Glass Houses

by Stella Cameron

  Vanni Zanetto studied them with those piercing eyes of his, and Olivia saw that he hadn’t missed where Sam’s hand was, but she didn’t know how to move away without causing even more trouble.

  “And I never used to believe in love at first sight,” Vanni said. “You make such a nice couple. Such a cozy couple.”

  “That’s it,” Sam said. “Get out of my way, but I want to see you as soon as Olivia’s somewhere comfortable.”

  “And I suppose I explain to my family that you’re in disguise mode?”

  “Not now, Vanni.”

  “When, then?”

  “Soon.”

  Vanni nodded slowly. “You’re vulnerable, Olivia. Aiden here’s a nice guy, but he’s not exactly Mr. Smooth around the ladies. I’m sorry, old friend, but I’m gonna have to help you out here. Take Olivia up to June’s old room—two floors up and on the right. Sit her down and tell her you aren’t and never have been Sam.”

  Eight

  Kitty Fish stood in the shadows across the street from Miss FitzDurham’s house. A man had paced slowly past, glancing toward 2A as he went; then, after a while, he paced back in the opposite direction. Kitty was waiting to see if Rupert would show up. Rupert and Winston were up to something big and, if her instincts were right, something dangerous. This meant there could be a lot of money in it for her. She could always get Rupert to talk; then they’d have to pay for her silence.

  This time the man had stopped, and he certainly wasn’t Rupert. The outline suggested someone athletic and young. He looked in all directions before crouching in front of the door.

  Kitty’s heart took an extra, excited beat. The street wasn’t wide. He was close enough that when the light had caught his face, she knew who he was. She didn’t know whether to scream, to laugh, or to faint.

  Beneath a clay pot of waning geraniums, potato bugs, silver-fish, and mud kept company with a key to Olivia’s front door. Thanks to the frosty moon and some convenient light from ye olde cutesy streetlight, he hadn’t even needed to fumble to find what he wanted.

  Women. They were boring opponents—most of the time.

  Time was running out. If it hadn’t already run out. He let himself into the house and smelled lavender. Figured.

  Upstairs or downstairs? He took an instant to think about it. She used the basement, but he didn’t think she spent much time on the ground floor.

  First upstairs; then, when he’d tried to knock potential disaster off his back, down to the basement—not that he expected to find anything worth having there.

  He pushed a button to turn on the light and climbed the stairs.

  When he was partway up, the light went out.

  Don’t let it be a fuse. He put a hand on the wall and climbed as rapidly as he dared while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. His fingers stubbed into another button for the lights and he punched it. The fuses were fine.

  In the first room at the top of the stairs he hit pay dirt. A computer sat on an open rolltop desk. Olivia was tidy. Her papers were neatly stacked. Magazines had been carefully fanned on a brass coffee table.

  He turned on the computer and got into her mail server in seconds. What he found gave him the creeps. She never deleted e-mail.

  Minutes later he was giving thanks for Olivia’s old-message fetish. She’d left him all the information he needed, all the explanation.

  He wrote a brief note himself and sent it on its way to New York.

  There were scores to settle, overdue scores, but first he’d do the Goldilocks bit and hang out in the bed Olivia wasn’t using right now. Early in the morning he’d make a visit that wouldn’t be expected. Involuntarily, his hand rested on the piece in the waist of his jeans.

  Another kind of visit would be good before he went to bed. He smiled and tanned the keyboard rapidly, entered his password to a favorite late-night meeting place, and settled in to see what the ladies were up to tonight. The ladies, and the men who knew how to use them. Sonja was his ideal. She was evil, you could see that, and you could also see how well she bled when she was punished. Bled and screamed. The sound was irresistible. The woman loved every second, even when she was pretending to be dead.

  He switched off. Now, bed. He was ready.

  The faintest sound reached him from downstairs. He didn’t form a conscious thought before extinguishing the light and flattening himself to the wall inside the open door. His Sauer was in his hand and poised beside his head where he could feel the cold metal. That was a sensation that calmed his mind.

