“It got him to leave, didn’t it?”
Lydia shook her head. There was no reasoning with a Neanderthal. “Get dressed so we can go to work.”
He glanced over his shoulder into the bedroom. “What is all that stuff?”
“A decent wardrobe. I can’t be seen with you wearing that outfit you had on when you stepped off the plane.”
“Where are my clothes?”
She sighed. She had to give him points for persistence. “They should be somewhere in there. I had them laundered and pressed. But I hope you won’t decide to wear them. It’s going to be hard enough for me not to be noticed running around Rome asking questions about a missing jewel. I’d rather not do it with a man dressed in military camouflage.”
He rubbed the whiskers on his chin. “You have a point.”
“You might want to shave. You’ll find both an electric razor and a straight razor in the items that were just delivered. I hope everything fits. I told the concierge what I wanted and he did the shopping.”
“I don’t take charity.”
“Fine. I’ll send a bill to your firm.”
The twist of his lips told her exactly what he thought of her efforts to have him dress like a normal human being. But she wasn’t feeling particularly sensitive to anyone else’s feelings right now. “For heaven’s sake! They’re just clothes.”
He took a step back and closed the bedroom door in her face.
Lydia glared at the door, wondering what Joe Warren would be wearing when he came back out.
Chapter Seven
Joe turned and stared at the packages the porter had stacked on the settee at the foot of the bed. He read the labels and found Gucci, Hermès, Brooks Brothers, Ralph Lauren, Canali, Prada, Brioni, even Cartier and Rolex. He began opening boxes, pulling out the contents and throwing them onto the unmade bed.
It didn’t take long to realize nothing was off-the-shelf.
Everything had been custom-made, two white and two blue high-thread-count shirts, gold cuff links, gray and khaki trousers, a perfectly tailored blazer, a cashmere V-neck sweater, and silk ties in every color of the rainbow. Even the Italian leather shoes, pairs in both black and brown, seemed to be made especially for him.
Joe wondered how Miss High-and-Mighty had known what sizes to buy. She must have told the concierge to use the measurements from the clothing he’d worn when he’d arrived. Shirt, undershirt, shorts, trousers, socks, and shoes had all been missing when he’d woken up.
He had an image of himself looking as suave as the suitor who’d just left and snickered. You couldn’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. He’d never be officer material, and he was proud of it. He’d been an army grunt, a sergeant who worked in the trenches, a man whose strength and reflexes and intelligence in battle had saved his own and other soldiers’ lives. Clothes did not make the man. He would look ridiculous in these fashionable rags.
But he needed clean underwear and socks, and he didn’t feel like hunting down his own stuff in all this mess. So he slipped on a pair of the white cotton shorts she’d provided.
Joe grinned. What the hell were these things made of? They felt a lot more like silk than a sow’s ear. He reached for a white shirt and found it even softer than the shorts, if that was possible. He unfolded and unbuttoned the shirt and slid his arms into it and pulled it up over his shoulders. It felt like heaven against his skin.
He frowned at the shirt cuffs, which had no buttons. He drew the line at wearing cuff links. Instead, he folded the cuffs up to expose his forearms.
He let himself be tempted by the pair of gray slacks. The waist was a little big, but after the past six months of drinking his dinners, so was the waist on his cammie trousers. He looked for a belt and found a sleek, supple black leather belt with a modest silver buckle. He searched for a pair of black socks, found them, and experienced another sensory delight when he pulled them on. He threw the black-tasseled, loafer-type shoes, with their braided-leather tops, onto the floor and slipped his feet into them one at a time.
Perfect fit.
Joe walked around on the plush carpet, marveling at how the leather molded to his feet. He eyed the beautiful silk ties, but he wasn't comfortable with a tie around his neck, since most of his military life he’d gone without one. Instead, he picked up the navy-blue, cashmere V-necked sweater. It was soft as a baby’s butt. He’d never owned, or wanted to own, anything made of cashmere, but he realized he might have been missing the boat. It felt good next to his skin.
