The Vendetta (13 page)

She spread her fingers flat on the cool silky surface of the table and looked over at Ms. Benedetto.

“…the seventeenth century Old Master painting attributed to Rembrandt Van Rijn and acquired for the sum of $25 million on 25th June of 2008 from Van Alstrand and Associates, I hereby bequeath to Niccolo Michelangelo Carnavale to—”

Van Alstrand threw his pen down and leaned forward in his chair. “It is an outrage! I don’t believe it.”

Ms. Benedetto fastened her sharp gaze on him and raised one eyebrow. “I assure you, signore, Her Excellency intended the bequest precisely as it has been read to you. What is it you don’t believe?”

Van Alstrand raised a bony finger and pointed at Nick. “This imposter, this—gigolo—”

Nick shot out of his chair so fast the hair on the back of Lisa’s neck stood up. For a second, she thought he was going to launch himself across the table. Van Alstrand jumped up too, and his chair spun back and hit the bookshelf.

“Continue,” said Nick, “at your peril.” His voice sounded calm, almost bored, but Lisa saw a muscle jump in his jaw.

Ms. Benedetto stood, a tiny figure between the two towering men.

“Gentlemen, please.”

She gestured to their chairs. Nick sat down and crossed his arms over his chest, never taking his eyes from Van Alstrand’s face.

Van Alstrand, however, began to gather up his paper and pen. He shoved everything into a leather portfolio case and zipped it up.

“Ms. Benedetto, Ms. Schumacher, I beg your pardon, but I cannot stay to see this travesty perpetrated.” He glared at Nick.

Nick smiled back. Van Alstrand’s face took on a dangerous eggplant shade.

He turned his ice blue gaze on Rafaela. “Ms. Benedetto, I request a copy of the will sent to my offices so I may review it in private. I will be in contact.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Van Alstrand,” replied Ms. Benedetto. “I recommend that you stay. You’ve not heard—”

He cut her off. “Ms. Schumacher, my condolences.” He made a kind of lurching bow, and then he left.

Silence fell.

Chilled, Lisa crossed her arms and rubbed her elbows. “I guess the bequest took Mr. Van Alstrand by surprise.”

She cast a glance at Nick. His eyes returned nothing but opaque gray.

After another moment of silence, Ms. Benedetto asked, “Shall we continue?”

Lisa turned her attention from Nick to the attorney. “Yes, but please, can we dispense with the extreme formality? My Italian is not entirely up to it.”

Ms. Benedetto frowned. “I don’t—”

Lisa shifted in her chair, impatient to get on with things. “What I mean is, can you just tell us the most important bits? Leave out the detailed accounting of each painting and statue?”

Rafaela nodded slowly, studying first Lisa then Nick. She looked back at her brother, and when he nodded, she gave Lisa a direct look.

“All right. But I first I would like to make it clear that our firm strongly advised Donna Giovanna against this most recent change.”

Lisa nodded. “Noted.”

“As you know, the entire estimated worth of the principessa’s estate is about 50 million euros, the equivalent of nearly 70 million dollars, including the art and antiques, as well as the palazzo and grounds. She also had various holdings and properties in the countryside and abroad.”

Lisa had not known the extent of the estate. The figures swirled in her head and made her stomach churn. The monetary value explained the interested crowd outside the law offices.

Rafaela continued, “With the exception of the Old Master painting, she bequeathed her entire estate to her granddaughter as sole heir.”

“To me?” Lisa whispered.

“There is a condition, however.”

Nick spoke up. “Isn’t there always.”

Rafaela fixed her direct gaze on him. “This concerns you as well, Signore Carnavale. She wanted me to make this as clear as possible. The collection was everything to her. Donna Giovanna’s husband started collecting art seventy years ago for his young wife. Later, the principessa collected to please herself, all with a specific eye for things she liked and knew he would have liked too. She was a romantic and a believer in love, or so she said. But her greatest concern in apportioning her estate was always that the collection not be split up, sold to various rival collectors, and scattered around the world. In order to prevent that, she left the entire collection to her only remaining family member.” She focused her blue gaze on Lisa. “That is you, Ms. Schumacher.”

Lisa shook her head. She’d had a feeling this had been coming ever since she’d received Gran’s letter of reconciliation. “What is the condition?”

