Working on a Full House (40 page)

"I do." He appeared oblivious to her sarcasm, picking up a spoon. "Women travelled from all over the region to light a candle before her in prayer. It is said that no prayers were left unanswered." He hesitated, then added with a shrug. "Men, too."

Sabrina studied him carefully. "What do you mean--men?"

"Men came to pray before her, too. Those who'd...felt their vigor die." He ran the spoon through the sugar-laden coffee, avoiding her eyes. "The Lady of the Mountain answered them, too."

I'll just bet
, Sabrina thought, watching him. But he didn't appear to mean any of this as a joke — or a come-on. On the contrary, he appeared to be absolutely serious, even about drinking that over-sweetened coffee, lifting the cup toward his mouth.

"Funny, isn't it," she remarked, "how magic only seemed to happen back in the good old days. You never hear about it working in the modern world."

"Oh no." The cup stopped halfway to her mark's mouth. Over it his eyes were deeply horrified. "It still happens. Magic. The Lady still retains her powers."

Sabrina arched an eyebrow. "But you spoke in the past tense."

He lowered his cup of coffee. "The Lady is as potent as ever, but she no longer hangs in the village church."

Sabrina had always had the hunter instinct. Joe had often marvelled over the way she could sniff out a good con. Right now, with the Italian looking at her with that steady, lunatic gaze her instincts started screaming. There was something here, something very big.

"She no longer hangs in the village church," Sabrina repeated slowly. "Why not?"

His expression hardened and his eyes glazed over again. "Because she was stolen."

Sabrina didn't know how this fit in. But she was sure that, somehow, there was an angle here. She was as certain of it as she was of her own left foot.

"Stolen," she repeated. "That's terrible."

"
Atroce
," he agreed. "It was during the Second World War. For fifty years the town has been without his Lady."

"Nazis?" Sabrina theorized. It was foolish to get caught up in this. Lise's henchmen could catch up with her at any minute. Yet she couldn't seem to resist.

"I thought so, at first." The Italian opened yet another packet of sugar. In horror, Sabrina watched him pour it into his coffee. "But after four years I have narrowed the search down to one or two Americans."

Her attention went back to his face. "You sound as though you've been actively searching for the painting."

"I have." Lifting his cup, the Italian actually took a sip. Sabrina was amazed when he didn't flinch at the taste. Instead his expression turned set and determined. "I have devoted myself to finding the Lady. You see, I took a vow."

The guy was certifiable.
A vow
?

The Italian set down his cup with a solid clink. The line of his mouth drew back unhappily. "I'll be breaking that vow tonight, if I fly back to Milan."

Sabrina's instincts were screaming again.
Opportunity
, they shouted.
Big opportunity
. But not for her. She had to scram. The trail she'd left since Gainesville wasn't sufficiently covered for her to pick up a game here.

Which was really too bad. There was definite money here — and she wouldn't scruple bilking this man.

"Breaking a vow is a serious thing," she proclaimed anyway, as if she'd be able to stick around and reap the benefits of this provocation.

He looked up. "Yes. I said so to Sylvio. But he would not listen. He said that four years is long enough."

He'd been looking for four years? This painting had to be worth a bundle. Aloud, Sabrina said, "A vow is a vow."

He stared at her intently. "Yes," he agreed. "A vow is a vow."

She'd only been toying with him, stirring up trouble with his travel plans, but now Sabrina found herself the object of a serious and highly focused regard. It was intent enough to bring her calculating mind to a halt. All she could do was gaze helplessly back at him.

"Now, I wonder," he murmured, and leaned closer. His eyes darkened and bored deeper. It was unnerving, yet Sabrina couldn't look away. There was a peculiar power to his gaze, not forceful, no, almost...religious. It was crazy, but she felt as though he was reaching down with those eyes, deep down inside of her, exploring regions she'd thought carefully locked away.

Slowly, he lifted one hand. Inside of her, everything froze. She felt as if he meant to reach inside of her with that hand, to drag all of her darkness out into the open. He'd see her then, all of her, from her pathetically naive origins through the harsh betrayal and on through the years of rage and yearning.

But he didn't touch her. His hand halted before connecting with her face.
Almost as though he knew
. Almost as though he knew that his touch would make her bolt.

