And somehow get her to keep her damn nose out of things. And find out what she knew—and what she had really come for.
The money? It was possible. Revenge? That was possible, too, if she believed her father had been horribly wronged.
And it was also possible that she was everything she seemed, everything that was haunting him, teasing him, taunting him….
She was trapping him in her silent web of beauty; he was falling more and more deeply in love with the daughter of a man who it still appeared to him could have been the only one to murder his father….
He sighed. Tomorrow night…
* * *
At four o’clock the next afternoon Marcus phoned the hospital. The nurse came on the line, and then the doctor.
“Marcus, she’s gone,” Dante told him unhappily.
“Gone! I told you to keep her there. Dear God, Dante, didn’t you understand—”
“Si, si! But I wasn’t here. She twisted the day staff around her finger. She planned to surprise everyone by getting back home by herself and all. She—she hasn’t come home yet?”
“No, she’s not at the palazzo,” Marcus murmured uneasily. He found out that she had left several hours earlier, then hung up the phone.
For a long moment he stared down at the receiver, completely tense. He needed help. Right now he needed help badly. But it had come to a point where he didn’t trust anyone. At least, he had warned himself not to trust anyone. Not even those who were his blood, people he loved.
Not even his brother.
But that, he decided firmly, was foolish. He knew Tony almost as well as he knew himself. He had to trust someone.
Suddenly he was furious with himself. How had he let his own mind become so narrow that he couldn’t see the obvious? Tony was his brother. Marcus turned, shaking his head a little at his own foolishness. He was in trouble now, and his brother was the one to call on for help.
“Tony! Tony!”
His brother came running from the courtyard when he heard Marcus’s call. “Tony, Chris left the hospital. Hours ago,” Marcus told him.
Tony gazed at him worriedly. “Where do you think she went?”
“I don’t know. Take the launch, please, and see if you can’t find her on the canals or the streets. I’m going to the galleries.”
* * *
Chris had had no problem whatsoever wheedling her way out of the hospital. She was, after all, she had reminded them sweetly, an adult and an American. Responsible for herself and her own welfare. And, of course, she was very, very sweet.
Neither did she have any problems getting to the galleries—or inside them. They were open today. There seemed to be tourists all around; Chris joined them for a while, wondering just what it was that she was looking for.
She eventually made her way over to the historical exhibit. She didn’t see Joe, Fredo or anyone else that she knew. It was easy to be anonymous.
She walked around the figures, smiling as they went into action. They really were excellent. Lucrezia Borgia was the best; she had a voice and face that implied determination. She might have been a murderess, but she had also been a woman out to get what she wanted. Chris shrugged and walked on past her. Someone called out something in Italian, but Chris wasn’t paying any attention. She kept following the circle, pausing as she saw that a costume had been laid out on a glass case, probably for the Catherine di Medici figure that was still missing.
Chris started as the lights suddenly went out. She realized then that the galleries were closing for the day. She must have heard the announcement earlier and simply not understood it.
She should hurry up and get out.
But should she? Apparently the guards hadn’t seen her, or they wouldn’t have turned out the lights. Now was the perfect time to do a little exploring, and she wouldn’t even have to break in.
But how was she going to get out? Chris wondered. The alarm system would probably go off if she tried to get out through the door.
She shrugged, certain there would be a way. She could even go down the trapdoor if she had to, then ignore the tombs and race along the subterranean tunnel to the palazzo. Or, much easier, she could get on the phone and call Tony or Marcus to come get her.
Chris moved to the door and looked outside. Beyond the balcony she could see the last two guards in their medieval uniforms, chatting as they set the switch by the entry doors, looked around the place one last time—and exited.
She glanced back at the silent figures in the robotronics room. She shivered a bit, then slipped along the long hallway toward the gem salon. Marcus hadn’t found the note or her earring, but she knew that they had been there. But then, she thought miserably, did she really know yet that she could trust Marcus?
Or did she just want to trust Marcus?
Chris went straight to the case with the di Medici jewels and carefully got down on the floor—avoiding the trapdoor, just in case someone was beneath her!—then searched studiously in the moonlight. Frustrated, she sat back. Marcus was right: there was no earring, and there was no note. She sighed. Someone had found them. Or else Marcus had found them himself and wasn’t admitting it to her.
Chris started suddenly as she heard a door open below. She stood quickly, frowning, and walked silently back to the door. She couldn’t see anyone—and there were no more sounds.
Quietly she walked to the balcony to look down to the courtyard. A soft gasp escaped her, and her heart began pounding wildly.
There was a figure in the courtyard, a tall figure clad in a long dark all-encompassing cloak.
Chris started to back away from the balcony just as the figure looked up. Its features were so shadowed that she couldn’t see them at all. She sensed that the figure had seen her, though.
And she knew it when she saw the figure starting for the stairway. Chris emitted a little cry and started running down the hall. She slipped through a door, barely aware that she had reentered the robotronics exhibit. She dared a quick peek through the door, but could no longer see the cloaked figure. But then she heard a noise: the sound of a secretive footstep. It was coming from the gem salon, right next door. This room would be next. And it was almost certain that the cloaked form was carrying the knife that had glinted so lethally in the moonlight on the night Alfred had died.
