by Cherry Adair
“Dinner’s ready.” He’d changed into an ill-fitting suit that was too tight for his lumpy body, and he stared at her unblinkingly out of swollen eyes.
“Lead on, Macduff,” Tory said as she pulled on the shoes and picked up the sheer silk scarf she’d tossed on the bed earlier, draping it over her arm.
Giorgio gave her a blank look and gestured for her to precede him. They turned right instead of left this time and continued down an endless corridor, their footsteps muffled by the thick runner.
She caught a glimpse of herself in an enormous mirror at the top of the stairs. The heavily beaded emerald silk gown clung to her body as if it had been painted on. The low-cut, square neckline exposed more of her breasts than was wise, and she could feel her hair caressing her bare back. The billowing sleeves were caught at the wrist with elastic, effectively hiding most of her grimy cast. As she passed the mirror she realized with a sinking heart that while the dress had seemed deceptively modest in the bedroom, when she walked she exposed her leg to midthigh.
She stopped dead at the top of the wide staircase. She must be out of her mind. What had she been thinking about when she’d selected this particular gown? Marc, that’s who.
The last thing she wanted to do was let those men see her like this. Tory quickly turned away from the staircase, almost coming nose to nose with Giorgio, who was right behind her.
He pulled his gun out from under his jacket and leveled it at her chest. “Giú.”
“I have to change,” Tory said firmly, swallowing her heart as he motioned her down the stairs with the deadly weapon.
“Giú.”
“Look,” Tory tried, tiredly. “I’ll take two seconds to find something else and be right back.” There was nothing less revealing. She’d looked. But perhaps she could pull something over the gown….
“Giú. Down.” He pushed the gaping mouth of the pistol at the swell of her breasts, and Tory saw in his eyes how much he would love to pull the trigger.
He was the same height as she was in heels, and she was tempted to call his bluff, but one look at his dark eyes discouraged that idea. She sighed and took the first step down the red-carpeted stairs, holding on to the marble banister for balance.
Between the tightness and weight of the blasted dress and the unfamiliar high heels, she was liable to roll down the staircase and break her neck, so she made her way cautiously into the enormous foyer.
Giorgio grunted at a man standing outside the double doors. The guard swung the door open to the dining room, not bothering to hide the rifle resting over his arm. Tory shivered, tossing the ends of the sheer scarf over her shoulders so that it draped in front, effectively covering her cleavage.
The three men stood as Giorgio led her into the room. A painting the size of a small house adorned one wall. It was a breathtaking depiction of Palazzo Visconti before roads and modern civilization had blotted out the landscape.
The cherrywood dining table probably seated more than fifty people. The three men, still standing, were at the far end. Great. Tory drew in a deep breath, raised her chin and started walking.
“Miss Jones, how nice of you to join us.” Christoph Ragno pulled out the chair beside him, and Tory gratefully sank into it, looking straight into Marc’s eyes across the table.
For a moment she saw blazing heat before he picked up the fluted Baccarat glass beside his place setting and took a sip, his face bland.
“You found things to your satisfaction, I trust?” Tory hated the sibilance of Ragno’s voice.
“Everything was quite satisfactory. No, thank you,” she added, putting her hand over her glass as he held up the bottle of wine.
“You don’t drink, Miss Jones?” Marc asked politely, accepting a refill. He looked devastatingly handsome in a black tuxedo and crisp white shirt. The diamond earring was back, flashing in his ear, and his hair was tied back. He looked exactly the way he sounded—sophisticated, wealthy, British and slightly bored. For a moment his pewter gaze rested hotly on her breasts filmed by the sheer silk.
She forced herself to respond lightly. “Not on an empty stomach, Sir Ian.” She realized she was fidgeting with the silverware and dropped her hands into her lap, managing to shrug enough of her hair over her shoulder to cover more of her chest.
