Wicked Temptation (Nemesis Unlimited) (26 page)

The thought made her heart pound tightly. She’d learned his body, and he hers, but there was still a part of him as protected as this tower, and just as likely to topple. Foolishly, she’d hoped that meeting Giovanni—who’d known Marco far longer than she had—would provide a deeper insight into Marco. But the two men circled each other like wary tigers, revealing nothing of themselves.

At the conclusion of his tale, Marco leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped. “So will you help us?”

Giovanni let out a deep sigh. “
Amici,
you have really put yourselves in the fire. And what you ask of me … it could undo all the work I have done to keep the Grillons refugee safe.”

“Please, Mister … Giovanni,” Bronwyn said. “There’s no need to fear anything happening to that man. I trust Marco with my life. You should trust the Grillons man’s to him, too.”

Something flashed in Marco’s eyes—surprise, perhaps, at her admission of trust. But he’d shown again and again that he’d never let anything happen to her. Had, in fact, safeguarded her far more than anyone ever had—even her own family.

Before Giovanni could answer, another man came into the room. He was also of middle years, with thinning brown hair and a neatly groomed beard. “Giovanni,” he said with a distinctly British accent, “we have guests and neither of them have a drink in their hand.”

“My apologies, Thomas,” Giovanni answered. “I would hate to besmirch your reputation as a host.”

Thomas went to a sideboard and poured out four cordial glasses of what appeared to be sherry. She murmured her thanks as the man handed a glass to her.

“Ah, one of my countrymen!” Thomas exclaimed. “What a pleasure to hear our language again. I’m afraid my Italian accent drives Giovanni quite mad.” He handed out the rest of the glasses, then took one for himself and seated himself beside Giovanni.

He placed his hand on Giovanni’s knee and gave it an affectionate squeeze. It was not the gesture of friendship, but rather, of love.

Bronwyn struggled to not drop her glass. Instead, she took a shaky sip, trying to steady herself. Of course she’d
heard
of men like Giovanni and Thomas, but never actually met them. To her knowledge.

She glanced over at Marco, looking for signs of shock. But if he was caught off guard by Giovanni and Thomas’s relationship, he didn’t show it

“I endure your dreadful Italian,” Giovanni answered, “for your sake.”

“You are all graciousness,” Thomas replied.

“Grazie, mi amore.”

They didn’t seem odd or degenerate at all. In fact, what struck her about the two men was how very ordinary they seemed, just like any middle-aged couple. Though one of the two was, in fact, a former spy.

A spy who held the key to getting her fortune back.

“I must admit my surprise,” Thomas said. “We so seldom receive guests, let alone visitors from as far away as England.”

“Giovanni and I were colleagues,” Marco said.

Thomas took a drink of sherry. “Both in the espionage game, then.”

“He told you about that?” Bronwyn asked, amazed.

“How do you think we met, my dear?” Thomas answered. “Giovanni was on a mission in England. I was employed at the Treasury, and was supposed to work with him. And then…” His expression turned grim. “There was no place for me in my home country. Not if I wanted to be with Giovanni. So I came here, and he left that work behind. For the most part,” he added wryly.

“Hard to leave it all behind,” Marco said.

“I do miss it from time to time,” Giovanni admitted.

“And I don’t miss having you risking your life every day,” said Thomas. He turned back to Bronwyn and Marco. “I don’t have to worry about that with you two, do I?”

“It is not my life they want me to endanger,” Giovanni answered before she or Marco could reply. He shook his head. “I cannot give you what you seek.”

Disappointment arrowed through her. “Please—”

“No, I am quite certain of this.”

“But you were our only option…”

Marco set his glass down on a small table and abruptly stood. “That’s your choice,” he said to Giovanni coldly. “We’ll find some other way. Call your man and have our bags brought down.” He reached for Bronwyn, who had also gotten to her feet.

Before Giovanni could speak, Thomas rose. “I can’t influence him where his work is concerned, but I refuse to put you out in the cold tonight. You’ll stay here.”

“Thomas…” Giovanni said warningly.

