Your Scheming Heart

by Kress, Alyssa

  "It's all right, tesoro," his deep voice rumbled against her ear. "You are here with me now."

  That made it all right? And yet, the harder she clung to him, the deeper a peace flowed into her. Her eyes drifted closed.

  "I understand better and better," Vincenzo murmured, "why you need me. Sleep now, tesoro. Sleep. I will take care of you."

  Huh. He wasn't going to take care of her. Nobody did that but herself. All the same, damned if she didn't end up falling asleep, right there in his arms.

  ~~~

  Sabrina woke to the golden glow of California sunshine pouring in through the sheer curtains of her hotel room. For a moment she lay on the soft mattress, enjoying the hue of the light, enjoying the warmth of her bed, and feeling a general sense of peace and well-being.

  It took a minute, and the sound of the shower going in the next room, to make her remember what had happened the night before. A spear of apprehension ran through her dreamy well-being. She jerked to a sitting position in the bed, then pushed the hair from her eyes. Had she really told Vincenzo all of that? No, she couldn't have done something so foolish. And of all people, to have picked this crazy Italian.

  Slowly she rose from the bed. All right, so she'd lost her cool, fallen apart. That wasn't so surprising after ten years. Vincenzo had been a sympathetic ear. That was it. That was all.

  But from her own bathroom Sabrina could hear the water of Vincenzo's shower and above that, the sound of him singing. Then there was the noise of something clattering against the tub followed by a break in the song and a spicy string of Italian.

  She couldn't help the smile that broke out on her face. It matched the funny, warm sensation that splashed in her chest. Oh, God. More apprehension ran through her. What was going on here? Surely she wasn't becoming susceptible to this man.

  Okay, yeah, she'd obviously been a little susceptible last night, but she hadn't gone all the way, so to speak, not literally or figuratively.

  When Sabrina emerged from her bathroom, Vincenzo was standing by the round table in her bedroom, tearing apart a large Federal Express package.

  As she toweled dry her hair, Sabrina observed the crisp ensemble of beiges he wore. His hair was still wet, very dark, and slicked back out of the way. Once again, she noted a warm feeling in her chest. Just a natural result of observing an incredibly beautiful man. That's all.

  "Ah, Sabrina." A smile immediately lit his face as he turned around, apparently noticing her presence in the room. It was a perfectly innocent smile, and then his gaze dropped to take in the towel wrapped around her breasts. He cleared his throat. "You look wonderful this morning. Why don't you get dressed and I will show you what has arrived." He turned back to continue unwrapping the contents of the package from what appeared to be a mile of bubble wrap. "Don't worry, I will not look."

  "I'll only be a minute," Sabrina replied dryly as she grabbed some clothes and headed back for the bathroom. No doubt he wouldn't look, but getting undressed in the same room with him was way too domestic.

  Once Sabrina had emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed, Vincenzo pointed with fatherly pride toward a painting that stood on the table, propped against the wall.

  She came to a halt, staring at the thing. Her first thought was that the tiny photograph in Vincenzo's wallet hadn't come close to doing it justice. There was a deep richness of color and texture in the woman's dress and hair, and in the leaves of the tree that framed her. It was evident even halfway across the room.

  "It's so small," Sabrina remarked, stepping closer. Together with the frame, the painting couldn't have been more than nine by twelve inches.

  "That was the style at the time. Small. This copy is most faithful to every detail of the original—or at least that is what all the literature tells me."

  Sabrina edged closer, fascinated. Even in a copy, the painting held a certain mesmerizing quality. The lady's eyes, in particular, drew her. Just as Vincenzo had described, there was a layer of rebellion underlying the sadness in her dark eyes.

  "It looks well made," Sabrina murmured, observing the tiny, precise brush strokes. Joe's education of her in such matters had her estimate of the original's market value soaring upward. Automatically, new calculations zipped through her brain.

  "Eighteenth century." Vincenzo smoothed his fingers across the top of the frame, but kept his gaze on Sabrina. "What do you think of the Lady?"