“Your face seems to be swollen, Miss Jones,” Marc said mildly. “You must have taken a nasty spill this afternoon.” If Tory hadn’t jerked her head up to look at him, she would have missed the way his tanned fingers tightened on the stem of his glass and the way his lips thinned.
“Let’s just say I came into contact with an immovable object.” She could feel the heat of Ragno’s warning hand on her silk-clad knee. She twisted her legs out of reach and took a sip of water, giving him a furious glance over her glass.
God, would this never end? Beneath the thin veneer of civilization at the table, the tension in the room could have been cut with a knife. Ragno and Hoag had no idea who Marc really was, she was sure of that. But by the same token she could see that they were both wary of him. Marc appeared mildly bored by the whole thing—unless one caught a glimpse of his eyes, which were simmering with rage every time he looked at her. What was he going to do? How on earth was he going to manage to get both her and Alex out right under the noses of these men?
A white-uniformed waiter entered the room, and Tory felt the rumble of her stomach. She was absolutely starving, and she wondered how her body could still function as if everything were normal.
The food was beautiful to look at and absolutely inedible. The chef might be doing his job, but it was obviously under duress. While she tried to eat what tasted like pure salt, she listened to Marc telling the other two men of his friendship with the absent prince. He talked easily of his business interests in England and Europe. If she hadn’t known better, she would have believed every word. His impersonation was impeccable.
Far from filling the empty void in her stomach, the food, either tasteless or so highly seasoned that she had to gulp her water, had settled like a ball in the nervous knot of her stomach.
The three men didn’t seem to notice that she sat silently without contributing to the conversation. Outwardly, everything seemed surrealistically normal. Conversation flowed, wine was poured, courses served and plates removed and replaced.
It was with enormous relief that Tory saw the last dish taken away, and Ragno suggested coffee in the drawing room.
Marc rounded the table and took her elbow as they preceded the other two men out of the dining room. Tory’s heels clicked on the filthy marble floor, and she was incredibly grateful for his support as they entered the formal drawing room. Her legs felt like jelly, and her heart had taken up permanent residence in her throat. “What the hell induced you to wear—For God’s sake, keep your hair where it is, covering your chest.” Marc gritted under his breath as he led her to a white velvet camelback sofa, his back to the other two. “And smile, damn it.”
Tory managed a credible smile, her heart in her eyes as she arranged her hair so that it pooled in her lap, and the long skirt so that it covered her knees.
Marc settled himself beside her, pinching the knees of his pants and leaning back as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Tory felt perspiration beading her forehead under her bangs.
The other two men took the sofa opposite and Ragno indicated the tarnished, Georgian silver coffee service on the table between them. “Will you pour, Miss Jones?”
Tory shifted on the down-filled cushion, starting as she felt Marc’s hand on her hair. She shot him a startled glance as he pushed her hair back from her face, but leaving long waves discreetly covering her chest.
“You have glorious hair, Miss Jones. I’d hate to see it trailing in the coffee.” For a moment, as their eyes locked, they might have been the only two people in the room.
Marc felt the familiar heat when he touched her. It was an incredible risk that could blow his cover, but ever since she’d walked into the dining room, his finger
s had itched to tangle in the glossy dark curls that flowed down her back and over the tantalizing swell of her breasts.
She avoided looking at him as she handed him his cup. Her face was pale, the swelling of her jaw an obscenity on her clear skin, despite the makeup.
Marc vowed he’d kill the bastard who’d hit her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EVEN WITH HER EYES shadowed, Tory was incredibly beautiful in the figure-hugging green dress, her hair shiny and curling wildly down her back. How the hell had he ever thought her plain?
Marc let out a short frustrated breath and caught Samuel Hoag’s assessing glance across the table. He shrugged as if to say, Yes, I find her attractive.
He knew he was playing a dangerous game. He had to get Lynx out. Tory’s brother wouldn’t be any help with his own rescue. Not with his injuries. But how much longer could Tory hold herself together without breaking? He couldn’t carry them both out of here. Not at the same time.