Chris spun around desperately. She saw all the figures, silent in their poses. And then she saw the Catherine di Medici costume, lying on the case.
She ran to it, throwing the full old-fashioned skirts over her head and pulling them down quickly. Her own skirt and blouse were completely hidden. There was a headdress, too. Like horns with a veil. Chris threw it on, praying it was straight. She swept the veil across her cheek and over a shoulder. She pitched her purse far beneath the pedestal and jumped onto the circular stage with the other figures, finding a pose in a deep curtsy before a courtly gentleman with bloused trousers who was bowing deeply himself.
Her heart began to thunder again. She had been just in time. The door to the room opened, and the hooded figure entered.
Chris longed to look up, but she didn’t dare. She listened as the figure walked around the room, coming closer to her, closer. Footsteps, slow, one after another. Coming closer still. Pausing, until she could feel her heart thunder and her blood run cold, the hair seeming to rise at her nape….
And then the footsteps passed her by. Chris began to breathe more easily in relief, then froze once again in horror. At the doorway the cloaked figure was playing with the switches.
The lights came on. The figures began to move. All at once. Saying hello, introducing themselves.
The courtly fellow in the bloused trousers moved, slapping her in the face as he extended an arm.
Chris didn’t allow herself to react. She prayed that her light Italian would be up to par for a few words. She allowed herself to blink once, remembering all the times she and Georgianne had posed as robots in Parisian boutiques to make extra money. It was just like mime: separated
mechanical movements. A tilt here, a bend there, nothing smooth or flowing, a little slower than real life.
“Io sono Catherine di Medici,” she murmured, deepening her curtsy to the “friend” who had slapped her with his own mechanical movement. It was all she could think of to say, and it didn’t really matter, because all the other figures were talking, and the conversations were blending in the night. “Io sono Catherine di Medici,” she repeated. “Mi piace Venezia.” Softly, softly. Just enough that her lips moved, so she looked real…
The hooded figure flipped the switch, and the figures were still. Chris caught herself, posing in a deep curtsy once again. She wanted to look up so badly that she thought she would explode, but if she did, she could all too easily die. She waited, barely breathing.
And then she heard the figure turn away and pull the door shut.
Still Chris waited. Waited and waited. Finally, when she could bear her stance no longer, when her limbs were about to break, she moved. Carefully, very carefully. She stepped from the circular stage and silently crept to the door, wincing as the costume skirts rustled around her. She opened the door a crack, but could see nothing. She waited for a few more minutes, leaning against the wall, trying to breathe slowly. Then she peeked out the door again. No one. Silently she stepped out into the hallway and moved to the balcony. She could see nothing on the ground floor. She kept looking, hugging the balcony as she moved closer and closer to the stairway.
And then she heard a movement on the stairs. She looked quickly to her right, and the cloaked figure suddenly pointed a blinding flashlight into her face.
Chris screamed and spun around. The door to the gem salon was right behind her. She ran into the room, closing the door and leaning against it. She glanced around a little desperately, saw one of the jewel cases and ran to it, then dragged it back hurriedly and braced it against the door. Then she hurried to the di Medici case, crawled to the floor and searched for the hinge to the trapdoor. For several seconds, in which she began to pray fervently, the spring eluded her. Then at last it gave. Closing her eyes and praying again, she pitched her body downward.
She hit the hard stone and met total darkness, as she had known she would. And she tried very hard not to panic at knowing that everything she touched was part of the tombs—including the spiders that lived among the dead.
For several minutes she just sat, breathing hard and trying to muster her courage and sense of reason. Then she stood, silently apologizing to the long-dead di Medicis for crawling over them. She ducked her head, aware of the archways. If she could only find her way through the tombs and locate the hallway, she would begin to see light, the light from the chapel at the end of the tunnel.
It seemed to take forever to make her way around the first set of stone monuments. Then she began to pray that she was going in the right direction, and that she wouldn’t panic and start running like an idiot until she killed herself by crashing headfirst into marble or stone.
In the end she did panic. At first she hadn’t heard it: the soft sound of a footstep against stone. But finally she did. Footsteps, footsteps in the tombs, coming toward her.
Suddenly a flashlight sent a golden ray into the darkness, and Chris screamed, long, shrill and terrified.
“Good God! What are you doing down here again?”
Chris brought a hand to her eyes to shield them from the glare. “Marcus?” she whispered.
The light danced, and then he was next to her, holding her before she could fall.
“What are you doing?” he demanded. “Another lost earring? And just for kicks you decided to dress up like Catherine di Medici to find it this time?”
He was alive and real, warm and strong, and she was so glad to see him. But he was furious, and she was still terrified—and she wanted to tear his heart out.
“Damn it, Marcus! Someone was up there! Coming after me.”
“And what the hell were you doing up there? You were supposed to be at the hospital, waiting for me!”
“Marcus! There was someone after me—”
“Yes! Probably the guards. People aren’t supposed to be prowling around after the galleries have closed.”
