The Italian

by Lisa Marie Rice

  He actually checked each pencil, presumably to see if it was a real pencil or…her mind blanked for a second as to what else it could be. Maybe something to squirt poison? But then how could she avoid squirting poison on herself?

  It must be exhausting to be a spy.

  Buzzanca packed everything neatly back into her bag, dark eyes cold and remote, and accompanied her down the stairs and into a waiting police car, the middle one of three.

  The little convoy took off, racing north. She watched as they left the historic city center and entered the concrete wasteland of the suburbs.

  Mafia country. The Mafia here was heavily into concrete. She’d read that often in her preparatory reading for the trip. The buildings looked like the Mafia. Heavy and oppressive and ugly, like the concrete monstrosities Russian Communism had thrown up. The power behind both was the same—brutal and uncompromising.

  These kinds of buildings in a country that worshiped beauty were just the exterior face of the brutal hold the Mafia had. It was what Stefano was fighting. He was not just an amazingly sexy and powerfully attractive man. He was a fighter for justice, risking his life to bring down the forces of darkness.

  She saw his men—even Inspector Buzzanca—in a different light. Looking at Buzzanca’s stiff back in the front passenger seat, his hair badly cut, all duty and no nonsense, she realized that all he wanted was to keep Stefano alive. She wasn’t a threat to Stefano, not in any way, but Buzzanca and his men probably thought she was, or at least that she was distracting him.

  So she sat quietly and waited to see where the car took her.

  It took her to the airport. Or rather, an airport. Not the one she’d flown into upon her arrival in Sicily.

  This looked like a military airport, the planes painted a dull green, with EI—Esercito Italiano, Italian Army—stenciled on the sides. The car drove right onto the runway and stopped in front of a large helicopter. As soon as the car parked, the rotors started slowly spinning. The car door opened and an officer pointed at a short set of steps leading up into the cabin.

  Jamie hesitated. She’d never been in a helicopter before. She looked around her, at all the men who’d been summoned to convey her to this specific place at this specific time, and realized it was too late to think of resisting. This had the feel of some unstoppable force sweeping her forward.

  She walked up the steps and into the cabin, bending slightly. The cabin had six seats. She took one and the other five filled up with police officers. The last man to board was carrying her roll-on case and stowed it carefully under a seat.

  Inspector Buzzanca handed her a headset and indicated she should buckle her seat belt. It was already too loud in the cabin to be able to hear anyone. Any communication was by hand signs. The snap of the belt was like a signal and, with a heavy lurch that left her stomach behind, the helicopter lifted, nose down, and banked steeply.

  The men were talking to each other, lips moving. Jamie understood that they were on an internal com system she wasn’t connected to. Her headset was merely there for noise abatement. She was cut off.

  Okay. Then she’d enjoy the ride to wherever it was they were going.

  The military field was on the ocean. At first their route followed the coastline, brilliant blue sea to the left, low green hills of orange and lemon groves to the right. They flew over a tawny city of brick and stone, perched on a high promontory whose edges dropped straight down to the sea. A Romanesque cathedral, light gold in the late-morning sun, rose up like a stone ship on a high cliff. She’d seen prints of the cathedral, but it was much more beautiful in real life. Cefalù.

  The helicopter suddenly veered right, inland, and flew over the sunbaked interior, over dun-colored fields dotted with isolated homes that looked more like fortresses, surrounded by oleander and prickly pear.

  After about forty minutes, they reached the coast again and started climbing up a hill so beautiful it looked landscaped, following a winding road flanked by pink oleander bushes.

  The scenery here was lush and green, studded with villas boasting enchanting gardens surrounded by bougainvillea-covered walls. They flew past a Greek temple and she watched the helicopter’s shadow flow over a Greek amphitheater, the stone semicircle a graceful comma set in olive and orange groves. Elegant, pencil-thin cypresses stood like green soldiers everywhere, flanked by enormous palm trees, some the largest she’d ever seen. Palm trees were slow-growing and she knew she was looking at many that must have been hundreds of years old.

