Your Scheming Heart

by Kress, Alyssa

  Vincenzo raised an eyebrow. He caught the old lady's drift and, judging by the twitch of his lips, found it amusing. "No, just from New York."

  Agnes clucked contentedly. "Still, that's a long way. Long enough to get to know each other, eh?"

  Vincenzo's eyes went to Sabrina. "Oh, perhaps long enough to get started."

  The old lady leaned toward Vincenzo. "Now, it isn't difficult to find a pretty woman," she confided. "But finding one who is intelligent is another matter altogether."

  "I quite agree." Vincenzo's eyes glittered.

  "And it's twice as hard for a woman to find an intelligent man," Sabrina put in, glaring across the old woman's lap toward Vincenzo. To her frustration, he only broke into a grin.

  "Which makes you all the luckier, my dear," Agnes Miller stepped in, diplomatic. She patted Vincenzo's hand, which was when Sabrina realized he'd been holding onto the old woman's hand this whole time.

  Everybody needs to be touched. When he'd made this claim to Sabrina, she'd assumed it to be a line, some kind of precursor to seduction. Now she saw that for Vincenzo the rule held for frail old women the same as anybody else. It wasn't about sex, or even romance. For him, touch was simply necessary. For life, yes?

  Sabrina forced her gaze from those two joined hands. She recalled how quickly she'd slipped her own from Vincenzo's outside by the car. "Mr. Andreoni is anxious to learn as much about Alan Miller as possible," she told the dead man's mother. "Even if they're not related, it will help him in the next phase of his search. Do you know where we can find Alan's widow?"

  "Who, Francesca?" Agnes waved her free hand in the air. "She stays holed up in that enormous house of theirs, bought with all that money the two of them made after the war." Mrs. Miller pointed a crooked finger at Sabrina. "The money's the problem, of course, how all those rumors about her got started."

  "Rumors?" This sounded promising.

  "And it doesn't help when she hides behind those walls," the old lady went on, not quite answering Sabrina's prompt. "Only makes it all sound true."

  "Francesca?" Vincenzo stepped in. "Is she from Italia?"

  Mrs. Miller nodded. "Al met her during the war. Brought her home with him."

  "Busy man," Sabrina muttered under her breath. Collecting artwork and women along his path. "Sounds romantic," she said aloud.

  Agnes smiled warmly. "It does, doesn't it?" There was an arch look in her eye. "It's enough to give a person ideas—don't you think?"

  "Francesca," Sabrina said, desperate to turn the tide of the old woman's thoughts. They should get at least one constructive thing accomplished in this silly conversation. "Do you have any idea where we can find her?"

  "Oh, she lives up north." Agnes waved her hand southward. "Around Santa Barbara."

  "An address?" Sabrina queried.

  "Never visits me," Mrs. Miller stated, and pressed her lips together. "I'm not about to write to her."

  No address, then, Sabrina thought with a mental grimace. "Mr. Andreoni, I think it's time we let Mrs. Miller go."

  "Bene." He stood and then bent over to kiss the old woman's papery cheek.

  Agnes closed her eyes, loving it.

  "You have been very helpful," he told the old woman, smiling straight down into her eyes.

  That smile was just affection, Sabrina saw, the excess of a naturally generous personality. There was nothing personal about it.

  "Grazie," he said.

  "The least I could do. And good luck, my dear, in finding your grandfather."

  Vincenzo opened his mouth, caught a warning glare from Sabrina, and merely nodded. "Thank you."

  "You must be used to that," Sabrina remarked as they went down the flagstone steps at the front porch.

  "Pardon?"

  "You must be used to having them fall at your feet."

  Vincenzo sighed, his oxblood wingtips making a crisp clicking sound on the last few steps. "I have always been popular with the older women."

  Sabrina shot him a glare, but he maintained a demeanor of perfect innocence. As if he were unaware of his appeal to women of all ages. "What with your flirting with that old lady, I barely got the information I needed."

  "Ah, but you did." Vincenzo smiled knowingly as they walked over a lush lawn toward the rented car. "And my way, she won't even remember exactly what you were asking or why, no?"

  Sabrina gave a disagreeing sniff. But he was right, and that annoyed her.

