But Chris never reached the courtyard. She noticed a wrought-iron gate in the center of the hallway that she hadn’t registered before. She paused, then walked toward it.
It led to a sweeping set of marble steps that went downward into darkness.
There was something about the steps that touched a chord in her memory. Wide white marble going downward into darkness. They were probably like a hundred others in Italy, Chris reminded herself, leading beneath the main level of the palazzo to the catacombs…and the chapel, she assumed. Gina had been down there earlier, wanting privacy. But that had been hours ago. Marcus had warned her that the subterranean tunnels weren’t safe, but surely the chapel was or else Gina would not have been there.
Chris shrugged a little uncomfortably. None of it really mattered. She knew she was going to go down the steps. There was simply something there that…beckoned to her.
She opened the gate and started down, her footsteps very silent in her slippers. Her breath came quickly, and yet she wasn’t frightened at all, just very curious and anticipatory.
Darkness quickly fell around her, but then she saw light ahead of her coming from one side. She reached the last step. It was cavernous here; great unadorned arches swept away in perfect symmetry to her left. They faded into darkness, and Chris knew that they marked the tunnel that led beneath the water to the galleries. To the right, from where the light came, was the chapel.
She walked quickly to it.
It was a simple chapel; there was an altar with a large gold cross, and several pews. The ceiling was frescoed, and various religious paintings lined the walls. Chris walked forward to stare at the altar, shivering a little. She knew that she had been here before.
“You recognize our chapel?”
The question was softly voiced. Chris spun around. Gina di Medici was kneeling in the last pew. Chris hadn’t seen her because she had been hidden from view by the doorway.
“Yes,” Chris answered Gina. Then she added, “I’m sorry to disturb you. I—I didn’t think you’d be here so long.”
Gina smiled—sadly, Chris thought—and stood to walk up to Chris.
“When you were a child you loved to come here to play. We tried to tell you that it was a place for sanctity, but you did not care to listen. Someone told you that the original di Medicis claimed to have built their altar with a tiny bone fragment belonging to St. Mark at its center. You wanted us to tear up the altar so that you could see the bone.”
Chris grimaced. “I’m afraid I must have been a rather irreverent child.”
Gina waved a hand in the air. “All children are irreverent, yes?”
“I hope,” Chris murmured. Gina’s words were quiet, and they seemed friendly. But her eyes, so crystal blue, held the sadness that never failed to touch Chris. Suddenly she wanted to leave as desperately as she had wanted to come.
She backed away from Gina. “I’ll leave you now, Gina. Truly, I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Christina…wait. A moment, please.”
“Yes?” Chris murmured, forcing herself to stay still. It seemed as if the chapel were shrinking, closing in around her.
“I—I want you to know that I am glad to have you here. I missed you very much when you were taken away. I had no little girl of my own to dress up and your mother and I…we were very close. I—I apologize for my manner. I do not seem to be able to let go….”
Chris paused, holding her determination to clear her father in check. “Gina, for yourself and no one else, you must let go. You’re a beautiful woman; there can be more happiness.”
“Yes, so they say. It was just that Mario…” She hesitated and her eyes were astute as they stared bluntly into Chris’s. Her voice was very soft when she spoke. “Marcus is very much like his father. You will know what I mean.”
“Both of your sons are wonderful, Gina. You should be very proud.”
She smiled dryly. “Tony…he is a fine son. I bless God each time I see him. But you cannot deny that you feel the strange power that belongs to Marcus. It is a power that compels women, yes? He is a man who harbors his secrets, and not even I know him well. He is intense, and perhaps there lies the fascination. Such a man was Mario. I loved him with all my heart, with all of me, and I have not found that which I lost with him yet. But, Christina, you are welcome here.”
“Thank you,” Chris murmured, but more than ever she wanted to flee. The candlelight in the chapel was flickering; for a moment Gina’s eyes seemed very wild and Chris wondered if she hadn’t lost a bit of her sanity. Any woman who spent hours and hours closeted in an ancient chapel…
She began backing away and Gina was still smiling.
