He gave her a questioning look.
“Everyone in the industry has them, at least everyone I know. Basically, it’s like the worst shift imaginable where everything goes wrong. They suck because you wake up feeling like you never left work.” She noticed then that he was sitting on top of the blankets and there was a glass of water on the bedside table. She frowned. “Why are you awake?”
He shrugged a little. “I just couldn’t sleep.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “Your calm exterior says ‘there’s no problem, baby,’ but I can see it, right there in your eyes.”
He stroked his hand down her back. “What can you see?”
She lifted her shoulders, trying to match the right word to the feeling she glimpsed. “Pain,” she said simply.
He expelled a quick breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. “All right, Savannah Honey. You got me. I had a bad dream, too.”
Brows drawn, she took his hand. “What was it about?”
He shook his head, a sad smile curving his lips. “You don’t want to hear about my dreams.”
She scooched closer. “I do. Please, tell me.”
A distant look came into his eyes. When he spoke he did so with his usual calm and a matter-of-fact tone. “I dreamt about the time I saw a whole city block go up in flames.”
The weight of his words broke her heart into a million pieces, but she did not try to think of what she could say or do to make him feel better. It could never be better. Just like no one could ever make her feel better about her parents being killed in a car crash. She rose up on her knees and pulled him close and hugged him with her whole heart. She felt him melt into her, his arms coming around her with a ferocity that stole her breath. It was all there in that moment—their humanness...raw and real, flawed and desperate, vulnerable and broken. But there was also something else—hope.
They stayed like that until light penetrated the sheer curtains and her alarm went off.
He slowly pulled away, his gaze meeting hers. “Time to visit Nonna,” he said softly.
Brows drawn, she cupped his cheek. “I don’t need to go. I can call one of the nurses.”
He shook his head. “You go. Enjoy your time with her.”
She took a deep breath and shifted, stretching her legs out. “I have to work after but just a lunch shift.”
His mouth eased into a devastatingly gorgeous smile. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
She rose up on her knees. Her heart started to race at the prospect of coming home to Damien. “Do you promise?”
He grabbed her, pulling her into his arms. “I promise,” he said and kissed her in a way that erased any doubt from her mind.
Chapter Thirteen
Savannah opened the door to her nonna’s condo and breathed deep, drinking in the familiar smell. Instantly, Savannah was transported back to happier days when she had always felt cared for and secure—to a time when her parents were still alive and her Nonna lived in a beautiful Victorian home on the North Shore. Vines had crawled up its teeming brick exterior, curling around turreted rooftops, convincing a young Savannah that her nonna lived in a castle.
Glancing around, Savannah sighed—the same could not be said of her nonna’s simple, townhouse-style condo, although the inside was just as magical as ever. It was filled with books and replicas of famous statues and paintings. Regrettably, the scent of rich marinara and meatballs no longer radiated from the kitchen and never would again.
A pang struck her heart. Taking a deep breath, she called out, “Hi Nonna,” and set her bag on the catchall near the door before passing a large ornate mirror, which filled the entryway wall. It seemed out of place in the small, white-toast condo compared to its former place above the grand mantle of the Victorian fireplace.
She found her grandmother just where she had expected—sitting in her recliner, watching an old black and white movie.
“Hi, Nonna,” she said, pressing a kiss to her softly perfumed cheek.
“You’re here,” the old woman exclaimed. She fumbled for the remote control and turned off the TV. “How’s my granddaughter? Anything to report?”
Smiling, Savannah shook her head. “Nothing new. How are you feeling?”
The old woman shrugged her shoulders. “Fit as a fiddle.”
Savannah’s eyes widened. “You just lied to me.”
Nonna arched her brow. “You lied to me first. I can tell you have something on your mind, Savannah. Your worries are there on your face, plain for anyone to see.”
Savannah stood and sighed, collapsing onto the couch. “Fair enough. All right...I’ve met someone.”
