Italy.

No one had ever told her she was any good at kissing, but she knew by the way Marco held her, by the words he muttered in her ear, that she was doing something right. So right, she didn't want to stop. Somewhere, somehow, she was kissing and being kissed like she'd never been before. When she caught her breath, the whole world was spinning and her past and the present were blending into one delirious dream.

“Giovanni,” she murmured.

Marco pulled back feeling as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water on him from the balcony above. Ana Maria swayed against the facade of the building, her eyes closed, her swollen lips tilted in a dreamy smile. She was so beautiful in the pale moonlight, it hurt to look at her. She'd just kissed him as if he was the man she'd been waiting for all her life, and then she'd called him Giovanni.

“
Andiamo
,” he said brusquely. “Let's go.”

Her eyes flew open. She looked surprised to see him. Of course she was; she thought he was Giovanni. That scum. That swine. When Marco found him, he'd drag her to the prison or to the gallows where Giovanni belonged and he'd show her what Giovanni was, what he'd always been. A rat, as if she didn't know. And he, he was the fox who had devoted much of his life to chasing the rat. Was that what he wanted her to know?

Anne Marie looked at him for a long moment before she stepped forward and pointedly ignored his arm to walk by herself, though slowly and unsteadily. He kept his arms at his sides. Let her stumble, let her fall. It served her right. What was she thinking to kiss a stranger on her first night in San Gervase? She was lucky he wasn't out to rob her or seduce her. Though she might think what he was really doing with her was worse, when she learned she was just a pawn to lure Giovanni out of hiding.

She made it to the front door of the hotel, staggering occasionally as he watched out of the corner of his eye. When she reached the open door to the lobby, her eyes closed and she leaned toward him and fell into his arms like a stack of bricks. The night clerk barely blinked an eye when Marco walked into the lobby with Anne Marie in his arms and asked for her key. For the third time that day he climbed the stairs to her room.

He set her on the huge bed with its smooth, turned-down sheets. He took off her flat-soled shoes and put them on the floor. He admired her shapely bare feet and felt only a slight pang of guilt when she moaned softly.

“You shouldn't have drunk so much,
cara mia
,” he muttered, gazing down at her body, one arm flung over the pillow, a strip of pale skin showing between her shirt and her skirt. “The next man you run into might not be as immune to your charms as I am.” Or less determined to let nothing interfere with his goal, even a very sexy woman.

When the phone rang, Anne Marie didn't stir. Marco hesitated only a moment before picking it up and dragging the cord with him outside to the balcony.

“
Pronto
,” he said automatically.

“I'm calling for Anne Marie Jackson. Do I have the right room?” a woman asked.

“Yes, but she's....not available to come to the telephone.” She wasn't available to do much of anything.

“Is this... Is that you, Giovanni?” she asked.

“No,” he said flatly. “It isn't.”

“Oh. Well, I'll call back another time. What time is it there?”

“It's sometime after midnight,” he said, wishing he'd never answered the phone.

“Oh, sorry,” she said. “Could you tell her to call her friend Evie? Thank you.”

He'd barely hung up when the phone rang again. Again he answered it. This time he was glad he did.

“Ana Maria?” a male voice said.

Giovanni! Marco gripped the receiver so tightly his knuckles turned white. “
Si
,” he said in a barely audible whisper.

“Did you get my message?” Giovanni asked.

“
Si
,” he repeated softly. He couldn't believe his luck. He was actually talking to the bastard.

“At last we will meet again,” Giovanni said. “Tomorrow. I am so happy you have come to Italy.”

I'll bet you are, Marco thought. I'll bet you can hardly wait to get your “package.”

Giovanni said, “
Bonna notte
,” and hung up.

A stroke of good luck, at last. Now he knew the meeting was on and the end was in sight. He was so close to his goal he could taste it. What would happen to Ana Maria when he caught her and Giovanni in the act of giving and receiving stolen goods, in particular the spectacular yellow Bianchi diamond, missing for three months from a private collection in California? She'd be turned over to the American authorities, he imagined. It was up to them to determine how whether she'd been the one to steal the gem or merely the conduit. He couldn't imagine her breaking into a mansion in San Francisco from the roof like a cat burglar, but anything was possible when so much money was at stake.

All Marco wanted was to see Giovanni behind bars, to make him pay for what he'd done. To have his sister's betrayal avenged. Then and only then could he relax.

He went back to the bedroom and took one last look at the woman who was now lying on her side, her face pressed into the pillow, her short hair feathered against her cheek. Her skirt was twisted around her hips, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of her long bare legs.

 No wonder Giovanni had fallen for her. The combination of innocence, vulnerability, intelligence and those long legs was irresistible. And greed. No one would do what she'd done if she weren't greedy. Or in love with Giovanni. Or both. Maybe she needed the money to open that bookstore she wanted. He couldn't believe how clever she was, how adept at concealing her true nature. Not to mention concealing the stolen property. Where in hell was it? The most obvious place was on a piece of costume jewelry, but she didn't wear any. It wasn't in her suitcase or her cosmetic bag. Maybe she hadn't brought it with her? Maybe someone else was going to give it to her to give to Giovanni.

 Though she appeared naive and inexperienced, she was obviously smart. As for her being in love with Giovanni, maybe she'd be surprised to hear that Giovanni had already been married three times and probably still was. Her marriage was over and she was on the rebound. He just hoped she didn't start crying again, at least not in a public place. He was running out of handkerchiefs.

He paused in the doorway before he let himself out. “
Ciao, bella
,” he said softly.

The next day Marco went to his office early to report to his superior. Silvestro, a gruff officer who'd known him since he was a boy, had taken Marco off the streets of San Gervase a few years back when he was only a local
polizia
, and chosen him to work for the Guardia. Silvestro had sent him to London for two years, then to Rome for the past two years where he'd worked on some difficult cases, but none as hard as this one. None that meant as much to him personally.

The office was on the second floor of a building without any sign on the door, very different from the big, government building in Rome. The Guardia did not care to advertise their presence in a small town like San Gervase. Silvestro was standing in the window, hands clasped behind his back, wearing a suit jacket and a shirt with no tie, waiting for him.