  "Come," Vincenzo said. He closed the passenger door of the car even as she started to open it. His mood had changed completely since they'd driven up to the place. Now he was the one exuding charm and cheer, while Sabrina felt in a deep funk. "There is a beautiful view of the ocean," he said. "Let us look."

  A brisk breeze tugged a stray strand of her hair across her face. "We've got a long drive ahead of us, Vinnie." Her annoyance with him was snowballing. Dimly she recognized that Vincenzo had done nothing to earn this displeasure, but that didn't seem to stop it.

  "The drive can wait. This view we will never see again. Come, Sabrina." He took her hand.

  In that moment she figured it out. She was jealous, jealous of an old woman, jealous of the human connection she'd seen form, and so easily. As if she, too, wanted such a thing: connection.

  Oblivious to her mood, or uncaring, Vincenzo tugged Sabrina up a grassy slope. They came to the edge of the world. Sheer cliffs dropped to frothing water below. A deep blue, the water lapped hungrily around a rubble of rocks and boulders.

  "Ah." Vincenzo released her hand and took in a deep breath of air. "It is good, no?"

  It was a beautiful view and the air was clear and fresh, but Sabrina wasn't going to admit that anything was good. She didn't want to be jealous! She looked at her watch. "It's already past one in the afternoon."

  Vincenzo shot her a sidelong glance. "You are upset."

  "Please." Sabrina coolly adjusted the watch on her wrist and squinted over the ocean. "Why would I be upset?"

  "I could guess." Vincenzo took a step toward her. His tie blew sideways in the breeze as his head tilted. "I think you are upset with yourself."

  Sabrina couldn't help laughing. "That's ridiculous."

  "Not so ridiculous." He came to a stop front of her, his hands on his hips. "Because you are starting to like me."

  Sabrina let out a gusty, plainly disagreeing breath.

  "Yes, I know." One corner of his mouth curved up wryly. "That is against your religion."

  "Look, this is a business deal, plain and simple."

  "Naturalmente." He took a step closer, brushed a lock of hair from her eyes. "All the same, you work above and beyond your pay."

  "The pay is quite high, Nicolazzi."

  His lips quirked. "Always so honest."

  At that a stab of guilt arrowed through her, but she merely shrugged. "If you say so."

  His smile only grew. "Actually, in your own peculiar way, you are quite honest. One might even say, brutally honest."

  "Truly."

  "Truly." His lashes dropped, hooding his eyes. "You have been honest that you think I am crazy. You've honestly told me I am something of a fop, and you have been exceedingly honest in letting me know you don't trust me."

  Sabrina's own lashes dropped then. It did sound rather brutal.

  "And yet," Vincenzo went on. He tapped a finger lightly against her lips. "And yet, you have gotten me closer to the Lady than I have been in four years of searching."

  Somehow Sabrina managed to sound flippant. "Hey, I'm just out for Number One, same as anybody else."

  "Yes, I know." Sighing, he leaned forward. "All the same, Sabrina, thank you."

  Then he bent down and kissed her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was just a light touch of his lips to hers. Nothing spectacular. But that light little touch shimmered down Sabrina from the tip of her head to her toes.

  She closed her eyes, surprised, then shocked. That shimmering sensation wouldn't stop. It kept tingling down her back, up her
neck. It made her feel...soft.

  When she opened her eyes, she saw Vincenzo looking down at her with a dazed expression. He looked surprised, too.

  Sabrina had a feeling he'd no more intended to kiss her than she'd expected him to do so. With a bewildered expression, he raised a hand to smooth across her cheek until his fingers tangled in her caught-back hair. "Sabrina," he murmured. "Please—" His brows knit as if he didn't know himself what he wanted. Then he lowered his head and kissed her again.

  She saw it coming. She could have turned her head. She could have stepped away. Instead she lifted her chin and kissed back.

  What a kiss. Not passionate or carnal, but devastatingly gentle. As she curled her fingers against his chest, Sabrina felt a delicious heat warm her through. He was comfortingly solid beneath the scratchy wool of his suit.

  Meanwhile, he kissed her slowly, completely, as though he needed to learn again how a woman was made.

  "Sabrina." Her name was a weak whisper against her lips as he slowly pulled away.

  Their eyes met. Confusion clouded Vincenzo's dark eyes: confusion and...mortification.

