“Simona? Is Concetta worse?” he called out.
“No, no. She has recovered. Talia is feeding her.” Relief swamped him a second time. “Your assistant at the bank asked if you would phone him at your convenience.”
“Grazie.” Leon levered himself off the bed and headed for the shower, surprised that Berto would call the villa. Normally he would leave a message on Leon’s cell. Maybe he had.
After he’d shaved and dressed, Leon reached for his phone. There was a message from his father asking him to join the family for dinner.
Not tonight.
Another message came from his friend Vito, in Rome. Leon would phone him before he went to bed.
Nothing from Berto.
Leon walked into the kitchen, where he found Talia feeding plums from a jar to his daughter, who was propped in her high chair. Rufo sat on the floor with his tail moving back and forth, watching with those humanlike eyes.
Concetta’s sweet little face broke into a smile the second she saw her father, and she waved her hands. Whenever she did that, it made him thankful he was alive. He felt her forehead, pleased to note her fever was gone.
“I do believe you’re much better, il mio tesoro. As soon as I make a few phone calls, you and I are going to go out on the patio and play.” It overlooked his private stretch of beach with its fine golden sand. Concetta was strong and loved to stand in it in her bare feet if he braced her.
Yesterday he’d bought a new set of stacking buckets for her, but she hadn’t felt well enough to be interested. Now that her health was improved, he couldn’t wait to see what she’d do with them. First, however, he phoned his father to explain that the baby had been sick and needed to be put down early.
When Leon heard the disappointment in his voice, he made arrangements for dinner the following evening if she was all better. With that accomplished he called his secretary at the bank.
“Berto? I sent you a text message telling you my daughter was ill. Is there a problem that can’t wait until tomorrow?”
“No, no. I’ll talk to you in the morning, provided the bambina is better.”
Leon rubbed the pad of his thumb along his lower lip. “You wouldn’t have phoned if you didn’t think it was important.”
“At first I thought it was.”
“But now you’ve changed your mind?” Berto was being uncharacteristically cryptic.
“Sì. It can wait until tomorrow. Ciao, Leon.”
His assistant actually hung up on him! Leon clicked off and eyed the baby, who’d eaten all her plums and seemed perfectly content playing with her fingers.
“Talia, something has come up at the bank. I’ll run into town and be back within the hour. Tell Simona to phone me if there’s the slightest problem.”
“The little one will be fine.”
He kissed his daughter’s cheek. “I’ll see you soon.”
After changing into a suit, Leon alerted his bodyguard before leaving the villa. He drove his black sports car into the most celebrated seaside resort city in Europe, curious to understand what was going on with Berto.
After pulling around to the back of the ornate, two-story Renaissance building, partially bombed during World War II and later reconstructed, he let himself in the private entrance reserved for him and his family. He took the marble staircase two steps at a time to his office on the next floor, where he served as assets manager for Malatesta Banking, one of the two top banking institutions in Italy.
Under his father’s brilliant handling as wealth manager, they’d grown to twenty-five thousand employees. With his brother, Dante, overseeing the broker-dealer department, business was going well despite Italy’s economic downturn. If the call from Berto meant any kind of trouble, Leon intended to get to the bottom of it pronto.
His redheaded assistant was on a call when Leon walked into his private suite of rooms. Judging from his expression, Berto was surprised to see him. He rang off quickly and got to his feet. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
Leon’s hands went to his hips. “I didn’t expect you to hang up so quickly from our earlier conversation. I want to know what’s wrong. Don’t tell me again it’s nothing. Which of the accounts is in trouble?”
Berto looked flustered. “It has nothing to do with the accounts. A woman came to the bank earlier today after being sent from Donatello Diamonds on the Corso D’Augosto.”
“And?” Leon demanded, sensing his assistant’s hesitation.
“Marcello in Security called up here, asking for you to handle the inquiry, since your father wasn’t available. The manager at Donatello’s told her she would have to speak to someone at the bank. That’s when I called you.
“But after I heard it was some American wanting information about the Donatello family, I figured it was a foreign reporter snooping around. At that point I decided not to bother you any more about it.”
Leon frowned in puzzlement. Someone wanting to do legitimate business would have made an appointment with him or his father and left their full name.
Was it one of the paparazzi posing as an American tourist in order to dig up news about the family? Leon’s relatives had to be on constant alert against the media wanting to rake up old scandal to sell papers.
Leon had seen it all and viewed life with a cynical eye. It was what came from being a Malatesta, hated in earlier centuries and still often an object of envy.
“When I couldn’t get you or your father, I tried your brother, but he’s out of town. I told Marcello this person would have to leave a name and phone number. With your daughter sick, I didn’t consider this an emergency, but I still wanted you to be informed.”
“I appreciate that. You handled it perfectly. Do you have the information she left?”
