The Di Medici Bride

by Heather Graham

  As Tony started down the hall, Chris turned to Marcus. “My purse!” she whispered. “It’s back in the robotronics room—”

  He caught both her hands. “I’ll get it. And I’ll be waiting for you in the entryway. One hour.”

  Chris nodded and headed away from him. She felt him following her. At her door she paused, staring at him.

  He smiled. “I just wanted to see you get to your room.”

  She smiled and hurried inside.

  “Use your lock,” he told her curtly, and then he was gone.

  Chris showered, shampooed and dried her hair, then dressed in the new black cocktail gown she’d purchased. She was nervous, excited, apprehensive and exhilarated. She was going to get away from the palazzo with Marcus. And somehow…somehow she would force him to get to the bottom of things.

  Unless he was there himself…

  No!

  Chris gave herself a critical gaze in the mirror. The gown was dazzling, low-cut, sheer, with a V at her back. The skirt was fluted; it swirled with her every movement. Her hair was clean and swept around her shoulders in shining waves. She closed her eyes; she could and would be charming. She would disarm the man….

  She would have to, she realized. Because the hooded figure would really be after her now.

  Chris glanced at the old German clock on her dresser. Her hour was up. She exited her room and came to the balcony. Marcus was at the entryway; he looked up, saw her and smiled, a devilish fire in his eyes. He whistled softly, a low sound that warmed her from head to toe. She smiled dazzlingly in return and started down to him.

  He was in black, too. Black tux, black vest. A stark-white shirt emphasized his dark looks, the indigo intrigue of his eyes, the hard lean strength of his frame. She had never seen him more handsome or compelling. More like a black panther than ever, sleek and cunning and at home with the night.

  Chris took a deep breath as she reached him, and offered him another smile. He took her hand and slowly kissed it, his eyes touching hers. She would be all right, she promised herself. She was quite certain she knew the nature of her prey.

  CHAPTER 8

  He had a hired gondola waiting for them by the steps. She raised her eyes in inquiry, aware that he usually preferred to use the family’s own means of transportation.

  He smiled and took her hand to help her into the boat. “It’s our grand night out, remember?” he whispered softly, and she shot him a seductive look in return. His breath caught momentarily in his throat; she was stunning, all the more so in beautiful motion. In the arresting black gown she moved like the waves of the sea, like a soft cloud floating across the sky, lulling, beguiling. When she smiled at him, he felt as if strings inside him tautened, as if, should she beckon, he would follow her anywhere, through all the fires of hell and back again….

  Ah, but I am the puppeteer, and she the dancer on the strings tonight, he reminded himself.

  He kept smiling as he seated himself beside her. The scent of her perfume was subtle; it wafted around him like a woven chain of golden angel’s hair.

  The gondolier pushed away from the Palazzo di Medici.

  Marcus reached beneath the seat and produced a chilled bottle and two frosted glasses. She laughed lazily, easily; her eyes were a brilliant burst of gold and green beneath the sensual heavy-lidded crescents of her deep-honey lashes.

  “Wine, on a gondola?” she inquired.

  “Asti spumante,” he returned, handing her a glass and adding lightly, “It’s the only way to see Venice, you know.”

  “Is it?”

  “Of course.” He entwined his elbow with hers, careful not to spill the sparkling liquid. He took a sip, watching her do the same. The gondola was cushioned, and he leaned back on one elbow, inviting her to follow suit. Her lashes lowered briefly; a small secretive smile curled her lips. When her lashes rose again her eyes were bright, like topaz in the night, and he knew that they were playing a game of cat and mouse, circling warily, and that there was a very dubious distinction between the role of cat and the role of mouse. She was out for something; she intended to play things her way and win. That was why she was with him. But tonight the round was going to go to him.

  Still, there was no reason for her to realize that yet.

  He leaned over and brushed her lips with a light kiss. She seemed perfectly relaxed, ready to purr at his touch. He kissed her again, dumping his champagne overboard as he did so.