  "The woman in the painting, you mean?" She knew exactly what he meant, and why he asked. There was a power to her face, to that look in her eyes.

  "There is a story, you know," Vincenzo said. "About the model."

  Unable to hide her curiosity, Sabrina glanced up at him. "They know who sat for the portrait?"

  "Oh, yes. In my town it is a well-known story. Her name was Maria Visconti. As the daughter of one of the families vying for control of Milan, she became a prisoner, a political pawn. My ancestor, Giancarlo Nicolazzi, had the job of holding her for ransom."

  "Nice job," Sabrina remarked.

  Vincenzo only smiled. "He had his comeuppance. He fell in love with his charge. She spurned him, of course."

  "I should hope so."

  Vincenzo lifted a shoulder. "And then Giancarlo commissioned this painting. The artist understood just what to do. He painted Maria as a virgin: pure, helpless, but with a spirit of fire."

  Sabrina tilted an eyebrow at him. "Did it work?"

  Vincenzo's smile turned smug. "Three months later she was carrying Giancarlo's child."

  Sabrina released a disgusted breath and Vincenzo laughed. He was in an awfully good mood. And why shouldn't he be? she wondered. He'd won a major battle the night before.

  Not that he'd won the whole war.

  She liked him and all. Obviously, she was attracted to him. But they weren't together or anything. And she didn't trust him. Not all the way, at least, the way she'd trusted the Castlewrights.

  "Is your family known for taking prisoners?" Sabrina eyed him sidelong. He had to be aware he'd attempted the same thing, himself, last night.

  Vincenzo's amused gaze turned warm. "I think the present Nicolazzi is more of a captive than captor. Come here, tesoro." He held out one hand.

  Ah, she'd been expecting this, almost dreading it. He was drawing the battle lines again, preparing a new skirmish. She wasn't really ready—but it would be more dangerous to admit vulnerability than to accept this challenge. She put her hand in his.

  He pulled her toward him and sat down in a chair at the table, deliberately placing himself below her, at an apparent disadvantage. "You are frightened still, wary." He clucked his tongue. "Don't you know by now that I'm your friend?"

  "Friend," Sabrina repeated, expressing some disbelief.

  "Ah, perhaps a little more than friend," he admitted. He drew her between his thighs, so that her knees hit the front edge of his chair's seat. "And you are my friend, as well."

  Both of Sabrina's hands were in his. A combination of guilt and want shimmered through her. "Is that what you think?"

  He brought one of her hands to his mouth and pressed his lips against the back of it. "I think you were my friend last night."

  With the touch of his lips, the wanting part of her inner mix got stronger. "A one-time deal," she claimed, pushing the inconvenient emotion down.

  His lips curved as he raised her other hand to his mouth. "You have been my friend since the beginning."

  Now the guilt took a turn. "You mean when I stole your wallet?"

  Releasing both her hands, he looked up at her with a wry smile. "I am very sorry, Sabrina. But despite your best efforts to the contrary—you care."

  A wriggly snake moved through her chest. She had a terrible feeling he was right. They weren't together, and she didn't trust him—but she did care.

  This was a definite problem. Where did this caring leave her? Or the painting?

  "Vince?" Frowning, she put her hands on his shoulders.

  "Yes, Sabrina?"

  "You're shaking.
"

  His eyes dropped halfway closed. "It feels very good to touch you."

  "Ah." This confession eased the sting of defeat. Her frown softened into a satisfied smile. "So. Now it's you who's frightened."

  "Perhaps. A little."

  She lowered her lashes, tasting some triumph of her own here. "What are you scared of? I won't bite."

  "No." Vincenzo laughed nervously. "I am afraid you will taste much too good."

  Temptation sat right beneath her. She could smell his aftershave, feel the muscles shift beneath her palms. Normally Sabrina was very good at resistance. At the present moment, even, she was fully aware of the risk. She didn't want to draw any closer to togetherness here. But she leaned downward anyway.

  "Maybe I'm not all that sweet," she suggested, and touched her lips to his.