Slowly, determinedly, Sabrina pulled herself together. This was ridiculous. The man was a complete stranger, and nuts, to boot. He had no special powers or inside knowledge. He certainly didn't know
her
.

As if to prove it, an expression of awe came over his face. No inside look at Sabrina could have inspired such an emotion. "Yes, I wonder," he mused softly, "if meeting you is not a sign."

That did it. She met his too-calm, crazy eyes and felt herself drop back down to earth. She didn't believe in signs. No, nor in vows or magical powers. What she did believe in was cold, hard cash. And she'd been sitting for two whole minutes with that wallet within reach and hadn't done a thing about it.

"A sign." Shakily, she smiled. Yes, that's what he was, all right. A sign. It was time to get back to business. She laid her hand on his jacket sleeve. This would distract him from the movement under his jacket lapel. "You know, I believe you're right. I believe that it is."

An expression of reverent joy lit his features just as Sabrina extracted his wallet.

"Thank you," he said. His tone was completely sincere.

Meanwhile, Sabrina leaned back and surreptitiously stuffed the slim leather wallet against her back waistband.

"You have been extremely helpful," he said.

I could say the same for you
. Sabrina smiled back at him, feeling a measure of her own relief, knowing she had the means now to get out of town. If she'd gone crazy for a minute there, letting him get to her, well, it was okay now. Just a glitch in the normal systems. He was no magician, just a man, and not a very smart one at that.

She stood. "Thank you for the coffee." Her mouth watered at the thought of the meal she'd now be able to give herself. On a train, perhaps, going north. Lise wouldn't expect a train. "And good luck finding your painting." Why not wish him luck? It didn't cost her anything.

He stood as well, his gallantry apparently in-bred. "
Grazie
. You have decided me to keep my vow. I will not fly home to Milan after all. I will complete my mission here."

His smile was all warmth and innocence, naive as a babe.

The wallet pinched Sabrina's lower back. The poor guy hadn't stood a chance.

"
Signora
Raven." He took her hand, but this time didn't let it go. "In a way, you have saved my life. At least, my soul. How can I ever repay you?"

The utter gratitude in his eyes distracted her from the discomfort of being held by the hand. "Think nothing of it," she muttered. This wasn't guilt. It couldn't be. Sabrina never felt bad about robbing a rich man. And this one could afford the loss. He was plenty rich. Oh yes, crazy or not, he was of that class against which she'd declared war years ago. She never felt guilt over a rich man.

"Goodbye," Sabrina said.

"
Arrivederci
," the Italian returned.

And then for a moment, just an instant, the craziness fell away. A gleam of intelligence, piercing and incisive, shot from those dark eyes.

In that moment Sabrina's smug smile faltered. Was he a cop after all?
What was he seeing
?

He let her hand go. In the same instant, his appearance went back to harmless. "Until we meet again," he said.

Right, Sabrina thought.
Not bloody likely
. She allowed herself a smile as, safely down the corridor, she worked the wallet free of her waistband.

But her hands were shaking, for some reason, and she couldn't quite get past his certainty they'd meet again — and that moment of his acute intelligence.

She was positive she'd never see him again.