Studying the two men, Marc mentally tallied everything he knew about them while keeping up his end of the conversation. Out of the corner of his eye he observed Tory wilting against the pillows. After several moments she blinked, then jerked upright and settled the cup back in its saucer, pushing her hair out of the way as she straightened her spine. He almost smiled as she tilted that combative little chin.
Besides the pain from the obvious beating she’d sustained, she must be both exhausted and terrified. They’d been up since the crack of dawn. She’d barely eaten anything at dinner and she’d been to hell and back today. She was holding up remarkably well, he thought, as he drank the strong coffee. He felt a surge of pride.
She’d gone along with his “Sir Ian” cover, but she was off balance and tired. Enough to blow the whole thing. He needed to get her out of the room.
Out of the palace. Off Marezzo.
Tory first, he decided. If he could get her out of the palace, and contact Angelo for pickup, he could sneak back inside and retrieve Lynx.
Yeah. Tory first.
Noticing the subtle tremor in her hands as she clutched the delicate cup, Marc said mildly, “It seems Miss Jones is about to fall asleep in her coffee.” He rose and held out his hand to her. She blinked, her eyes glazed. “Allow me to escort you to your room, my dear.”
Tory took hold of his strong fingers like a lifeline. “Thanks…I’d like to go upstairs now, I have a heada—”
“Giorgio will see her upstairs, Sir Ian. No need for you to bother yourself,” Ragno interjected smoothly, snapping his fingers while pinning Marc with a warning look.
Marc helped Tory to her feet and waited until Giorgio came alongside her. He gave her a small smile and seated himself, watching the sway of her hips in the tight dress as the other man led her away. Her clean, shining hair caught the lights from the overhead chandeliers as it tumbled down her back.
“A beautiful woman,” Marc said, leaning over to refill his cup as the door closed behind her.
Ragno glanced at Hoag and then back at Marc. “The attraction seems mutual, but not particularly wise.”
“Do you think so, old chap? How intriguing.” Marc raised one dark brow with amusement. “I think I’ll have to go up and check on Miss Jones’s…headache.”
Ragno’s eyes went cold. “I wouldn’t be too confident of my welcome if I were you, Sir Ian. Despite the way she was dressed this evening, Miss Jones does not give the impression she is a woman who intends to share her sexual favors with a man she’s just met.” He glanced over at Hoag.
“We could perhaps procure a young lady from the village for Sir Ian, Samuel?”
Marc shot his cuffs as he rose, hiding his irritation with a cocky grin. “No need, old chap. Why send out for someone when I have what I want right here?” His smile widened as he murmured, “I think I’ll just give it a go with my best shot. I say, are you a betting man, Ragno?”
TORY KICKED OFF her high heels as soon as Giorgio left. She was absolutely exhausted, but the coffee was coursing through her system, making her jittery and wired. She paced from one end of the opulent bedroom to the other before pulling at the zipper of her dress. As she was shrugging the heavy gown over her shoulders she heard a brisk knock at the door and her heartbeat sped up again. Surely not Giorgio? He would have just barged in. For a moment she paused, holding the dress securely against her thumping heart.
“Miss Jones?”
Marc. Tory stumbled to the door, tugging at the Queen Anne chair she’d wedged under the handle. She pulled open the door and almost fell into his arms.
She was about to say his name, but he put his finger over her mouth. “I found some aspirin in my room, Miss Jones. These should do the trick with that headache of yours. If you have a couple of glasses you can wash them down with this.” He held up a bottle, and said under his breath, “Invite me in, damn it.”
“That was very…kind of you. Please, come in.” He still wore the tux, but had stripped off his bow tie and loosened the collar of the white shirt. A wedge of dark skin covered with crinkly hair showed through the opening.
He followed her into the room, closing the door behind him. Tory stood next to the bed, her hand still over her chest to hold up the weight of the loosened dress.
