The Di Medici Bride

by Heather Graham

  “Christina! Stop it! You will wrench the needle from your arm.”

  Her eyes flew open and came into immediate contact with hard blue ones. “Marcus!”

  “Yes, of course,” he murmured, and she realized that his large bronzed hands were on her shoulders, pressing her back against a pillow. A cotton-covered pillow.

  “Where am I?”

  “In the hospital. You’ve suffered a slight concussion. Not a bad one, but bad enough to keep you here a few days. But you’re going to be all right. Or you will be, if you’ll settle down.”

  Dazed, Chris sank back against her pillow. She gazed at her hand; it was bandaged, and a tube was feeding a colorless liquid into her veins. She turned to Marcus. He was in a blue-and-white striped, short-sleeved knit shirt and jeans; she could see the hard muscles of his bronzed arms, very dark against the stark white of the hospital sheets. His eyes were very blue—and fathomless. His features were drawn, his jaw very rigid.

  Chris closed her eyes for a minute. The step had broken, and she had fallen. A step that a half dozen other people used daily had happened to fall apart when she stepped on it.

  She had fallen through the step soon after Tony had laughingly informed her that she was rich—very soon after. Too soon after.

  She felt a tender touch against her cheek and opened her eyes. Marcus was smiling. “You’re really all right.”

  She lifted the tubed and bandaged hand. “Then what is this?”

  “This is because you’ve been out of it a while. They will keep you here a few nights to observe you.”

  “I don’t feel too bad.” Chris moved and winced. She did have a headache.

  “You’d feel worse if you tried to stand up right now,” Marcus murmured. He was sitting beside her on the bed and appeared very comfortable. Chris was startled when someone moved beyond him. It was Tony, sitting in a chair. He came up to the other side of the bed and smiled before bending to brush her forehead with a kiss. “You have a bruise on the head, you know. A concussion.”

  “Tony, call the doctor. He wanted to know as soon as Chris came to,” Marcus instructed.

  Tony smiled encouragingly, tapped her nose playfully with a knuckle and left, calling to someone in the hallway.

  Marcus leaned close to Chris, very tense. “You need to get out of Venice. I’m still not sure quite what you’re up to, but this city does not seem to be healthy for you.”

  “What do you mean?” Chris said with a gasp, lowering her voice quickly as a stab of pain shot through her head. “Marcus! What are you talking about? Was this done to me on purpose?”

  “No, of course not. That wooden stairway…it has always been a problem.”

  “Marcus, did you go back to the galleries? Did you find my earring? Did you—”

  “Shush, Christina, you are not to be excited. Yes, I went back to the galleries. I got rid of your rope and your grappling hook. But…” He hesitated, and she felt his probing stare for long seconds. “I didn’t find any earring. Nor a ‘blackmail’ note.”

  “You didn’t find an earring, or the note…but Genovese did find a new will,” Chris muttered bitterly, closing her eyes again.

  “Yes, and it appears as if you did come out the heiress. Suspicious, isn’t it? You come to Venice to charm the old man, he drops dead of a heart attack and voilà, the money is yours.”

  “I am suspicious!” she flared, staring at him furiously again. “And I’m the one in the hospital!”

  He waved an arm in the air. “An accident of time and place.”

  “You don’t believe that, Marcus di Medici. You know that Alfred was being blackmailed. Marcus, you know what’s going on.”

  “Christina, you are being hysterical.”

  “I am not!” She closed her eyes immediately after her denial; her head had begun to ring like the bells of St. Mark’s on Sunday. It was foolish to argue with him; she knew it. She opened her eyes and smiled at him sweetly. “Marcus…I need your help.”

  “My help?” he murmured sardonically. But he went no further, because the doctor entered and shooed both him and Tony out of the room. The doctor was a pleasant man with a heavy accent, who was ready to cheer on all Chris’s attempts at Italian. Somehow they stumbled along together; he assured her that she looked fine, that she would be all right—and that she was lucky that she apparently knew how to break a fall. He promised to see her in the morning to release her.