Berto handed the notepaper to him. “That’s the phone number and address of the Pensione Rosa off the Via Vincenza Monti. The woman’s name is Belle. Marcello said she’s in her early twenties, and with her long dark hair and blue eyes, more than lives up to her name. When she approached him, he thought she was a film star.”
Naturally. Didn’t the devil usually appear in the guise of a beautiful woman? Of course she didn’t leave a last name....
“Good work, Berto. Tell no one else about this. See you tomorrow.”
More curious than ever, Leon left the bank. A few minutes later he discovered the small lodging down an alley, half hidden by the other buildings. He parked and entered. No one was around, so he pressed the buzzer at the front desk. In a moment a woman older than Simona came out of an alcove.
“I’m Rosa. If you need a room, we’re full, signore.”
Leon handed her the paper. “You have a woman named Belle registered here?”
“Sì.” With that staccato answer he realized he wouldn’t be learning her guest’s last name the easy way.
“Could you ring her room, per favore?”
“No phone in the rooms.”
He might have known, considering the low price for accommodations listed on the back wall. “Do you know if she’s in?”
“She went out several hours ago and hasn’t returned.”
He spied a chair against the wall, next to an end table with a lamp on it. “I’ll wait.”
The woman scrutinized him. “Leave me your name and number and she can call you from the desk here after she returns.”
“I’ll take my chances and see if she comes in.”
With a shrug of her ample shoulders, the woman disappeared through the alcove.
Rather than sit here for what might be hours, he phoned one of his security people to do surveillance. When Ruggio arrived, Leon gave him the American woman’s description and said he wanted to be notified as soon as she showed up.
With that taken care of, he walked out to the alley and got in his car. He
was halfway to the villa when his cell phone rang. It was Ruggio. Leon clicked on. “What’s happening?”
“The woman fitting the description you gave me just entered. She’s driving a rental car from the airport.”
“Which agency?”
When Ruggio gave him the particulars, Leon told him to stay put until he got there. On the way back to the pension, he called the rental agency and asked to speak to the manager on a matter of vital importance. Once the man heard it was Signor di Malatesta investigating a possible police matter to do with the bank, he told him her last name was Peterson, and that she was from Newburgh, New York. Leon didn’t often use his name to apply pressure, but this case was an exception.
He learned she’d made the reservation nearly two weeks ago and had rented the car for seven days. It seemed she’d already been in Rimini three days.
Leon thanked the manager for his cooperation. Pleased to be armed with this much information before confronting her, he made a search on his phone. Newburgh was a town sixty miles north of New York City. What it all meant he didn’t know yet, but he was about to find out.
He saw the rental car when he drove down the alley and parked. Ruggio met him at the front desk of the pension, where Rosa was helping a scruffy-looking male wearing a backpack and short shorts.
“She’s been in her room since she came in. She’s molta molta bellissima,” Ruggio whispered. “I think I’ve seen her on television.”
Marcello had said the same thing. “Grazie. I’ll take it from here,” Leon told him. If she was working alone or with another reporter, he planned to find out.
Once Ruggio left, he sat down. By now it was quarter after six. Without a TV, she’d probably leave again, if only to get a meal. If he had to wait too long, he’d insist Rosa go knock on Signorina Peterson’s door. To pass the time, Leon phoned Simona, and was relieved to hear his little girl seemed to be over the worst of her bug.
As he was telling his housekeeper he wasn’t sure what time he’d get home, a woman emerged from the alcove. Without warning, his adrenaline kicked in. Not just because she was beautiful—in fact, incredibly so. It was because there was something about her that reminded him of someone else.
She swept past him, so fast she was out the door before he was galvanized into action. After telling Simona he’d get back to her, he sprang from the chair and followed the shapely woman in the two-piece linen suit and leather sandals down the alley to her car.
He estimated she had to be five feet six. Even the way she carried herself, with a kind of unconscious grace, was appealing. Physically, Leon could find nothing wrong with her, and that bothered him, since he hadn’t been able to look at another woman since Benedetta.
“Belle Peterson?”
She wheeled around, causing her gleaming hair, the color of dark mink, to swish about her shoulders. Cobalt-blue eyes fringed with black lashes flew to Leon in surprise. If she already knew who he was, she was putting on a good act of pretending otherwise.
She possessed light olive skin that needed no makeup. Her wide mouth, with its soft pink lipstick, had a voluptuous flare. He found her the embodiment of feminine pulchritude, but to his surprise she stared at him without a hint of recognition or flirtatiousness. “How do you know my name? We’ve never met.”
With that accent, she was American through and through. He found her directness as intriguing as her no-nonsense demeanor. Some men might find it intimidating. Leon’s gaze dropped to her left hand, curled over her shoulder bag and resting against the lush curve of her hip. Her nails were well manicured with a neutral coating. She wore no rings.
If in disguise for a part she was playing—perhaps in the hope of infiltrating their family business in some way to unlock secrets—he would say she looked...perfect.
He pulled the note Berto had given him out of his suit jacket pocket and handed it to her.