And yet her damn instincts were howling.

~~~

"Ah, there you are."

Sitting in the dining car of a train heading north, about to dig into an aromatic platter of fillet of sole — the first solid meal she'd have had in days — Sabrina stopped cold.

She knew that voice. Lise Gunther.

Damn. Damn. And Damn. Sabrina's hungry stomach shriveled. Looked like she wasn't going to enjoy this meal after all. In fact, she might not end up alive to eat it.

She'd really thought she'd ditched the woman. Buying a ticket for this train had been ridiculously easy. The Italian's wallet had been generously stuffed. Hundred dollar bills he'd been carrying. Sabrina hadn't even had to take the risk of breaking out his credit cards.

Once on the train, she'd 'convinced' a waiter to serve her after hours, so she was the only one in the dining car. The sky was black outside the large windows. Small vases of flowers graced the linen on each table. She'd just started to relax.

Should have known that was a mistake. Since Joe had up and died last year, Sabrina hadn't known many moments of true relaxation.

Play it cool. Take the offensive
.

With her heart beating madly, Sabrina stuck her fork into the flaky fish, took a bite, and then slowly turned. "Hey, Lise. How ya doing?"

The woman who stood in the aisle between the tables could have passed for a corporate executive. In her mid-forties, she wore a sage green jacketed suit, an upswept blond hairstyle, and carried herself with calm authority.

A bulky man with short-cropped hair and a sneer stood just behind her. Darrel, Lise's human attack dog.

Sabrina nodded toward the booth seat opposite herself. "Take a load off."

Lise raised one well-clipped eyebrow. Darrel, appearing to take that as a signal, uncrossed a pair of arms thick with vein-marbled muscle. The sneer on his face turned into a leer. Sabrina suspected, given the chance, Darrel would satisfy a few whims of his own before taking care of his mistress' business.

"Not yet," Lise told him, a mistress chiding her beast. With one gloved hand lifted to stop Darrel, she kept her gaze on Sabrina. "Where's my money?"

"I don't have it."

Her lips tightened. "Where did it go?"

"Renting office space, paying for other stuff to look like a real company."

"And the take?"

"Wasn't any." Feeling scared sick, Sabrina forced herself to fork in another casual bite of sole. "The widow turned out to be practically destitute. I couldn't take her last dime."

Lise's gloved hand clenched into a fist. "I expected a return on the money I gave you."

"And you'll get one."

That stopped her. Both Lise's eyebrows raised. She lowered her clenched fist. To Sabrina's relief, she finally, if slowly, sank into a seat on the booth seat opposite her. "I'll get a return, hm? I'm very interested in hearing how you intend to do that." Lise smiled. "Meanwhile, you can start by giving me whatever you lifted off that man at the airport."

So, Lise had been onto her as far back as the airport. Chagrined, Sabrina reached for her purse.

For a man so big, Darrel was amazingly quick. He had his hands on her purse before Sabrina could blink an eye. With a lovely grunt, he handed it to Lise.

"Thank you, Darrel." Smiling at Sabrina, Lise accepted the small leather purse with grace. "He must take precautions against weapons."

"I don't carry any," Sabrina muttered.

Lise didn't appear to hear, or to care. With a satisfied expression, she pulled the Italian's calfskin wallet from Sabrina's purse. Opening it, she soon found the ten one-hundred dollar bills that remained. Her satisfaction deepened. "A lucky take."

Sabrina's heart pounded. This was the moment. Time to convince Lise Sabrina was more useful healthy and alive than...anything else. She lifted one shoulder. "That's not the half of it."

Lise paused, eyeing Sabrina before handing the bills to Darrel, who casually stuffed the money into his front shirt pocket.

"No?" Lise asked.

Take the offensive, Sabrina reminded herself. She pointed over the table with her fork. "There's a whole lot more where that came from."

Lise tilted her head. "Explain."

"Take a look inside his wallet."

With another brief, thoughtful pause, Lise did. Her gray gloves paged through the plastic sleeves. Sabrina had been through the wallet at least a dozen times. She knew exactly what Lise would find.

"'Vincenzo Nicholazzi,'" Lise read. "New York driver's license." Her eyebrows went up. "Manhattan address."

A most exclusive address, but Lise could see that as well as Sabrina had.

"This must be his mother," Lise opined, flipping the driver's license over.

Sabrina, too, had figured the heavy-set woman with the dark hair shot with gray must be the Italian's mom. She'd been amused the man carried her picture. Lise, however, didn't crack a smile.

"What is this?" Lise was looking at the last plastic sleeve. Her brows drew down. "This isn't a person."

"It's a painting," Sabrina explained.

Lise looked up at her. "He carries a photograph of a painting?"

"Not just any painting," Sabrina pointed out. "A five hundred-year-old painting."
With special powers
, she added to herself.

Lise gazed down at the photograph in the wallet, then back up at Sabrina. She did not remark on any resemblance between the two, but then, Sabrina hadn't expected her to.

"Is this what you were talking about?" Her pale eyes went shrewd on Sabrina. "The 'lots more?'"

Sabrina held out her hand for the wallet. "I bought a ticket all the way through to New York. What do you think?"