There was a knock at the door. She froze, catching her breath. She inhaled again with shaky relief as she heard Marcus’s voice, telling her that it was all right to open the door.
He brought a tray of wine and bread and steaming pasta. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was; yet she couldn’t eat because she kept feeling ill. Marcus told her that Genovese’s throat had been slit, that the police had no real clues but that he had given them the notes she had received and told them everything.
Everyone in the house and at the galleries would be questioned. It was out of their hands.
Chris nodded. She kept drinking wine; it soothed away the raw edges of fear and pain. It stopped her from shaking.
At length Marcus told her irritably to go to bed and try to sleep. She crawled in, certain that she would never sleep. She didn’t really want to, because she didn’t want to dream about the catacombs again. And she didn’t like closing her eyes anymore; when she closed her eyes, she saw Genovese’s body on the Square.
Marcus didn’t slide in beside her. She heard the shower running; she heard it stop. She saw him come out of the bathroom in his robe; she watched him as he walked to the French doors to stare out into the night. Time crept by. The numbness of the wine left her, and tension wound like a coil inside her. She slipped out of bed and walked to him, disregarding the ice in his eyes as he watched her. But when she reached him, she could go no farther. She stood before him, her lashes lowered, her heart sick.
“Marcus, my God,” she whispered at last. “How can you do this to me? How can you remain so distant when…”
He lifted her chin with his forefinger, meeting her eyes. “When you are frightened?” he asked softly. “Mia moglie, there has been a murder. But between us, nothing has changed since this morning. I cannot allay your fears. It has been an eventful day. I have not had time to seek out a pharmacy nor would I have. You seemed rather adamant.”
She tried to wrest her chin from his touch, but he would not release her. She lowered her lashes against him, almost closing her eyes. “I…don’t care,” she whispered at last. Still, he stood like a rock. “Marcus!” she cried, flinging herself against him. “Please, Marcus, for God’s sake, hold me!”
His arms came around her at last. She felt his whisper against her cheek. “Christina, I cannot simply hold you. If I hold you, something else will follow.”
“That’s…what I want,” she admitted, her voice muffled against his chest. With her head lowered she tugged at the buttons of her gown; then she shimmied the material from her shoulders and forced it to fall to the ground. Naked, she stepped into his arms, slipping her hands beneath the V of his robe, running the tip of her tongue over his chest. She felt the fierce pounding of his heart, the sharp intake of his breath.
His fingers tore into her hair, tilting her head back. “Cara,” he said bitterly, “are you aware that we might already have to face the consequences of our actions?”
“Yes,” Chris whispered painfully.
“If so,” he warned her heatedly, “you will not leave me. This is Italy, not the States. You will not take my child.”
She couldn’t tell him that she never wanted to leave him, that her greatest fear next to death was accepting the fact that he might not want her anymore.
“No,” she said simply.
“It rests with you, amore mio,” he told her.
“Yes.”
At last he clasped her body to his. She felt the hardness of his desire, the force of his arms and his hips. She shuddered, sinking in sweetness to be held by him, to feel his power and need as he swept her into his arms.
And when he carried her to the bed he made love to her with a shattering ferocity, making her forget everything.
She wasn’t afraid. Not at all. Not when he held her.
CHAPTER 12
Chris woke very slowly…puzzled. She had been dreaming, but not really dreaming.
It had been more like remembering, and the Chris she kept seeing was not an adult, but a child.
A child, running along the subterranean tunnels of the catacombs, clutching something in her hand—terrified that she might be caught with it. It was something pretty she had seen, something she had taken. And if anyone found out that she had taken it, her father would be angry. Furious. Everyone would be furious. And she kept running, because she was certain that someone was after her.
The dream—or the memory—faded. Chris blinked, then realized that her eyes had been open; the image had been so strong that it had been as clear as day in her mind.
She rolled over quickly to wake Marcus and tell him about the memory or dream, or whatever it had been. Maybe it would make sense to him.