  The hall light came on. He heard footsteps, very slow, unsteady footsteps, on the stairs. Through the space between the door hinges and the jamb he had a direct view of the top of the staircase.

  The big question was whether the newcomer was aware that there was someone else in the house. That and one even bigger question—who was arriving here when the place was supposed to be empty for at least a couple of days?

  Slow, slow footsteps.

  The light went out, and he held his breath. Now his blood was really pumping, and it felt so good.

  Whoever was out there continued to make crawling progress upward. He could hear breathing now. The footsteps stopped.

  If it was Olivia, he’d have reason to celebrate. No reason she shouldn’t get to join in.

  The next sound didn’t immediately compute. Soft, slithering.

  Light flooded the space outside the room.

  In that light he saw a woman, her head bent forward, concentrating on unzipping her short, brown-silk skirt. Long blond hair fell over her shoulders in tangled curls. He could smell her perfume, a rich, musky scent.

  The skirt slid down over slim hips, revealing a silver garter belt and sheer gray stockings. No panties. The lady wasn’t a natural blonde.

  Darkness blotted everything out once more. He held back a curse, but he knew how to be patient, especially when he was given an unexpected gift.

  The woman’s humming made him smile grimly. She was enjoying her “private” show, enjoying herself, the ritual of taking off her clothes. He’d put quite a wad on his loving whatever fantasy was playing inside that bleached head.

  She turned the light on. She felt like seeing what she was doing again.

  Good thing, because he felt like seeing what she was doing again, too.

  The skirt was on the floor and she wobbled atop high-heeled, transparent plastic mules. His gut told him she was fried, which meant she’d be coming down soon unless she had more of whatever she was on.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the dark, lush bush. She repeatedly pressed her thighs tightly together, at the same time fumbling to undo buttons on a silk blouse that matched the skirt. She jerked and grabbed for the railing that ran along the short landing. Her shudder brought parts to his south springing to attention. She cradled her breasts and moaned. Selfish, selfish girl.

  Another second and he listened to her sighing in the blackness. Fucking light could drive a guy mad.

  This was one show that was worth the irritation.

  She hummed some more, and he visualized her swinging those naked hips in time to the beat. More light donated a whole new view. She hadn’t quite managed the buttons at her cuffs, but the rest of the shirt trailed from her elbows. Her headlights didn’t need any help, but she was into coordination. A silver bra, strapless and boned to her minuscule waist, offered up a pair of the biggest brown eyes on milk-white tits. Few men would call those handfuls, unless a man were a freak, or a basketball player.

  He was going to have to find out the extent of his ball-handling skills.

  Finally she managed the cuffs, and the shirt joined the skirt.

  With both hands she massaged her softly rounded belly, naked between the boned piece at her waist and the low-slung garterbelt.

  Maybe he’d waited long enough. He was tired, but not too tired to have some fun. Yeah, fun. A girl shouldn’t waste so much, so selfishly.

  Another plunge into the night left him with her sounds and a picture
that glowed in his brain. Sleep was good. Several hours of entertainment was better. It would be a humanitarian act. She’d either be careful where she performed solo in future, or she’d make sure she was never alone, maybe never, ever alone.

  He smiled and squeezed his crotch.

  And there she was again. Oh, God. One by one she undid the row of tiny hooks down the front of the bra. They’d been hidden by rosettes of silver ribbon. As each one popped open, his judgment was proved as perfect as ever. The satin window dressing was just that. Those brown eyes stayed right where they were. When she wriggled a little and dropped the stays— he guessed that’s what they called them—he couldn’t look away. Disposing of the belt scarcely broke his concentration for an instant, although he decided he ought to remember how much he liked a woman in nothing but sheer stockings and transparent mules.

  Now she deserved a partner, if only because this partner could teach her some lessons she’d never forget.

  He wanted her away from the top of the stairs. It would be a waste if she fell and broke her neck before he’d finished with her.

  “Come closer, bitch,” he mouthed silently. “Come to your very own nighthawk and see what he’s got for you.”

  Hot damn, she must have heard his brain. She swaggered closer until she stood with her back to the facing doorjamb.