  Jamie gave a start when Buzzanca touched her arm. He pointed downward with his thumb. They were landing.

  It was only then that she noticed they had climbed to the top of some summit and were banking steeply, losing altitude. The helicopter rotated, and for a second she caught sight of a tall mountain in the distance, wavering in the heat, tendrils of steam rising from its top.

  She caught her breath.

  Etna! That was Mount Etna, a live volcano and the subject of work by poets and painters through the ages. It was the backdrop to Taormina, a famous resort she’d been dying to see. And sure enough, a wonderland was slowly streaming by below. Tight, narrow cobblestoned streets flanked by ochre, tawny-yellow and pale-pink buildings, opening up randomly into irregular-shaped squares bounded by cafes with colorful sun umbrellas. It was a town of flowers, flowers everywhere—in huge terracotta pots as big as bathtubs, climbing walls, twining around wrought iron balconies.

  The helicopter had slowed enough so she could catch details her hungry artist’s eye drank up. They cast a moving shadow over the town and tourists stopped and looked up at them, eyes shaded against the sun, women holding their sundresses down against the wind of the rotors. The tourists were all shapes and sizes and nationalities, dressed in garish summer colors, all united in a common happy expression. Taormina was legendary for the pleasures it had afforded tourists for centuries.

  How on earth had Stefano arranged this? A trip to Taormina! It was like a dream. They couldn’t just walk the streets of the town, much as the thought delighted her. Could they? She wanted to be here but she wanted Stefano safe even more.

  The helicopter touched down on an open space high above Taormina, probably the world’s only helipad with terracotta tiles. It was just wide enough a space to accommodate them, but the pilot knew what he was doing. He set them down perfectly in the exact center and switched the engine off. She snatched off her headset, savoring the sudden silence, and looked around.

  The five carabinieri had taken their headsets off too and sprang into action. Inside a minute or two, another set of stairs had been placed against the helicopter. The men had been chatting amongst themselves but now they fanned out to provide a security perimeter for her, silent and grim-faced.

  She was funneled through an archway, past a deep, cool courtyard to an arcade supported by thick columns. Behind her, three of the five men scrambled back into the helicopter. The remaining two turned their backs to her and stood, solid sentries, facing away from the building.

  “Signora?” came a deep male voice and Jamie turned, surprised. A short, broad, very handsome middle-aged man came toward her. He picked up her hand, bowed over it and straightened, smiling. “It is an honor and a pleasure to have you, signora. Not to mention the honor and pleasure of having Judge Leone as our guest.”

  His voice sounded familiar… “Are you by any chance related to Prince Calderone?”

  The man laughed. “Beautiful and astute. A heartbreaking combination. Yes, signora, I am related. I am his cousin and the proprietor of La Rondinaia. Paolo Torraca, at your service.”

  Jamie stifled a gasp. La Rondinaia. The Swallow’s Nest. It was a gazillion-star hotel she’d read about but never even thought of booking. She looked around. The surroundings were certainly beautiful, but the place was deserted. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, she could see that the back of the arcade was polished plate glass, the lobby behind it splendid beyond words and utterly empty. Not even anyone behind the
carved limestone front desk.

  “Mr. Torraca—”

  “Paolo, please.” He tucked her hand in his elbow, gesturing with his head. A bellhop sprang out of nowhere and picked up her bag. They walked through the back archway into the lobby itself, cool and perfumed from the many lemon trees in huge enameled vases everywhere. The enormous lobby was divided into conversational areas, but it looked more like a super luxurious home than a public space. Eighteenth-century artwork filled the space; an antique painted bookcase filled with old books covered one long wall. An elaborately carved marble hearth large enough to roast oxen covered another.

  Paolo let her look her fill. When she turned back to him, smiling, he smiled back.

  “Now, you and Stefano have the entire place at your disposal. Fortuitously we are closed for repairs. We have opened up the royal suite for you. It has its own swimming pool. And we are keeping the kitchen open for you. But there will be no one else save security.” His dark eyes met hers, the humor and goodwill disappearing, leaving the hard gaze of a man who had known hard times. “You will be perfectly safe here. I guarantee it.”