The lawyer looked down at her paperwork. “There are actually two conditions. First, the terms of the will require you live in Italy seven months out of each year—”

Lisa’s startled gasp cut off Rafaela’s statement. “But I have a job and an apartment, responsibilities in the States. There isn’t any way I can spend over half the year here.”

Rafaela cleared her throat, obviously uncomfortable with the situation, and with Lisa’s reaction. “I am sorry, but those were the principessa’s wishes as written in her will.”

Lisa sank into her chair. What had Gran been thinking? “You said there were two conditions?”

Rafaela pursed her lips, as if she were unwilling to continue. “The second condition is that you must enter into a contract of marriage with one Niccolo Michelangelo Carnavale, currently a resident of Rome, Italy.”

The room swirled in front of Lisa’s face and narrowed to a tiny pin dot. She forced a breath; she would
not
faint. Outrage bubbled up inside her, and she wanted to pound her fists on the shiny table. This just didn’t happen in her world. It was archaic. No, it was medieval. Lisa heard a kind of strangled noise from Nick, but she had to make sure she understood what had just been said. She focused solely on Rafaela’s sympathetic blue eyes.

“Did you say a contract of marriage?”

“Yes.”

“Lisa.” Nick’s voice was a low growl.

“Those are the conditions? I have to stay in Italy and marry Nick Carnavale? We are discussing this man, here, sitting next to me?” She jabbed a thumb in the general direction of Nick.

Rafaela’s eyes flicked past her, and widened. “Yes…ah…your grandmother was very specific.”

“Lisa, look at me.” Nick’s voice again, but she couldn’t look. Not yet. She shook her head, still focused on Rafaela.

“What is the ‘or’?” said Lisa.

“Or?”

“Yes,” she said, impatient now. She breathed in, seeking calm. She could smell wood polish and books, and just a hint of Nick’s spicy cologne. Her whole body felt flushed and tight, as if she were too big for her skin. “What happens if I say no?”

Rafaela looked down, rearranged a couple of papers. When she looked up, her expression was suffused with sympathy and compassion. “You have three days to decide. If you say no, the entire estate will be placed into the hands of Peter Van Alstrand with instructions to sell the art and property at auction. The proceeds of that sale will then be given to charity.”

“What charity?” asked Lisa.

“The principessa left specific instructions. The money will be divided between several art and benevolence charities with worldwide impact…” Rafaela’s voice trailed off.

“And what if
I
say no?” Nick asked, his voice tight and low in Lisa’s ear.

“The Rembrandt will be included in the sale of the estate.”

Lisa heard him hiss in response, and she finally turned to face him. But his face blurred as she tried to absorb the ramifications of the choice now forced on her. The churning in her gut intensified.

“Your bathroom,” Lisa said to Rafaela. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

* * *

Lisa stood over the basin in the sleek, marble-tiled bathroom. She’d not lost her lunch or even her breakfast, but her stomach still roiled with distress. She grabbed a fine linen towel off the towel bar, ran it under the cool water, and pressed it to her face and neck.

She hated this feeling of fragility and helplessness. How could Gran have done it? Right now Lisa sympathized with her mother, Gran’s own daughter, more than she ever had in her entire life. The principessa had ruled her world with the demanding precision of a field marshal. Lisa’s mother had suffered the consequences of a youthful rebellion for over forty years. Lisa shook her head. To be cut off so coldly, and finally. Gran’s decisions about her family defined ruthlessness.

Marriage. God, how could she even begin to think about it? Nick fascinated her, his kisses carried her away, but marriage was not something she had considered. If she’d thought at all about marriage, it would not have been to someone she’d known for less than two weeks. No matter how compatible they were physically. In spite of all her grandmother’s maneuvering, Lisa still believed that love was what made a marriage special.

Lisa looked up and met her own eyes in the mirror. They were puffy, red from crying, dazed. Her hair straggled down from its French twist in untidy pieces. Her skin was pale and blotchy.

“Come on, Schumacher,” she whispered, “Pull yourself together or the vultures will eat you alive.”

