Played

by Barbara Freethy

  They emerged from the building a few minutes later. Christina had changed into jeans and a sweater and was carrying an overnight bag. They were obviously taking a trip, Evan thought with satisfaction. They were going after her father. He was sure of it.

  Starting the ignition, he waited until they had turned the corner before following them. He caught sight of their car at the stop sign and maintained a discreet distance behind them. His adrenaline began to surge as they got on the freeway heading south. Twenty minutes later J.T. pulled into the parking lot of the San Francisco International Airport. Evan did the same. He retrieved his own small bag from the trunk and meandered along, keeping several people in between them at all times. J.T. looked over his shoulder more than once. So did Christina. But they didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t Stefano anymore; nor was he Evan Chadwick. Today he was Mitchell Holloway, a fifty-something, red-haired male, dressed in a cheap brown suit with a coat that barely covered his paunch. He was also a frequent-flyer business traveler, who was on every airline’s preferred customer list.

  He adjusted his dark glasses as J.T. and Christina made their way into the ticket line at the international terminal. He took a look at the departure board and smiled with pleasure. They were going to Florence, Italy. Well, why the hell not? It made perfect sense. He took out his wallet, his new credit card, and his fake passport. Mitchell Holloway would be traveling to Florence as well, and he was going first class.

  * * *

  It was the longest day of Christina’s life. Sixteen stressful hours on a plane wondering if she’d be arrested during the long layover in Frankfurt or when they eventually landed in Florence had permanently knotted the muscles in her shoulders and neck. Luckily everything had gone uneventfully, and as they hailed a taxi just after four o’clock Sunday afternoon, an entire day later than when they had left, she finally began to breathe easier.

  As the taxi pulled away from the curb, she rolled down her window, eager to get some fresh air and to catch her first glimpse of Florence. It was a beautiful sunny spring afternoon with a royal blue sky and not a hint of a cloud in sight. The road into town weaved through hillsides dotted with cypress and olive trees, and as they neared the city she saw the red-gold roofs of Florence. Her heart skipped a beat. She had been to Rome but never to Florence. Her father had always steered clear of the city in which his own grandfather had been born. She’d asked him many times to take her to the cottage in Tuscany where he used to spend his childhood summers, but Marcus had always come up with an excuse why they couldn’t go. Now she was here, and she leaned forward in her seat, eager to soak in the atmosphere.

  “You look like a kid in a candy store,” J.T. commented, stroking her thigh.

  She gave him a quick smile, feeling a renewed sense of energy now that they were finally in Italy. “I’m excited. I can’t help it. I’m an art historian. For me, Italy is my candy store.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve never been here.”

  “Me either. Florence has so much history, so many famous artists, cultural icons -- Michelangelo, Donatello, Brunelleschi...and let’s not forget Botticelli and Leonardo da Vinci,” she added with a wave of her hand.

  “We also can’t forget that we’re here to find your father and that diamond, remember?”

  “I know why we’re here,” she said with a sigh. “But I can still enjoy the scenery, can’t I? It’s so beautiful. It’s like another world. I almost feel as if I’ve escaped my life, left all my problems back home.”

  “Perhaps momentarily, but I don’t think Evan is far behind us. In fact, he may already be here.”

  She shot him a disappointed look. “Can’t you forget about Evan for one second and just look at where we are?” She gestured toward the view. “Tell me this doesn’t get to you just a little.”

  Dark glasses covered J.T.’s eyes, but she could see the smile on his lips. “Okay, it’s nice,” he said. “What do you want from me?”

  “I know you’re a passionate man. Surely you can do better than ‘nice,’” she teased.

  “Scenery doesn’t turn me on, Christina -- you do.” He leaned in and stole a quick, tender kiss.