Nonna sat straighter and beamed. “I should have known it was a man. So, what’s he like?”
“He’s really nice and smart.”
What was the harm in telling Nonna the truth—the whole truth? She would just forget about it in a few hours.
“And...well...he’s a thief, Nonna.”
Nonna clasped her hands together. “And he’s stolen your heart!”
Savannah cleared her throat. “Well, yeah, he has, but I mean, he really is a thief. He robs people for a living. Well...not exactly. He is hired by people to steal something they want. He doesn’t actually steal anything for himself.”
“Does he make a decent living?”
“Nonna!” Savannah exclaimed, shocked by her grandmother’s casual response to her confession. “I’m telling you that he’s a criminal.”
She shooed the air with her hand. “A thief? That’s nothing. When I was growing up in Brooklyn, my first boyfriend was in the olive oil business, if you know what I mean.”
“Nonna!” Savannah cried. “You dated someone connected to the mafia?”
She lifted her shoulders. “We were Italian in Brooklyn in the 1940s, what do you expect? Anyway, I adored Tony.” She shrugged. “I didn’t blame him for what he did. It was the only life he had ever known.”
“What happened?”
A dark shadow crossed her face. “The war happened. He died in Normandy.” Nonna’s eyes clouded over, and then she looked up, her face confused. “What were we talking about?”
Savannah squeezed her hand. “I was just about to tell you that the Italian boy-band you love so much is supposed to be on TV this morning. Shall I put it on?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, her face brightening. “Please do.”
Savannah turned on Nonna’s program, then went into the kitchen to make breakfast. While she cooked Nonna’s favorite oatmeal, she thought about her grandmother’s forgiving words. It was the only life he had ever known.
Savannah stirred in some cranberries and walnuts before removing the oatmeal from the heat. After pouring it into one of her nonna’s lovely china bowls, she sprinkled a generous spoonful of brown sugar over the steaming oats, then went out to the living room. “Here you go, Nonna,” she said, smiling.
“Oh, my, thank you!” Nonna beamed. Taking up her spoon, she looked up at Savannah and gave her a mischievous smile. “I see that glint in your eye, Savannah. What’s his name?”
Already Nonna had forgotten their conversation about Damien. Savannah pressed her lips together to hide her sadness. Then she leaned over and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “There is no man, Nonna. I’m just so happy to see you, that’s all.”
“Oh, look!” Nonna exclaimed, peering around Savannah’s shoulder at the TV.
A trio of handsome, suavely dressed teenage boys took center stage on PBS, belting O Sole Mio in deep, rich voices that belied their age.
Savannah smiled. “Enjoy your program. I have to get to work. Ellen will be here soon.”
“Who?”
“Ellen, she’s one of your nurses.”
A vague look entered her grandmother’s eyes. “I don’t know an Ellen.”
Savannah’s chest tightened against the all too familiar flood of sadness as she watched the mix of confusion and fear constrict her nonna’s features. Imbuing her own face with warmth, Savannah plac
ed her hands on the arms of her grandmother’s chair and leaned close. “Nonna.”
Right away, her grandmother sat straighter and locked eyes with Savannah.
“Everything is all right. You’re safe and loved. Do you understand?”
Nonna’s eyes crinkled as a smile slowly spread across her face. She reached out, her gnarled, yet still elegant hands, cupped Savannah’s cheek. “Of course, I do. I’ve got you.”
Savannah kissed her grandmother’s warm cheek and squeezed her tight, savoring her familiar scent. Then she straightened. “I will see you either tomorrow or Thursday. Okay?”
“All right, my dear.”
“I love you. You’re my woman.”
Nonna smiled. “You’re my gal.”
Chapter Fourteen
Work had flown by. Nothing could bring her down from Cloud Nine—even Skeevie Stevie who had ordered frozen mudslides all afternoon—because she knew that Damien was at home in her near-the-beach cottage, waiting for her.