A picture of Van Alstrand, shaking with anger and accusation, popped into her head. He had lost face in the confrontation with Nick. There was clearly bad blood of long standing between the two men. If the curator was truly the villain that Nick painted him, then her refusal to marry Nick would be Van Alstrand’s gain. The collection and estate would be turned over to him to sell off piecemeal, and he would collect a commission on each sale. A scenario that had possibly been Gran’s worst nightmare.

Lisa grimaced at her reflection and then began to tidy her appearance. She washed her face and fished in her purse for her makeup case. The careful updo was beyond her capabilities so she brushed her hair out, smoothing the long strands behind her ears. She repaired her eye makeup, removing the smudges and covering the dark circles with foundation from a tiny bottle. Finally, she stroked shiny lip gloss on her lips and dabbed a bit of scent on her wrists.

She looked back in the mirror, not completely restored but at least not devastated. OK, Gran. Game on. Her grandmother had made her wishes known, but that did not mean Lisa had no choice in the matter.

First, the art. She wanted to reevaluate the Rembrandt without any distractions to dull her senses. If the painting really was a forgery, she needed to know. In addition, she needed to spend some more time with the collection. To Gran, every piece had been a memory, every painting a connection to her dead husband. Lisa’s ultimate decision about the will rested on whether her grandmother’s legacy was worth the price she must pay to carry the tradition forward. Curating the collection had once been her dream, and that dream was now within her grasp.

Which led her to Van Alstrand. Was he a good steward of her grandmother’s collection, or had he cheated them all? What was the proof? Again the Rembrandt became important. She would talk to Van Alstrand and evaluate his trustworthiness for herself.

Then, of course, there was Nick. Tightness seized her lungs, and she had to concentrate on taking in air again.

According to the will, he could soon be the owner of this controversial painting, but only if he became her husband. Or he could walk away with nothing if he didn’t marry her. What was
his
choice? Her mind dredged up a picture of him as he had stepped away from her arms at the ski lodge in Telluride, taut and appealing, his eyes snapping with passion.
Sogna di me
. Her breasts tightened and the hair on her arms stood up.

She sighed. Nick could wait. He would have to. She had so little time to make her decision. He would have to respect that and give her some space to do so. Lisa stepped back from the basin, straightened her skirt and jacket, and then left the bathroom.

As she passed the reception area on the way back to the conference room, the woman behind the desk caught her attention.

“Signorina Schumacher. Signore Van Alstrand left this note for you. He asked me to give it to you before you left.”

Lisa took the note, and glanced at it to see her name scrawled across the top. She slipped it into her purse without reading it. “Grazie.”

She stepped into the conference room. Nick looked over from where he was in an intense conversation with Rafaela Benedetto. He stood up immediately and skirted the table. He reached for her but she held up a hand before he could touch her. He stopped an arm’s length away and slid his hands slowly into his pockets.

“Piccola.” His deep voice caressed her. “Are you all right now?”

“Yes, thank you.” She looked up at him. His expression held concern, but there was just a hint of impatience in his eyes.

“If you would like to go back to the palazzo, I can accompany you,” he said. “After you rest, we will need to talk.”

She shut her eyes briefly. It would be so easy to succumb. He made it easy with his warm voice and slow hands. But his eyes…

“No,” she said.

“No?”

“I need twenty-four hours, Nick. Until then, I want you to stay away from me. You also need to stay away from the palazzo, and the collection. We can discuss the…ah…other things tomorrow.” She couldn’t even make herself say the word “marriage” to him.

His eyes narrowed. “Lisa—”

“Shall we say four o’clock? I will let you know where you can meet me.” She concentrated on keeping her voice calm and even. Weakness would be exploited to the fullest, she knew.

The quick blaze of temper in his face transfixed her. He didn’t like taking orders.
Tough
. She raised her chin.

“OK, Lisa. You have your twenty-four hours. But while you’re contemplating your options, make sure you to take this into consideration too.”

His hands pulled her to him, and his mouth swooped down for a kiss. Her resistance was infinitesimal compared to the vast need that welled up inside her, the need to press against him and hold on. The kiss was almost a battle, the finish almost a bite. He gripped her a little too tightly and then shoved her away. The ruddy flush on his cheekbones and the glitter in his eyes spoke of strong emotion. He stared at her for a moment, turned, and walked out.