  Her pulse pounded at the brief but intimate contact that always left her wanting more. J.T. was fast becoming an addiction -- and one that she was in no hurry to break. She’d grown accustomed to having him at her side. In fact, when he wasn’t there, she felt as if some part of her were missing. She didn’t know how it had happened, how he’d gotten so close to her in such a short time. She’d spent most of her life afraid to get involved with a man, knowing that there were secrets in her life she couldn’t share. But J.T. knew all her secrets. That particular barrier no longer divided them. Not that they were having a relationship, she reminded herself. Whatever this was -- it wasn’t that. Was it?

  She turned her gaze back toward the view, knowing that she had far more important things to worry about than love. But right now all she wanted to do was gaze at the red-gold roofs of the city, the winding Arno River that meandered through town under the famous Ponte Vecchio bridge.

  The narrow brick streets were filled with a mix of old and new buildings. Stern, forbidding palaces and government buildings abutted boutiques, cafés, and bakeries. The Florentines loved their statues. Everywhere she turned she could see sculptures, especially in the Palazzo Vecchio, where a valiant line of heroes greeted them, including Cosimo I on horseback by Giambologna, a copy of the David by Michelangelo, and Hercules by Bandinelli. Oh, how she longed to explore the city, but first things first, she reminded herself.

  The taxi pulled up in front of their hotel, located in a reconstructed sixth-century Byzantine tower and medieval church set in a small, quiet square in Florence’s center. J.T. had left the hotel booking decision to her, and she hadn’t been able to resist getting a room in such a historically interesting building. Someday she would have to figure out how she was going to pay for it all, but at the moment J.T. seemed content to keep charging on his government credit card.

  After asking the taxi to wait, they checked into the hotel, dumped their bags, and headed back out the door. They hoped to catch up to Vittorio Benedetti before evening. They’d already called the house and had been told that Signor Benedetti was not receiving visitors, but they weren’t about to let some housekeeper or personal assistant turn them away. Hopefully J.T.’s badge would convince someone to let them in.

  The Benedettis’ palatial home was set on a narrow street of equally forbidding cold stone mansions. A wrought-iron gate met them at the entrance. There was a definite change of mood in this part of town, one that was not at all welcoming.

  Christina felt her tension return as J.T. opened the gate and stepped inside to ring the bell. She had no idea how they would be received or what the Benedettis knew about her or the diamond theft. Was Vittorio aware that someone had been impersonating his son Stefano? Or was he still in the dark about that? It was more than likely her name had come up, so she and J.T. had already decided that she would play the role of his assistant, Tracy Delgado, for this meeting, so as not to send Vittorio rushing to the phone to call the local police.

  J.T. rang the bell again. Christina shivered. The sun was beginning to go down, and the tall buildings sent dark shadows down the street where they stood. “I don’t have a good feeling about this,” she muttered.

  J.T.’s mouth drew into a grim line. “I don’t either. But I’m not leaving until I talk to someone.”

  A moment later the door opened. An older woman wearing a black dress with an apron tied around her thick waist appeared in the doorway. Her hair was gray and pulled back severely from her wrinkled face. She glanced first at J.T. and said, “Buona sera.” When she turned to Christina, her black eyes widened; her breath quickened. “Isabella,” she proclaimed. She put a hand to her heart and then sank to the floor in a dead faint.

  “Oh, my God!” Christina gasped, exchanging a quick look with J.T. “What happened?”

  J.T. knelt next to t
he woman. “She’s still breathing, but she’s unconscious.”

  “What should we do? Should we call someone? We can’t just leave her here.”

  “Shut the door. At least we’re in the house,” J.T. said in a matter-of-fact voice.

  “We can’t just wander around,” she protested as she closed the door.

  J.T. stood up and moved into the center of a grand rotunda with a marble floor, an enormous chandelier hanging from a twelve-foot ceiling, and a sweeping staircase leading up the stairs.

  “We need to find help,” he said. “Don’t we?”

  “Yes, but--”

  “Don’t worry. This is perfect. We have a great excuse for being inside.” He walked over to the stairs and called out, “Hello? Anyone here?”

  A moment later a young woman came running down the stairs. She appeared to be in her mid twenties and was wearing a black dress similar to that of the woman who was on the floor. Christina thought she was probably a maid and was surprised when the woman called out, “Mama,” and came flying down the rest of the stairs.

