“Bene, bene!” Sal laughed. “Shall we celebrate with something?”
“Chris?”
“Why not?” she murmured.
They left together, and Chris was glad of Sal’s company. He was serious, but young and entertaining, and she liked to see the easy repartee he and Marcus enjoyed.
It was, she decided, the first time she had ever seen Marcus appear so young himself. He smiled frequently and relaxed.
They went to a slightly rowdy bistro. Pop music was being played loudly, most of it American or English. Chris learned that Sal was an attorney, that he didn’t really know a thing about art, and had no association with the galleries. She liked him all the more because of it.
She told Sal that she was a mime, and he demanded a demonstration so beseechingly that she laughed and tried to teach him the principles of pulling a string. He was hopeless using only his fingers.
“Sal!” She laughed. “You must bring down the wrist first, and allow the hand to follow.”
She showed him again, and he shook his head, watching her admiringly. “You must be very good.”
“She is excellent,” Marcus said softly, and Chris was amazed by the tenor of his voice; his words were spoken with no mockery, and nothing danced in the cobalt depths of his eyes except for what appeared to be honest admiration and affection.
They ordered German beer and thick Italian pizzas, the original pies baked in pans and loaded with tomatoes, fresh cheeses, oregano and parsley. Chris danced with Sal, and then she danced with Marcus. As it happened, the music slowed for them; it was an Italian love song.
With one hand he clasped her fingers to his chest; he rested the other at the base of her spine. Her cheek leaned against the fabric of his jacket, and she felt her heart beating painfully.
There were things going on at the palazzo; intrigue shrouded in the shadows of the past was surfacing again. She knew it. Marcus was a part of it all, a dark and dangerous part. Twenty-one years ago there had been a murder of which her father had been accused; this very afternoon Alfred Contini had cried in his doze about blackmail.
But here, held so close to Marcus, feeling the heat and hardness of his body, letting the arresting male scent of him flow over her, Chris could only believe what her heart cried out.
Whatever it was, Marcus was innocent.
She heard his words whispered in her ear as his head dipped to hers. “You move like a gazelle, Christi…. Did you know that? Or a cat, ever graceful. Or a floating swan.”
She tilted her head back and smiled, dazzled by the warmth in his eyes. “No, Marcus, you are the cat. A panther, stalking in the night.”
He laughed, startled by her comparison. “Do I stalk you, Christina?”
“I don’t know,” she replied honestly.
His slightly secretive smile remained on his lips; he lowered his head slowly, and his lips touched hers lightly. She didn’t think to twist away; his mouth was warm and fascinating, and it was the merest brush of a kiss, gone very quickly yet leaving her aching for more of that almost speculative and musing—but tender—touch.
His eyes touched hers with their intriguing glitter. Before either of them could speak he pressed her head back to his chest, and they swirled with the dance.
“How are you doing with Alfred?” he asked her.
She stiffened a bit, angered by his caustic tone—especially since he had just kissed her. “How am I doing?” she asked sharply.
“Have you convinced him to leave all his money to you?”
Was he teasing her? she wondered desperately. She was so easily lulled by him. She had to remain on guard against him. “I’m trying,” she said sweetly.
“Umm,” he murmured noncommittally. “It will be a pity if he leaves it to you. Then you will not need to try for a di Medici husband.”
“A pity?” she demanded, casting her head back again. “But I told you, I would opt for Tony, anyway.”
Chris thought that his smile was very grim. The music hadn’t stopped, but he led her from the dance floor. Sal had ordered another round of beer, and the evening remained pleasant, but Chris felt as if a special warmth she had touched upon briefly had disappeared before she’d known it was within reach.
They dropped Sal off in front of the church. He said something in Italian to Marcus, and Marcus shrugged, then spoke. Chris thought he said that Sal should say to someone named Anna whatever he wished.
Sal told Chris that he hoped he would see her again soon; Chris echoed the sentiment, and then she was alone with Marcus once again as he steered the boat toward home.