She glanced at it before eyeing him again. “Evidently you’re from the bank. How did you get my last name?”
“A simple matter of checking with the car rental agency.”
Her blue eyes turned frosty. “I don’t know about your country, but in mine that information can only be obtained by a judge’s warrant during the investigation of a crime.”
“My country has similar laws.”
“Was it a crime to ask questions?”
“Of course not. But I’m afraid our doors are closed to all so-called journalists. I decided to investigate.”
“I’m not a journalist or anything close,” she stated promptly. Reaching in her shoulder bag, she pulled a business card out of her wallet.
He took it from her fingers and glanced at it. Belle Peterson, Manager, Trans Continental Cell Phones Incorporated, Newburgh, New York...
He lifted his head. “Why didn’t you leave this card at the bank with the security man you talked to?”
Without hesitation, she said, “Because a call to my work verifying my employment would let everyone know where I am. Since my whereabouts are no one’s business, I wish it to remain that way. The fact is, I’m on vacation and it’s almost over.”
He slipped the card into his pocket. “You’ll be returning to Newburgh?”
“Yes. I’ve talked to as many people with the last name Donatello as I’ve been able to locate in Rimini. So far I haven’t found the information I’ve been seeking.”
“Or a missing person, maybe?” he prodded. “A man, perhaps?” The question slipped out, once again surprising him. As if he cared who she was looking for...
Her gaze never wavered. “I suppose that’s a natural assumption a man might make, but the answer is no. Not every woman is looking for a man, whether it be for pleasure or for marriage...an institution that in my opinion is overvaunted.”
She sounded like Leon, only in reverse, increasing his interest.
“To be specific, the manager at Donatello Diamonds directed me to the Malatesta Bank, but it seems I’ve come to a dead end there, too. Since you prefer not to tell me your name, at least let me thank you for the courtesy of coming to the pension to let me know you can’t help me. I can cross Donatello Diamonds off my list of possibilities.”
Like a man concluding a business meeting, she put out her hand for Leon to shake. His closed around hers. Unexpected warmth shot up his arm, catching him off guard before he released her. “What will you do now?”
“I’ll continue to search until my time runs out in three days. Goodbye.” She turned and got in her rental car without asking him for the card back. He watched until she drove to the end of the alley and turned onto the street.
Her card burned a hole in his pocket. He pulled it out. If he phoned the number on the back of it, he’d find out if she’d been telling the truth about her job. But since he was a person who always jealously guarded his own privacy, he could relate to her desire to keep her private life to herself.
No matter what, this woman meant nothing to him. If she’d come on a fishing expedition, he hadn’t given her any information she could use to cause trouble.
By the time he’d driven back to the villa, his thoughts were on his daughter. It wasn’t until later, after he’d kissed her good-night and was doing laps in the pool, that images of the American woman kept surfacing. There was something familiar about her that wouldn’t leave him alone.
A nagging voice urged him to phone the head office of TCCPI, wherever it was located, to find out if she’d fabricated an elaborate lie including a business card. Leon could do that before he went to bed. If he didn’t make the call, he’d never get to sleep.
CHAPTER TWO
EARLY WEDNESDAY MORNING, Belle came awake after a restless night. The tall nameless man in the light blue silk suit who’d tracked her down in the alley last evening was without question the most dangerously striking male she’d ever met in her life.
Once he’d called out to her, she’d felt his powerful presence before she’d even turned to study his rock-hard physique. His black hair and olive skin provided the perfect foil for startling gray eyes.
For him to come from the bank armed with information no one could have known meant he was someone of importance. The fact that her inquiry had brought him to the pension convinced her she’d unwittingly trespassed on ground whose secrets were so dark, they had to be well guarded.
Who better than the man who’d suddenly appeared like some mysterious prince from this Renaissance city? Just remembering their encounter sent a shiver down the length of her body.
She was being fanciful, but couldn’t help it. His deep voice with barely a trace of accent in English had agitated her nervous system. Even after twelve hours she could still feel it resonating. Though she’d never forget him, she needed to push thoughts of him to the back of her mind. Her flight home Sunday would be here before she knew it, which meant she needed to intensify her search.
Once she’d showered down the hall, and had slipped on a short-sleeved, belted white cotton dress, she left the pension armed with her detailed street map and notebook. She’d kept a log of every Donatello name so far. Her destination for the last Donatello she could find in the city of Rimini was Donatello’s Garage.
After following the directions she’d been given on the phone yesterday, she talked to the manager, who spoke passable English. He told her a man by another name now owned the shop. The original owner, Mr. Donatello, and his wife had both died of old age. They’d had no children who could inherit the garage.
This was the way it had been going since last Sunday, when she’d started working through the list of Donatellos in the Rimini phone directory. In most cases the people she’d talked to were willing to help her, even going to the trouble of finding someone to help them understand her English.
A Marriage Made in Italy Page 2
