The Vendetta (20 page)

“Hello, Nick. Have you come to claim your inheritance?”

A muscle jumped in his jawline. Good—she had to bite back some words too. In fact, Nick’s presence in this room caused the wine in her stomach to roil alarmingly. She turned with the portrait in her hands and laid it on the coffee table, face down. Then she stood and drew her bathrobe belt tighter, suddenly aware she was completely naked underneath.

Nick skirted the couch to stand in front of her. “My mother told me that she talked to you. She—”

“I don’t want to talk about that right now,” interrupted Lisa. “I just had a thought that there might be something more to this portrait. Do you want to see if I’m right?”

Nick’s gaze shifted to the framed portrait on the coffee table. “It’s not the right size,” he said.

“It’s not the right size for what?” she asked with faux innocence. Nick’s eyebrows snapped together.

She fingered the backing on the frame. “Do you have something that can cut through this paper? Otherwise, I’ll have to go find scissors.”

He reached a slow hand into his pocket and pulled out a pocketknife. He held it out, but she didn’t dare meet his eyes as she grasped the knife and turned to sit on the couch. She studied the back of the frame for a minute, extremely aware of Nick seating himself right next to her. She took a deep breath.

So, the frame. She had no idea if it had always been just as it was now. Slick, heavy brown paper held down by masking tape covered the back. Something about that paper bothered her, though. It didn’t look old or faded. As far as she knew, Gran had always displayed the picture in this frame.

She gently poked the sharp point of Nick’s pocketknife into the corner, as close as she could get to the edge. Nick reached out to steady the picture as she slit the backing. She raised her eyes to his, and then quickly looked away from that gray swirl of intensity. Biting her lip, she returned to her task.

She lifted a corner and glimpsed a piece of cardboard and another bit of brown paper. The cardboard fit tightly in the frame groove, and a second round of brown paper formed a kind of ruffled edge around it. She carefully began to work the cardboard loose using her fingernails and the pocketknife. Rounding the last corner, she lifted the cardboard away with the paper and placed both to the side. Then she frowned.

Under the cardboard was the back of a wooden canvas stretcher. She felt her heart start to thud in her chest. It had to be a painting. She put her fingers on the inner edge of the stretcher to pull it out.

“It’s jammed,” she said.

“May I?” said Nick. He grasped the frame and pulled up on the stretcher. It gave a popping sound but didn’t move.

“Don’t force it,” she said. He gave her a level look but then ran his fingers around the inner edge of the stretcher.

“Hold the frame,” he said. She grasped the edges of the picture while he pushed with one hand and pulled with the other in a twisting motion. The canvas stretcher popped out.

He turned it over. They both went completely still. Lisa made some inarticulate sound. She had been right about a canvas, but it was blank. It was nothing. Just a reinforcement placed behind the photograph. She stood abruptly, crossed her arms, and backed away from the couch.

Nick looked up from the canvas, his expression neutral. “It was worth a shot.”

“I suppose,” Lisa replied, her voice raspy.

Nick’s hand clenched at his side. She cleared her throat.

They stared at each other for long moments. And, looking into his smoky gray eyes, Lisa couldn’t control her foolish heart. She loved him. She wanted only to draw him to her and soothe the rage inside him. But that wasn’t what he wanted.

She gathered her robe around her and sat down in the wing chair by the fire.

“Tell me about the vendetta, Nick.”

* * *

Nick stared at Lisa, his mind grasping at the sliding pile of circumstances and possibilities. The old woman, the principessa, had manipulated him more than he’d realized. He saw now that his obsession with Lisa had distracted him thoroughly from his goal—the Rembrandt. At this point, he had trouble processing why the old woman had tied him to her granddaughter in marriage. Had the principessa known the whole, sordid story? Had she included Lisa in her schemes?

Nick stood up, walked over to the fireplace, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Lisa, I can’t explain. I—”

“Try, Nick.” She sat in the wing chair with her hands clenched around the robe at her neck and her hair damp and curling around her shoulders. Desire, held suspended by the unusual turn of events, slammed into him all at once. He took a step toward her, but she reared back.

“A little information from you right now would be helpful, dammit.” Her voice was tight, controlled. “But I will figure this out with or without your help. My grandmother has done a fine job of being the puppet master, hasn’t she?”

