by Diana Duncan
“You cannot fill an empty belly with dreams.” He dipped her dangerously low, held her suspended in midair. “Yet there are different kinds of hunger. It is as perilous to starve your soul as your body.”
Awareness sizzled between them. Just when she thought he couldn’t further amaze her, he gave her a deeper, more fascinating glimpse of himself. In centuries past, he might have been a brooding Italian composer. Armed with a warrior’s spirit and a poet’s heart, a rapier blade and even sharper wit. “What are your dreams, Dante?”
He swooped her upright. “My dream is to ensure that others get to live theirs.”
Another cryptic message. Was he referring to his job brokering stolen goods? “What was your favorite subject at school?”
“Besides soccer and signorine?” He flicked her a dubious glance. “Don’t laugh, but I adored art and music.”
“I’m not surprised. But why? With few exceptions, the arts don’t interest adolescent boys. Especially mischievous, macho types.” She smiled at him. “No offense.”
“Only a fool is offended by truth.” He echoed her smile, then sobered. “I value traditions and art…things that possess heritage and history.” He hesitated a heartbeat. “Because I…do not have a history.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
He hesitated again, so long she thought he’d decided not to answer. He drew her close, his body brushing hers. “No one knows who my father was. He deserted my mother when she discovered she was pregnant. My mother died giving life to me.”
The sharp punch to her heart stole her breath. He was clearly ashamed and upset by the circumstances of his birth. Yet he had confided in her. “I’m sorry you never had a chance to know your parents, Dante. But you aren’t responsible for what happened.”
The tumult of the storm outside raged in his eyes. “I am a man without a past.”
“Your past is part of who you are. It helped shape you into the man you became.” Ariana gripped his fingers tightly. “Your past doesn’t make me think less of you. I’m more concerned about your future.”
He stiffened and his guard went up. “That is not for you to worry over.”
She mourned his withdrawal. Al contrario. I’m in love with you…and invested heart and soul in your welfare.
Whether or not we’re together.
She firmed trembling lips. “With your love of art and antiquities, have you ever considered a job as a museum curator, or maybe teaching?”
He smirked. “Can you picture me stuck behind a desk in a dusty museum? Or lecturing a classroom of sullen students?”
“Not really.”
“Did you love him so much, then?” There was a slightly bitter edge to his voice. “I can never replace him.”
Startled, she blinked. “Who?”
“Your professor.”
She gasped. “You think I want to remake you into Geoff?”
His shrug failed to conceal the hurt. “You said you wanted me to teach.”
“I want you to do something you love. For your sake, I’d like to see you…working on the right side of the law.” He continued to stare down at her, waiting, watching, and she drew a steadying breath. “I’ll admit, Geoff was good-looking, educated and clever. We got along well.”
Dante’s features hardened as hurt melded with undisguised jealousy.
“I’m not finished.” She rubbed his taut back. “I loved the person I thought Geoff was. But we dated for over a year and he never let me see his true self.”
“A sin of omission.”
“Still a lie. You, on the other hand, are the most compelling man I’ve ever met. I’ve known you less than two months, but I already know you—and connect with you—far better than the man I thought I wanted to marry.”
He jolted. A whirlwind of emotions chased across his features in rapid-fire succession. Astonishment. Pleasure. Terror. Anguish.
“It’s all right, Dante, you don’t have to say anything back.” Ariana ducked her head so she wouldn’t have to see his stricken face. “I just wanted you to know.”
He went as still as a marble statue. Then his big body began to tremble. With his cheek pressed against her hair, she stood in his embrace, feeling the war rage inside him.
“I meant what I said.” She gulped, battling stinging tears. She would not let him see her cry. “No strings, no expectations.”
“San Gennaro, help me,” he breathed in a hoarse whisper. He held her for another wrenching moment, then stepped back. “I will get more wine from the cellar.”
He snatched up a lamp and bolted from the cottage, leaving her standing in the middle of the floor.