But the Englishman scowled at his lover. “I won’t be gainsaid. They’ll dine with us and spend the night here. And then they can do whatever they want tomorrow.” He glanced at Marco and Bronwyn. “You will stay, won’t you? I’m certain all the decent
pensiones
are full, especially by this hour of the night.”

Uncertain, Bronwyn glanced at Marco. She detected a hint of reservation in his gaze. But the idea of looking for somewhere else to sleep must have been as unappealing to him as it was to her, because at last he said, “Tonight only. Then we’re off.”

While Giovanni didn’t look entirely pleased by this arrangement, he said, “Dinner is served at nine o’clock.”

She had no idea what the next day would bring, let alone how they’d proceed in retrieving her money. There were countless uncertainties when it came to what she and Marco meant to each other. They’d spoken of possibly becoming lovers once the mission was over, but he’d only been able to offer her a very temporary arrangement. Nothing was set. Nothing was sure. Yet, at least for the night, she and Marco would be safe inside this tower.

*   *   *

Bronwyn and Marco were given a bedchamber on the fifth floor. The room itself took up most of the story, with just enough space outside for a landing. Like the parlor, the walls were curved, and timber beams supported the ceiling. But her attention fixed on the enormous four-poster bed dominating the chamber. It looked as though it dated from centuries earlier, with its heavy wood and ornate carvings. Definitely not Gothic revival, but the era itself. Like the tower, it must have sheltered many. Who knows how many had slept in this bed? How many had given birth, made love?

The thought sent a pulse of heat through her, but she pushed it aside. There were other issues at hand besides the continuous awareness between her and Marco.

Namely—

“Did you know?” she asked.

He checked their bags—presumably to ensure that they hadn’t been tampered with or any of the contents removed. “Know what?”

“About Giovanni and Thomas.”

Still, he didn’t look at her. “Does it matter?”

So he did know. “A little warning would’ve been appreciated.”

Now he did glance at her, his gaze distant. “Again—does it matter?”

She didn’t like feeling on the defensive. He’d been the one to withhold information. “I’ve put my life in your hands. Trust works both ways.”

He shut their suitcases, seemingly satisfied that they hadn’t been tampered with. “I wouldn’t bring you here if I didn’t trust you.”

“But you left out a crucial bit of information about our hosts.” She planted her hands on her hips.

He seemed more distant than ever. “I don’t see how it signifies. If you’re disgusted by them—”

“I’m a little surprised. But not disgusted.”

Some of the coolness left his dark eyes, and his jaw loosened.

“Still,” she continued, “I can’t help feeling that you were testing me. Deliberately holding it back just to see how I’d react.”

He only gave her one of his maddening Italian shrugs.

If this
had
been a test, a way to judge her feelings about Giovanni and Thomas, why should it matter to him how she felt about their hosts? Yet how suspicious that he might care about her reaction to Giovanni and Thomas. As though …

As though he cared more than he’d admit to her. Or to himself.

But she couldn’t voice this to him. He’d only disappear inside himself, cool and elusive as a shadow. Instead, she dressed for dinner, with Marco serving as her lady’s maid.

Then she had the pleasure of watching him undress, then dress. He pulled on a crisp white shirt, and she observed the play of tight muscle beneath the fine cotton. Her hands tingled with the need to feel those muscles, the contrast between the solidness of his flesh and the starched fabric, and then peel off the shirt to touch him skin to skin.

How could she desire him so much, when he seemed determined to hold his true self at bay? Perhaps all she wanted from him was his body. It had been a long time since she’d made love. Now that the dam had broken—she could still feel his lips on her sex, and the way he’d cupped her breast—she was flooded with need.

But it was more than that. She’d spoken true when she’d said he fascinated her. There were layers to this man. Levels that went so deep, she suspected even he didn’t know about them. Part of her wanted to tear away those layers and see who he truly was. But it would be an uphill battle, and she had enough battles to contend with now.

“Marco,” she murmured, pinning up her hair, “I’ve been thinking.” She stared at him in the mirror. “If all you can give me is physical pleasure, I’ve decided I’ll take it. And, when the work here is completed, I’ll take what you offer. Even if it can’t last.”

“Grazie, fragola,”
he said, coming up behind her and pressing a kiss to her neck. “You won’t regret it.”

Oh, she knew she would. But she couldn’t stop herself.