He pulled the cashmere over his head and adjusted the shirt collar and refolded the shirt sleeves so they ended up outside the sweater, which he pulled halfway up his forearms. He limped over to look at himself in the mirror. He should have shaved, if he was going to, before he’d dressed. He had a three-day-old beard, which darkened his cheeks and chin. Hell. If he could live with the fancy clothes, she could live with the beard.
He realized he was hungry. And thirsty. He desperately needed a hair of the dog. Or maybe some aspirin. He recognized the pain in his temples as a hangover headache. He remembered Samantha’s last words as she’d put him on the plane.
“You need to be sober to do this job, Joe.”
Maybe he’d take advantage of the change of scenery, and the work, as an opportunity to dry out. It had been a long six months since the army had given him his walking papers.
His mouth felt sour. He remembered seeing shaving gear in the stuff the valet had brought, and sure enough, it was there, along with a comb, a toothbrush, mouthwash, and toothpaste. He gave his teeth a quick brush, gargled with some mouthwash, ran the comb through his hair, and wished again for a couple of aspirin. He took a quick look through the kit, but all he found was an expensive cologne.
He opened it and sniffed. Nice. But he didn't put it on. Bad enough to look like a gigolo without smelling like one.
Now that he was dressed, he might as well see if Miss High-and-Mighty wanted to get some chow. And a beer, of course. He opened the door and found her waiting for him.
She was seated on the couch, legs crossed at the ankle, wearing a sleeveless, square-necked black dress. It was something a lady might wear, not too short, not too tight, not too low-cut. Nevertheless, it managed to make him aware of her very female shape. He was pretty sure it wouldn’t take much effort to get it off of her.
Forget what you’re thinking, Joe. Don’t start imagining what it might be like to see that dress come off her shoulders. Don’t let yourself drown in those violet eyes. Stop looking. Now.
That wasn't as easy as it sounded.
Her hair was pinned up somehow so it was off her shoulders and away from her face, and he could see diamond studs in her ears. It was hard not to notice her gold-and-diamond watch and the pin on her dress sparkling with a multitude of jewels. She looked as wealthy as he knew she was.
He’d thought he looked pretty good, but he could see right away she looked disappointed.
“You didn’t shave!”
He shrugged. “So what?”
She took a long, careful look at him, and he felt his body respond to the visual caress. Then she rose, a languid movement full of grace that made him wonder how it would feel to have her slide her sinuous body against his.
Keep your mitts, off, Joe, he warned himself. She knows who she is and what she wants, and it isn’t the likes of you. Don’t even look, because you’re likely to lose a hand, never mind your heart, if you try to touch.
Her gaze roamed his body again from head to foot. “I wondered if everything would fit.”
“Fits fine.” Certain parts were fitting less well, the more she looked at him with those smoky violet eyes.
“Are they really okay?”
They were more than okay. He felt like a million bucks, which was probably about what this get-up cost. But he wasn’t going to admit that to her. She already had him feeling off-kilter. He wasn’t used to playing the supplicant with women. He was here to do a job for his sister, and he’d b
etter remember it.
“Are we going to stand here jawing all day?” he said tersely. “I thought you wanted to find that necklace.”
“I do,” she replied. “First, I bought something else for you on my own, something I hope you’ll like.” She looked at him anxiously before she picked up a box from the coffee table and extended it to him.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
He took the box, which was oblong, narrow, and flat. It could have been filled with flowers. It wasn't.
He scowled as he pulled out a wooden cane. It was simple and beautiful, made of light oak with a gnarled wooden handle. He threw it back into the box and dropped the box on the table. “I don't need that.”
She unexpectedly shoved him hard in the stomach.
He lost his balance and fell back onto the arm of the couch.
She looked at him down her pert nose and said, “Yes, you do.”
Joe hated her for speaking the truth. But the fact that he needed a cane didn't mean he had to use one. “I’m not using that thing.”