“Who is Anna?” she asked lightly.
He cast her a noncommittal glance. “A friend,” he said briefly. Chris fell silent. She felt as if a tension were growing within her, getting stronger the closer they came to the palazzo. Suddenly she wanted to challenge Marcus. She desperately needed to know where he stood about things.
“I think that Alfred Contini is being blackmailed,” she said flatly—and calmly, she hoped. “Do you have any idea who might be doing such a thing to him, or why?”
“Blackmail?” He frowned as he gazed at her, as if drawn from his own distant thoughts. “Good Lord, no. Who would blackmail Alfred? And as you say, for what?”
Was his surprise genuine? she wondered. Or had his eyes narrowed a little suspicously?
“I don’t know,” Chris said, looking out at the water and wondering if she weren’t a complete fool. “Something that happened in the past, I would think.”
“Think!” Marcus muttered with annoyance. “Christina, your imagination is wild. You play in the field of illusion so frequently that you see things that do not exist.”
“I do not! And my father didn’t kill your father, which means that someone else did. And maybe Alfred knows who and—”
“Damn it, Chris, stop it! Stop it, do you hear me?” His hand left the tiller to catch her chin and tug it around roughly so that she met his eyes, harsh now as they reflected the water. “Don’t run around with your idle accusations.”
“Why? If they are idle, what do I have to fear?”
He began to swear vigorously in Italian. Chris pulled her chin from his grasp, feeling ridiculously close to tears. She barely noticed as the boat docked; she only became aware of where they were when he stepped over her, reached for her hands and practically dragged her to the steps.
“Let go of me,” she muttered.
“No, not until you listen to me. You cannot change what happened; you can only cause trouble. Keep your mouth shut, Christina.”
“I—”
“Just what are you out to do, Chris? Is this to be a form of vengeance? Do you feel that your father was cheated, and so you will torment us all? Are you after Alfred’s money? Or perhaps you really have determined that having a di Medici husband would be the best vengeance for the wrongs supposedly done the Tarletons!”
“What?”
“What are you up to, Christina?”
“I’m trying to find out the truth!” she raged. And then she wrenched her hands from his. “Buona sera, Marcus. Thank you for the outing.”
Chris left him and hurried to the elaborately carved doors of the palazzo. She wrenched them open and hurried up the steps to her room.
She changed into one of her new ultramodest gowns and lay down to go to sleep.
But sleep was elusive. All she could think of was Marcus’s dark eyes. The threat in them, and the barely leashed intensity of his anger. And the warmth that had burned so briefly…
And Alfred. Muttering so disturbingly about blackmail.
When she did sleep, it was restlessly. She woke sometime during the night and opened her eyes slowly. She almost started when she realized that someone was definitely at her terrace doors. She was so frightened at first that she couldn’t move or scream, and then she didn’t want to.
It was Marcus. She recognized his tall dark form, the silence of his movement. He walked across the room and checked the lock on her ha
llway door, then paused briefly to glance at her. Chris hurriedly slitted her eyes, watching him from the shadow of her lashes.
He seemed to accept the fact that she was sleeping peacefully and turned to disappear onto the terrace.
She lay awake for a long time again, afraid to wonder if his anger had been a bluff…and if he might really be concerned for her safety.
* * *
With the morning sun pouring through the terrace doors, Chris stretched and slowly wakened, a frown furrowing her brow.
The loud strains of a rock song by Duran Duran seemed to be shivering through the very walls of the palazzo.
Duran Duran? Chris smiled, hurried out of bed and decided on a light knit dress for the day since it was Friday at last, and she would finally get to meet Alfred at the galleries. Then she hurried downstairs to find out why the house was filled with music.
As soon as she reached the courtyard she knew. Tony had returned from Florence.
He was sitting at the table, rocking to the beat with a knife and spoon. He saw Chris when she entered, grinned like a minor-league devil and jumped up to give her a hug.
“Christi! You waited for me to return. You didn’t let any of the demons or gorgons chase you away.”