  He couldn’t see more of her face than pouty red lips and the tip of a pointy tongue gripped between real white teeth.

  He didn’t care if she had a face. He also didn’t care that her boobs didn’t jiggle the tiniest bit and had probably cost plenty. They’d do what he needed them to do just fine. “Come to daddy, mama.” He salivated. Every muscle in his body tensed hard.

  The light did its disappearing act again, but this time it was back on without a pause. Gradually the woman sank down the doorjamb, spreading her legs as she went. He could see sweat on her skin, and how moist and slack her mouth was.

  She started pulling on the lips of her vagina before her ass met the carpet. With the soles of her feet together, she gave the task her all, pausing at intervals to play with her nipples and pant even louder.

  Mission accomplished.

  Two for you, zero for me—so far.

  She got up and strutted into the room, switching on lamps as she went. Her butt was reddened from action on the carpet, but it was nice, very, very nice. Standing in front of the window, she languorously closed pink velvet curtains. A writing table stood at an angle near a white-marble fireplace, and she went to search the surface. A cigarette and lighter materialized from a wooden box. She lit the cigarette, sat on the desk, and inhaled deeply. When she tipped her head back, smoke rings issued from her pursed lips.

  In that movie-star move copied by thousands, she ran her fingers through her hair, shook it out, and tossed it back. Without looking at him, she said, “Welcome to London Town, Ryan. You have no idea how surprised I am you’re here. And very glad, too.” She laughed—propped her hands on the edge of the table and laughed from the gut. “I was following a hunch. Staking this place out to see if a certain little dickhead was jerking me around. And along came Ryan the stud. You can’t blame me for thinking of old times, and how much fun it would be to see if you’ve still got what it takes to do your thing. You used to be so good, Ryan. I’ve missed you.”

  Being a master of quick recovery was a priceless asset. “I didn’t realize I was watching the best alley cat in the business,” he said. “The bleach job threw me. And you’re older, of course. But I was too busy enjoying the show to care who you were and how many more wrinkles you’ve got. You and I have things to do, Kitty. We’ve got bargains to strike.”

  Nine

  “Vanni, you big lump, out of the way and let the girl in. She’s got to be exhausted. You come right on in here at once—Olivia, is it?—yes, Olivia, Vanni told me.” This small lady with gray-flecked black hair wound on top of her head had to be Mama Zanetto.

  Still reeling from the angry exchange between Sam and his partner, Olivia felt disoriented by the appearance of the ebullient Mrs. Zanetto. The woman couldn’t be more than four-foot-ten, and a plump figure inside her belted black dress suggested that she ate a good deal of the excellent cooking Sam and Vanni had alluded to.

  “Where you from, Olivia?” Mrs. Zanetto asked.

  “England.”

  “England where?”

  “In and around London most of the time. My folks live in Eton.”

  “You know any of the Bocellis? They live in London, too. Fine family. Eight sons. Two daughters. And they’re all in the family business.” She aimed a disapproving glare at Vanni. “Unlike some people, they know they owe it to their parents to look after things. They’re in buttons. Biggest button-making business in London. You know them?”

  “I can’t say I do,” Olivia said, but didn’t add that London was a big place.

  “Next time you go there, I give you a letter to take. They’ll make you very welcome. Good people. And mio figlio biondo.” She crooned this last, took hold of Sam’s hands, and smiled at Olivia. “I call him my blond son. That’s what he is to me, a son I wish I had given birth to. You being a good boy?” She patted his cheek. “You stay away too long and that makes Pops angry with you. He is my father-in-law,” Mama told Olivia.

  Sam smiled down on Mrs. Zanetto. “He’s angry because he misses trying to rile me.”

  She shook a finger at him. “You should humor a sick old man. He has few pleasures. Watch this one, Olivia—he is a heartbreaker who doesn’t even know when he hurts you.”

  “Mama,” Sam said, “you embarrass me.”

  Olivia smiled, but she filed away the comment. What had Vanni meant about Sam telling Olivia the truth about himself and not being who he said he was? And what was their business? She felt sick—and very hungry, and tired.

