Forbidden Kiss

by Shannon Leigh

  “Are you all right?”

  She frowned at the question. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Yes, why wouldn’t she be all right? It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard from her in two days after not being able to shake her for twelve consecutive hours the previous three. “I haven’t heard from you. I was beginning to wonder.”

  “Wonder what? If I’d changed my name and left the country?” Her eyes flew wide, mocking him. “Oh, wait. That’s you.” She flipped her book closed and stood, casting a weak shadow across his own boots. “I’m fine.”

  Her body language screamed she wasn’t.

  “What’s going on?” He didn’t think he’d like it, whatever it was she told him.

  When had he started feeling so proprietary about this woman?

  “Nothing for you to worry about.” She stepped back and looked around him towards the library entrance. “Find anything of interest in there?”

  “Don’t change the subject. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “You tell me. My life has turned upside down since I met you and nothing I do seems to put it right.”

  She was worrying him. Rom reached for her, forcing her head up with a pressure to her chin. “What is it?”

  Her lips remained firmly closed, her eyes avoiding his. She didn’t feel like sharing. And who could blame her?

  “Whatever it is, you can tell me. Although I’ve kept things from you and held to some untruths, you know I wouldn’t hurt you. You can trust me.”

  She snorted.

  “I’ve found nothing,” he offered. “I’ve been to a dozen different museums in this city and so far, zero. The place I imagined the paintings originated yielded nothing as well.” Lawrence’s old Franciscan order had dismantled everything with the exception of the main chapel sometime back in the eighteenth century. If the paintings had ever been there, they were moved.

  She finally looked at him with narrowed eyes, suspicion clear in their blue depths.

  “I told you, Jule, I’m willing to work with you. Tell you what I can. Share what I think will help.”

  “Well, that’s the problem now, isn’t it? You’ll only share what you consider safe information. You’re feeding me selective bits, like some art newbie who doesn’t have a clue. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I talked to Rossi an hour ago and he thinks he might have something.”

  “And?” He prompted easily, with only a minor hint of expectation coloring his voice.

  “A Scaligeri Palazzo. Operated by a bankrupt non-profit. The place has been closed for six months while the case awaits a hearing. Rossi said it may be difficult to impossible to get inside.”

  “Unfortunate,” Rom said, turning the problem over in his head.

  She spun on her heel and marched away, then swung back to stand in front of him, her arms on her hips, her dark hair blowing around her shoulders.

  “I’m going in. With or without approval.”

  Her statement caught him off guard. She couldn’t possibly be considering breaking into the place. “Whoa, Jule. Let’s talk about this.”

  “What’s to talk about? I could be here in Verona for months waiting for the palazzo to open. Months I don’t have.”

  He stood swiftly, not liking her tone. “What do you mean? Now I really must demand you tell me what’s happened.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She brushed away his question with visible impatience. “Too much is riding on this. I’m going in and I’m asking if you want to come.”

  She was serious. And suddenly it clicked in Rom’s head. She asked him because for someone to commit a crime such as breaking and entering, they really should know what they’re doing. It would greatly reduce the chance of going to jail. And apparently Jule thought Rom an expert.

  “What about your reputation? And your vow to not join the family business?” He paused, but his words didn’t seem to be reaching her. “You do realize what will happen if you’re caught?”

  Jule gave him a look that said don’t patronize me.

  “And you’re okay with that?”

  With a withering look in his direction, she slid her book into her shoulder bag and turned her back on him, heading for the exit.

  She would do it. With or without him.

  He never really had a decision to make. So he followed her out of the library garden and onto the narrow sidewalk leading into the heart of Verona.

  Someone had to watch the woman’s back.

  …

  “So who owns the palazzo we’re about to break into?” Rom asked, still worried about Jule’s state of mind.

  Twilight teased at the edges of the horizon, casting glowing drops of light on terra cotta roofs. Rom and Jule sat outside one of the cafes along the row of similar places in Piazza delle Erbe.

  It was as though he’d never left.

  There is no world without Verona walls,

  But purgatory, torture, hell itself.

  Casing the shuttered palazzo told Rom what he needed to know. No electricity. Apparently bankrupt meant no utilities, which meant no alarm. It could also mean all climate sensitive items had already been removed from the museum.

  Jule didn’t agree. She still planned to go ahead when Rom suggested they wait for Rossi’s report.

  He’d stall forever if it meant he wouldn’t have to enter that house. The house of a man he’d killed. A man Shakespeare had dubbed County Paris.

  “I don’t know who runs the nonprofit. But it used to be the residence of one of the della Scalas top supporters.” Jule looked at him as if to ask if he knew the historic family who once ruled the city with an iron fist.

  Yes, he knew them. Had fought them, too.

  Rom figured he knew which della Scala she referred to. “Cangrande I?”

  Surprised, Jule raised her eyebrows. “Yes. How did you guess?”

  No guessing involved. He remembered the bastard. The podesta—chief magistrate, ruler of Verona—lay entombed across the street from his old house.