  “You’re not drinking up,” he told her softly. “We’re out to forget everything, to watch the moon, to see Venezia as lovers might.”

  She allowed him to refill her glass, as he did his own. She cast her left elbow over a cushion, stretching her body luxuriously near his, idly playing with the lapel of his jacket. “Marcus, it would be much easier to enjoy the night if you would admit a few things.”

  “Such as?” He caught the fingers that teased his chest, uncurled them slowly and kissed her palm.

  “Your glass is empty again,” she told him, taking over the role of hostess.

  “And so is yours.”

  “So it is…”

  She poured more asti spumante for them both, stretching one arm over the side of the boat. He pretended not to notice as she dumped hers overboard.

  “Marcus,” she murmured, resting her head against his shoulder.

  “Hmmm?”

  “You know that Alfred was being blackmailed. Admit it.”

  “We’re not here to talk about Alfred.”

  He ran his fingers through her hair, smoothing it from her face as the breeze lightly tossed it about. Her cheek felt as soft as a rose petal.

  Another gondola passed. The young couple in it laughed and called out to them in Italian, and threw flowers on board. Chris laughed as she clutched the flowers. The moon played on the water; the lights on the palaces they passed added hues of sparkling crimson to the deepest blue. They passed St. Mark’s Church, and she smiled up at the winged lion.

  Her head still lay against his shoulder. “Marcus, you think someone in your family is involved in something, don’t you?”

  He ran his finger slowly over her lower lip. “I think you’re involved in something.”

  “Me?”

  “You do keep turning up in the strangest places. And you did say that you were after Alfred’s money. And it seems that you managed to obtain it.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” she began, and then she laughed. “I told you why I was in the galleries—”

  “Yes, you told me what you chose to.”

  “And you have told me nothing.”

  “But perhaps,” he whispered softly, nuzzling her ear, “you will persuade me to do so. Ah, here’s the restaurant.”

  Inside, they were led to a secluded booth, with the water before them. He sat beside her, slipping an arm around her shoulders. He explained all the items on the menu. When the antipasto came he teased her into feeding him olives, and his teeth lingered over her fingers, his tongue playing across their tips. In the black gown, her shoulders bared, her hair a cascade of tawny silk about them, she was very beautiful and very exotic. He had to remind himself that he didn’t really trust her in the least, that she had airily proclaimed herself a huntress….

  And that he knew damned well she was on the hunt right now.

  He smiled. “More wine?”

  “You’ve hardly touched yours.”

  “Oh, on the contrary! I’ve finished it.”

  “Let me pour you more.”

  “Ah, not without you!”

  Her smile was a little weak, but she accepted more of the sparkling wine. How much had she consumed?

  Quite a nice amount, he calculated, smiling as he watched her drain her glass along with him.

  The rest should be very, very easy.

  He teased her again, telling her that he divulged his deepest secrets when the vintage was right. She kept drinking to keep him drinking.

  And he kept smiling, subtly amused. She was forgetting that he was an I
talian—raised on wine.

  Between the pasta and the scungilli he led her to the dance floor. She moved like a ripple of water, graceful, sensual. He allowed himself to inhale the fragrance of her hair and flesh, to savor the brush of her body against his.

  By the time they finished dinner she was giggling delightedly at his stories. She leaned against him as they walked out and tripped over the dock, still laughing when he swept her into his arms to carry her onto the gondola. Her head was tilted back; her eyes met his. They were cat’s eyes, topaz, sizzling with laughter, sensual as a purr, as the soft touch of her fingers against his cheek. He waved a hand at the gondolier and sank to the cushions, holding her, smiling as she trustingly curled her arms around his neck. He kissed her, long and deeply, his hands molding over her shoulders, enjoying the satiny feel of her arms, finding her breast in the shielding darkness, curving over it, loving the way it filled his hand.

  And then he held her against him, shuddering, forcing himself to become remote. They were almost there.

  The gondola rocked against the dock. “Come on,” he whispered to her.

  “Where are we?”

  “An old church.”

