The Di Medici Bride

by Heather Graham

  “It wasn’t at all extravagant or difficult,” Chris retorted cuttingly, then she hesitated. “Until you hit the trapdoor.”

  “If you were being chased the second time, be damned glad that you knew about the trapdoor. Especially,” he murmured softly, “after you’d crashed through the staircase.”

  “You don’t think the staircase was an accident, do you?” Chris demanded.

  “No,” he admitted.

  “And that’s why you pulled the whole marriage thing?”

  He shrugged. “It had crossed my mind before. It didn’t seem that you would leave Venice—until after the wedding,” he added dryly.

  “I was…frightened.”

  “You idiot. You should have been frightened a long time ago,” he snapped at her.

  “Then you’re admitting that my father didn’t kill yours!” Chris exclaimed triumphantly.

  “I’m not admitting anything except that Alfred was being blackmailed. And maybe that he was driven to his death by your cloaked figure. But tell me, what made you believe I might be a part of it all?”

  Chris hesitated. “It seemed as if you were continually showing up exactly where things were happening! And it also seemed as if you needed money.”

  “I see,” he murmured. “But apparently you think that Alfred was being blackmailed because of my father’s death. I was twelve at the time. And if I had known something about my father’s death, I would have shouted it down every street in Italy.”

  “Marcus, let’s assume that my father didn’t kill your father. But Alfred knew who did.”

  “You’re not making any sense. Alfred was the one being blackmailed. Don’t you think that could mean that Alfred was the one who killed him?”

  Chris shook her head. “No, I think that Alfred was protecting someone else. Marcus, that has to be it. Because if the blackmailer has turned to me, and someone is trying to kill me, then it must be because the blackmailer has something to say about someone who isn’t dead.”

  “All right, so we go over everyone on the boat that day,” Marcus murmured. “Your father, my father. Our mothers. Alfred and Sophia. Genovese, Joe and Fredo. We’ve decided to leave ourselves out, right?” he queried a little sarcastically. “And Tony…he was too small to have killed my father.”

  “We probably need a motive,” Chris murmured uneasily, looking down at her hands, then straight into his eyes. “Marcus, I know that your parents were fighting that day. And you lied to me about something. You told me that only you and Tony have keys to the galleries. Your mother has one, too.”

  He emitted an impatient oath that made her cringe a little. “I didn’t tell you because you’re dying to condemn my mother. And you’re forgetting something.”

  “What?”

  “My mother adored my father.”

  “Yes, but crimes of passion—”

  “Get off it, Chris!”

  “Fine!” she snapped angrily. “Let’s hang my father, but God forbid we touch your precious noble family!”

  He pushed back his chair and stood, taking his wineglass with him as he strode into the living room and sat on one of the modular sofas. “Why don’t you quit with the attack and take a wider look at things?” he demanded coolly.

  Chris began to pick up their dishes, scraping them distractedly and almost throwing them into the sink. “I am looking at things in a broad sense. You’re not. And I don’t believe a word you’re saying, because you obviously think it’s someone in your family or else you wouldn’t have pulled this marriage bit.”

  “Leave the damn dishes alone!” Marcus muttered. “And come over here so we can get on with this.”

  “You walked away from me!”

  He leaned back, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. “Chris, we’re not going to get anywhere arguing about this. Bring your wine over here.”

  She compressed her lips and stiffly complied with his suggestion, sitting primly on the edge of the sofa. He smiled and stretched out a hand, running his fingers over the tense muscles in her back. Chris despised her instant reaction to him; she remained straight, but longed to curl up against his bare shoulder.

  “Ease up,” he warned her softly.

  “I saw the person in the cloak again today,” Chris told him.

  “Where? When?”

  “Right before you grabbed me at St. Mark’s Square. And whoever it was that called me left a note telling me that I had been followed.” She hesitated briefly. “That’s why I was so frightened today, Marcus. I had seen the figure—and then there you were. And then that night when I went through the trapdoor…you were there, too, and so was the cloak.”