  When the doctor left, only Tony returned to the room. Chris lifted a brow and Tony smiled, taking a seat beside her on a chair, rather than intimately on the bed as Marcus had done. He picked up her hand, the one without the intravenous, which the doctor had promised would quickly be removed, and played idly with her fingers. He sighed. “What a week.”

  “Yes, it has been, hasn’t it?” Chris murmured. “Tony, where did Marcus go?”

  “To shoot the staircase, I think,” Tony teased. “No, seriously, he had to get it fixed immediately. He wanted to talk to the doctor, and he said that he had a few things to take care of at the galleries. Why? Am I bad company?”

  Chris smiled. “No, you’re not. I just don’t ever seem to be able to pin your brother down these days.”

  Tony’s cheerful smile faded. “He has been a bit mysterious, even for Marcus. But don’t worry about it. You’ll be out of here soon enough.”

  “And then what?” Chris murmured, closing her eyes.

  “Well, then you’ll have to start learning all about the galleries. You’re an owner now, you know.”

  Why? Chris wondered fleetingly. Why had Alfred done this to her? She didn’t want the galleries, and she didn’t want all these people hating her. All she wanted to do was find out what was going on—what had gone on so many years ago.

  “Tony?” she said softly.

  “What is it, Chris?”

  “Do you…hate me because of Alfred’s will?”

  Tony was silent for a second; then he burst into laughter. “Good God, no! Why should I?”

  “Because it should have gone to you…or to your family. Or to Sophia. I’m an outsider.”

  “Yes, and the most fascinating thing I’ve seen in years.” Tony chuckled agreeably. “Chris, the di Medicis were never dependent on Alfred, despite my dear brother’s constant harping about money. I like to think that both Marcus and I are brilliant businessmen.”

  “I think that someone does hate me,” Chris said lightly. She expected Tony to deny her words immediately, but he didn’t. He hesitated again.

  “Maybe you should get out of Venice for a while, Chris,” he murmured. “For a few days. See Rome, or tour Florence. Or go to the Riviera and get a nice tan.”

  “Tony, are you worried about me being in your house?” Chris demanded tensely.

  “Don’t be silly,” he said, but she sensed that he was lying. Tony was worried, and if Tony was worried…

  “Ah, Chris! Here comes the nurse with your dinner. Maybe I can charm her into bringing me a tray, too.” His eyes twinkled as he cocked his head slightly. “Want to make any side bets?”

  “Against you? Never,” Chris murmured.

  She was glad she hadn’t bet against him, because the nurse did bring a second tray. During dinner Tony turned the conversation around to the galleries, trying to give her an education on various Renaissance painters. Chris realized that he could be charmingly stubborn when he chose; he wasn’t going to talk about the will nor imply in the least that her mishap on the stairway could have been anything but an accident.

  “What about your mother?” Chris asked in the middle of a discussion on Michelangelo.

  “What about her?”

  “She resents me.”

  Tony shrugged. “I don’t think so. I think she’s getting over it.” He paused, then grimaced. “I think that Mother is falling in love again.”

  Chris gasped. “You’re kidding!”

  He shook his head. “Every Tuesday she goes to the church for parish work. And she’s been staying out for dinner
afterward. I think it has something to do with a retired banker named Umberto Cellini. I think he’d like to make it more serious. Perhaps she would, too. She’s been a widow a long time.”

  Chris digested that bit of information slowly. “And what about Sophia? What will she do now?”

  “Stay on, I guess. She really is a marvelous housekeeper—a great supervisor, I should say. But that will be up to Marcus. The palazzo is his, you know.”

  “And what about you?”

  He laughed. “Don’t worry about me. We have various properties, a number of which are mine. I don’t have any younger-son syndromes, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I didn’t,” Chris murmured. But did she? She didn’t know what she thought about anything or anyone anymore. “It is curious that Alfred never married Sophia.”

  Tony shrugged. “No, it’s really not so strange. You forget, Alfred was an old man—from the old Italy. I think he always thought himself a class above his mistress. But he must have loved her. He never left her. C’est la vie!” he added in French.