When she walked through the door, he surprised her with homemade carbonara, nearly as good as her grandmother’s and another bottle of velvety smooth wine. After their early supper, he swept her into his arms and gently eased her down on the bed. Caressing, tasting, and teasing his way across her body, he unleashed her raw passion.
Afterwards, she stretched her arms over her head and elongated her naked body, while the sea breeze from her open balcony doors and his strong hands continued to caress her skin.
“We’ll have to put carbonara on the Special’s list for tomorrow night, so that I can relive tonight every time someone orders.”
“Why the Special’s list?” he asked. “Why not the main menu?”
His question tore at her insides. She sat up, her duvet bunching at her waist. He ran his hand down her spine. “Because, just like our special’s menu, you have an expiration date?” Taking a deep breath, she asked, “So, when do you get eighty-sixed?”
“Excuse me.”
She turned and looked at his puzzled expression. “When food or a drink at a restaurant is sold out, the crew spreads the word that the item has been eighty-sixed. You know, ‘eighty-six the drink special, eighty-six swordfish, eighty-six the ridiculously hot and complicated thief-for-hire.’”
He put his hand on his chest. “So you’re asking when I’ll be sold out?”
She shrugged. “Or missing.” She turned away. “Listen, Damien. I’m a realistic girl—or at least I’m trying to be. You’ve already told me that you’re not about to buy a condo on the beach and get some kind of nine to five.”
He nodded. “Yes, that is highly unlikely.”
She lifted her shoulders. “So, when do you get eighty-sixed?”
“I don’t know. I’m in unknown territory here. Normally, I leave a place after I do the job.”
She turned to face him. “Are you still going to steal his painting?”
His eyes widened slightly. “How did you know about the painting?” Then a knowing smile curved his lips. “You saw his Facebook post.”
“Social media,” she grimaced. “I never touch the stuff, but Roger mentioned Joe’s post of his newly inherited prize a few nights ago. Roger seemed to think it was wildly stupid of Joe to post a picture of it.”
“Your Roger is correct. Joe’s wildly stupid post is how I came to be hired for the job. Your boss really needs to rethink his privacy settings.”
“There is nothing discreet about Joe. He loves to crow about his wealth and lineage.” She laid back down on her side, resting her head on her hand. “But he has a lot of expensive art. What’s so special about this piece?”
“It’s by Johannes Vermeer, a Dutch painter.”
Savannah shook her head slightly. “I’m not familiar with his work, but Roger said that it could be worth a million dollars.”
“More like ten million.”
Her eyes widened. “Holy shit!”
“Now you understand why I was sent here.”
But then she frowned. “Any lingering respect I may have carried for Joe as a pretty fair boss went spiraling down the drain when you pointed out his hidden camera in the office. Still, I’m glad you’re not going to finish the job.”
His head canted to the side. “Why is that?”
She shrugged. “I was brought up to appreciate my roots. In his own egotistical way, so was Joe. I’m sure this painting has been in his family for generations, and—”
“No, it hasn’t,” Damien interjected.
“Trust me, it has. Anyone who has spent more than five minutes in Joe’s company knows that he is a descendant of Baron Von Wilder.”
“That may be what he told you. It may even be what he believes, but that’s not the truth.”
She leaned closer. “What do you mean?”
“Joe’s ancestor, Pieter Weber, wasn’t the baron; he was the baron’s manservant.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “His servant?”
Damien nodded. “After the Archduke Ferdinand was assassinated, the real Baron Von Wilder instructed Pieter to conceal the Von Wilder’s most valuable family heirlooms, jewels, and money in a cave on the outskirts of the family’s property.”
“Why?”