But Marcus wasn’t there. Her heart quickened a little as she remembered the night and her total surrender. But then, hadn’t it been his surrender, too? Hadn’t she had at least proved to herself that he could no more deny her than she could him? But what of the words she had whispered in desperation? What had he really been asking of her and what had she promised? What did he really want from her…?
Her musings came to an abrupt end as she idly ran her fingers over the indigo silk where his body had been and came upon a sheet of notepaper with the di Medici crest at the top. It was brief and quite to the point.
Christina,
Had to go to the galleries. Closed for the day—police order—but had to give them names and addresses.
Don’t leave the room. Don’t. Teresa has been told to bring you coffee at eleven; lock the door after her. Don’t leave the room, capisce? Unless you wish to learn all about temperamental and brutal Italians.
Marcus
Chris stared at the note resentfully. She was surprised he hadn’t signed it Conte di Medici…or Marcus Rex.
She sighed, chewed nervously at her lower lip, then decided that he was right. She was safer behind locked doors.
But, she realized shortly, being safe was not quite the same as feeling sane. She showered and dressed, then nervously started pacing the room. Something was going to happen; she could feel it in the air. Or maybe that was just her imagination. Maybe she was certain that something was going to happen because the police were involved now. Knowing that the police were involved gave her a feeling of relief; it also allowed her mind to wander to her personal position.
Apparently Marcus no longer intended her to leave today. What did he intend? She started gnawing at a fingernail. She knew that he cared about her, but caring wasn’t love. And to live with a di Medici, one would have to be loved by him. She couldn’t endure to stay, wondering what he felt, certain that he sought out other women. He had married her to protect her; being Italian, or perhaps just being male, he was possessive. He wasn’t about to let her leave with anything that was his, especially a child.
Chris picked up a pillow and slammed it across the room. She’d been so stupid! She should have thought of all this before ever becoming involved with him….
But really, it had all been so sudden….
And she didn’t know if she had anything to worry about or not. It would take time to find out. But what should she do in the meantime? Keep going…like last night? Then she’d definitely have something to worry about.
She reminded herself that none of this would matter much until the mystery at the palazzo had been solved. Thank God her mother was safely playing ranch wife out in the American West. She’d be crazy if she knew that her daughter had married a di Medici—and fallen in love with him.
There was a tap at the door. Chris glanced at her watch. It was exactly eleven o’clock. Teresa called out that she had a tray; Chris opened the door, accepted the tray with a “grazie,” and locked the door once again. She took the tray to the bed and leaned against a pillow to gulp down her first cup of coffee, then slowly sip a second while inspecting the bowl of minestrone and the crescent sandwich she had been brought. Last night she had felt too sick to eat. This morning she was starving. She was also tense and bored. Eating proved to be
a wonderful diversion.
But when she had eaten everything and finished the last of the coffee, she lay back, trying to analyze her dreams and memories about the catacombs. She really had remembered something. Something that she had apparently stolen as a child. Something pretty and fascinating. But what?
Hours passed. Chris worried about Marcus, about the police. About her personal commitment. Or had she made one? She didn’t understand. She didn’t understand him, or what he wanted, at all. He had been so angry after they had met Georgianne and Tomas, but she had been certain that he liked the couple.
She started as the phone began ringing. She almost answered it—but then remembered that yesterday Genovese had probably been murdered because she had answered a phone and agreed to meet him to pay for his information.
Finally it stopped.
Chris breathed a sigh of relief and went back to trying to untangle her dreams and the past again.
There was a tap at her door. Her stomach knotted. She didn’t answer the door, and she didn’t call out.
“Christina!”
It was Sophia, calling to her in annoyance. “Christina! Will you get the phone, please? It is Marcus.”
“Oh!” she cried out, picking up the phone. but the line was dead; she had hesitated too long. She tried to get the galleries back, but the line was busy.