When the door slammed behind him, Ariana groped her way to the settee. She sank down and covered her face with shaking hands. Dante didn’t back down easily. He wasn’t a man accustomed to retreat. What had provoked his torment?
There was more to his situation than he was telling. Whatever he was hiding from her, whatever was driving him away must be bad.
She forced herself to sit upright and take slow breaths. She had to stay calm. Set aside spiraling emotions. Think things through.
She’d seen deep feelings in him when they’d made love. The fact that she’d told him she admired him wasn’t enough to make him run. The obvious conclusion was that he was attempting to distance himself to protect her.
From what? From whom? Her stomach lurched. What kind of terrible trouble had forced him to kidnap her? Why was the Camorra blowing up yachts in order to kill him?
More importantly, how could she help?
She stared into the reckless orange flames. She didn’t dare involve the authorities. As she’d told Dante, after butting heads with the FBI over her father’s situation, she didn’t trust the police not to make everything worse.
Another rush of tears threatened. She couldn’t stay with him if he didn’t want to go straight. He might not want her with him long-term, anyway. But even if she wasn’t destined to be with Dante, she could not bear to see him die.
Ariana shot to her feet and paced the living area. Somehow, she had to convince him to confide in her. To trust her.
There was a way out for him. A safe way to start over. They only had to find it.
She retrieved her notebook and was scribbling theories and crossing out ideas when Dante exploded through the back door.
“Ariana, quickly per favore!” He ran for the ax. “Grab a lamp!”
Adrenaline spiked. She dropped her pencil and snatched up the nearest lamp. “What happened?”
Waiting at the door with the ax propped on his shoulder, he gestured. “You must see to believe it!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
ALEXANDRA’S DREAM had embarked on a final cruise around the Greek Isles before docking at Piraeus to prepare for the Caribbean leg of the voyage. Bernardo “Milo” lit a cigar inside the door of the cool, dim Emperor’s Club. Quiet strains of slow jazz drifted on the smoky air. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the mood lighting, and then sauntered to where Father Connelly sat drumming his fingers. A glass of untouched soda water languished on the burnished table in front of him. Bernardo’s life depended on discerning the contradictions between words and body language, and the man wasn’t the affable, pious clergyman he attempted to portray “Ciao, Father.”
Connelly looked up. He smiled, but his cool eyes warily assessed Bernardo. “Signor Milo. Hello.”
Bernardo returned the gesture with an innocuous smile and a benign gaze that didn’t betray the urgency gnawing at his gut. “May I join you?” His given name was Bernardo, but Milo wasn’t his surname, and he wasn’t a historical buildings contractor with a deceased son. Although anyone who checked would find solid evidence to the contrary. A mortgage, an obituary, a contractor’s license, even clients who would highly recommend him.
He hadn’t been in the game for years, but had slipped back into the guise that fit him as easily as his favorite baggy denims and battered brown leather jacket. He didn’t wait for Fath
er Connelly’s assent before casually dropping into a plush chair next to him. “Would it be inappropriate to buy you a drink, Father?”
Connelly swallowed the bait as expected. He leaned back and his smile warmed. “I’m off duty, so I’m sure it would be all right. Bless your generosity.”
Bernardo rolled cigar smoke on his tongue. “I hear you had some excitement earlier on the voyage.” He arched a brow at Connelly’s fabricated blank expression. “People are talking about a missing librarian.”
“Ah, yes. Our Miss Bennett. There’s speculation she ran off with a lover.” The priest’s gaze shifted upward and to the left, indicating a lie. “I pray for her safety nightly.”
“Dio will reward your devotion.” You fork-tongued serpente. Bernardo clamped a lid on his anger, glad for the server’s interruption to take their drink orders. First thing he’d done after boarding seventy-two hours ago was access voice messages left for Ariana. A professor friend in the United States had phoned to tell her the pottery chip she’d sent for appraisal was from a genuine Olympian vase. A message Ariana hadn’t received, having been kidnapped before her call was returned. The vase had broken in the ship’s library, where Ariana worked, and Father Connelly was in charge of the artifacts display.
