Her Italian Millionaire

by Carol Grace

  “So this is it,” Silvestro said. “Is it worth risking your life for, betraying your best friend, dying for, killing for?”

  She didn't answer. Did this man really think she'd done all those things? Why didn't Marco tell him she didn't do it?

  For a brief second, Marco's gaze met hers. “It's just a rhetorical question,” he explained. “You don't have to answer.”

  She nodded, but she wanted to ask if recovering it was worth making love for, leading a woman on for, or lying for, but she didn't have to. She already knew the answer.

  It hit her with the brilliance of a twenty-five carat diamond that this was the end of her vacation, the end of her affair with Marco, and the end of the adventure of a lifetime. For him, it was just the end of a job. Nothing more.

  If they let her go. If they didn't believe that she'd brought the diamond to Giovanni.

  “Mrs. Jackson,” said the older man slowly in heavily accented English. “Tell me how you got the diamond in the first place.”

  “I just got it tonight from Giovanni.”

  “I mean in America. Let us assume the diamond was inside a chocolate, though it seems a risky place to hide a valuable diamond. Diamonds are the hardest substance on earth. Someone might have eaten it. Swallowed it or cracked their tooth on it.”

  “Someone like me,” Anne Marie said, her voice faint as she remembered the several truffles she'd eaten. Marco put his hand on her shoulder and pressed lightly. He'd seen her munching on those truffles. He must know by now she hadn't known what was inside one of them.

  Silvestro handed the diamond to Anne Marie. “Smell it,” he said.

  “Chocolate,” she said, holding the diamond to her nose and inhaling. “I can't believe it. My friend Evie Barton gave me the chocolates to give to her cousin. It's made in San Francisco, it's very expensive, very famous chocolates. She said Misty was homesick...”

  “Homesick,” Marco said, “for money. It takes quite a bit to keep up this lifestyle.” He waved one hand toward the wall hung with paintings.

  “I don't know anything about Misty, but Evie? I can't believe... Why would she...?”

  “Why would anybody trade in diamonds? For money. Does she need money?”

  “I don't know. She's never said...If it wasn't Evie, I don't know who it could have been. She was the one who said I should come to Italy. She'd come to Italy when she got a divorce, but she didn't see Giovanni.”

  “How do you know?” Marco asked.

  “Because she would have told me.”

  He looked at her as if she was the most naive person he'd ever known. Maybe she was. She'd believed Evie, and worse than that, she'd actually believed that Marco cared about her, that he'd made love to her because he'd wanted to. Knowing what she knew made looking at him downright painful. His high cheekbones, his mouth that had kissed her, and his strong hands. She flushed and looked around the room, at the statue of Venus in the corner and a copy of Bernini's David in an alcove.

  “I guess Evie wouldn't have told me she'd seen Giovanni in Italy if she didn't want me to know,” she said at last.

  “Particularly if she was delivering stolen goods to him,” Silvestro said.

  “And having an affair with him,” Marco said.

  “No,” Anne Marie said. Her world had turned on end. Her friends were crooks, her lover was a liar? “That's not possible.” Evie was the one who'd told her Giovanni had always been in love with her. Why lie about that? The answer was so clear. Because she wanted Anne Marie to go to Italy. To take the diamond, not to Giovanni, but to her so-called cousin.

  “Yes,” they both said at the same time. “It is possible.”

  “From the information we've received from the FBI and the messages we intercepted, we think Giovanni broke off with your friend Evie, which made her angry. She sought another fence for her jewels and found Misty, who is not her cousin. She found you to deliver the diamond. But Giovanni was not about to be left out of the loop. He knew you had the diamond with you. When it wasn't in the yearbook, he came after you, looking for it,” Marco said.

  “So Evie really did give me the chocolates to give to Misty,” she said, as the truth sank in.

  Marco and his boss both nodded as they stood together facing her. Everything she said, they already knew. It made her feel dense.