Cursing herself, Chris ran to her door and opened it. Sophia was halfway down the staircase.
“Sophia, excuse me. Marcus wasn’t there anymore. Did he say what he wanted?”
“Yes,” Sophia replied impatiently. “He wanted you to go to the galleries. To talk to the police or something, I believe.” She shook her head uneasily. “Poor Genovese…all the years that he was with us…”
“Yes, poor Genovese,” Chris murmured. Apparently Marcus had chosen not to tell the rest of the household what was going on. It appeared that Sophia considered Genovese the victim of a madman. “Sophia, I’m going to go to the galleries. If Marcus should call back, tell him I’m on my way.”
Sophia nodded and started down the stairs again. She paused, looking back. “You’d better take a key. If they’re up in the offices, they won’t hear you.”
“Oh,” Chris murmured. “I don’t have one.”
Sophia waved a hand in the air. “I’ll find Gina and get hers for you.”
Chris thanked her and hurried into her room to find her purse. Sophia was in the entryway when she got downstairs, ready to hand Chris a set of keys. “You will need both. The top turns off the security, and the bottom removes the bolt, yes?”
“I understand. Thank you. By the way,” Chris said, “where’s Tony?”
“At the galleries with Marcus, I believe.”
“Thanks again,” Chris murmured. “And please, don’t forget. If Marcus calls tell him I’m on my way.”
Chris left the palazzo by way of the rear courtyard. She felt a little uneasy and didn’t understand why. The sun was shining with a frenzy. The water in the canals danced with its brilliance. People were walking along, smiling, laughing, hurrying. But then, Genovese had been killed in bright daylight. And, she thought a little uneasily, the daylight wasn’t going to last much longer. In another thirty minutes the sun would start to set. In another hour it would be dark.
She reached the square and looked up at the galleries. Black crepe still draped the columns. Up on the roof, the gargoyles seemed to stare back at her.
Chris ignored them and hurried up the steps to the doors. She banged on them for a minute, but got no response. Sophia, she decided wryly, had done her a favor by reminding her about the keys. Chris fooled with the alarm key first, hoping that she wouldn’t set the sirens shrilling. She frowned as she played with the key to the dead bolt, wondering why something about Sophia’s words had bothered her. She shrugged, unable to think of what it was that eluded her. Probably nothing important.
Chris allowed the doors to close behind her. Inside, away from the sunlight, it was already dark. Dark, and pleasantly cool. The galleries were air-conditioned, of course, but the marble and tiles were also cool, and it was a relief from the warmth outside.
“Marcus!” Chris called. Her voice echoed in the cavernous courtyard. Grimacing, she decided that she wouldn’t call out again; she would just find him.
Where? she wondered with exasperation. She didn’t know where his office was. She should probably have waited for him to call her back.
Chris started for the stairway to the second-level balcony. She was fairly certain there were no offices on the first floor; everything there was decorative, or set up for the convenience of the tourists and buyers.
She thought she heard something coming from the robotronics room. She started to call out, then remembered how her voice had echoed.
Chris hurried up the rest of the stairs, uneasily noting that it was growing darker and darker. She was anxious to get to Marcus and the police.
She burst into the historical room with his name on her lips. “Marcus?”
He wasn’t there. No one was there. The figures all stared at her, frowning, smiling, their arms lifted in silent welcome, their faces macabre in the growing shadows of night. It almost seemed that their grins were evil.
They were just robotronics, Chris reminded herself. Material objects, run by computers manned by men. She started to turn around; it was obvious that Marcus wasn’t there. But something caught her eye; a movement. Chris felt a rising terror as she turned back to the figures. Something was moving. One of the figures wasn’t an inanimate object at all. It was a person, draped in a dark hooded cloak, a person who sliced the air with a touch of chilling laughter and jumped from the stage to the ground. Something glittered in the pale light that remained to fight the shadows of night. Something long and wickedly sharp. The blade of a razor-edged knife, raised high in the cloaked figure’s hand.