Bernardo had the authority, means and damned good reasons not to spare manpower. He’d made discreet conversation with current passengers and crew, and every individual at his disposal was interviewing former passengers who’d attended the priest’s lectures. Father Connelly had been observed flirting with women in a most unpriestly way and caught in a few slipups in his lectures on Greek and Roman antiquities. The discrepancies between Connelly’s behavior and his priestly profession were multiplying faster than caged rabbits.
The drinks arrived, and he toasted the priest before sipping. As they engaged in small talk, he mentally sorted details. His second task had been to pick Father Connelly’s lock and search his cabin. Art was Bernardo’s specialty, and the Albanian triptych he’d discovered in a drawer had caught his eye. The icon was an excellent specimen for a supposed reproduction. The muddied colors looked genuine fifteenth century. It was an odd piece to add to a collection that consisted mostly of sculptures and pottery.
Bernardo had taken a miniscule scraping of the paint and messengered it to headquarters at the last port, and he’d sent a man to interview the employees at the chapel in the Vatican that housed the original icon. He expected both reports momentarily.
He had also examined Father Connelly’s purchase receipt for the first century B.C. Hellenic Fish plate that was currently on display in the library…and if it wasn’t a fake, he’d eat his boots. He had dispatched operatives to glean information from every port Alexandra’s Dream had visited.
Giorgio Tzekas entered the club. The first officer was an oily little ratto with a furtive gaze and nervous habits. Body tense, he headed for the priest, noticed Bernardo and his steps faltered. Then he pasted on a fake smile and joined them at the table. Bernardo smiled back. Interesting. Had Father Connelly been waiting for Tzekas?
Bernardo finished his drink and puffed his cigar while half listening to the men’s strained discussion about the early onset of stormy weather affecting sailing conditions. It didn’t require a mathematician to put two and two together. Even the ship’s Captain wasn’t crazy about Tzekas. Nor was the security officer, Gideon Dayan. Bernardo saw disdain and suspicion in their eyes whenever they encountered the first officer. The background check on the crew had revealed Pappas was ex-Greek Navy and Dayan was ex-Mossad. They’d be top-notch judges of character.
Bernardo was positive the priest and Giorgio were smuggling artifacts and had been involved in Ariana’s disappearance.
And the disappearance of Bernardo’s best operator.
The question was whether Ariana was the duo’s coconspirator, or their victim? It was no secret that Tzekas had been sniffing around Ariana, and people had noticed tension between her and Father Connelly. Her late father had been arrested for brokering stolen Etruscan jewelry.
Had Derek Bennett’s daughter inherited his business?
He’d heard nothing from Dante since the yacht where the duo had been hiding had exploded off the Greek coast, over seventy-two hours ago. Ariana was Bernardo’s only lead to Dante, which was why he’d boarded the ship and begun his investigation. Did she have anything to do with Dante being incommunicado? If Dante were able, he would have checked in.
Connelly and Tzekas stood and voiced excuses about wanting to stretch their legs on deck before retiring. They extended a halfhearted invitation to join them, which Bernardo was clearly expected to decline. He obliged. They left, and he snuffed his cigar, then slipped Father Connelly’s empty whiskey glass into the bag lining his jacket pocket. The fingerprints would be invaluable.
He had contacts swarming the region. Had nearly unlimited resources and technology…and intense personal motivation. He was quickly gathering evidence to bring the smugglers down. His eyes narrowed in fierce determination. If the bastards had killed Dante, the man he loved like a son, they would pay.
GIORGIO PACED in front of the starboard railing. “Why were you talking to him again?”
“Don’t get your shorts in a bunch, junior. He bought me a drink, is all. I’ve been running cons since you were in diapers. Give me some credit.”
Credit. Giorgio scratched his neck. Credit was his problem. Money never seemed to get from his hand into his pocket. Even before payday, it was already spent. Between crappy cards and dud bets, he’d had a string of bad luck. “Did Megaera contact you about the Athens deal?”