  “Oh, you’re going to buy it?”

  He grunted, helping her from the gondola. She tripped again, laughing, smiling up at him. A twinge of guilt touched him; he was taking a very drastic measure. As she stared up at him, smiling with her wide topaz eyes, he reminded himself that though she might be as sweet as a kitten now, she had the claws of a tigress when she chose.

  “Oh, Marcus! These steps…they’re moving!”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll help you.”

  “Will you help me, Marcus?”

  “Of course.”

  They walked into the nave of the old building. She stared up, fascinated by the frescoes on the wall. He tugged at her arm. “Come on, the priest is waiting for us.”

  “Oh, we’re going to get a tour!”

  “Something like that.”

  He held her tightly as they walked up the aisle. The priest was there, along with his clerk and a cleaning lady.

  “Oh, they’re on the tour, too!”

  “Yes. Listen to what he’s saying.”

  Marcus glanced at the priest and nodded. The man began a monotonous chant in Latin.

  “I don’t understand him!” Chris whispered, and then she giggled.

  “Just nod and say si when I tell you.”

  She did so. Then the priest served Mass. Chris tried to suppress a giggle when he came out with the chalice.

  “Oh, Marcus! More wine! I really can’t.”

  “Just a sip.”

  And then it was over. Done. The priest blessed them. All she had to do was sign a certificate.

  “What is it?” Chris queried.

  “Just a register. It says that…you’ve been a guest.”

  “Oh.” She signed her name with a lovely flourish. “And now?”

  “Now we’re going home.”

  “Yes, I really think that I should. I’m so tired all of a sudden….”

  She practically collapsed in his arms. Marcus picked her up easily and paid the priest a very hefty sum for his evening’s work.

  He carried Christina out to the gondola and told the gondolier to return to the palazzo as quickly as possible.

  At the steps he also paid that man very well. Then, hoisting her in his arms, he entered the main entry hall, where he heard voices from the courtyard. He hurried up the stairs.

  In his room, he laid her on the bed. She was light and limber, floppy as he set her down. “Marcus…” she murmured, and she tried to sit up, throwing her arms over his shoulders.

  “Shhh, you can sleep now, Christina.”

  She opened her eyes and smiled in a daze. “Hold me, Marcus. The boat is rocking.”

  He held her for a moment, then pressed her back to the bed. She brought her palm gently to his cheek. “You really are a nice guy, Marcus.”

  “Yes, I’m just charming,” he muttered dryly. “Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

  He slipped onto the terrace and into her bedroom, where he found one of her gowns. When he returned her eyes were closed, and she was curled up with a pillow. He tried to pull it away from her. She smiled and murmured something, pulling it closer. He sighed, then pulled off her shoes and stockings. She laughed and wiggled her toes. “Marcus, you’re tickling me.”

  I’m tickling you! he thought, dismayed at the hot rush of desire that ravaged his body as his fingers touched the bare flesh of her thighs. “Sit up, Chris,” he told her harshly. “You can’t sleep in that thing.”

  He pulled her up, and she fell limply over his shoulders. He fumbled with the hooks at her back, then managed to pull the dress over her head. She fell back against him, her bare breasts crushed to his chest. He pushed her gently away and felt that fullness again, flesh that was soft, breasts that were firm and beautiful and shapely, rose peaked, and so tempting that he groaned. In the morning, she would hate him. If only she were screaming and yelling now…

  “Marcus…” she whimpered softly.

  He laid her back on the bed, closing his eyes and shuddering fiercely. He reached for her nightgown and opened his eyes. For a second he paused, breath drawn. She was stunning. Tanned and slim, with haunting dips and shadows; long, long limbs, sinewed, firm; a curving waist; a rounded bottom hidden by the thinnest wisp of lace.

  He raised her again, fumbling with the white gown. Her breast brushed against his arm, and he muttered several soft curses in Italian. Finally he got the gown over her head and pulled over her torso.

  But his nerves were shot. He quickly smoothed the gown down and pulled the covers over her. Then he walked to the terrace to allow the breeze to cool his burning flesh and painful desire.