  His hand paused on her back. “Chris,” he murmured, “there’s another chute into the crypt.”

  “There is?” she demanded, startled. “Where?”

  “Into the section where we really keep the family skeletons.”

  “But I thought that was completely walled off.”

  “So did I—until that night.”

  Chris shivered and took a long sip of her wine. “I got another note today, Marcus. One telling me that di Medici brides belong in the di Medici crypt.”

  “Damn it, Chris!” he exploded. “If you had told me about all of this I would have been in a much better position to trace what was going on! Have you still got all these notes?”

  “The two from today,” she murmured. “I never found the blackmail note.”

  “Well, give them to me in the morning. I want to get them to the police.”

  Chris nodded.

  “What are we going to do now?”

  He didn’t answer right away. She sensed that he was smiling, and she turned to look at him. He was smiling, but he appeared tense, wired, and his eyes had a heavy-lidded glittering sizzle to them.

  “Go to bed,” he drawled softly in reply, causing her to flush and lower her lashes.

  “Together?” she heard herself murmur stupidly.

  He laughed. “It’s what I had in mind.” He reached up and plucked her wineglass from her fingers, drawing her into his arms. “Unless,” he demanded a little tersely, “our conversation has given you an aversion to the idea.”

  She met his eyes, her own wide. “No,” she said simply. It was enough; it satisfied him.

  He stood, then walked around to check the door and turn off the lights. Chris rose herself, walking to the stairs ahead of him and pelting up them.

  Tonight…tonight she was glad of the darkness. He was still new to her; the shattering excitement was still new to her. So new that she felt she needed the gentle cover of the night.

  A little breathlessly she shed her robe and slipped naked beneath the covers, pulling them to her chin.

  A few minutes later she saw his silhouette as he silently entered the room on his bare feet. She heard the rasp of his zipper and a soft thud as his pants fell to the floor.

  She felt his naked flesh as he crawled in beside her. Her nerves seemed to dance with that simple pleasure, with anticipation.

  But he didn’t reach out for her right away. He propped himself on one elbow, and in the soft moonglow she could see his eyes and the small smile curving his lips. He did touch her then, placing his palm between her breasts, feeling the wild and erratic beat of her heart.

  “It thunders like a frightened rabbit,” he murmured lightly, and then his fingers curled and his palm closed over her breast, stroking. She moaned softly and moved against him, touching his chest, then running her hand down the length of his body, over his hips and toward his thigh. He leaned to kiss her lips, to trace them with his tongue, and then to brush light kisses over her cheek until he reached her ear, where he murmured softly, “If you wish something, cara, you must learn to reach out for it.”

  She hesitated just a second, feeling her heart skip a beat, then thunder again. Then she did reach for him, feeling hot flashes invade her body with sweeping delight at the passion she discovered. He moaned deeply, clutching her shoulders, caressing her breasts, brus
hing her knees apart to stroke her thighs and play between them.

  “Oh,” Chris whispered, burying her face against his neck, feeling on fire.

  Suddenly his hands were raking through her hair, holding her head still, and his lips were on hers with a ravaging hunger. Chris shuddered with delight, then started at the smooth but shattering thrust of his body as he entered her. She welcomed him with a burning heat, crying out in wordless delight at his abrupt invasion, amazed at the pleasure of just feeling him inside her. She wrapped her legs tightly about him, absorbing the deep thrust, shuddering again and again as he filled her with wild rhythms and an exotic heat. This time she realized that, as sweetly primal as it was with him, it was more than sex. Her delight was in holding him, in feeling totally that he was hers. Perhaps that was also a primal feeling: holding, cherishing, nurturing the man that she loved. Being the woman that he needed. Feeling his hands and his lips as he moved, the moist heat of his kisses and his body. Wanting not only the glorious sensation of total release, but the gratitude of knowing that she, her breasts, her thighs, her hips, her flesh, her movements, were his and he was hers. She was his need, his desire, as much a part of him as he was of her. It was, for these moments, being totally possessed, while losing nothing. The reward was in being his woman…his wife.