“Suit yourself.” She headed for the door but glanced back over her shoulder. “Just don’t plan to lean on me when you’re about to fall on your face.”
Joe eyed the cane with malice. The elegant cane was one more piece of the ridiculous costume she’d conned him into wearing. But he’d never used a cane, and he wasn’t going to start now. Furthermore, when he was gone from here—and he would be, as soon as Samantha found that damned missing Ghost—he would chuck this fancy gear faster than you could say "Dallas Cowboys."
“I need some chow,” he said as he crossed to join her at the door. He waited for her to comment on his appearance in the clothes she’d bought. One word out of her and he was going to strip out of these fancy duds and put on his cammies and to hell with how he looked.
It seemed she knew men better than he knew women. Because all she said was, “Supper sounds wonderful. I’m starved. Where would you like to eat?"
“The hotel is fine with me,” he replied.
“They serve wonderful pasta dishes in the garden restaurant.”
“I’ll settle for a blood-rare steak.”
She looked annoyed for a moment. If Joe hadn't been watching her face he would have missed the expression. He realized she was used to hiding her feelings and wondered why she’d needed to perfect that sort of skill. When she didn’t speak he said, “Something wrong?”
“It’s too early to dine on steak at the hotel. Nothing’s open yet.”
He glanced at his watch. It was not quite six in the evening. When he looked up again, he saw a pained expression on her face.
She frowned at his watch. "Didn’t you see the watch I bought?”
His face froze. It was one thing to wear a bunch of clothes she’d purchased for him. It was quite another to accept an expensive watch. He’d coveted the Rolex Mariner, all right, but he’d left it sitting in the box. “The watch I'm wearing keeps perfect time.” He’d run many a mission wearing this watch. But she was right about one thing. The worn leather and scratched dial didn’t go with the cashmere sweater and tasseled loafers. Neither did he, for that matter.
He waited for her to point that out. But she didn't.
“A paragon of tact,” he muttered.
“What did you say?”
“Pasta’s fine.”
She led him to The Palm, a garden restaurant featuring wrought-iron tables and chairs bordered by ancient stone walls covered with ivy, and with an amazing view of the Borghese Gardens.
Lydia must have eaten at the restaurant a lot, because the waiter immediately brought a bottle of wine to the table along with a couple of glasses.
“Thank you, Armando,” she said with a smile that Joe thought would have had anyone who was on the other end of it doing whatever she wanted. She turned to Joe, that killer smile still on her face. “Is wine all right with you?”
He was ready to agree, just to please her, but he didn’t really like wine. He’d grown up on beer and whiskey, and that was what he preferred. “I’ll take a beer,” he told the waiter. “Whatever you’ve got.”
The waiter named half a dozen European beers. Joe chose Heineken, the one brand he recognized.
“Very good choice,” the waiter said. “Will you be dining?”
“Yes,” Lydia said. “Would you bring us menus, please, Armando?”
Joe ordered spaghetti and meatballs, while Lydia chose a chicken salad. While they were waiting for their food to arrive, Joe’s phone rang. He saw it was his sister and said, “I’ve got to take this.” He turned his back on Lydia and asked, “What’s the word?”
“Who is it?” Lydia asked anxiously. “Is there news about the Ghost?”
Joe held up a hand to silence her. “Uh-huh. I’ll call you when we get there.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ve just ordered supper. We’ll head over there as soon as we’re done.”
When he ended the call Lydia asked, “Who was that?”
Joe started to say, “My sister.” Instead he said, “My assistant in Texas. Someone sent an Internet message about the theft of the Ghost from the business office at the Westin Excelsior Hotel on Via Vittorio Veneto. Since no one except you and the thief knows the Ghost is missing, the presumption is that the thief sent the email.”
She stood abruptly and set her napkin on the table. “We should go now. We can eat later.”
“The email was sent early this morning. The thief is either still checked into the hotel or long gone. In either case, getting there in ten minutes, or an hour and ten minutes, isn’t going to make a difference.”