  “He was Dante’s patron and Giotto’s too. A lethal warrior, but a genius statesman. He brought other neighboring cities under his reign and allegiance in his fight against papal power.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t know anything about Renaissance art.”

  He offered a half smile. “I don’t really. But Cangrande I is history every student in Verona learns.”

  Jule set her nearly empty water bottle on the café table and leaned in, lowering her voice.

  “What is your connection to Verona? Rossi said you speak fluent Italian and he mistook you for a native.”

  “I was born here.”

  To her credit, Jule didn’t even blink. “When?”

  Now, that question would have to wait. “I left Verona as a young man, before the age of twenty.”

  “Why?”

  “Why are you still living with your family?” He turned the tables on her, hoping to deflect some of her curiosity. And he really wanted to know more about her. Her divorce and why she couldn’t wait to break into a museum and ruin her reputation in pursuit of something she may not ever be able to share with the rest of the art community.

  “This isn’t about me,” she said, refusing to take the bait.

  “I think it is. Something is propelling you to this end, and I’m concerned about what that something is.”

  “Why, because it presents a threat?”

  “Possibly.”

  Jule pushed the water with a quick shove and slouched back into her seat, folding her arms across her torso in a very protective grip.

  Who was she afraid of? Rom? Or something—someone else?

  “Look. My endgame is simply this: I want to see those paintings before anyone else does. Now that I know others exist,” he tipped his head, acknowledging her contribution for getting him this far, “I need to examine them before you or anyone else has the opportunity to split them up. They may be relevant to my family.”

  He got her attention. Her lapis colored eyes, swirling with f
rustration, cleared. “What are you saying? That the paintings belong to you? Is that why you’re after them?”

  A sudden motion some distance over Jule’s left shoulder caught Rom’s attention. He watched as a man bent to retrieve his lost glasses and straightened, putting them back on. His back was to Rom, but something about the rigid stance and the perfect alignment of the shoulders seemed familiar.

  The man walked around the fountain in the piazza, keeping his back to Rom, pretending to be absorbed in the cheap souvenirs on display in the vendors’ carts. But the small furtive movements of his eyes told Rom he was watching the surrounding crowd. Looking for someone.

  “Hello! I’m still here,” Jule waved, snagging his attention.

  He slipped back into the conversation, but kept an eye on the man. “I don’t have a claim on any of the art outside the fact that the subject matter deals with people in my family’s history.”

  “Oh.” Jule looked away, chewed her bottom lip. She watched the barista make espressos behind the copper-topped counter for several seconds while Rom kept track of the mystery man.

  “Your painting. You know who the dead couple was?”

  The man turned to hold a small piece of stained glass to the light and Rom saw his face. Pio Mascaro.

  “Not here,” he said sharply. “Come back to my rooms and we can talk further.”

  She laughed. “You’re amazing. You can’t really expect me to fall for such a thinly veiled proposition?”

  Mascaro put the souvenir back and moved closer to their table. He would spot Rom in another couple of minutes. He was still a good couple hundred feet away, but even sitting Rom still towered over the other people.

  “I don’t play games, Jule.” He thought about the bruises on her neck. Again the urge to kill Mascaro teased his consciousness.

  “What’s wrong with right here?” she demanded.

  “You’ve never done this before and to keep both of our asses out of an Italian jail, we should go over how we’re going to get in and more importantly, out.”

  And he didn’t want her going back to her hotel on the chance Mascaro knew to look for her there.

  She took another sip of her water and considered his logic. Mascaro dipped behind a vendor folding his cart up for the night and Rom lost track of him.

  Hell.

  “We have another few hours before we even begin to think about heading over there. Let’s spend it someplace warm.”

  With a grim smile, Jule nodded reluctantly.

  He paid the check and searched for Mascaro’s gray form among the vendors’ carts. There he was. On the opposite side of the street, admiring jewelry in a storefront.

  Mascaro wasn’t getting her this time.

  Or ever again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jule couldn’t stop thinking about his protectiveness. His refusal to let her enter the museum alone and gamble her freedom.

  The knowledge created warmth in her chest, spreading outward until it tingled even her fingertips. With her body humming, she noticed his hands. Wrapped around the small espresso cup, lying flat on the table, or hanging relaxed by his side, they were big, sensuous, and a serious turn on. She wanted to feel those hands on her. Stroking, teasing, caressing.

  “Do you have warmer clothes?”

  His question took a full minute to register and when it did, she nearly tripped trying to recover.

  “Oh. Yes. I do, back at my hotel.”

  “I’ll send someone for your things when we get back to my place.”

  She thought about the black lace bra and matching panties packed in her travel case. Wouldn’t he be surprised if she stepped out of the bathroom dressed only in that?

  She smiled at the imagined look on his face.

  “That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile in some time,” Rom said.

  She glanced up at him, going slightly gooey at the warmth in his voice. Was he thinking of her in panties too?

  “There hasn’t been a lot to be happy about lately.”

  Understatement.

  “But now there is?” He peeled his gaze from the people on the street and examined her face as if trying to read her inner thoughts.