Chris laughed and hugged him in return, then stepped away from him, lifting a brow to indicate the music that filled the courtyard. “A bit loud, isn’t it?”
“Only a bit. Eh, Christi, the gorgons are all out. I can blare to my heart’s content and offend no one. Unless, of course, it’s bothering you?”
Chris shook her head. Tony poured her a cup of coffee and extravagantly pulled out a chair.
He smiled at her as he pulled his own chair close. “You see, the palazzo only looks as if it’s old enough to sink into the sea. It’s been totally rewired—except, of course, below—and Marcus and I put in sound systems and speakers years ago. I mean, it’s as necessary as indoor plumbing these days, you know.”
“Umm, sure,” Chris murmured. The Duran Duran tape ended and something by David Bowie began. “How was Florence?”
“Lovely…except that her name is Angela.”
“Oh, and you had me languishing away here with the gorgons!”
He teased the back of her hand with a playful finger. “Ah, but I lost you before I ever had the chance to meet you, didn’t I?”
He spoke softly, looking over her shoulder. The music danced around her with a rhythmic sensual beat, yet that wasn’t what made her tremble.
The song playing was called “Cat People.” Chris thought it was rather apropos.
She spun around. As she had expected, Marcus was standing there, hands in his pockets, watching her and Tony. He was in dark jeans and a navy denim work jacket that was dusted with a little plaster. How long had he been standing there? she wondered. Not long, she decided, as she realized he was walking over to them. But his movements…it seemed as if he moved in step to the sexual beat of the music, as if he could turn into a black panther at any minute and continue after his prey.
“Hey, Antonio, are you coming down?” he asked his brother, passing them and going to the serving cart to pour himself some orange juice. He didn’t sit at the table but leaned against it, nodding at Chris and giving her a crisp, “Good morning.”
Tony grimaced. “Yeah, I’m coming. What have the workmen said so far?”
Marcus shrugged. Chris watched the ripple of his shoulder muscles. “They say it’s not as bad as we thought. The tunnel is good, and the construction is sound there, and in the foundations for both the galleries and the palazzo. We have no leaks. There’s just one section they say should be reinforced, down beneath the galleries.”
“The land of deep dark family secrets!” Tony teased Chris.
“Come help, Tony,” Marcus prompted his brother irritably. “I’ve got to get to the galleries and take a look at the books; we do have a problem somewhere. You’ve—”
“Trouble with the books?” Chris interrupted him. Did he suspect embezzlement?
He sighed. “Chris, it isn’t your concern. Just something that I have to look into.” He turned back to Tony, dismissing her query. “Tony, you’ve got to be there by this afternoon to check in the tapestries that you bought in Florence. Right now the workers are plugging up some holes in the inner wall and the tunnel. They could use some help and supervision…to make sure it will be done.”
“Okay, okay!” Tony grinned. “No rest for the weary!” he groaned to Chris. “Eh, Marcus. Let’s do something tonight, shall we? You could give Anna a call, and Chris and I—”
“I think you’d better give that a little thought, Tony,” Marcus interrupted him, grinning. “Katrina Loggia has called the galleries at least five times in your absence. Once to tell me I was aiding and abetting your wanton life-style by sending you out of town so frequently.” He paused a minute. “Maybe you’d better call Katrina. She’s the best woman you’ve found yet.”
“Ah, but I can’t leave the ‘Bella Christi’!”
“You won’t. Chris and I will come with you.”
“What about Anna? Shall we allow her to lie languishing?”
“Anna never languishes,” Marcus said dryly.
“Hey, hey!” Chris interrupted. “I’m an adult. They told me so when I turned twenty-one, and that was several years ago. You both go out with your friends. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. And good heavens,” she teased, smiling as she looked at Tony, “if I’m going to con Alfred out of all his money, I’m going to have to spend some time with him.”