“Marcus, the guards don’t wear dark cloaks.”
Chris broke off. His arms were around her, and she was clinging tightly to him, glad of the strength of warm living muscle beneath her fingers. But then a chill touched her. Where had he come from? He could have been the figure; he would have known that she was down here.
No, no, no! Because he could kill her as easily here as he could have in the galleries. But suddenly she didn’t want to say any more. Her heart was sure of Marcus’s innocence, but her head told her to trust no one. If it had been Marcus…
She had to be charming and sweet. Had to convince him that she hadn’t seen anything, didn’t know anything…
“Uh…maybe it was one of the guards. Maybe I panicked.”
Chris threw herself against his chest, her heart pounding. She pleaded in a muffled whisper, “Marcus, help me, get me out of here. Per favore, Marcus!”
His fingers wound into the hair at her nape, his touch almost rough as he tilted her head back, staring into her eyes. His were cynical and angry. Then his mouth ground down on hers, consuming her with a brutal kiss that softened almost instantly. Did he hate her? Or care for her? Was it possible that he had been a murderer—or was he her “winged lion” of justice, her only salvation?
None of it mattered when he kissed her, when his lips moved against hers with persuasion and hunger. His lips left hers to find her cheeks and throat, and then returned to consume her mouth once again, his tongue parrying deeply, as if desire could be assuaged in that single assault.
Chris went limp, weary and lost as she leaned against him, dismayed to know that she cared for him beyond all reason. Could she manipulate him with honeyed words? Could she seduce where her anger failed…? If she did, she would only be giving in to the demands of her heart.
“Please…Marcus,” she whispered, clinging to his shoulders, allowing her fingers to roam over them.
“I don’t think you should make an appearance upstairs as Catherine,” he warned, and she felt his hands on her body as he helped her strip away the awkward headdress and costume. He started to toss them aside. Chris suddenly gasped, seeing something in the beam of the flashlight.
“What is—”
“Marcus!” It was barely a whisper. “Look! The cloak!”
He frowned and bent down next to a sculpted angel that stood sentinel over a tomb. He picked up a large swath of dark material.
“It is a cloak,” he said curiously. “How did it get there?”
She wanted to scream and back away from him. Only two people were there: she and Marcus. But illogical as it was, she still couldn’t believe that Marcus would harm her. She didn’t want to believe it.
“I—I told you, the figure wore a cloak.”
He held the material for several seconds, then dropped it. “Leave it and leave Catherine’s gown. Let’s see if we can get out of here without being seen.”
His fingers were tight around hers as he led her quickly through the tunnels. Chris was glad to follow him blindly. But when they neared the other side and she could see the light from the chapel and the stairs to the palazzo, she hung back suddenly, swallowing fiercely and forcing herself to speak.
“Marcus, what were you doing down there?”
“Looking for you,” he said bluntly. He pulled her into the light, staring at her critically, trying to brush away the few spiderwebs that still clung to her hair.
“But…why?”
“Why? Because you just got out of the hospital!” he said impatiently.
“What made you think of the galleries?”
“Instinct. Or maybe I’m coming to know you. I don’t really know. What difference does it make?”
She evaded that question and asked another one. “Marcus, who has keys to the galleries?”
“Tony and
myself. Alfred had one, but I don’t know what became of it. Why?’
“It’s obvious. Oh, never mind. Let’s go up.”
“Yes, let’s go up. And you can go straight to your room and get dressed.”
“Dressed? For what?”
He smiled suddenly. It was a little grim, his teeth very white against the copper of his features. “For something nice. We’re going to go to dinner and spend the evening out. Away from the palazzo. As you wanted—away from everything.”
Chris stared up at him. Slowly she nodded. She had to get him to talk to her. They would order wine; she would be as sweet and charming as possible. She would force him to admit that Alfred had been blackmailed because someone other than her father had murdered Mario di Medici.
“That would be wonderful,” she said softly, smiling at him, then walking past him to the steps. Suddenly she turned back, watching him as he followed her. “Will you give me an hour? I really would like to dress up tonight.”
“An hour is fine.” He squeezed her hand, and they continued up the stairs.
“You found her!”
Tony was standing at the top of the stairs, smiling with relief. “Christina, I combed half of Venice.”
Marcus’s hand tightened around hers. “She was in the chapel. I told her one of us would wring her neck if she ever pulled such a disappearing act again.”
Tony shrugged, trying to give Chris a glance that was reassuring, as if to say, “His bark is much worse than his bite.”
But she couldn’t be reassured. Not when Marcus wasn’t telling Tony the truth.
Not Marcus, not Tony. It just couldn’t be one of them. But Tony was right there at the top of the stairs, and it seemed that they didn’t even trust each other….
“We’re going to go out, Tony. Would you mind letting Sophia or Genovese know that we won’t be here for dinner?”
“Not at all,” Tony murmured. He touched Chris’s cheek with his open palm. “I’m glad to see you safe and sound, bella Christi.” He smiled at his brother. “I’ll find the gorgon.”
The Di Medici Bride Page 16