Wicked Temptation (Nemesis Unlimited)

by Zoë Archer

  “Then why go back to England?” she wondered.

  His brow creased in thought. “For all its incessant, infernal rain, its execrable coffee, its stiff-backed propriety, England’s still my home. Where my family is. And my friends,” he added.

  “I thought I had friends in London,” she said wryly. “Funny that when my money disappeared, so did they. But I liked seeing how you and the other Nemesis agents worked together. You’d never turn away from each other.”

  “The hell we would. Anyone who can’t watch the others’ backs is kicked out onto their arse.”

  “They’re an assortment of eccentrics, aren’t they?” she murmured. “No wonder you fit in so well.”

  “Good thing my mother insisted on good manners,” he answered, “or else I’d treat you to one of the many varieties of obscene Italian hand gestures.”

  “Please continue my education.” When he hesitated, she pressed, “Go on. I’m sure your mother would forgive you—or at least not box your ears as hard—if the recipient of said hand gestures wanted to see them.”

  He crossed himself. “Forgive me, madre.” Then he launched into a series of movements with his hands and arms that would make a stevedore blush. She eagerly copied the gestures, as much for the novelty of learning them as to see Marco actually blush.

  The lesson came to an abrupt halt when the ticket collector came by and caught them both in the middle of one of the more filthy gesticulations.

  With his own shocked curse, the collector slammed the door of the seating compartment, muttering in Italian, but she could guess at the meaning. Something about the utter lack of decency in this modern world. And by a lady, too!

  Bronwyn began to laugh. A husky, rich laugh that came from deep in her belly. The first time she’d laughed like this in so long.

  She almost stopped in astonishment when Marco joined her. And together they chortled like escaped bedlamites.

  “They’ll likely ban Englishwomen from Italy now,” she said breathlessly.

  “We’ve started an international incident,” he agreed.

  She wiped her eyes. “If they try me, at least I’ll know what hand gesture to give to the judge.”

  “You’d either be thrown into prison for the rest of your life, or receive a dozen proposals of marriage.”

  She sobered. “Given the choice, I’ll take prison.”

  He went still. “You never said your marriage was as bad as that.”

  The years telescoped back, until she was a young bride again, full of curiosity and hope. And then the dimming of those feelings as reality set in. “Hugh was a cordial and kind husband. But … I don’t want cordiality anymore.” She gazed out the window at the timeless Italian countryside. “I don’t know what I want…” She searched for words for things she herself couldn’t quite understand. “Wickedness.” The stunned faces of Charles and Lydia flashed through her mind. She shook her head. “Doubtful that I could find that in the confines of marriage.”

  “You could always take a lover.”

  “I have,” she answered.

  “After me,” he said.

  Disappointment crested like a wave. She couldn’t do this. “Oh. Maybe … maybe it would be better if we didn’t. If I could find someone more … reliable.”

  She waited for him to say something. That not only did he want to be her lover for a long time, but he also hated the idea of her taking another man to her bed.

  But he didn’t say any of this. He kept silent, and this spoke far louder than any words.

  TEN

  Florence was an enchantment of a city. They reached it just as the sun had begun to set, casting the winding streets in gold light and purple shadows that painted the multistoried buildings and their window boxes of early flowers. The streets themselves were a confusion, and she readily followed Marco—who moved with purpose and direction.

  Every corner they turned they stumbled across either a majestic piazza or church, or statues of gods and angels formed by long-dead masters. Yet even amid the beauty, just as Marco had said, skulked the shade of poverty. Outside magnificent churches, beggars gathered, their faces just as dirty and their clothes just as ragged as the beggars in London. Veterans of wars missing limbs. Women cradling whimpering infants.

  Destitution and want were universal, even in this gemlike city of the Medicis.

  They passed churches and squares, crossed the gilded storefronts that lined the Ponte Vecchio. Went past the famed palace, and wound their way up into the cypress-lined hills that crowded close to the river Arno.