“True, true,” Tony mused, responding to her teasing. “But, in case all fails with Alfred—”
“And you wish to entrap a di Medici husband,” Marcus interrupted, rising fluidly, coming behind her and playing gently with her hair, “then you should be working on the di Medicis.”
“Seriously,” Chris murmured, very aware of his touch, of his presence behind her, “I’ve…got some shopping to do this afternoon. If I went out it would have to be late.”
“Everything is late in Italy,” Tony told her.
“Yes, as in work,” Marcus reminded him.
“I’ll be right down. Can I just finish my coffee, master?” Tony asked his brother, grinning.
“If you can drink fast,” Marcus replied, chuckling.
“I could help,” Chris offered.
“And delve into the family closets? Never!” Tony said. “No, Christi. When it’s all fixed up, you can come through.”
Chris turned around with a strange feeling. Marcus was gone.
“He’s like a damned panther!” she muttered. He could move without a sound.
Tony laughed. “Brother Marcus, you mean? No sound upon the step and all, eh?”
“Umm. Stealthy.”
“And the eyes…kind of searing?”
“Deadly and dangerous,” Chris agreed with dry solemnity.
Tony laughed again, truly enjoying her comments. “Well, if you’re handling a black panther, you’d better pull out your whip and chair! And I’d better get down there.” He reluctantly pulled out his chair to rise, then said, “Chris, I almost forgot. Alfred left you a note. It’s on the serving cart. Ah…here it is.”
“Thanks,” Chris murmured, accepting the note. She glanced at it a bit quizzically. It was in an envelope, and though the envelope hadn’t been ripped, it looked as if it had been opened and resealed. She opened it quickly herself, waving absently as Tony murmured again that he had to get below.
“Cara Christi,” it read. “Make it the gem salon, six-thirty this evening. Per favore. I’ll see that the doors are open. Alfred.”
Something made Chris call out quickly to Tony. He paused just before entering the inner terrace, shading his eyes from the sun with a hand as he looked back to her.
“Tony, who has been around this morning?”
“Around?” He sounded mystified.
“Yes. Around the courtyard. Besides yourself.”
“Marcus, of course. S
ophia, Genovese. My mother. Oh, Fredo and Joe were even by.” He shrugged. “Everyone, I suppose. Why?”
“Oh, nothing. I was just wondering.” She smiled sweetly. “If you all want to go out later, nine or ten o’clock would be fine with me.”
Tony nodded and waved again. Chris sat pensively at the table for a while, drank her coffee without tasting it, then went back upstairs.
She spent an hour exercising, then paused without really knowing why and looked around her room.
Things seemed…different. Nothing major, and nothing seemed to be gone. But a brush seemed to be placed at a different end of the dresser. She had tossed her handbag on the pillows after making the bed; now it was below the pillows.
Chris shrugged, but tingles burned along her neck and down her spine. She stood and looked through the drawers. Her things were all in order, but they, too, seemed…different.
Uneasily she showered, redonned her knit dress and determined to leave the palazzo. Until it was time to meet Alfred and find out what was going on, she didn’t want to be around the di Medicis or their home.
* * *
Chris took herself on a sight-seeing trip, visiting a number of art galleries, museums and cathedrals. She also went into one of the tourist offices and asked about getting access to public records. The friendly girl on duty gave her a map and a list of libraries and offices, and Chris decided that her day had been well spent.
She had been using public transportation—the vaporetti—and they hadn’t been running exactly on time. By the time she reached the square in front of the galleries—the Piazza di Medici/Contini, she noted dryly—it was closer to seven o’clock than it was to six-thirty.
And it was growing dark.
Chris hurried up the steps to the main entrance; not until she was almost there did she slow her pace.
There were lights within the galleries, but they were pale and muted. The ancient building suddenly seemed sinister beneath the moonlight.
What am I getting myself into? Chris wondered belatedly. She had never really stopped to think about personal danger, even though it seemed that Marcus was constantly warning her to be careful. Was that because he did know something she didn’t?
The Di Medici Bride Page 11