  It was the magic again, the kind of thing that happened every time he took her hand. Only this time it was Sabrina who'd created it. A novel pleasure rushed through her at learning she had that power.

  He didn't pull away. No, he let her kiss him, let her take the lead. He trusted her, responding to her every press and retreat. He allowed her full license to enjoy him.

  And enjoy him she did. Her head was full of him, her hands trembling, when she finally managed to separate their mouths. "Well," she whispered. A whisper was all she could manage. "What do you think?"

  His lashes stayed lowered against his cheeks. "I think you taste far sweeter than I had even imagined." Before Sabrina could enjoy this confession he'd wrapped one hand around the nape of her neck and pulled her down to mesh mouths again. This time he took control, playing, enjoying, pleasuring.

  A heat rose up in her and a bone-deep weakening as their mouths became more intimate. The magic deepened, like a net falling all around them.

  His hands went to her waist, holding her steady, long fingers spread across her back. His upraised thumbs just grazed the underside of her bra. She ached for him to move his hands upward, to feel them against her softness.

  He actually did move a micro inch in that direction, before quickly lowering his hands. His lips brushed past hers to the more neutral territory of her cheek. "Sabrina," he hoarsely whispered.

  "You're stopping?" Her arms were wrapped around his head, her heart racing.

  Laughing softly, he pulled out of her embrace. "Amante. If I didn't stop now, I might never."

  "Vincenzo." She caressed his clean-shaven cheek. "It's all right. I want you." Oh, boy, did she want him. If she were thinking more clearly, the strength of her desire might have frightened her. As it was, her want was getting the better of her brain.

  "Ah, Sabrina." Sighing, he took her hand and kissed the palm. "We will become lovers, but not today."

  Her breasts still ached. She wanted badly to be kissed again. Her stupid brain could go to perdition. "When?" she demanded.

  He didn't answer at first, rubbing her fingers with his lips. "When...we are ready. Now, come tesoro. Sit in my lap. We both need to cool down and you'll be in a much better mood if we do it together."

  "My mood is just fine," Sabrina claimed, disgruntled he could sense her physical irritation.

  "Come." He pulled her into his lap, resting his cheek against her forehead. "Put your hand on my chest. Feel how fast my heart is beating? You see? I'm in no better shape than you." In a lower tone he added, "Worse, I imagine."

  With her palm pressed against the crisp front of his shirt, Sabrina could indeed feel the rapid tap of his heartbeat. So why had he stopped? They both wanted this. Neither of them were children.

  Then she remembered. A wave of dismay crashed through her.

  The painting.

  Vincenzo won't touch a woman until he finds that painting. Even though he supposedly understood now that Carlotta was dead, he hadn't given up the idea he needed absolution for her demise. Until he got that, he wouldn't be enjoying a full life.

  The wriggly snake crawled through her chest again. Sylvio had been willing to condemn his nephew to a lifetime of celibacy. Sabrina was not willing to do that. An idea began to form in her mind, a way to get Vincenzo what he needed, but without sacrificing herself in the process.

  "Vincenzo?" She moved her palm upward to straighten his collar.

  "Yes, Sabrina?"

  "We need to talk business."

  Though she couldn't see his face, she sensed he was raising an eyebrow. "What business?"

  "About getting into Francesca Miller's house."

  The hand he'd been moving through her hair stilled. "I thought you said it was impossible to get into her house."

  "Yeah, well. I've had some time to think since I said that."

  He moved his hand slowly through her hair, his fingers combing gently. "What have you been thinking?"

  "Well, it's a long shot, and it's risky." She craned her head to look at him. She wanted to see his reaction. "But I just may be able to get you that painting."

  For once, that expressive face of his wasn't giving a thing away. He simply looked down at her with dark, watching eyes.

  "You do still want the painting, don't you?" Sabrina asked, tension building inside of her. His eyes had turned shrewd, the way they could, observing her. What was the problem? Sabrina wondered. He obviously needed that painting—and she'd been hired to get it for him. None of that had changed.