  “Giovanni doesn’t live in the city proper,” Marco said over his shoulder as he climbed the sloping road. He’d already taken them on an oblique route around the city, circling some piazzas, doubling back, using alleys almost no one would ever see. “Too dangerous for a man once in his line of work.”

  “Where might a former”—she lowered her voice to a whisper, even though she spoke in English while everyone they passed only talked in Italian—“spy live?”

  “There.” He nodded toward a medieval tower. “It was once part of the old fortifications. Now it guards Giovanni and his secrets.”

  The tower was set apart from the other homes, surrounded by more ancient-looking cypresses. A handful of lights shone in the narrow windows. The stone exterior was worn from time, but stood strongly, a testament to the long-ago craftsmen who’d built it. Or the assiduous efforts of the current occupant to keep his home from collapsing around him.

  She waited as Marco approached the heavy wooden door and knocked using the heavy iron ring mounted in the center.

  The door swung open, and the man who stood there could have been a giant from a fairy tale, were it not for his modern clothing.

  “Sì?” the massive man intoned. He eyed Marco and the suitcases, and started to shut the door.

  Before he could, Marco said something quickly in Italian. The giant held the door a moment, tilting his head to one side as if considering what Marco had said, then closed the door. Leaving Bronwyn and Marco out in the growing darkness.

  “We came awfully far to get a door shut in our faces,” she noted.

  “Too far to get impatient now,” he answered.

  A moment later, the door swung open again, revealing the giant. Mutely, he stepped forward and took their bags—though she refused to relinquish her violin case—then gestured with his head for them to climb the winding staircase inside.

  She gingerly stepped into the tower, looking up at the stone stairs that twisted over their heads. The entire ground floor of the tower was open, revealing it to be approximately thirty by thirty feet. She was a little disappointed to see no suits of armor, but tapestries did hang on the walls, along with a few modern paintings.

  The enormous man and Marco had an exchange, which Bronwyn couldn’t follow, but at the conclusion of it, Marco said to her in English, “Giovanni’s waiting for us in the third floor parlor.”

  “How many floors does this place have?” she wondered as they started up the staircase.

  “Seven.”

  Hopefully that was a good luck sign that their long voyage to Italy hadn’t been in vain. They climbed the stairs, with the giant continuing past them—presumably to put their luggage in a bedroom on one of the other six floors. On each landing, they passed heavy medieval furniture mixed in with modern pieces, along with more tapestries and paintings. Oil lamps, not gas, burned on the walls. She half expected torches or candelabras heavily enameled with dripped beeswax.

  Reaching the third floor, they found themselves outside a set of elaborately carved double doors. Marco tapped three times before entering, and Bronwyn followed.

  The chamber within had roughly circular walls, and the stones that comprised them were pitted with age. But the room itself was fitted elegantly with more of the amalgam between the old and the new. Having spent the last few days rattling around on trains, Bronwyn thought it felt good to be in a space that wasn’t moving. If anything, the tower and th
is chamber looked as though they could outlast time.

  But her attention was quickly drawn by the man approaching them. He was middle-aged, fair-haired, and trim and handsome in the way of mature men. He stepped forward and shook Marco’s hand, then gave him a kiss on each cheek, all the while speaking quickly in Italian.

  “English, please, Giovanni,” Marco said. “Mrs. Parrish isn’t familiar with the beauty of our mother tongue.”

  “Forgive me, signora.” Giovanni bowed. As he did, he took her hand and kissed it in the manner of an old-fashioned courtier. “I should have known by the flaming beauty of your hair that you were from England’s shores.”

  She blushed at his outrageous flattery. “There is nothing to forgive. Thank you for receiving us.”

  “Ah, she is as gracious as she is lovely,” Giovanni murmured. He turned to Marco, and in that slight movement, she saw the same leashed power in the older man that she witnessed in Marco—though tempered slightly by age. For all his ornate words, this man was just as dangerous as Marco.