“Yeah. We’re all set.”
“What artifact are we bringing aboard? What’s the plan?” Desperation churned in his guts. When he’d lost an assload on the Grand Prix, he’d been forced to borrow funds, and not from the local bank. His father had made it clear he wasn’t covering any more of his son’s debts, and Giorgio’s “loan officer” was getting antsy. The interest alone was draining him dry.
“Why, so you can shoot your wad early and screw it up? You’ll know when you need to, and not before.”
He clenched his fists. “I swear, O’Connor, if you’re running a game on me—”
“You’ll what, junior? Without me, Megaera won’t get her merchandise. And you do not want to make her unhappy. So put up and shut up.”
Giorgio watched his surly partner stride away. He looked out at the shifting waves, and not for the first time wondered what had happened to Ariana. He’d liked the thrill of the chase, and though she’d shut him down at every pass, he’d bet she’d enjoyed it, too.
But Ariana’s questions had torqued the boss.
If Megaera found out Giorgio had made private deals on the side, she would…A shiver of fear racked him. He and Connelly had been promised a bonus after the Athens deal. He’d better step damn carefully.
If he crossed Megaera, or didn’t get the money to pay back his loan, he would be the next person who disappeared.
ARIANA SPRINTED through the stormy night and jogged down the cellar stairs behind Dante.
When she reached the floor, she jerked to a halt. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Sì.” Dante hefted the ax.
Boxes littered the floor, the shelving unit angled outward from the wall and a crowbar lay on the bench. She peered at the small opening he’d hewed in the stone. “Secret rooms were common in Europe, especially during the World Wars. How did you find it?”
“I held up the light to see the wine bottles, and a draft wavered the flame. So I searched the shelves and found a hidden latch.” He gestured at the rough hole in the wall. “The shelves disguised this partition. It’s not as old as the cottage.”
“I wonder what’s in there?” She thrust her lamp onto the workbench beside his. She loved her father’s tales of artifact discoveries, but had never experienced the thrill firsthand. “I can’t wait to see!”
Dante grinned. “You won’t have to wait long.” He swung the
ax in his powerful arms. Metal rang against stone and sparks flew as he hacked a jagged entryway.
Ariana rushed toward discovery and skidded on loose rock. Dante’s hand shot out to catch her. “Watch your step, cara.”
“We need light.” Jittery with anticipation, she grabbed her lamp. She stepped around the debris and into the secret chamber, and her breath hitched. Wooden crates filled the large enclosure, stacked to the ceiling in places. “A vault of hidden treasure,” she whispered.
Dante read the label on the nearest crate and snorted. “More like hot commodities, I’m thinking.”
Her heart lurched. What had they stumbled into? “Get the crowbar to pry the lids off—”
A crash from upstairs trembled the ceiling and she jumped. “What was that?”
Dante swore and grabbed the ax. “Breaking glass. Stay put.” He raced up the stairs two at a time.
“Down here, alone? Uh, no.” She snatched up the crowbar and sprinted after him.
They engaged in a brief tussle amidst the driving rain. Since Dante was hampered by the ax and unwilling to toss her down the stairs, she managed to slip under his arm and away.
“Ariana,” he gritted, “you must remain where it is safe.”
“Where I’d be a sitting duck?” She brandished the crowbar. “Besides, you might need backup.”
“At least keep behind me.” Dante sighed. “And let’s try to be quiet, in case it is intruders.” Muttering dire laments beneath his breath in Italian about a mule-headed signorina, he stalked toward the cottage.
“I understood that,” she whispered.
A low, frustrated male growl was the only reply.
The cottage’s back door was closed and the area looked undisturbed. Dante motioned her to wait while he pressed his ear to the wooden panel. Silent as smoke, he prowled to her side beneath the shadowed eaves. “I hear rustling and things being knocked about.” He gripped her arm. “I must trust you not to do anything foolhardy…or I will bodily return you to the cellar.”