  “She fainted,” Christina explained. “We rang the bell, and she answered the door and then she just went down.”

  The younger woman knelt beside her mother and patted her gently on the cheek. The older woman began to stir. She blinked her eyes open, her expression still dazed. Then she looked at Christina, and her eyes widened again. She spit out a sentence in rapid Italian. Christina caught only two words: Isabella and Vittorio.

  “What did she say?” Christina asked the younger woman, hoping she spoke English.

  “She said you must go now, please.”

  The older woman sat up with her daughter’s help. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off Christina.

  “Can we help?” Christina asked. “Can we get your mother a doctor?”

  “She’ll be all right. Please, you must leave. No one is supposed to be in the house.”

  Christina glanced back at the older woman. “Do you speak English?”

  For a moment she thought the woman didn’t understand her, but then she nodded and said, “Si. Yes,” she amended.

  “May I speak to you for a moment?”

  “Help me up,” the woman said to her daughter. With some effort, she got to her feet and smoothed down her apron and dress.

  She looked embarrassed and worried, Christina thought. Why on earth had the woman fainted?

  “We’re looking for Signor Benedetti,” J.T. interrupted, striding back to join them. “Is he home?”

  “The signore does not have visitors,” the older woman said, her voice less shaky now. “If you leave your name, I will give him a message.”

  “It’s too important for a message,” J.T. said. “I’m with the FBI. I’m here regarding the theft of an extremely valuable diamond that belonged to Signor Benedetti. I’m sure he would want to speak with me. Please let him know I’m here.”

  The older woman hesitated. Finally she nodded. “Very well, but only you, signore,” she said in thickly accented English.

  “But I’m with him,” Christina protested. “We’re partners.”

  The older woman shook her head. “You will come with me. I will make you tea. We will go into the garden. You will wait.”

  Christina frowned, not at all happy to be relegated to the position of having tea while J.T. met with Vittorio. Still, it seemed to be all or nothing. She glanced at J.T., who nodded, encouraging her to go with the housekeeper. Maybe it was better if they split up. She might be able to get some information from the woman. “All right,” she said. “I’ll have tea.”

  “Francesca will take you upstairs,” the housekeeper told J.T., and then motioned for Christina to follow her down the hall. She led Christina through a door that opened onto a central courtyard. Christina was surprised to see a beautiful and colorful garden. The house itself was so strong and imposing, so very masculine, that this feminine oasis seemed completely out of place.

  She sat down at a table while the housekeeper excused herself to make tea. As Christina waited, she couldn’t help wondering why she had been barred from the meeting upstairs. She looked up, noting the pulled curtains on the upstairs windows. Who else lived in this house besides Vittorio and the two women? She knew there was another Benedetti brother besides Stefano. Did he live here as well? It was an awfully big house for so few people. A rather sad house, she thought, except for this little garden. She’d felt the coldness the minute she stepped through the front door, an air of grief perhaps. She knew one of Vittorio’s sons had died a few months earlier. Or maybe the sadness was caused by something else, something more mysterious, even sinister.

  Had the old woman recognized her and perhaps put in a call to the local police? Was that why the woman had fainted? Perhaps the Benedettis had been alerted that she and her father were suspected in the diamond theft -- perhaps they’d been given photographs of both of them. Christina jumped to her feet, suddenly swamped with fear. Should she stay and see what was coming or run for her life?

  * * *

  J.T. waited in the upstairs hallway for Francesca, who had disappeared into a room a few minutes earlier. He hoped she would not come back with a negative answer. He wanted to speak to Vittorio Benedetti face-to-face. His instincts told him that it could be a very important meeting, and one that would hopefully put him on the trail to finding Marcus and Evan.

  Francesca returned a moment later. “Signor Benedetti will see you,” she told him, motioning him inside. “But only for a few minutes. He is ill, you know. He must rest.”