His heart sank as her comment echoed his thoughts. She met his gaze.

Flecks of gold in her eyes glowed among the blend of green, making her resemble her grandmother even more than usual. She beckoned him to trust her, to let go. Well, he would give her what he could of the truth, and then he knew she would never trust him again.

He had to clear his throat, and even then he hesitated. Finally, in the face of her steady green eyes, he spoke. “When my father was killed, the thought of tracking down Van Alstrand and making him pay for taking everything from us was all that I had. It
is
all that I have.”

“No, Nick, you—”

“Yes.” He cut her off, clenched his fist. “Lisa, you must understand, everything I have done since that moment has been for revenge.” He met her eyes. “Everything. My education, my business, my success. My bargain with your grandmother. And my connection with you, Lisa.”

“But—”

“First, I needed you to come to Rome. And then I needed you to stay. Your grandmother told me about the will, Lisa. You had to stay and inherit. You had to marry me. For the paintings. It was the only way.”

“To revenge.”

“Yes.” He walked up to her and grasped her shoulders. “Revenge. It is the one thing that keeps me going, that keeps me remembering. Because it was my fault.” It had been a mistake to touch her, to feel her warmth. He dropped his hands and turned away.

“But you were just a boy.”

His entire body was rigid, his hands clenched tightly. “Boy or man, my father died because of me. Because he was protecting me, which I perhaps could have learned to live with. But it wasn’t only that. He died because I was a coward. I did not leave my hiding place. I was—I—” He pressed his lips together. He never talked about that night. Never.

He turned to Lisa. “I need to find the other painting, Lisa. I need it to show the world the truth about Van Alstrand. I will destroy him, just like he destroyed my father.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know where it is, Nick.”

Bile rose in his throat. “Don’t try to protect me from myself, Lisa. Don’t try to stop me. Revenge is all I have. It is all I am. Take it away and I am nothing.”

“No,” she whispered, eyes glittering with tears. She reached out a hand, and he had to steel himself not to kneel at her feet and press his face in her lap. When he didn’t respond, her hand trembled, but after a moment she slid it into the pocket of her bathrobe and lifted her chin.

She was strong, this one,
molto forte
. He swallowed hard.

“And when it’s over,” she said, meeting his gaze. “What happens when you’ve wreaked your revenge?”

His voice dropped to a growl. “When it’s over, I am dust.”

Chapter Thirteen

Lisa slumped at the desk in her grandmother’s study. The confrontation with Nick had drained her, and she had nothing left now that he had gone. She studied her bare feet, willing herself not to cry. She would not cry over this man. Her grandmother had worked this situation to her own maximum benefit, but Lisa could no longer see to what end. Lisa didn’t know where Nick’s revenge stopped and Gran’s began. When Nick had left the palazzo without another word, she had come here, where her grandmother had spent her time. She didn’t know if she was looking for something or just looking to find a way out of the mess her life had become.

She shook her head and stood up, planning to go back to her own room and get dressed. Her wide sleeve brushed against the desk as she turned, and a pile of papers slid to the floor along with a pen that had been placed on top. Grumbling, she knelt to pick up the stack. One of the pages had fluttered out into the room, coming to rest under a tall chest. She bent down to fetch it, and a glint of gold near the floorboard caught her eye.

Heart in her throat, she crab walked over to the chest, keeping low to the floor to slide her arm under the ornate scrollwork of her grandmother’s towering armoire. She pulled a package wrapped in brown paper toward her. It was a little more than eighteen inches square, a medium-size package and relatively heavy. The corner was slightly ripped, and the dull sheen of old gold peeked through.

Her mouth dried completely, and she licked her lips. The package was not taped, but only tied with twine. Lisa undid the knots quickly, not sure she could stand another surprise today. She pulled the paper back just a little, but the dim afternoon sun would not allow her to see the contents. She turned her body slightly so the light cast over her shoulder, then she pulled the paper off and dropped it to the floor.

When the light hit the painting inside the frame, she felt a jolt in her lower belly that was almost sexual. She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a cry and then incredulous laughter. The face in the painting seemed to sympathize. The soft, kind eyes regarded her with apology and amusement as she looked at the face of the Old Master himself, Rembrandt van Rijn.