  “Giovanni really searched my room?” she asked. What a horrible thought. Someone she knew, someone she liked, had done that to her while she was out dancing in an Italian bar with Marco. Where he'd taken her just because it was his job. Where he'd held her close and whispered in her ear, because it was his job.

  “Or someone who works for him,” Marco said.

  Looking at him now, all business, shirt-sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, she wondered how she could have been taken in so easily.

  Because she'd been vulnerable. Because she'd been dumped. Because she wanted to believe she was desirable and beautiful. Hah. She was just another American tourist dressed in fancy clothes, but underneath she was the same boring, predictable librarian who'd left California only days ago.

  “At one time we weren't sure who all was in on this operation,” Silvestro said.

  “By that you mean you thought I was a jewel thief, didn't you?” She looked straight at Marco, daring him to deny it.

  “Yes,” he said. “What else could we think? You came to meet Giovanni. You brought him something. You had an attachment to him going back many years. We didn't know if you were working with Evie or without her.”

  “Do you know now?” she asked.

  “We have word that Evie has confessed to her part in the heist. But she claims Giovanni was the mastermind behind it.”

  “If she'd blamed me, what would have happened?” She imagined herself in that prison they'd visited that afternoon, shackled to the floor, scratching the days off on the wall.

  Marco's eyes held a hint of wry amusement. “It wouldn't be the Mammertine Prison,” he said.

  Easy for him to say, she thought. But it could have been Lompoc or San Quentin if she had to prove her innocence and couldn't.

  “She didn't blame you, and we know that you had nothing to do with the theft of the diamond. Even if you brought it to Italy, your innocence is not in question,” Silvestro said. “Marco, take the lady back to where she is staying, please. Then meet me at the office on the Via Firenze.”

  There were guards at the doors to Misty's villa again, but this time they were policemen. They nodded to Marco and he got into a car that was parked in the villa's oval driveway.

  The streets were almost empty. She had no idea what time it was. The moon had set and the sun had not yet come up.

  “I didn't get to see the buildings illuminated,” she said. “I guess I shouldn't worry about it; not everyone gets to hobnob with international jewel thieves.” Keep it light, she told herself. Don't yell, don't blame Marco for using her. For him, it was all in a day's work. Still... “I can't believe you thought I was a thief. But you did, didn't you?” she asked.

  “At first, yes.”

  His jaw was set. His eyes were on the road. He was all business. She wanted to ask when he'd changed his mind about her, when he'd decided she wasn't a thief, but it was probably best she didn't know. It might have been only minutes ago, or hours ago, at best. All the time he'd made love to her, slept alongside her, danced with her, kissed her...all that time, he'd really believed she'd stolen a diamond. That hurt.

  “I never really thought you were a tour guide,” she said, her chin in the air. She wanted to hurt him, to make him suffer they way she was. But how could you hurt someone who didn't care? The best she could hope for was to show him she wasn't as dumb as he thought.

  “No?” he said. “Well, I tried, but you were too smart for me. You know far more than I did.” She shifted away from him toward the door.

  “Some things, yes,” she said.

  “Many things,” he said under his breath.

  She smoothed her skirt and didn't speak un
til they got to the convent. He stopped the car and looked up at the stone walls and the gate.

  “They have a curfew,” he said. “I forgot.” He hunched over, resting his forehead on the steering wheel. Then he sat up straight. “We can't get in until six in the morning. I'll take you to my apartment.”

  “I'll go to a hotel.” She wanted to get away from him, almost as much as he must want to get away from her.

  “I need to know you're safe,” he said.

  “Safe from what?” she asked.

  “From everything and everyone.”

  “No one would want to harm me. I don't have the diamond, I don't even have the candy.”

  “I can't take any chances,” he said. “I lost Giovanni tonight. I've been trying to catch him for over two years, and now it turns out I have no case against him. He didn't steal the diamond; all he did was want the diamond. That's hardly a crime. Neither is finding the diamond in a chocolate truffle.”

  “What now?” she asked.

  “I don't know.”