  For a moment she was bewildered. The expression on his face had nothing to do with the sensations he'd just evoked. He looked positively ashamed. For goodness' sake, why?

  A second later she remembered, and understood. It felt as though a bucket of cold water splashed all over that magic.

  Vincenzo took a step back. "Sabrina, I— That— I don't know how it happened."

  No? She lifted a brow. As she recalled, he'd put his hands on her face, lowered his head, and pressed his mouth to hers. Not so mysterious. "Come on," she said briskly, "we have a ways to drive before tonight."

  "Sabrina—" He put out a hand, but then thought better of touching her. He cleared his throat and stuck his outstretched hand in a trouser pocket. "I'm sorry."

  "Yeah, yeah." He wasn't apologizing to her. No, Sabrina had figured out the source of his shame. He was apologizing to his dead wife—acting like he was still married. "Tell you what, Vince. Let's just forget it ever happened."

  "Yes, yes, of course." He closed his eyes, obviously grateful for this out. "We will forget it."

  Absolutely. They'd both forget it. That amazing, never-felt-like-this-before kiss had never happened.

  Starting down the grassy slope toward the car, Sabrina repressed a peculiar, lowering sensation inside. The sensation was irrelevant. Worse, it was idiotic. Just because she'd discovered Vincenzo wasn't completely evil didn't mean she wanted him to kiss her. He wasn't about to mean anything to her. Nobody, ever, meant anything to her. Besides, he was the mark.