  And she felt angry, really angry, and so scared. And if what Vanni had said was supposed to be some sort of joke, he was way off base. It wasn’t funny. She stared hard at Vanni, who avoided her eyes.

  “What happen to you?” Mama Zanetto asked. She inclined her head to see the side of Olivia’s skirt. The single brow she raised at Sam almost made Olivia laugh. “Hmm. Well, I get June to lend you something of hers.”

  Another woman appeared, this one perhaps in her twenties, and spoke in Italian to Mama Zanetto, who said a good deal and gestured eloquently. The woman ran up the stairs.

  Only moments passed before the striking, dark-haired girl trotted back down to the hall. She put one end of a blanket in Vanni’s hands and muttered in Italian, the other corner of the blanket in Sam’s hands and said, “Hold it up. Look straight ahead.” Over the top of the blanket, she passed a full black skirt to Olivia. “This will be nice for now. Give me your own skirt.”

  Olivia did as she was told and felt immensely grateful to be properly covered again.

  “This is my younger sister, June,” Vanni said. “June, meet Olivia from England.”

  June greeted Olivia briefly and slipped instantly away— after snatching the blanket from Vanni and Sam, to whom she offered angry glances.

  “I guess we’ve offended June,” Sam said. His smile at Olivia was uncertain.

  “That’s easy to do,” Vanni said, then suddenly added, “Prepare yourself. Canine attack on the way.”

  Startled, Olivia saw the surge of heavy muscle beneath shiny black-and-brown fur. She stepped backward. The biggest, ugliest German Shepherd she’d ever seen surged from gloomy regions at the far end of the hall.

  “Hiya, Boss,” Sam said, dropping to his haunches and holding out his arms. “Come here. Maybe I’ve got something for you.”

  The dog stopped in flight, used his heavy legs and feet as brakes on the shiny floor. Intelligent dark eyes went from face to face and lingered on Olivia, who now felt completely unnerved. “Oh, my,” she said. “Boswell, of course. He really is quite large, isn’t he?”

  “He was bred in Germany, where they concentrate on strength and performance, not how pre
tty they can make them,” Sam said. “Come on, old guy. Be nice. He doesn’t accept strangers very easily.”

  “Thanks for the reassurance,” Olivia said. “I think I’ll go outside.”

  Sam shook his head. “No need.”

  Boss spared his owner the briefest of glances before he went back to staring Olivia down. He lowered his belly and took several steps closer.

  Wasn’t Sam going to do something? The dog was getting ready to attack her.

  Boss’s upper lip lifted. It actually curled and turned up at the corners. The animal had vast teeth, and the fang-like eye teeth were capped with glittering metal.

  Olivia stood her ground, but she longed to flee. “He’s quite a dog.” Throwing up in Mama Zanetto’s hall would be mortifying.

  “One of the best the canine corps ever had. If he didn’t have a bit of arthritis, he’d still be on active duty.”

  “And if they’d provide him with beds to climb on,” Vanni said. “And I don’t mean the kind they make for dogs.”

  “Unfortunately, he does have a couple of idiosyncracies. Quit drooling over the lady, Boss.”

  “He looks as if he’d like to have me for dinner,” Olivia said.

  Aiden glanced at her, then studied Boss, and he couldn’t stop a too-wide grin. “That’s not what this is about. He likes you, the traitor. He doesn’t like many people.”

  As if to prove that Aiden knew what he was talking about, Boss loped to Olivia, turned his head sideways, and rested a cheek on her legs. He sighed.

  “No loyalty,” Mama Zanetto said. “I gotta get back to my gravy. You call me Mama, understand, Olivia? All my friends call me Mama. Ten minutes we eat. Maybe five. Set the table, Giovanni.”

  She marched away in black shoes with crepe soles that squeaked on linoleum tiles.

  Aiden punched Vanni’s arm lightly. “Better do what your mama wants, Giovanni.”

  “You’d better do what I’ve told you to do,” Vanni said. Boss growled, deep and low, and only the glittering eye teeth showed. He took a menacing step toward Vanni.