“I’m terribly thirsty,” Chris murmured. “The stairs just seemed to beckon….”
“There will be lemonade in the courtyard,” Gina told her.
“Thank you,” Chris said, nodding. She tried a brilliant smile, then turned and walked away from the chapel. She didn’t even look to the left, to the dark subterranean tunnels, as she hurried to the steps.
But once she was halfway up the marble steps she started to feel ridiculous again. She had literally almost run away from Contessa di Medici, gentle lovely Gina.
Chris shrugged as she turned to reclose the gate.
Had she really been frightened? Or had she, perhaps, been merely ill at ease because Gina had seen—and commented on—her reactions to Marcus di Medici.
Oh, God! Just what was her reaction to the man? Yes, he was compelling; yes, he was intense. Yes, he could touch her and make her feel as if her blood sizzled and her soul drifted on clouds….
And he was secretive, too. Dark and intriguing. She didn’t trust him; he made her wary. She was also willing to swear that he was innocent when she didn’t even know of what he might be accused!
She emitted an aggravated little sound to herself and hurried down the hallway to the inner terrace, then out to the courtyard. She smiled then, because Alfred was sitting at the table, alone. His old head was leaned back, the waning afternoon sun shining on his bald spot. His eyes were closed as if he were resting.
Christina walked over to him. She was about to speak when he murmured something in Italian. She frowned, thinking he had dozed and was talking to himself. Then he murmured aloud in English. “Blackmail, blackmail…never pay a blackmailer.”
He seemed very disturbed; his face was growing a mottled color. Chris knelt at his side, loosening his tie.
“Alfred! Alfred! Wake up, you’re distressing yourself!”
His eyes flew open. For a moment he appeared absolutely panicked. Then he saw who was there, and his color faded back to normal. “Christina,” he said, sounding relieved. He caught her hand and patted it.
“Alfred, what’s wrong? You said you needed me. Let me help you.”
“Never pay a blackmailer, Christi. Never live with a lie.”
“Tell me about it, Alfred.”
He lowered his voice. “I will, I will, at the galleries Friday. When we are alone. Absolutely alone!” He was looking over her head. Chris spun around quickly.
The house had seemed so empty for so long. But now, it seemed, everyone was coming to the courtyard.
Gina was smiling and heading toward them. Sophia was right behind her with Genovese, apparently giving him instructions in Italian. And behind them was Marcus di Medici.
His eyes, dark and intent, stared searingly—warningly?—straight into her own.
CHAPTER 5
Fifteen minutes later Chris was still trying to decide just who in the household frightened Alfred Contini.
They were all seated around the table, sipping drinks, lazily watching the sunset. Alfred was querying Marcus about a trip he had made that afternoon to an old church, and Sophia—all friendliness and charm this evening—was asking Chris numerous questions about the United States. Genovese had served the drinks, then disappeared.
It seemed to be nothing more than an easy social gathering.
But each tim
e Chris looked at Alfred Contini, she thought the old man was still disturbed. It made her unhappy to see that; in the little time that she’d had with him, she’d come to like him very much.
Blackmail…
He’d been muttering away about blackmail. Who would be blackmailing him and why?
Unless, she thought fleetingly, it had something to do with Mario di Medici’s death. Someone might know that James Tarleton hadn’t murdered Mario. And that same someone might know who had. And they could be blackmailing Alfred….
She shook her head unconsciously. Why blackmail Alfred…unless Alfred had been the murderer. She couldn’t accept that any more than she could accept the accusation that her father had been the murderer. Was he protecting someone, then?
Who?
There was a rustle of sound from the gate to the Via di Medici. Dressed in their solid business suits, Joe Conseli and Fredo Talio were coming to join the group. Fredo’s smile was wide across his robust face. Next to him, the sallow Joe seemed saturnine even though, Chris realized, he was smiling, too.