  She understood what he was saying. And she understood that great efforts had been made for Stefano and, by extension, for herself. “Thank you,” she said.

  He bowed his head, once more the suave hotelier. “It is our pleasure, signora. Now,” he placed a magnetic card in her hand as he walked her to a bank of elevators, “take this elevator to the third floor, then turn to the right and take the elevator at the end of the corridor. You will need that card to access the elevator. It will take you directly to your suite, where you will find your bag.” He bent to kiss her hand again. “Believe me when I say it is a privilege for La Rondinaia to welcome you and Judge Leone, and we hope we can welcome you again soon. I will see to it personally that your suite remains always available.”

  He walked away, and it was almost magical being alone in such a space. Like exploring an enchanted castle.

  The private elevator was lined with polished brass. There were no buttons, but a swipe of the card and the elevator rose three floors all by itself, like a magic chariot.

  It was taking her to Stefano.

  The helicopter ride, the gorgeous landscapes, the arrival at this sumptuous hotel—they’d distracted her. But now she felt it with full force—she was going to see Stefano again.

  Her heart began thumping, something totally outside her control. She wasn’t an anxious person by nature and had certainly never been anxious over a man, but now she found herself in a perfect frenzy of anxiety. Well, not anxiety, more like…excitement. Anticipation. Even a little fear.

  She didn’t know him, after all. He was a man her beloved grandfather admired, he was a man other men admired, that was true. And what she’d seen of him…wow. But surely that was hormones talking? Surely it was because her body simply lit up when he was around that—

  Her anxious internal dialogue stopped dead because the elevator doors whooshed open and…there he was. Walking toward her from some immense living room area that looked like a modern Versailles. He was dressed casually in jeans and a tee shirt and he looked better than any man had a right to look. Not just handsome—there were plenty of handsome men around. He looked regal, a king in jeans, somehow a serious man even when dressed like a teenager and with a wide smile on his face. His gaze locked with hers as he walked toward her and she simply opened up.

  Opened her arms, opened her body, opened her heart.

  When he kissed her, it felt like relief. It felt like she’d been in a desert, parched for something, and there that something was. Stefano, kissing her.

  He was so tall she had to stand on her toes. He put his arm around her bottom and simply lifted her up and into him. She twined her arms tightly around his neck, mouths at the same level, eating at his lips, trying to get as close to him as possible. He held her so tightly she could feel his erection through the jeans as she moved her hips restlessly against his.

  Stefano lifted his head on a gasp, letting her slide down his body. Even if she hadn’t felt the smooth, hard column against her stomach she’d have known he was aroused by his swollen, wet mouth and the deep red under the olive skin of his cheekbones.

  “Cara, I’m going to have to call in my bodyguards to defend me against you. You’re lethal.”

  However aroused and disheveled he looked, she must have looked worse. She could feel a blush down to her breasts. Her skin was much fairer than his, it would clearly show. Her nipples felt so hard she was sure they were visible right through her bra and silk tee.

  One advantage she had was the one all women had over all men. Her sex was as aroused as Stefano’s, but her body held it secretly. She was already wet, a small sun of heat between her thighs, but he couldn’t know that.

  She elbowed him, encountering only rock-hard muscle. “Cut that out. I’m not dangerous to anyone but myself.”

  She stepped back, if only to distance herself from his touch. She hadn’t been kidding. This attraction, this fascination Stefano held over her felt dangerous. As if control over herself had been ceded to this man. As good as it felt, it was also immensely unsettling, like falling off a cliff, unable to see the bottom. Arms windmilling frantically as she fell down, down, down…

  He bent and gave her a hard kiss, then grinned.

  Oh God. He shed a good ten years when he grinned like that and for the first time, she wondered how old he was. She’d assumed he was much older than her—well into his forties. And yet now he looked young and frisky. Not much older than herself.