  She realized then, too, that it would always be different with him. Sudden hot passion at times, slow building delight at others. He was as unpredictable as a black panther. As sleek and wild as that cat of the night.

  “Cara,” he murmured again, and he whispered things to her in Italian, things that urged and encouraged and abetted the running quicksilver in her blood, sending her thoughts spinning away on clouds, causing her body to tremble with fever and urgency. She was shuddering, writhing…exploding above the clouds, and shivering again with the wonderful possessive feelings and the warmth of him inside her. His warmth was with her still, even as he left her to roll to his side and pull her close.

  Chris inhaled deeply and sighed with a contented little catch. His fingers moved idly, gently against her hair. She rested her head against the damp strength of his chest, wrinkling her nose slightly as the dark hair there tickled it. She wrapped her arm about his waist, happy as she felt his light kiss upon the top of her head.

  She yawned and drifted quickly into a pleasant totally contented sleep.

  Morning had broken when she opened her eyes again. The sun was streaming through the windows, and a variety of birds were carrying on a trilling cacophony.

  Chris knew she was alone in the bed. The sheets beside her were cold. She gazed toward the window, and as she expected, Marcus was there leaning against the frame, staring out at the day as he sipped coffee. He was in a robe, the sun touching the gold medallion on his chest.

  Today he didn’t know that she had awakened; he wasn’t waiting for her to open her eyes. She was able to study him for several seconds without facing the too-knowing indigo depths of his eyes.

  A little chill crept through her at the sight of him. The sunlight seemed to make his reflections evident. His position was relaxed and thoughtful; his eyes were intense. Chris knew that he was thinking about the situation…or perhaps not thinking, but worrying. And Chris thought at that moment that his preoccupation stemmed from his own fears.

  Because it was very probable that his mother or his brother was involved.

  She closed her eyes quickly. Tony di Medici certainly hadn’t killed his own father. But wasn’t it possible that he could have been capable of blackmail? How, why? Because the di Medicis had expensive tastes. Because it might be very easy to stumble upon information that someone else would be willing to pay to have kept silent…

  Not Tony, Chris thought painfully. Tony…who had been fun and caring. Tony, who had really welcomed her…

  If not Tony, there was Gina di Medici. Had Gina been angry enough to kill her husband? Would Alfred Contini have paid a blackmailer to protect Gina?

  “What are you thinking?”

  Chris opened her eyes. She hadn’t heard Marcus move, but he was standing beside the bed, smiling down at her with amusement easing some of the intensity in his eyes.

  She blinked, hugging her pillow and smiling ruefully in return. “I was thinking about…our mystery,” she told him.

  He sat down, tracing a finger over her shoulder, offering her his coffee cup. Chris accepted, warmed by the intimacy of his action, watching his dark lashes shield his eyes and his thoughts.

  “That wasn’t the answer I was expecting,” he teased her when he met her eyes again. “As a loving bride, you should have been thinking about our night together. You should have been wondering where I was…and longing to have me beside you again.”

  Chris smiled, lowering her gaze, a little flush coloring her cheeks. She took a sip of the hot coffee, keeping her eyes averted from his. Yes, I was thinking about you, too, she thought. But I’ve thought of you since I first saw you. I lay awake often wondering what it would be like….

  And now I know, and I’m more hopelessly tangled within your web than ever. Body and soul, I need you and I want you, and God forbid you ever know how much, because it would be terrible to be so sadly pathetically vulnerable to a di Medici man.

  “I, uh, can’t help but worry…” she murmured as she sipped the coffee again.

  He took the cup from her and set it down, then tugged at the pillow she was clutching to her breasts. Chris released it, meeting his eyes.

  “We’ll worry together…soon,” he told her, and a hot vibrant shuddering took hold of her body as he swept his arms around her, rolling her against him. She felt the sleek hardness of his body, the implacable power and desire, and with a little sigh she gladly left all thought until later. Marcus would have it no other way.