  "I'm driving," she announced, and jerked open the car door. He was the mark. Sabrina didn't know why she kept forgetting that fact.

  ~~~

  Two hours later, leaving Oxnard, Sabrina picked up their tail in the rear view mirror. She wanted to believe it was Darrel, but feared it wasn't. Darrel was good, but not this good. Their travels the day before would have baffled a bloodhound.

  So, Sabrina thought, her fingers flexing over the wheel. It was their newspaper friend, the one she'd first seen outside Vincenzo's Manhattan apartment building, then at the airport in Burbank. Judging by his lack of discretion, he didn't mind she knew he was behind them.

  Ballsy guy. Mentally measuring the loneliness of the two-lane highway, Sabrina hoped like hell his gutsiness didn't mean he was about to make some kind of move.

  Vincenzo had his nose against the opposite window, brooding, which he'd been doing ever since they'd left Laguna Beach and the old age home. Although they'd both agreed to forget that foolish kiss, Sabrina doubted he had. Or at least, he hadn't forgotten his guilt over it.

  For her part, she was determined to put the whole thing in the trash bin. It was appalling that for one second she'd become...vulnerable.

  "Say, Vince," she now spoke up. It was high time to garner some information she should have had a long time ago.

  The sudden break in the two-hour silence had Vincenzo start, and then blink. "Yes, Sabrina?" he asked, turning.

  "I don't think you ever told me what kind of business you're in." As she asked this Sabrina checked the rear view mirror. "How'd you make so much money you can throw it around looking for possibly nonexistent paintings?"

  "The Madonna della Montagna is very real." Vincenzo's shoulders stiffened.

  "Fine, fine. But how'd you make the money?"

  He turned toward the window again. Fields of green vegetables stretched toward the mountains. "The Nicolazzi are a merchant family. We...buy and sell things."

  "Things." Sabrina's lips pressed together. Was it her imagination, fueled by that car behind them, or was Vincenzo being evasive? "What kind of things?"

  He lifted a shoulder, as though the whole subject bored him. "Things. Whatever needs to be imported or exported."

  "Like wine, olive oil, that sort of thing?"

  "Yes." He waved a hand in the air. "And other things. Whatever is profitable."

  "I see. And these are all, er, honest things, right? No contraband?"

  He straightened some more, Nicolazzi dignity well ruffled. "Naturalmente. We are businessmen, not bandits."

  Bandits. The word rang a bell. An ugly shiver ran down Sabrina's back as a past conversation came back to her. The Nicolazzi never pay ransom. We will not make ourselves the victims of bandits. Her eyes went to the dark car some hundred yards down the road behind them. "We're not in Italy," she murmured aloud.

  "Pardon?"

  "Nothing," she mumbled. They weren't in Italy. American 'bandits' might not have gotten the word that the wealthy Nicolazzi did not ransom their own.

  She stretched her fingers over the wheel, her palms getting warm. Perhaps her imagination was running away with her. Someone who wanted to kidnap Vincenzo wouldn't allow themselves to be seen following him. At least, she didn't think they would.

  "I'm afraid you are tired, Sabrina. Would you like me to drive?"

  A minute ago she would have agreed. Now she wanted to keep control of the speed and direction. She shot Vincenzo a wry, sidelong glance. "You're just hoping if I pull over you'll get a chance to sneak a cigarette."

  His eyes half-lidded. "Yes, I know. A dirty, disgusting habit."

  "And one that'll kill you, sooner or later. No, thanks. I'll drive."

  He gave her a very odd look. Sabrina wondered if he could possibly guess the reason she wanted to keep the wheel.

  "Would you care?" he asked.

  "What?" Sabrina frowned. "Would I care what?"

  "Whether or not the cigarettes killed me?"

  "Oh." The unexpected question threw her. Warmth crept into her face. "That was just a general comment on the nature of tobacco smoke," she floundered. "Everyone knows that cigarettes are dangerous."

  "I see." He turned his eyes frontward, brows frowning. "A general comment."

  Yeah, it was only a general comment. Sabrina had no particular concern about Vincenzo or his lungs.

  "Tell me, Sabrina." Tilting his head, he slid her a glance. "Is there anyone you do care about? Have you any family?"

  Despite herself, her son, Jimmy, jumped to mind. But he wasn't really family. Not yet, anyway. She shook her head. "Nope. Why'd you ask?"

  Vincenzo sighed. "Meeting Mrs. Miller today made me think of my mother. I miss her."

  This emotion was stated frankly and without the least hint of embarrassment. It sent a funny, longing shiver through Sabrina. She knew her son did not similarly miss her. He didn't even know about her.

  Vincenzo chuckled softly. "Sometimes I even miss my Uncle Sylvio. Luigi? Well, of course I miss him, even though we did not part on the best of terms."

  "Luigi. Who is he, anyway?" As Sabrina recalled, this was another proponent of Vincenzo's return to Italy.

  There was the briefest of hesitations. "Luigi is Carlotta's brother."

  "Ah." She wished she hadn't asked.

  Vincenzo looked over. "Have you no family at all? What about yo
ur parents?"

  It was a toss-up which was a more difficult topic: Vincenzo's family or Sabrina's lack of one. Considering the pitfalls that surrounded Carlotta's name, Sabrina decided her own antecedents were less hazardous. At least she knew where the holes were.

  "I never knew my parents. I grew up in an orphanage. You know, with nuns. Not a bad place, really." No, not even if they hadn't given her a clue as to what the real world was like.

  Vincenzo persisted. "And at the orphanage, was there anyone who took your parents' place?"

  Sabrina thought of the dutifully detached nuns and smiled. "Nah, the closest thing to family I ever had was Joe."

  Interest lit Vincenzo's eyes. "Ah, who is Joe?"

  "Was Joe. He died about a year ago. Truth is, he was already old when I met him. Picked me up when I was doing a bad job picking pockets outside of Grand Central. Joe gave me a place to live, food, and then taught me everything I know."

  "A partner."

  "Yeah, we were partners." Her smile grew as she remembered the endless arguments. She and Joe had argued over everything, and enjoyed every minute of it.

  "You loved him," Vincenzo said.

  She looked over at him, startled. "What?"

  "You loved this Joe."

  "Well, I don't think you can classify—"

  "You loved him. I can see it in your face when you speak of him. That is good, Sabrina. I'm glad you had some love in your life."

  She stared at him, stupefied. "Our relationship wasn't like that."

  Hunching down in the seat, Vincenzo crossed his arms and lifted both shoulders. "Perhaps you did not sleep together. That is no matter. Love is love, regardless."

  He was right, of course. Love did not have to be sexual. She'd once loved people with whom she'd had no intention of sleeping. She'd loved them more, even, than she'd loved the father of her child. But that had been when she'd thought they were going to do something for her, that had been when she'd thought the Castlewrights were going to take care of her. Once she'd found out that was not going to be the case, the love had turned very quickly to hate.

  "I'd call it a matter of mutual dependence," Sabrina claimed.

  Vincenzo only smiled. "A rose by any other name."