  He drove to a large building on the Piazza Pasquino, took her up an elevator to the eighth floor, down a wide, carpeted hall and into a small apartment with high ceilings and dusty furniture. He threw the windows open in the living room and bedroom that looked onto a small courtyard. He tossed a few pillows onto a large austere-looking bed and told her to help herself to his clothes and his toiletries in the tiled bathroom with an old-fashioned tub.

  “I'll be back as soon as I can,” he said. “Don't open the door to anyone.”

  He stood at the front door for a long moment looking at her as if he wanted to say something. What was there to say? I'm sorry I didn't trust you? I'm sorry I made love to you?

  Anne Marie waited. But she couldn't stand the silence very long.

  “Say it,” she said. “Say you're sorry.”

  “I am sorry. Sorry I didn't trust you. I wanted to, but I couldn't. Not and do my job.”

  “And was part of your job to make love to me?”

  “No, of course not,” he said.

  But she didn't believe him. “It doesn't matter. I got what I wanted, an Italian affair. I thought it would be with Giovanni, but well, you can't have everything. I don't need to tell you that. You got the diamond; maybe some day you'll get Giovanni.”

  “You don't want me to get him, do you?” he asked, his hand on the door knob. He probably wished he'd left before they had this conversation, but she wasn't going to let him off that easily.

  “No, I don't want you to catch him. I know he used me; he certainly lied to me. He doesn't love me and never did. But he was once a good friend. He never made love to me to get information from me.”

  “Did he make love to you?” he demanded. “I thought you said…”

  “That's none of your business,” she said hotly.

  “So I was just a substitute for Giovanni, was I?” he asked, his eyes blazing.

  She'd wounded his male pride. Good! At least he wouldn't remember her as some pathetic tourist who'd been used not only by her best friend, but by her long, lost Italian boyfriend, as well as himself.

  “Yes,” she said. “I came here to recover from my divorce. My ego was in shambles. You knew that, and you took advantage of me. Well, I took advantage of you too. When I saw I couldn't have Giovanni I settled for you. I couldn't go home without an Italian affair; now I've had it, and I'm going home. My husband is waiting for me.” It wasn't a lie; he was waiting for her. She just didn't care.

  “Damn it, Ana Maria, I can't stay here and argue with you. I said I was sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

  “You didn't hurt me,” she said, crossing her arms. A few minutes ago she'd been so tired and depressed she could barely hold her head up. Now she was on a roll. Her brain felt like it had just woken up from a long nap, and her spirit along with it.

  “You made my vacation,” she said. “I have to thank you for that. I'll have so many stories to tell. Wait till Evie hears...well, maybe I'll visit her at the federal prison and tell her. Or maybe I'll just write a book. Don't worry, I won't use any real names. And I'll change the diamond to a stolen painting. It should make quite a story.”

  “You're going to write about me?” he asked, his eyes glowing like hot coals. He took a step toward her.

  “Yes,” she said, but her voice wasn't quite as strong as it had been. “You can't stop me.” The way he was looking at her and the way he was coming toward her told her he could stop her if he wanted to. He was bigger and stronger than she was. His eyes were narrowed and his mouth was set, his lower lip jutted forward.

  “I can't stop you,” he said. “But I can give you something more to write about.”

  She took a step backwards, then another, breathing hard. She'd never seen him look so furious, so determined. He put his hands on her shoulders and backed her into the wall.

  His lips came down on hers, hot and heavy and punishing. His hips pressed against hers and she could feel the strength of his erection. She wouldn't let herself respond, she wouldn't give him that satisfaction. She kept her arms stiffly at her sides.

  His hands framed her face and he forced his tongue into her mouth and ravaged it. She couldn't take it. Not another minute. Not another second.

  She invaded his mouth as he'd done hers. Her tongue wound around his. She pressed back against his assault on her body. She thrust her hips forward and heard him moan deep in his throat. Her nipples peaked and beaded against his shirt.