“I know you said that you weren’t a drinker, my dear.” He nodded his approval of the chair by the door. “But I think a couple of these and a glass of good Italian wine will fix you right up. You should sleep like a baby.”
“That’s very kind of you, Sir…Sir Ian. I’ll get the glasses.” Tory watched Marc prowl the room, and then turned to the bar and picked up a couple of crystal wineglasses. He’d removed his watch and was checking the room for…? What?
“Thanks.” Marc took both glasses and set them on the bedside table. He lifted the shade from the lamp and nodded before pouring the wine. “Here you go.” He handed her one of the glasses and made a noisy production of opening the pill bottle. “Two of these should get rid of that headache.”
“Bugs,” he mouthed, indicating the lamp with a jerk of his shoulder. Tory’s eyes opened wide.
Bugs? As in someone listening to their every word? She looked at Marc with a small question and he nodded grimly. She motioned to her eyes. Can they see us? He shook his head, pointing to his ear. They could be seen, but not heard. “Keep talking,” he said under his breath, as he continued to check the rest of the room. Every now and then she could see a little red light blink on and off. Another bug. She rubbed her arms trying to get rid of the chill.
She couldn’t think of a thing to say as she stared at him blankly. He held up three fingers and came back to her. His hand slipped under the silky fall of her hair.
How could he think of sex now? Tory moved away but he grabbed her by the arm and drew her back, close enough so that she felt the heat of his body.
“You have beautiful hair, my dear. When I saw you at dinner tonight, all I could think of was having it wrapped around my body.” His voice was husky, his eyes held a warning. “Say something encouraging.”
She met his gaze, her mind totally blank. How could she hope to have two conversations at once, with his fingers stroking her neck? Tory closed her eyes and tilted her face. “Kiss me!” she demanded—to Marc and to their listening audience. She couldn’t begin to come up with something that sounded even remotely subtle and seductive at the same time. Her mind was completely blank.
For a moment he paused and then with a muffled groan he took her offered mouth and kissed her hard. Tory wrapped her arms around his neck, straining to get closer as he used his lips and tongue to drive her out of her mind.
When he stepped away, the dress fell to the floor. Tory just stood there in her sheer panty hose and lacy bra as Marc moved swiftly about the room. Her breath was labored as he came back to her.
He stroked the swell of her breasts above the pushup bra and then shook his head. “You have a remarkable body, Miss Jones…Victoria, if I may? So soft, so smooth…Oh yes. Just like that. Is this an invitation,
my dear?”
“Yes.” Tory replied weakly as he pulled her over to the bed.
The springs creaked slightly as he pulled her down on the bed. A puff of dust settled, she bit her lip. The musty-smelling lavender satin spread felt cool on her heated skin. She started unbuttoning his shirt, desperate to feel his bare skin against hers. He held her hand away and shook his head.
“Let’s get you out of this dress, shall we?” Goose bumps rose on her skin as he kissed her neck noisily. The dress was on the floor across the room, and she frowned. Of course. For a moment she’d forgotten that they were pretending.
“Where’s Alex?” Marc whispered against her ear.
She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her face against his throat. “In the dungeon, directly below this room.”
“Do that again, darling.” He shifted so that the springs groaned, and used his teeth to nip at her neck until she moaned. Eyes triumphant, he whispered close to her ear, “Six stories down.” His voice was grim. “Where’s the belt?”
“The belt?”
Marc shook her so that the bedsprings creaked even harder. “The belt, Tory. The belt. Where is it? Concentrate, sweetheart. Would you like me to kiss you here?” he demanded in a normal tone. “What about here, love?”
“I can’t concentrate when you do that,” she whispered thickly.
He lifted his head slightly. “Your life depends on making this sound good.”
She went cold as she remembered that two feet away, under the lampshade, was a listening device. Someone at the other end was hearing everything that went on in the room. She pushed her hair out of her face and nodded, her eyes dark. “Oh, yes. Kiss me there.” Her voice shook with nervousness. “On the chair under the window,” she mouthed to him.