  “I am thinking,” Giovanni continued, waving them over to the sofas, “you have befallen some exceptional luck. Why else should you and this beautiful woman arrive at my home like a knife thrown in the darkness?” As everyone sat, his eyes narrowed, and his voice was slightly edged.

  “Les Grillons,” Marco answered without preamble.

  Giovanni’s jaw tightened. “You have brought them to my door?” Despite Marco’s request that they speak English, the Italian man used his native language to curse. Extensively.

  “We’re here and alive,” Marco answered, unfazed by the swearing.

  “So that means they did not follow you? My bodyguard Niccolo is strong, but even he cannot fend off an attack by too many of those Grillons thugs.”

  Marco explained quickly the ways he used to evade the syndicate, which seemed to slightly mollify Giovanni. But tension still radiated from him.

  She wondered if he, too, had knives sewn into his clothing. It was entirely possible. She’d grown to recognize the look of sharp-eyed wariness that spies seemed to possess, even when secure in their homes.

  “But Les Grillons keep their business in France,” Giovanni noted. “We have our own criminal organizations here in Italy. No need to import more.”

  Briefly, Marco described everything that had happened since he’d first set foot in her foyer—it seemed so long ago, and also as quick as a bullet. Giovanni made sounds of shock or grim understanding as Marco’s tale unfolded. Rather, it was their tale, and Bronwyn helped fill in small details as the whole rather sordid history unfolded. Neither she nor Marco thought it fitting to tell Giovanni about making love on the train, but given the speculative look in the Italian man’s gaze when he glanced at her, she saw that he already understood she and Marco had been to bed together.

  The thought made her heart pound tightly. She’d learned his body, and he hers, but there was still a part of him as protected as this tower, and just as likely to topple. Foolishly, she’d hoped that meeting Giovanni—who’d known Marco far longer than she had—would provide a deeper insight into Marco. But the two men circled each other like wary tigers, revealing nothing of themselves.

  At the conclusion of his tale, Marco leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped. “So will you help us?”

  Giovanni let out a deep sigh. “Amici, you have really put yourselves in the fire. And what you ask of me … it could undo all the work I have done to keep the Grillons refugee safe.”

  “Please, Mister … Giovanni,” Bronwyn said. “There’s no need to fear anything happening to that man. I trust Marco with my life. You should trust the Grillons man’s to him, too.”

  Something flashed in Marco’s eyes—surprise, perhaps, at her admission of trust. But he’d shown again and again that he’d never let anything happen to her. Had, in fact, safeguarded her far more than anyone ever had—even her own family.

  Before Giovanni could answer, another man came into the room. He was also of middle years, with thinning brown hair and a neatly groomed beard. “Giovanni,” he said with a distinctly British accent, “we have guests and neither of them have a drink in their hand.”

  “My apologies, Thomas,” Giovanni answered. “I would hate to besmirch your reputation as a host.”

  Thomas went to a sideboard and poured out four cordial glasses of what appeared to be sherry. She murmured her thanks as the man handed a glass to her.

  “Ah, one of my countrymen!” Thomas exclaimed. “What a pleasure to hear our language again. I’m afraid my Italian accent drives Giovanni quite mad.” He handed out the rest of the glasses, then took one for himself and seated himself beside Giovanni.

  He placed his hand on Giovanni’s knee and gave it an affectionate squeeze. It was not the gesture of friendship, but rather, of love.

  Bronwyn struggled to not drop her glass. Instead, she took a shaky sip, trying to steady herself. Of course she’d heard of men like Giovanni and Thomas, but never actually met them. To her knowledge.

  She glanced over at Marco, looking for signs of shock. But if he was caught off guard by Giovanni and Thomas’s relationship, he didn’t show it

  “I endure your dreadful Italian,” Giovanni answered, “for your sake.”

  “You are all graciousness,” Thomas replied.

  “Grazie, mi amore.”

  They didn’t seem odd or degenerate at all. In fact, what struck her about the two men was how very ordinary they seemed, just like any middle-aged couple. Though one of the two was, in fact, a former spy.