“Christina.”
She heard her name whispered; again the throaty laughter followed. It was too late to realize that she’d been an idiot.
She spun around to run.
* * *
Marcus waited impatiently, drumming his fingers on the front desk at the stazione polizia. How long had the damn phone been ringing at the palazzo? Five times, ten times? He kept waiting, trying to still a growing alarm. Where was everyone?
At last, at long last, there was an answer. “Pronto.”
Madre?” Marcus queried.
“Si, si,” Gina murmured.
“What took you so long to answer the phone? Where is everyone?”
“I don’t know. I was out, Marcus. This is Tuesday, my day at church. And since Genovese will have his…service there, I wished to put in more time. Where are you?”
“I’m still at the police station. It’s taking much longer than I thought it would.” He hesitated for a moment. “Listen, Mama, I know this will hurt you, but they think that Genovese’s death—and even Alfred’s—stem from the time of Papa’s death. You’re going to have to answer some questions down here, too.”
“What?” Gina inquired with a little gasp.
“I can’t explain it all now. I will soon, I promise. I need you to do something for me, please. I can’t understand why Christina did not answer the extension in the bedroom. Will you go and tell her I’m on the line?”
“Un momento.”
Marcus waited impatiently again. It seemed that he sat at the desk forever, and the longer he waited, the greater his unease. At last he heard the line being picked up, and he started to breathe a sigh of relief. But then he heard his mother’s voice again, and it felt as if a blaze of tension and fear raged down the length of his spine and beyond.
“Marcus, she isn’t there. I can’t find her.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry, Marcus. I can’t find her anywhere. Perhaps she decided to go shopping. Marcus, really, I did not approve of your marriage, but of course it was not my business. But you cannot treat a wife like a prisoner—”
“Madre! I’ve no w
ish to make her a prisoner, I wish to keep her alive! I’ve got to go. I’ve got to find her. If you do see her, stay with her!”
He dropped the phone, not even hanging it up properly. He was shouting to the police and to Tony, and rushing out the door. Suddenly, clearly, he knew who had murdered his father, driven Alfred to his death and slit Genovese’s throat. The answer had been there all along. He simply hadn’t seen it.
Dear God in heaven, if only he wasn’t too late.
* * *
Chris burst from the historical room and raced along the balcony. She knew that she needed to reach the square and people. But when she reached the top of the stairway, she looked down to see Fredo Talio entering the double doors, dapper as a hit man in a pin-striped suit. He looked up at her; she saw his sallow features, his dark and somber eyes.
Fear washed through her heart in fresh waves. Fredo Talio…he was in league with the cloaked figure.
“Contessa di Medici…” he said, looking at her.
Chris screamed and tore away from the stairs.
“Christina, Christina…”
He kept calling to her, but she hardly heard him because she was facing the figure with the cloak. Her only escape would be through the trapdoor in the gem salon.
She flew for the door to the salon and ripped it open. The cloaked figure was right behind her. Chris raced for the case containing the di Medici jewels, followed by laughter. She chanced a glance back. The figure was by the door, a gloved hand on a rusted lever near the floor. Chris frowned, then gasped. The floor gave way beneath her—and she wasn’t at the trapdoor.
Not the trapdoor she knew of, at any rate. Yet even as the floor gave way, she remembered that Marcus had mentioned another trapdoor, another chute….
Her body was plummeting downward, sliding, falling along a dark passageway. She slammed against the ground and was met by a fierce cold—and a musty scent of salt and decay. Desperately she tried to get her bearings in the darkness. She had to be in the catacombs. Somewhere in the subterranean tunnels.
Chris rolled, reaching up carefully to assure herself that she wouldn’t crack her head against an arch. The cold here was startling, the stench of decay almost nauseating. Where was she? She had to find out; the catacombs could be like a maze, like a trap from which there was no escape….
The Di Medici Bride Page 24