  The master bedroom was designed for a king with large, heavy, masculine furniture, a big chest of drawers, a thick carpet on the floor, paintings on the walls, and a sitting area in one corner of the room. Vittorio Benedetti was seated in a chair by the window. His casual clothes hung on his long, thin frame. His hair was white, and his face had the strong, angular planes of a haughty eagle. He might be sick, but he still had a commanding presence. For a moment J.T. almost felt as if he were in the presence of royalty.

  Vittorio waved him forward with an impatient hand. “Francesca said you have information about the diamond.”

  “Yes. My name is J.T. McIntyre. I’m a special agent with the FBI.” He extended his hand to Vittorio, who gave him a surprisingly strong handshake. He took a seat in the armchair across from Vittorio.

  “What can you tell me about my diamond?” Vittorio asked. “That fool Murano says it was stolen right in front of his face.”

  “That’s true,” J.T. admitted. “Did Mr. Murano also tell you that someone has been impersonating your son Stefano at the auction house? He is a well-known con artist who often goes by the name Evan Chadwick.”

  Vittorio’s gaze sharpened. “That explains why Signor Murano kept telling me that Stefano was in San Francisco. I told him that Stefano was not in the States, but he insisted I was mistaken. He said he had seen identification, that the man he spoke to was the spitting image of my son, but it appears that Signor Murano was mistaken.”

  “The disguise was very good,” J.T. said.

  “And this con man has my diamond?”

  J.T. cleared his throat. “No, actually, I don’t believe he does. It’s a complicated situation, but I believe the person who stole the diamond is here in Florence, and that it wasn’t greed that drove the theft, but rather a desire to put the stone back where it belongs.”

  “Where it belongs?” Vittorio echoed in amazement, his thick brows drawing into a tight line. “It belongs to me. Who is this person of which you speak?”

  J.T. hesitated, not sure he wanted to turn up the heat on Christina’s father, but he didn’t have time to mince words. Besides that, he suspected that Vittorio had already been completely briefed on Barclay’s list of suspects. “Marcus Alberti.”

  Vittorio’s face turned to stone, and a white fury filled his eyes, but he didn’t appear surprised, just angry. “Marcus Alberti stole my diamond?”

  “Yes, but you already knew that, didn’t you
?”

  Vittorio gave him a hard look. “How did he do it? How did he steal my stone?”

  “It appears he had a copy made and was able to switch the real thing with the fake without anyone knowing.”

  “Not even his daughter?” Vittorio asked sharply. J.T. would have preferred to omit Christina’s involvement in the matter, but apparently that wasn’t going to be possible. “Not even her. Do you know Mr. Alberti?”

  “I have heard of him.”

  “Really? I understand he spent some time here in Florence. Do you have any idea, if he were here, where he might be?”

  Vittorio stared back at him for a long, tense minute. “No.”

  J.T. didn’t believe him. He was lying. Why? Had the Benedettis stolen the diamond themselves? Had Marcus been telling the truth when he told Christina that the Benedettis had switched the diamond before it had ever gone to Barclay’s? Were they all on the wrong track?

  He caught Vittorio watching him. The speculative look on the old man’s face suggested he was waiting for J.T. to say something or reveal something. What?

  “Can you tell me anything about who owned the diamond before it came into your family?” J.T. asked, trying to find another way to get to the heart of the matter. “Mr. Alberti said something about putting the stone back where it belongs.”

  “It belongs to me,” Vittorio repeated, not a hint of doubt in his voice.

  “Well, let’s just say for argument’s sake that hundreds of years ago it was taken from somewhere. It’s my understanding that the diamond dates back to the fifteenth century. If that were the case, where else might it belong?”

  “I cannot help you,” Vittorio said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” J.T. paused. “I should warn you that I’m not the only one looking for the diamond. Besides law enforcement, the con man who originally intended to steal the stone is also after it. If there’s anything you can tell me to help me get to Marcus first, it would be better for all of us. This man, Evan Chadwick, already impersonated Stefano. That means he knew enough about your family to be able to get Stefano’s identification and to pass himself off as your son. He is dangerous and he is crazy. And he is not to be taken lightly.”