  A spy who held the key to getting her fortune back.

  “I must admit my surprise,” Thomas said. “We so seldom receive guests, let alone visitors from as far away as England.”

  “Giovanni and I were colleagues,” Marco said.

  Thomas took a drink of sherry. “Both in the espionage game, then.”

  “He told you about that?” Bronwyn asked, amazed.

  “How do you think we met, my dear?” Thomas answered. “Giovanni was on a mission in England. I was employed at the Treasury, and was supposed to work with him. And then…” His expression turned grim. “There was no place for me in my home country. Not if I wanted to be with Giovanni. So I came here, and he left that work behind. For the most part,” he added wryly.

  “Hard to leave it all behind,” Marco said.

  “I do miss it from time to time,” Giovanni admitted.

  “And I don’t miss having you risking your life every day,” said Thomas. He turned back to Bronwyn and Marco. “I don’t have to worry about that with you two, do I?”

  “It is not my life they want me to endanger,” Giovanni answered before she or Marco could reply. He shook his head. “I cannot give you what you seek.”

  Disappointment arrowed through her. “Please—”

  “No, I am quite certain of this.”

  “But you were our only option…”

  Marco set his glass down on a small table and abruptly stood. “That’s your choice,” he said to Giovanni coldly. “We’ll find some other way. Call your man and have our bags brought down.” He reached for Bronwyn, who had also gotten to her feet.

  Before Giovanni could speak, Thomas rose. “I can’t influence him where his work is concerned, but I refuse to put you out in the cold tonight. You’ll stay here.”

  “Thomas…” Giovanni said warningly.

  But the Englishman scowled at his lover. “I won’t be gainsaid. They’ll dine with us and spend the night here. And then they can do whatever they want tomorrow.” He glanced at Marco and Bronwyn. “You will stay, won’t you? I’m certain all the decent pensiones are full, especially by this hour of the night.”

  Uncertain, Bronwyn glanced at Marco. She detected a hint of reservation in his gaze. But the idea of looking for somewhere else to sleep must have been as unappealing to him as it was to her, because at last he said, “Tonight only. Then we’re off.”

  While Giovanni didn’t l
ook entirely pleased by this arrangement, he said, “Dinner is served at nine o’clock.”

  She had no idea what the next day would bring, let alone how they’d proceed in retrieving her money. There were countless uncertainties when it came to what she and Marco meant to each other. They’d spoken of possibly becoming lovers once the mission was over, but he’d only been able to offer her a very temporary arrangement. Nothing was set. Nothing was sure. Yet, at least for the night, she and Marco would be safe inside this tower.

  * * *

  Bronwyn and Marco were given a bedchamber on the fifth floor. The room itself took up most of the story, with just enough space outside for a landing. Like the parlor, the walls were curved, and timber beams supported the ceiling. But her attention fixed on the enormous four-poster bed dominating the chamber. It looked as though it dated from centuries earlier, with its heavy wood and ornate carvings. Definitely not Gothic revival, but the era itself. Like the tower, it must have sheltered many. Who knows how many had slept in this bed? How many had given birth, made love?

  The thought sent a pulse of heat through her, but she pushed it aside. There were other issues at hand besides the continuous awareness between her and Marco.

  Namely—

  “Did you know?” she asked.

  He checked their bags—presumably to ensure that they hadn’t been tampered with or any of the contents removed. “Know what?”

  “About Giovanni and Thomas.”

  Still, he didn’t look at her. “Does it matter?”

  So he did know. “A little warning would’ve been appreciated.”

  Now he did glance at her, his gaze distant. “Again—does it matter?”

  She didn’t like feeling on the defensive. He’d been the one to withhold information. “I’ve put my life in your hands. Trust works both ways.”

  He shut their suitcases, seemingly satisfied that they hadn’t been tampered with. “I wouldn’t bring you here if I didn’t trust you.”

  “But you left out a crucial bit of information about our hosts.” She planted her hands on her hips.