  At length he meticulously stripped off his own clothing and crawled into the bed beside her, keeping his distance. It was difficult. Her back was to him, but she kept inching over. Her derriere became a soft battering ram against his hips.

  “Ummm…Marcus,” she muttered. He gritted his teeth together, then turned to hold her, fitting his arm around her, his hand at the curve of her breast. He cursed himself a thousand times over. She was pliable. As soft and pliable as a kitten purring beside him. He need only encourage her and she would turn to him….

  Strange, he reflected in haunting agony, it didn’t really bother him a bit that he had conned and coerced and deceitfully tricked her into marriage. It was the only way that he could stay beside her and protect her. But no matter what she did, he couldn’t allow himself to take sexual advantage of her. No matter how much he wanted her. One day he would have her. But she would know all about it. Her heart and soul would be as willing as her supple sensual body.

  Lying there seething, fuming, aching—screaming inside—he forced himself to plan for the morning. She was going to be in a rage, so it would be most effective for him to take the offense.

  When she awoke he would be ready. Waiting, watching, poised for attack and as hard as rock.

  And when morning came he was ready. He saw her awaken; he saw her confusion and her horror. And when her eyes met his with topaz fury and accusation, he smiled….

  “Buongiorno. Buongiorno, amore mio,” he drawled softly. Then he stalked slowly toward the bed and sat down beside her. His eyes were hard, his body tense, his voice taunting and implacable.

  It was time to tell her—if she didn’t remember—that the game had been played for real. The laughter was over, along with the cautious circling; she had to be made aware that his actions were in deadly earnest and that she couldn’t fight him. Whatever he said or did, she would have to support him and be the perfect blushing bride.

  Whatever her feelings were—and she looked as if she’d gladly strangle him at the moment.

  She would have to bend to his will. Her life might very well depend upon it.

  But inwardly he flinched at the cold fury and hatred that seemed to gleam from her eyes. He braced him
self and continued to keep his voice cool and mocking. “What? Can she be angry? Dismayed? How so, my love? You wanted a di Medici man. You said so often enough. Well, you’ve gotten one. I could resist the temptation no longer. But perhaps you feel that you brought the wrong di Medici to the altar?”

  He saw her fury increase and her muscles tighten, and he caught her wrists right before she could slap him.

  “Why?” she demanded in a whisper that was violent and heated and incredulous…and very, very hurt.

  He could not apologize, but neither could he remain so hard. “Cara…” Tenderness softened his voice, but he had to play the game out. “Why? Because it was your wish, of course.” He touched her cheek, and again he felt the misery of his betrayal. “Cara…”

  She jerked away from his touch, lowering her eyes. Well, Marcus asked himself dryly, what had he been expecting? He stood up impatiently.

  “We have both known that something had to happen between us. Did you take me for a saint? I have only given you what you wished.”

  She didn’t believe a word of what he was saying…and why should she, when it was all lies?

  “Or perhaps,” he said mockingly, “it was truly Tony whom you wished to captivate. He is the more malleable, is he not? But, alas! As you Americans are so fond of saying, You have made your own bed. Now you shall lie in it.”

  Why was he goading her so? Marcus wondered as one of the silk pillows came hurtling at him.

  Because he couldn’t explain things to her yet. And because he couldn’t bear her hating him.

  And because he wanted her so badly, because he had come to care with such a terrible obsession, and was so terribly worried about her….

  He forced out a dry laugh. “Another cliché, but you’re truly beautiful when you’re angry!” She was… So beautiful as she stared at him with such dismay, such fury—and such hatred.

  “Why?” she raged again.

  “Why? You were there, too, my love. Oh, I admit, we were neither of us completely lucid, but…that is the course of love, my sweet.” He had to get out of there. Away from the reproach in her eyes.

  And he had to announce their marriage.

  He started to open the door. She was out of the bed, racing toward him. “Wait! What are you doing? We have to do something about this. Surely we can arrange an annulment—”