  Di Medici. At that moment she was Christina di Medici. His wife, lying in his arms, thrilling to his touch. She was madly in love with him, beneath his spell as she had never thought she could be. It didn’t matter that her life might hang by a dangerous thread. When he touched her, when she burned and trembled and he moved like an all-consuming and demanding flame, she wanted nothing more than to give herself to that spiraling blue heat.

  * * *

  It was afternoon before they went downstairs.

  Chris followed Marcus into the kitchen, where they prowled around the refrigerator and cabinets until they came up with a large stick of pepperoni, an assortment of cheeses and a thick loaf of Italian bread. They carried it all out to the sofa, placing the food between them. The inevitable bottle of wine was between them, too, and Chris stared at it warily as if it were a snake. She believed now that Marcus would never really hurt her, but she had learned that he could be manipulative when he so chose, and she didn’t want to be manipulated again. He wasn’t being entirely honest with her; he didn’t intend to tell her his thoughts or his feelings—and she wasn’t about to be his puppet again, whether she was in love with him or not.

  Marcus broke the bread and handed her a piece. “The first thing we have to realize here is that there are two people involved. The blackmailer and whoever the blackmailer is afraid of. Possibly the one who killed my father, assuming that your father didn’t.”

  “The figure in the cloak,” Chris murmured, taking a bite of her bread. She was famished again. Being with Marcus was like touching the moon. It was also pleasantly exhausting, and had a tremendous effect on her appetite.

  He gazed at her briefly, his eyes opaque as they traveled over her. “Yes, the figure in the cloak. It seems to me that Alfred must have had the note from the blackmailer. He was showing it to our mystery figure and saying that he didn’t feel like paying up anymore. If he wasn’t going to pay up, the figure apparently decided that he should die. Am I making sense so far?”

  “Perfectly,” Chris agreed. “So, if we catch the blackmailer, we can catch the murderer. And both of them had to be on the boat the day that your father died. That means your mother, Sophia, Genovese, Joe or Fredo.”

&nbs
p; “Or one of us.”

  “The children?”

  “Tony, you or I.”

  “I’d thought we’d decided that we were innocent.”

  He shrugged. “I think it’s a fair decision. We have to let your mother out, too, because she isn’t in Italy.”

  “That’s big of you,” Chris muttered dryly.

  Her comment drew a sharp look, cold as the moon’s blue gaze. “Your father still isn’t exactly in the clear,” he told her.

  “But my father is dead,” Chris replied coolly. “He isn’t running around Italy, either. Unless you think his ghost is dressing up in a cloak to haunt me. Which seems unlikely, since he’s my father.”

  “You’re not amusing, Christina.”

  “And you don’t want to face facts.”

  “Oh, stop it, Christina! We have no facts to face! You were so determined that you were the angel of righteousness that you didn’t tell me anything when something could have been done. We have nothing—nothing—Christina.”

  “How could I tell you anything? You appeared everywhere there was trouble, and you didn’t want to listen to a word I had to say! Then you seduced me into marriage. How far would you trust a man like that?” Chris demanded angrily.

  He tossed one of the cheeses into her lap, rising with a swift movement to step behind her and catch her shoulders beneath his hands. He whispered heatedly in her ear.

  “You are the cat burglar who breaks into galleries. Who makes sudden appearances to con old dying men out of their money. Perhaps you want the palazzo, too. You’ve gotten everything you wanted, haven’t you?”

  “No,” Chris lied, wrenching herself from his touch. She met his dark gaze with a tawny fury glittering in her eyes. “I wanted Tony, remember?” she taunted.

  “Ah, yes, sorry,” he murmured, moving back around the sofa to pour wine into their glasses. “But you got me,” he added softly.

  “I don’t have anything, and I don’t want any wine.”

  “You’ve got me, amore mio—for the time being—and don’t get any other ideas,” he warned her lightly. “You might as well enjoy some wine, since it improves your disposition, and you’re not going anywhere.”