She hesitantly sat back down. “You sound very sure of yourself.”
He shrugged. “If I were the thief, I’d be long gone from Rome by now.”
“Do you think he’ll try to sell the Ghost?”
“What makes you think the thief was a man?” Joe asked.
“I didn’t spend time with any women I didn’t know at the masked ball, which is where I’m sure the thief singled me out,” she said. “The women I know wouldn’t need to steal if they wanted a jewel like the Ghost. They’d buy it, or have their husbands or boyfriends buy it for them.”
He frowned. “I can’t believe you ‘borrowed’ something so valuable, and irreplaceable, without asking. What were you thinking?”
To give her credit, she looked guilty. Then her chin came up and she said, “Oliver arranged for me to keep the Ghost for ten days, which means we have time to find it before it’s missed. Once we get it back, I’ll confess what I’ve done and take whatever punishment Mother metes out.”
“And if we don’t get it back?”
“That isn’t an option.” She laid a delicate hand on his bare forearm. “Emily, my mother’s assistant, says you’re the best.” She looked deep into his eyes. “I’m relying on you, Joe.”
He held his arm still, afraid that if he moved, Lydia would notice what she was doing and move her hand away like a frightened wild thing. He felt a little dizzy looking into those deep purple pools. He was falling hard, and he didn’t give a damn. All he knew was that she needed him. He was willing to go to hell and back if that’s what it took to help her.
Joe just hoped his sister could figure out how to find that damned missing necklace, because he didn't have the first clue where to look for the Ghost.
Chapter Eight
Bull Benedict stared out the window of the Paris office of his banking empire toward the Eiffel Tower, wondering where his wife was right now. He spent a lot of time wondering about Bella. Too much, considering how the Duchess had betrayed him. When he’d seen her two weeks ago, on Mother’s Day, at the Benedict family mansion in Virginia, Bella had seemed subdued. The fact that she’d ended up in the emergency room of a cardiac hospital in Richmond later the same day had scared him shitless. What if she’d died?
She claimed she’d merely had a panic attack. But the woman he loved had nerves of steel. Bella never gave an inch, never backed away,
never revealed a weakness, assuming one even existed.
Bull stopped himself right there. Loving Bella had only meant pain over the past ten years. The twenty-five years before that had been a hell-raising, hair-raising, wild and woolly ride full of joy. He wouldn’t have missed a moment of their life together, even knowing how it had ended.
If only it had ended, he thought. This thing between them would never end. He’d felt Bella’s power over him as recently as two weeks ago. He’d taken one look at her and felt on fire for her. He’d wanted to lick her skin, to thrust himself inside her, to sieve his hands into her silky black hair and hold her close as he kissed her senseless.
But they hadn’t even kissed in greeting. The distance between them, after ten years of marital separation, seemed insurmountable. And yet, Bull wanted that closeness back again.
It was his fault they’d separated in the first place. He hadn’t given her a chance to explain what he’d seen. He’d taken one look at his naked wife and her lover in his own marital bed and bolted, afraid he would kill them both if he got anywhere near the sheets where Bella lay entwined with another man.
It was three days before he’d returned to confront her. Even then, when she’d begged him to listen, he’d refused. He’d been a wounded animal, unable to express the pain that made him want to tear out his aching heart.
“There’s an explanation for what you saw,” she claimed.
“Was it him?” he shot back. “Was it Oliver’s father?”
She’d looked stricken and remained mute, and he’d had his answer.
He’d forgiven her for marrying him when she was carrying the child of another man, because by the time he knew of it, he was deeply in love with her. But there was no forgiveness in him for taking another man, the same man, into their bed after twenty-five years of marriage. She’d broken the promise she’d made that she would never betray him again.
He’d been a tortured soul ever since, wondering who that unforgettable mystery man was. He’d never asked the son of a bitch’s name, and Bella had never offered it.
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