Turning, she took in Marco in his evening clothes. “You look dangerous.”

“Here I thought I looked elegant.”

“That, too.” The black jacket clung to his shoulders, just as the trousers defined the length of his sinewy legs. His white waistcoat wrapped snug around his lean torso, and the whiteness of his collar and bow tie set off the olive hue of his skin. He’d slicked back his hair, making him appear sleek as a panther, and just as predatory. Certainly a rapacious gleam shone in his eyes as he took in the sight of her in her satin gown.

Like a possessive caress, she felt his gaze on her, heating the flesh of her exposed chest and the slight curve of her breasts lifted high by the cut of her gown. The gloves that covered her hands and arms were little protection. She felt bare, vulnerable.

Part of her wanted to turn away and shield herself. But he’d already seen her at her most bare. It seemed too late to hide from him, not when he’d had his mouth on her …

“We’ll have our dinner brought up,” he rumbled. “To hell with Giovanni and his hospitality.”

“I’d hate to disappoint Thomas,” she said breathlessly.

“To hell with Thomas, too.”

But they did leave their chamber, and journeyed down to the second floor to find the dining room, and their hosts.

Thomas seemed far more glad to see them than Giovanni, and complimented them both on their smart appearance. They were seated, and a series of dishes served. The food reminded her painfully of her honeymoon in Italy, each bite recalling her lost youth and hopes for the future. It would have helped had the food Giovanni served been inedible. Easier to just push the offerings around on her plate and pretend to eat. But it was, unfortunately, delicious, and while her palate demanded more, every taste only reinforced how much she’d lost, and how the future hadn’t turned out at all as she’d hoped.

She tried to distract herself with conversation. But it was stilted between Marco and Giovanni, casting a pall even on Thomas, so that there was little to do but eat and remember.

“Mrs. Parrish, if I may note,” Thomas said, breaking the stillness, “it sounds as though you aren’t without recourse if you fail to get your money back.”

“I have options for employment waiting for me, yes,” she answered. “But I’ve been thinking of other ways to use my fortune, if I’m lucky enough to retrieve it.”

“Such as?”

“A home for widows, perhaps. Somewhere for women like me to go if there is no safe or good option.”

Giovanni narrowed his eyes. “Easy to speak of such charity when the money is not in your hands. You might change your tale once the
denaro
is yours again.”

“Only one way to find out,” she countered.

Finally, after platters of fresh fruit and small sweetmeats had been served, the dinner came to an end. She attempted to breathe a sigh of relief, but the pain of the meal was still laced tightly around her, like a constricting corset.

“Shall we go up to the parlor?” Thomas suggested. An attempt, she supposed, to salvage the rituals of polite society. But there wasn’t any such thing as polite society when two spies dined with each other.

To her surprise, Marco agreed.

Thomas offered her his arm, and together, they climbed the stairs to the parlor.

“It isn’t easy, my dear,” he whispered to her. “They tend to keep themselves locked tight as a vault, these intelligence agents. Training, I suppose.”

“Or perhaps a natural predilection for distance,” she answered in a low voice.

“Who can say? Some days I consider myself lucky if he reveals the smallest detail about his past. Took me years to learn he grew up in Umbria.”

“Why bother trying?” she pressed quietly. “If they’re so determined to hold back, why not leave them to their solitude?”

Thomas gave a melancholy sigh. “I ask myself that many times. But I love him, so I take whatever I can and be grateful for it.”

They’d reached the parlor, so she couldn’t ask Thomas any more regarding the logistics of caring about a spy. Could she be satisfied with crumbs, as Thomas seemed to be?

But the topic wasn’t up for debate. It never had been, no matter how much existed between her and Marco. All they could have was this moment. Perhaps the next few moments beyond that. But it was impossible for him to give more.

The massive Niccolo appeared with a tray bearing glasses of herbal liqueur, as well as dried, sugared fruit and nuts. But for all the food and refreshments, the atmosphere in the parlor was far from convivial. Desperate for a topic of conversation, she noted the piano in the corner.

“Do either of you play?” she asked her hosts.

“I was forced to take lessons as a child,” Thomas said, “and promptly, deliberately forgot.”