  She was running on pure adrenaline and instinct when she wrapped her arms around his neck and answered his kisses with her own, faster, harder, wilder than anything she'd ever known. Damn it, her body, her heart and her raging hormones still wanted him, lusted for him, loved him.

  At the same time, she wanted to punish him. As he wanted to possess her. It was a duel nobody could win, about love and hate and pride and regret. Somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, she knew it was also about goodbye.

  Finally he broke away and held her at arm's length, his eyes half shut, breathing as hard as she was. So hard she was afraid she'd never fill her lungs again.

  He backed his way to the door, his shirt hanging out of his pants, his hair matted to his head, sweat running down his face like a man who'd tried to outrun a hurricane. Before he left, he paused at the door.

  “Don't go anywhere,” he said, his voice the one he might use on hardened criminals.

  “Goodbye,” she said. She'd be damned if she'd take orders from him. Not from a man she was never going to see again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Marco spent more hours than he wanted to, more than he thought he needed to, at the office with Silvestro. It was getting late. He called his apartment, no one answered. He drank cold coffee and popped some aspirin. He and Silvestro called their counterparts in the US and South Africa. They received congratulations on the recovery of the diamond. Giovanni was scarcely mentioned, he'd become irrelevant. He wouldn't like that, but it was better than being in prison. Evie Barton was in custody, so was her so-called cousin Misty.

  “Not bad for a night's work,” Silvestro said, rubbing his hands together cheerfully. “On that note, I'm going to announce my retirement. I will nominate you as my successor, of course.” Before Marco could either protest or accept, his boss continued, “Now, what's going to happen to the woman? She's free to go, you know. I'm convinced she doesn't know any more than she told us. Any fool can tell she's an honest woman.” He gave Marco a half smile.

  Marco wished he could replay the past twenty-four hours over again and do a better job of it. But it was too late. Too late to make amends, too late to apologize. He had made a fool of himself, let Giovanni get away, hurt Ana Maria, and now what?

  “Now what?” Silvestro asked.

  “Now nothing,” he said. “I'm taking a vacation. A long one. I'm going back to San Gervase and fix my roof.”

  “And the woman?”

  “She's going back to the States to her ex-husband.”
/>   “Really?”

  “I don't know. But with her, there's no telling.” He was still reeling from that encounter in his apartment. She was the most unpredictable, beautiful, feisty, honest, sexy, maddening...

  He reached across the desk to shake hands with Silvestro, then left the building. When he got to his apartment, he knew she was gone before he even opened the door. The bathroom towel was still damp and the mirror was still steamed up. The bed hadn't been slept in, but he smelled her scent everywhere. On the glass she used, on the telephone she'd used, on the window she'd opened.

  He was out of the apartment in a few seconds, got into the agency car, and sped through the early morning traffic to the convent. Dawn was breaking over the convent walls. Inside was an oasis of calm.

  He asked to see his sister. She came to the door in her gray dress and apron, her hair smooth, and a smile on her face. The convent had done wonders for her sense of serenity, but serenity was not what he wanted right now. He wanted Ana Maria.

  “Where is she?” he asked.

  “She went to the airport to try to get a flight to California.”

  “Why didn't you stop her?” he asked.

  “Why didn't you?” she asked.

  “I didn't know,” he said. “I didn't know I'd fall in love with her. I didn't know she'd get under my skin. I didn't know I needed her. I didn't know I needed anybody.”

  “What's wrong with you?” Isabella asked with a worried frown.

  “Everything,” he said.

  She put her hand out and in it was a small black box. “Here, take this. It was Nonna's. It is for whoever of us gets married first.”

  He looked down at the box, then at his sister. “Are you sure?”

  “Are you?” she asked.

  He put it in his pocket and left. He was only sure of one thing: he had to find her. He couldn't lose her.

  At the airport he pulled out an official card, stuck it on his windshield, and parked in front of the international terminal. He ran through the concourse, stopping to look at departure times for flights to San Francisco. She wasn't in any of the lines at the ticket windows. She wasn't in a lounge. She wasn't anywhere.