  But he gazed at her for a long time before finding his answer. It was as though he thought the answer lay in Sabrina, and not his own mind. "Yes," he said at last. "Yes, I want you to get me the painting."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  With her hands at the wheel of a new rental car heading down the coast, Sabrina was feeling excited and nervous. Mostly excited, and only a little nervous: perfect for a successful con. Okay, her plan to get into Francesca Miller's estate was a long shot, one based on her view of the place from the air. Nevertheless, she felt good about their chances.

  Sabrina glanced to the side. Vincenzo was examining the lens of one of his cameras. With two days' growth of beard, the badly worn pair of jeans, and a discolored, over-washed shirt, he couldn't have appeared further from his normally natty self. The bandanna tied around his forehead was his own crowning touch.

  Sabrina, who'd been leery about making him a working partner on this gig, had forgotten all her doubts this morning on seeing that awful bandanna. Her heart had nearly burst with pride.

  This just might work.

  "As long as no one at the house knows anything about photography I may be able to get away with it." With a Latin shrug, Vincenzo put the camera back in the battered thrift shop camera bag, something that looked like it had been around the world a few times. "Otherwise, I suppose I can pretend to be drunk."

  "You are going to be cold stone sober," Sabrina informed him. "Furthermore, you aren't going to say a word. I don't want anyone hearing that accent."

  Vincenzo affected a look of surprise. "What accent?"

  Sabrina laughed and reached across to slap his leg. Immediately she was sorry for the gesture. Lately it had gotten so that the smallest physical contact between them set off enough sparks to start a forest fire.

  It was that saintly restraint of his, Sabrina grumbled to herself as she quickly retracted her hand. For two days now they'd been circling the same flame, but Vincenzo never let them get close enough to let the thing flare.

  The previous night they'd slept together again. They'd kissed and caressed. A heated excitement had built between them in their twisting embrace under the sheets. Feeling him shudder under her touch, Sabrina had thought this would be it. This time he wouldn't resist her.

  She'd been wrong. Carefully, completely, like a good boy scout, he'd put out the fire he'd begun. They'd ended simply wrapped in each other's arms, breathing hard and feeling a heavy, mutual frustration.

  The frustration was the greater for Sabrina because she knew that after today there wasn't going to be another chance.

  In the car, Vincenzo slid his eyes down the length of her dress. For all that sa
intly restraint, he was as hungry as she was. "It is nice to see you dressed better than me for a change," he remarked.

  "Only because you bullied me into it."

  Vincenzo had insisted on buying her the brushed wool dress. Sabrina was keenly aware of the sheer class of the cut and material. A row of agate buttons ran down the navy blue front. Every other inch of the dress hugged her curves with completely deceptive modesty. It was, without a doubt, the finest piece of clothing Sabrina had ever owned. It was also the only piece of clothing—or anything else—that anyone had ever given her.

  That set off a warm feeling inside her. A much too warm feeling. But it was okay. The warm emotion was not going to get a chance to fester.

  "Now, you've got the copy of the painting, right?" Sabrina asked, more to distract her thoughts than because she doubted he'd have remembered.

  "Naturalmente." With one hand he patted the battered camera bag. Without its frame, the copy of the Madonna fit very nicely rolled up in the soft bag.

  "And you're sure you can get the original out of its frame and stick the copy inside?"

  He smiled, not minding the inquisition. "I practiced yesterday. It should take me no more than ten minutes. All you have to do is keep Mrs. Miller occupied."

  Sabrina heard the hunter's excitement in his voice. She felt it, too, but there was sadness lurking on the edge of her excitement. After today, she wouldn't be seeing Vincenzo again. He didn't know that, of course, but it was an essential part of her plan. It was the only way she knew to keep him—and the painting—safe. And okay, incidentally, her plan kept herself safe, too, safe from these confusing soft emotions.

  The stone wall surrounding the Miller estate appeared on the right side of the road. Vincenzo turned to look at it. "There is one thing I did forget, however."

  Sabrina suppressed a groan. Things had been going too well, she supposed, not to have some problem crop up. "What is it?"