“The baron knew war was coming. While his so-called faithful servant was safeguarding his wealth, the Baron was making arrangements for his family to emigrate to America, which at the time was easier said than done. Because of his political connections, the baron essentially had to smuggle his household out of Germany. On the night the baron had meant to flee the country, Pieter was nowhere to be found. So reluctant was the baron to leave without his trusted manservant, he delayed his plans, but in the end, he had to do what was best for his family. Together, his household secreted away under the cover of darkness, but when they arrived at the cave. It was empty.”
Savannah gasped. “Oh, no!”
“Oh, yes. Pieter had betrayed the baron. He stole it all—money, all the family’s belongings—and upon arrival in New York, he stole his master’s identity as well.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“The baron was left nearly destitute and trapped in Germany. He was later captured and died in prison; meanwhile, Pieter Weber, or rather Pieter Von Wilder, came to America and became Pieter Wilder. He then went on to marry an English woman named Alice who, prior to meeting Pieter, worked as a prostitute in New York—”
“Wait, wait, wait! Hold on a minute. Are you telling me that Joe isn’t royalty?”
“He is not,” Damien confirmed. “In fact...when you think about it, he is actually descended from a thief and a whore.”
“Oh my God! How did you find out about this?”
“There are resources at my disposal.”
She jumped off the bed and grabbed her phone. “Wait until Brandi hears this!”
He reached out and gently took the phone away. “How are you going to say you came by this information?”
Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, you’re right.”
“And when the painting goes missing, how will it look if you just told someone where it originally came from?”
She faltered. “When it goes missing? But I thought you said you weren’t going to steal it anymore.”
“When a priceless piece of art suddenly turns up as someone’s Facebook status, interested parties take notice.”
“Parties as in plural? Your client isn’t the only one who’s interested?”
“I do not doubt that Joe has attracted both lawful and unlawful attention to himself.”
“What do you mean lawful?”
“The FBI has an art crime team made up of a dozen or so agents. I fully expect one of the agents, hoping to catch a thief like me, is already here in Rye or will be soon. I’ve kept an eye out, but I’ve yet to confirm the presence of anyone other than myself. But it’s only a matter of time, and by that I mean hours or days, not weeks.”
“Holy crap!” She expelled a rush of air. “This is intense.” Then she sat up. “H
ow much were you getting paid for the job?”
“One point two million dollars.”
“Holy shit! Who is paying you that much for the painting?”
“I can’t tell you who hired me.”
“Why? Don’t you trust me?”
“It isn’t a matter of trust. It’s a matter of safety.”
At the mention of safety, her chest tightened. “You have to be careful,” she told him.
“Joe is the one that needs to be careful. Other parties interested in acquiring that painting probably aren’t as nice as me.” He pulled her close. “I’m losing you right now, aren’t I. You’re thinking...what the hell am I doing with this guy.”
She shook her head, circling her arms around his neck. “You’re giving me way too much credit. I’m actually just worried about losing you.”
“Since, I am still in-stock, and you actually have the night off, what would you like to do this evening?”
Savannah smiled, happy for the subject change. “There is someone I would like you to meet.”
SHE SQUEEZED DAMIEN’S hand. “Are you ready?”
He smiled softly. “I am.” But then his smile faltered. “You’re certain she won’t remember me?”
She nodded. “Not even a little.”
His brows drew together. “I’m sorry, Savannah. I can only imagine how difficult her memory loss has been for you.”
She lifted her shoulders. “In a way it’s a blessing. Before, my nonna could have been described in many great terms, kind, strong, discerning, intelligent, curious, imaginative, beautiful, generous, but never would anyone have called her sweet. Her dementia has softened her, making her rather agreeable, which isn’t a bad thing when you rely so heavily on others for your care. Her nurses love her. They all say they’ve never had such a sweet patient. I laugh because as dear and lovely as she is with the nurses, two years ago, if one of them had told her it was time for bed or that she had to do her exercises, she would have given them an arthritic but well-manicured middle finger.”
He chuckled. “So, what sort of reception am I to receive now?”
Broken Rules: A Stand Alone Romance Page 9