  “Let’s just say I’ll be happy to get this over with.” And back to normal life. Though she would miss the possibility of mind-blowing sex.

  Rom stepped in close to allow another couple to pass on the sidewalk, his hand falling to the small of her back. The feeling melted her insides and made her knees wobble.

  God, what a mess she was. A constant conflict of emotions pulling her this way and that. Rom. Family. Duty. For once in her lifetime, she desired to throw off the obligations and do whatever she wanted. To be vulnerable and courageous enough to allow someone else to see her, the real Jule.

  “So this is your place?” she said when they stopped in front of a plain three-story residence. Faded frescoes decorated the uppermost story, hinting at the once colorful and opulent façade. Weather and age had conspired to dim its greatness, but Jule could well imagine the former glory.

  “I’m on the third floor,” Rom said reaching for the latch.

  Jule passed through one half of the arched door, feeling at once protected and intimidated by the heavy wood closing the interior courtyard off from the rest of the city.

  Rom hesitated outside, once again surveying the street. Something about his behavior triggered a memory, but before she could recall it, he distracted her.

  “It’s just me here now. The other families are on holiday.”

  A shiver of excitement snaked up her spine. All alone.

  She followed him through the courtyard and inside, up a set of stairs to the third floor. Watching the play of muscles as he climbed was enough to turn her face red.

  Rom unlocked another door and ushered her through. “Your face is red. Get inside and remove your coat, you’ll warm up quicker.”

  Jeez, he thought her face was chapped from the cold.

  Turning to face him immediately, coat still buttoned tightly, Jule talked before she lost her nerve. “I don’t know what’s happening here.”

  He raised an eyebrow in question, and closed the door, locking it.

  “I mean, why you asked me up here. If you think we’re going to have sex, well, I could be convinced. I’m attracted to you. To tell you the truth—and damn it, I can’t help but get this off my chest no matter how ridiculous it sounds—I’ve thought about it. A lot. But what would it mean? I don’t know a thing about you.”

  He took off his leather coat and tossed it on the back of the nearby settee. He advanced on her, heat in his eyes.

  “What I’m saying is that although sex would probably be great, I don’t think it would be beneficial to either of us at this point.”

  He reached a hand behind her neck and pulled her in, the other lifting to rub a finger along her lips. “Jule, I swear to you, I’m not after anything. Not even sex.”

  She tried to turn away to hide her embarrassment, but his hands held her steady.

  “Let me finish.”

  She forced herself to look him in the face.

  “The lies I told were not intended for you. Certainly not ever meant to hurt you. If they did, and now I see they have, I am truly sorry.”

  God help her, she believed him. Again.

  She closed her eyes, nodding, not trusting her voice.

  His lips touched hers lightly, a feather caress that comforted as much as it stroked the fire igniting in her core.

  The kiss spiraled out, his lips paying homage to the tip of her nose, her cheeks, and her closed eyes, and finally her forehead. Jule didn’t realize his lips had left her face until his arms pressed her tightly to him.

  “I can’t say I don’t want to make love to you, Jule, because I am completely consumed by you. But I don’t want to do anything else to compromise your trust.”

  He pulled away, holding her at arm’s length so she would meet his gaze.

  “Your smile is so bea
utiful. It lights up your eyes and creates a halo of purity and happiness surrounding you. I don’t want to be responsible for changing that.”

  Lord, the man knew the right thing to say. If she experienced any reluctance, it moved into the past.

  Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Jule unbuttoned her coat, letting it hit the floor at her feet. Next came her sweater and matching wool skirt, followed by her boots.

  Rom reached a hand out to stroke each new piece of skin as it was revealed. She stood before him in her matching peach camisole and high cut panties. Not black lace, but she felt beautiful anyway.

  His eyes, his hands, hell, his very presence built a fire so hot inside her, Jule thought she might orgasm at the slightest touch.

  “I’ve never felt this way before. Not with boyfriends or my ex. Just you. I want to find out if making love is as mind blowing as the foreplay.”

  His hand cupped her chin while his thumb stroked her chin. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  He scooped her out of her pile of discarded clothing and walked through the apartment. Jule didn’t see a thing except his warm smile and hungry eyes until they reached a bedroom.

  He set her on her feet near the bed and slid his strong arms around her, the glide of his black cashmere sweater against her bare skin wonderful and erotic.

  “If you want to stop, tell me,” he whispered against her neck.

  Jule leaned into him, circling his neck with her arms and letting him know, in no uncertain terms, she wanted to continue.

  He kissed her. Branded her.

  Deception and doubt fell away as her body took over and her mind opened to the experience. It couldn’t be more right, this meeting of their bodies.

  Her hands slipped from his neck and glided down to his shoulders and over his chest. The bond she had imagined between them fell satisfyingly into place and Jule knew, knew, she was home.

  “Rom,” she murmured as he lowered her to the bed, and then pulled away to shed cashmere and pants. He moved quickly to the dresser and slipped something inside the top drawer. Jule caught the glint of light on steel and flinched unconsciously.