  Tony stayed with her until eight o’clock; then he kissed her forehead and left, promising to see her in the morning.

  Chris closed her eyes, trying to sleep, but it seemed impossible. Someone, she was convinced, had tried to kill her. Someone had tampered with the steps. She couldn’t believe it was Tony; she couldn’t believe it was Marcus….

  She opened her eyes and almost screamed out loud. Genovese was standing half in and half out of the doorway, staring at her with his dark but colorless eyes.

  “Signorina Tarleton, a thousand pardons!” He came quickly into the room, running his fingers over the brim of a worn fedora. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Chris tried very hard to smile. “That’s all right, Genovese. Thank you for, uh, coming to see me.”

  He shook his head solemnly. His voice became a whisper. “I came to tell you that you must be careful, that you should get away from Venice immediately!”

  Chris felt shivers race along her spine. “Why, Genovese, do you know something?” she demanded.

  “Si…”

  He stopped when he heard a slight sound at her doorway. Chris looked beyond him. Marcus was standing there.

  Quiet, calm, straight and tall. He was in a dark vested suit, watching them both with shielded eyes. He moved into the room, passing Genovese with an absent smile and coming to Chris. He sat beside her on the bed and took her hand in his.

  “How are you?”

  “Fine. I’m quite certain.”

  His eyes moved to Genovese; his smile was polite, his gaze speculative. “It was good of you to come see Chris, Genovese.”

  “Yes, I just wished to see how she was.” He bowed his head a little nervously. “I’m leaving now. Buona sera, Signorina Tarleton.”

  He was out of the room before Chris could respond. She stared at Marcus furiously. “Why is he afraid of you?”

  “Afraid of me! He isn’t—that I’m aware of.”

  “Well, it’s curious, isn’t it, that everyone is warning me to get away from Venice?”

  Marcus seemed to start. He released her hand and paced nervously to the window, like a cat on the prowl. He lit a cigarette as he stared out into the night. “Perhaps you should leave Venice for a while, Christina.”

  “Why? Because you know that something’s going on? You know that my father didn’t murder yours—”

  “I know nothing of the kind!” he proclaimed, turning to her in anger. He stalked to the door of her room. “Go to sleep, Chris. I’ll come to get you in the morning.”

  Tears stung her eyes as she saw him walk out of the room. There seemed to be no one to turn to. She wanted to trust him so badly, yet she couldn’t.

  And she didn’t want to sleep. She didn’t want to dream about righteous winged lions and silent black panthers stalking through the catacombs.

  Chris stayed awake, staring up at the corniced hospital ceiling for a long, long time. She determined then that she would not be frightened away. She would be careful, but she would get to the bottom of things. She would quit accosting Marcus and start trying to charm him again. The answers were somewhere….

  The galleries, she had to get back to the galleries again. Her earring had to be there, along with the note. If she could just find the note…

  Then she could prove to Marcus that everything she was saying was true. Except that…except that she already thought he believed her, no matter what he said. He did know that something was going on.

  Chris let out a little sob. Marcus…Marcus was the worst of it all. Insanely, she was falling in love with him. Sometimes she hated him, and she was afraid to trust him. But she was falling in love with him.

  Marcus…if she could just sway him to her side. If she could only get him to talk to her…

  * * *

  While Chris finally drifted into a restless sleep, Marcus paced the doctor’s office below. Dante Rosellini was an old family friend, and Marcus trusted him, but he was still worried. He had already spoken to Dante—enough for his friend to know he felt there was a great deal wrong. But now this! These damn pills were going to derail his plans of making Christina sweetly, deliriously, pliantly tipsy.

  His left hand was in his pocket as he moved about pensively; in his right he clutched a small container of white pills.

  “Does she have to take these, Dante?”

  Dante Rosellini frowned. “No, Marcus. She does not have to take them. They are only a mild tranquilizer…to take the edge away from things. But they are not necessary. Why?”

  Marcus grimaced. “I was anxious to take her to dinner tomorrow…and to ply her with a little wine. She really is all right?”