  A vital, smart, good-looking man in his prime and he lived like a prisoner, captive to an iron mistress—duty.

  “Come,” he said, and took her hand. “Let me show you around. I’ll save the best for last.”

  She looked up at him and saw clearly how much he wanted this—a lighthearted moment. Wanted this mini-vacation away from that cold mistress of his. Jamie allowed herself to be pulled into the living area and looked around, her artist’s heart lifting.

  “So beautiful,” she breathed, and it was. If someone had reached inside her head and pulled out a vision of the perfect villa by the Mediterranean, this would be it. Pale terracotta tiles, carved tufa stone wainscoting, more huge lemon trees in enameled vases, pale silk-covered sofas, a coffee table made out of a sixteenth-century door, an entire disassembled, painted wooden cart adorning one wall, brilliant landscapes adorning another…it was splendid. Elegant yet comfortable, a stunning mixture of antiques and modern design.

  A particularly stunning white leather sofa and armchairs with slanting sides looked familiar. Her eyes widened. “That’s a Philippe Starck!” She touched the couch, ran her fingers over the sides. She’d been tempted by a cheap copy for her apartment, but it had been nothing like this.

  “Yeah?” Stefano shook his head. “Cool.” And she understood he had no idea who Philippe Starck was. She laughed.

  He echoed the laugh, pulling her toward the bedroom. “Come see the bed. It’s amazing.”

  It was. The bed was enormous, a four-poster baldachin bed, the carved and gilded posts reaching nearly to the ceiling and hung with linen panels edged with hand-tatted lace. A fairytale bed for a fairytale room.

  “There’s more.” He opened a carved wooden door and she could see blinding white tiles with terracotta finishing—the bathroom. Stefano entered and came out holding two enormous white terrycloth robes.

  “Strip,” he ordered.

  Jamie’s eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon?”

  He grinned again, a young boy’s grin. “I have plans for you naked, but right now I want you to strip and put this on.” He held out one of the robes and turned away, stripping fast, putting on the robe. She barely caught an enticing glimpse of hard naked butt and then it was covered in white terrycloth.

  Well…stripping was easy. Silk tee, bra, capri pants, panties. The robe was enormous, almost brushing the ground, where it came to mid-calf on him. She had to turn the sleeves up
three times.

  She’d barely tied the belt before he grabbed her hand and powered out onto the terrace with her in tow.

  What a day of surprises.

  The terrace gave out on a view that would have been rejected as CGI in a movie. Too unbelievably beautiful. To the left, far, far below, two crescents of pristine white beach lazily looped along the bay of a bright-blue sea. Pines, cypresses, oleanders, prickly pears and bougainvillea covered the steep hillside down to the beaches.

  The rooftops of Taormina shone in the bright sunlight down below, a toy village with miniature people crowding the streets.

  The terrace was made of huge terracotta tiles of the faintest pink. The terrace outside the suite was almost entirely covered with a wrought iron frame from edge to edge, yellow linen curtains fluttering from the frame and creating a golden wall of privacy. To the left, a small gate opened onto an enormous communal terrace with an Olympic-sized pool. It was edged by thick laurel hedges with a spicy perfume, cutting them off from the world, open only to the sky.

  “There are no other guests,” Stefano said, looking around. “It’s all ours.” He grinned. “Our own little playground.”

  She looked around too. She usually saw things through her trained senses, automatically filtering for shape and color and balance and harmony. This place was aesthetically stunning, but for a moment she saw it through Buzzanca’s eyes. He wouldn’t notice how the color of the linen curtains of the sitting room matched the pale tiling or how the bright colors of the enameled vases offset the deep glossy green of the lemon tree leaves.

  No, he would notice that there was no way for anyone to attack Stefano. If they stayed within the gazebo when they ate, they would be invisible to outsiders, and no one could see past the thick, perfumed hedges to the pool. They were safe from snipers and she had no doubt that policemen were stationed around the entrances to the hotel.

  They were in a cocoon of luxury and safety.