“Fredo, Joe!” Sophia rose to greet them, linking arms with both men and bringing them to the table. Gina also rose to accept kisses on the cheek. Both men greeted Chris cordially, then apologized and began to speak quickly in Italian to Marcus. Apparently the discussion was strictly business. And then everyone was speaking Italian. Chris was glad to realize that she was beginning to recognize some of the words. It was obvious to her that they were discussing the galleries. First, something about one of the figures: it seemed that a costume had been completed for Catherine di Medici. Second, the tourist board had asked that the galleries be kept open on a certain night in August for a student affair. Chris was rather proud of herself for having followed the conversation that far. But apparently it wasn’t quite good enough, because Alfred lowered his voice to speak in an aside to her.
“You must study your Italian, Christi! Study it well.”
“I will,” she murmured, again getting the feeling that Alfred Contini—the de facto patriarch of the family—was desperate.
Who frightened him? she wondered again. Was it Genovese? After all, Alfred had been arguing with Genovese earlier. But he had also clammed up when he had seen Sophia and Gina. And if he did need help, one shocking question remained: why not go to Marcus or Tony?
“How did you like the galleries, Miss Tarleton? Did you have a chance to view them all?”
The question came from Joe Conseli. It was politely asked, but she had the strangest feeling that it wasn’t a casual question, that he was listening intently for her answer.
“I saw a lot, and of course, I was wonderfully impressed,” Chris told him. “I suppose it would take days to really see it all.”
“Ah, yes, of course! To study each piece!” Fredo said.
“I’m sure she’ll get the chance to study everything as thoroughly as she chooses,” Marcus said, and Chris found his speculative gaze on her.
She smiled. “I do plan to study everything,” she told him levelly.
He smiled briefly in return. Then Fredo asked him about something, and he replied in Italian.
Chris suddenly felt like screaming. Everything that was said, every glance in her direction, seemed filled with intangible undercurrents. Was it just her? she wondered. Or had all this been going on for years?
“Would you care to come?”
“What? Pardon?” Chris murmured, startled. The question had come from Marcus. For once she had been completely unaware of his eyes raking over her.
“I said, would you like to come with me?”
“Uh, where?” Chris murmured uneasily, fully aware now that everyone at the table was staring at her.
Gina di Medici laughed suddenly. “Christina, where have you been? Gathering wool? Marcus has been talking about the Church of the Little Flower.”
“Oh? I’m sorry. I suppose I was lost in thought. What is the Church of the Little Flower?”
“Just what it sounds like: a church,” Alfred said with a grunt. “A sinking church, at that. But Marc is on a committee that tries to save old buildings.”
“You really should go with him,” Sophia purred, smiling at Chris with rather icy eyes. Chris assumed that Sophia would love to see her anywhere except there.
“Yes,” Gina said, suddenly grasping Chris’s hand. “Go with him. You will enjoy the trip.”
You are both gorgons, Chris thought fleetingly. Both Sophia and Gina were looking at her as if they were sending her off to be fed to a dragon and were very pleased with the idea.
Or were they? Perhaps they were just being polite. The “dragon,” in this case, was Gina’s son.
And Gina knew that something was going on between Chris and Marcus. Did she approve, or disapprove?
She seemed a lot like Marcus, welcoming her and repelling her, all in one breath.
“Christina?”
Marcus was on his feet, waiting. Chris shrugged. Marcus was behind her, pulling out her chair. “We go by the front,” he murmured, so she waved goodbye to the others, feeling that they were all relieved to see her go.
Chris started to walk ahead, then decided it was too unnerving not to know where he was. She paused and turned, only to discover that he was right at her elbow.
“Where are we going?” she asked him.
He laughed. “Down to the Grand Canal, and then we take a left.”
Chris smiled. He opened the carved front doors and caught her hand to lead her down to the di Medici pali that guarded the boats.
“The motor launch,” he told her, and she felt lighthearted for a change as he led her to a small motorboat. He hopped in, caught her about the waist and brought her down to him. She sat on a plank at the rear of the boat, by the tiller.