  Dante arched a knowing brow. “She is fine. I have kept her here purposely to assure it. And, Marcus, there is nothing wrong with you taking her to dinner. Nor with ‘plying her with a little wine.’ But if you intend to do so, then do not let her take the pills. But I don’t understand this. I’ve never known you to have the need to coerce a woman to your will!”

  “I have a need to protect this particular woman,” Marcus responded quietly. “And I’m afraid I’ll have to coerce her to do it.”

  “I’m not so sure I like this.”

  “I don’t like it myself, Dante. Trust me. I have her very best interests at heart!”

  Dante Rosellini shrugged and lifted his hands. He pushed his chair back and walked around to lean back on his desk, watching Marcus astutely. “What are you up to, my young friend?” He grinned suddenly. “I cannot believe that this is a new form of conquest for you.”

  Marcus sighed. “No…not exactly.” He sighed. “I wish she would leave Italy, but she is not going to do that.”

  “Mia bellisima? My pretty little patient? You are worried. What is it that you suspect?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know where the truth lies anymore.”

  Dante Rosellini walked around his desk again and sat in his chair. “You blame her for your father’s death—”

  Marcus interrupted him with a grunt of impatience. “I never blamed a child—”

  “But you do—in a way. From what you say, you are refusing to trust her. Open your eyes to the things around you. You came to me to tell me about the staircase. You do not even trust your family. I suggest you find your answers quickly.”

  “I plan to,” Marcus said quietly. He shook the little bottle of pills. “I just want to keep her alive while I do so and discover what it is she really wants.”

  “I just wish I knew exactly what you were doing,” Dante said seriously.

  Marcus paused, then sighed, and fully explained himself. Dante stared at him, not sure whether to smile, or protest emphatically.

  “It’s a rash plan and very dramatic. And I’m going to pretend that you never told me about it.”

  “Do you see another, if she refuses to leave?”

  The doctor sighed. “No. I hope it will be enough. Perhaps you should be making a few demands
on your family.”

  Marcus laughed with little humor. “I can hardly see anyone admitting to blackmail or murder. Can you?”

  “Perhaps not, perhaps not. Ah, well. Best wishes—and salute!”

  “Thanks,” Marcus said dryly. “Arrivederci, and oh, per favore, tell her that I will come at about five o’clock.”

  “Si,” Dante murmured unhappily.

  Marcus left the hospital and returned to the palazzo in the launch. As soon as he arrived he went to check the staircase. It had been fixed and completely checked for faults. It was now in excellent condition. The carpenter had told him that the only way the wood might have fallen in was if it had been purposely weakened.

  The palazzo was quiet. It seemed as if it slept, along with its inhabitants. Marcus walked slowly up to his room, but he didn’t turn on the light. Instead he slipped out onto the terrace and into Christina’s room.

  He sat on the bed, smiling sadly as he smoothed a hand over the cover. “Amore mio,” he murmured. “You came, and you changed everything. You changed me.”

  Changed him, yes. In many ways. He had never known fear like this before, because he was afraid for her. He had held her, kissed her, felt her sleek body grow fevered next to his. He knew the light scent of her French perfume in his sleep; it haunted his dreams. Her shape, supple, rhythmic, alive and lovely. Her eyes, as rich as honey, as tawny as those of the lioness. She was a challenge, a fighter—and a temptress, and he could all too easily be tempted. A touch, a glance, and he had wanted her. He had known that she would be a glimmering fire. Warm and sweet, a tempest. He could still feel the wonder of her breasts, filling his hands, taunting his senses along with the taste of her lips, her throat.

  She hated him. She was drawn to him. If only they had met on a beach in France, or on a ski vacation in Switzerland.

  But they hadn’t. She was James Tarleton’s daughter returned. And she had stirred up embers of the past that were setting a slow fuse to the present.

  He stood abruptly, walking back out to the terrace. She was really going to hate him by tomorrow night, he thought dismally. But he really had no choice. He could prove nothing; he didn’t even know what to suspect. And the only thing he could do until he trapped the attempted killer was protect her with all he had to give.