As she held the painting in the light, Lisa realized that this was the original. Up close, there was no comparison. Nick was right. Side by side, these paintings would stand as mute testimony to Van Alstrand’s dirty dealings. The reverberations of that confrontation would end the curator’s art world career forever.

She stood up, ready to call Nick and let him know that his quest was done—she had found the real painting. But then she paused. Could she somehow help Nick seek justice rather than revenge? Would such a path make any difference in whether he stayed or left?

She put the phone back on the desk. There was only one way to find out.

* * *

Lisa spied Rafaela Benedetto sitting at a café table in Campo de’ Fiori with her head back and her sunglasses in place, basking in the last, puny rays of the spring sun. Rafaela was alone, but Lisa already knew that was an unusual circumstance. Men had the habit of flocking around the sexy Italian, and Rafaela preferred it that way.

But not today. Today Lisa had asked her to come alone, so Rafaela had left her retinue behind. Lisa smiled at the thought, stepping up to the table to greet the petite lawyer.

“Lisa!” Rafaela jumped up to give Lisa a kiss on either cheek. Then she pushed her sunglasses back on her head, revealing the genuine smile in her eyes. “Look at you. Wow. Marriage must agree with you. Do you want to sit here or go somewhere else?”

With a wry grin, Lisa took a chair in the sun next to Rafaela. “This seems like a good spot. And you must be kidding about the marriage thing.”

Rafaela flicked her hand in a dismissive gesture. “So tell me everything. What has our Nicky done now?”

The waiter approached at that moment and took their orders for Prosecco and a bottle of mineral water. He brought the drinks quickly, but then seemed to want to stay and fuss for a while, bringing complimentary appetizers and offering gelato. Rafaela rolled her eyes and finally grew impatient, waving him away.

“You should have been meaner. He’ll be back,” said Lisa.

“No, they love it when I’m cruel. Must be the challenge or something. This way is better. Cheers.” Rafaela offered her glass of Prosecco and Lisa clinked her own glass against it.

They both took a sip.

Out in the square the sparse, late afternoon crowd milled around a somber statue of San Bruno. Some patrons settled to have before-dinner drinks, some passed through, on to other dinner destinations and landmarks. Later, the tourists would crowd the piazza and spill out of the nightclubs and bars, but right now the place was quiet. As the last rays of the sun descended behind the buildings, Lisa shivered into her coat.

Rafaela’s hand touched her arm. “Hey. Are you OK?”

Lisa turned. “I’m not sure. But I’m glad you’re here.”

Rafaela squeezed her arm gently. “What’s going on, Lisa? You and Nick couldn’t keep your eyes off each other on your wedding day. Now you just look miserable.”

Lisa grabbed a breadstick from the basket and proceeded to crumble it onto her napkin. She looked over at Rafaela. “I know. I wish… Well, anyway, this is about Nick’s vendetta. Do you know about that?”

Rafaela nodded, her eyes dark and serious. “You’ve found the other painting, haven’t you?”

Lisa’s stomach plunged, but she took a breath and continued. “Yes, and this is where I need your help.” She held the stem of her wine glass, turning it on the table so it made a ring. “I don’t want Nick to see it until the gallery showing. I want to…um…surprise him. And Van Alstrand. Sort of like a…a sting. I don’t want to tell him until the…the presentation is ready.”

Lisa was asking Rafaela to keep secrets from her cousin. And possibly put herself in danger. Would Rafaela agree? After all, Lisa didn’t know her very well.

Rafaela studied her for a long moment, and Lisa’s heart beat in her throat until Rafaela finally spread her hands in a welcoming gesture. “You’ve come to the right person, Lisa. It happens I have a friend in the art fraud section of the Carabineri.” She examined her manicure. “He owes me a favor.”

“Oh, thank God.” Lisa relaxed back into her chair. “I hoped you could help me figure this out.”

Rafaela’s eyes grew serious. “I have been trying to convince Nick for years to turn the whole matter over to the Carabineri. But he insists on this…vendetta.” She made a gesture of frustration. “But Lisa, Van Alstrand is a dangerous man. Nick is right to warn you away from him.”