Chris stared out at the buildings they passed. Venice was beautiful by day, she thought, but it was magnificent by night. Even the shabbier palaces appeared beautiful, cast in soft light. The water shimmered, and the air seemed exceptionally cool and fresh, and subtly exciting.
And Marcus…
As ever, he held his own excitement and fascination.
They turned into a small canal, and a moment later he murmured. “There she is, the Church of the Little Flower. What do you think?”
“What do I think…?” Chris murmured, and she stared at the church as they approached it. The architecture appeared to be Venetian Gothic. It was a pretty church, with numerous coats of arms displayed along the rooftop. It was small, though, and the steps seemed particularly close to the water.
“It’s…nice,” Chris murmured.
He smiled at her. “Take a closer look.”
She did, and he waited, killing the motor and letting them drift toward the building. “The walls! They’re crumbling…and the steps are too close to the water.”
“Exactly,” Marcus murmured. Then the double doors—richly carved with saints, but with warping wood—swung open.
“Conte di Medici! Marcus! Buona sera.”
There was more, spoken in a deep male voice, but Chris lost the flow of words. It was a young man who spoke, about the same age as Marcus or Tony. He kept up a smooth flow of words until he saw Chris; then he broke off suddenly. Chris could follow his next words. He asked Marcus who the beautiful woman might be. She smiled a little dryly. Italian men did tend to be flirts.
“Una Americana. Parli inglese, Salvatore.”
“Hello, hello, hello!” Salvatore said, reaching to help Chris from the boat. She liked the firm grip of his hand, his flashing dark eyes and his smile.
“Hello, Salvatore,” she said with a smile. She instantly felt Marcus’s hand at her waist; he had lost no time moving behind with a single lithe step from the boat.
“Sal, Chris Tarleton. Chris, Sal Astrella. A very old friend.”
They smiled at one another. “Come, come, and see what you think,” Sal said, ushering them into the church.
Chris followed them, not at all sure what they were looking for as they wa
lked around the small building. The sides of the room were lined with small altars, and there was, of course, the main altar. There were numerous beautiful paintings, and a magnificent pulpit near the main altar, but like the facade of the building, it appeared to be rotting. The stone floor was worn smooth.
“Eh, mi parla, Marcus!” Sal murmured at last.
Marcus looked at Sal with a grimace. “The committee has refused to take it on?”
Sal nodded.
“I can see why. The costs will be atrocious.”
“I’m willing, if you are.”
“What are you talking about?” Chris asked at last.
Both men turned to her and laughed. “We both belong to a committee that works to preserve our buildings,” Sal told her.
“But the committee has refused to take on this church. They say it is too far gone.”
“So you see, sometimes Marc and I try to save buildings ourselves.”
“But usually,” Marcus murmured, grimacing once again, “we do so to resell.”
Sal laughed. “Often to Americans at that, those who wish to have a second home in Italy.”
“But you can’t resell this time?” Chris asked.
Sal slipped an arm around her shoulder and walked her toward the main altar. “Christina, see that altar? Cardinal Valotti of the sixteenth century is buried within. He is a saint to these people! You see, this is a parish. Father Donato came to me when the building was condemned. The people do not want to lose their neighborhood chiesa.”
“I see,” Chris told him, and she did. It would be a terrible thing to see people lose a place they held so very dear.
Sal turned around. “Well, Marcus?”
He shrugged. “It will need pilings. All the wood has worm rot. The frescoes must all be refinished. There is nothing that doesn’t need work.”
Sal grinned. “I know. Well?”
“It’s a challenge.”
“Then you agree?”
He shrugged. “Why not? You’ll put me in the poorhouse yet. When the Palazzo di Medici starts to sink into the sea, I hope you’ll be there to bail me out!” He smiled as he approached them, spoke lightly to Sal and caught Chris’s hand to pull her back to his side.
The Di Medici Bride Page 10