Haunted Echoes

by Cindy Dees

  “She has a name?”

  I grinned ruefully. “Lady Jane Norville. I’ve been dreaming about her for the past several nights. She was a lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth the First.”

  “Why is she haunting us?”

  “I’m not sure. I think Elise sicced her on me.”

  “Oooo-kaay,” Robert said skeptically.

  “Hey, you’re the one who claimed to believe in ghosts before I did.”

  “Well, maybe in theory. I never expected to be tricked into committing a theft by one.”

  And therein lay the root of my latest dilemma. Should I believe his story about hearing the voice or was he borrowing an excuse from my earlier claim of hearing Jane speak? Had Jane tricked him into taking the map? It sent a deep sense of disquiet vibrating through me that he’d stolen something. Again. Was he still a thief at heart? Was he reformed as he claimed at all? Or was I aiding and abetting a felon in working his way back into the art theft community? He’d certainly seemed to enjoy the whole business of fleeing through the Vatican. As for me, I’d been just plain scared. Did I dare continue to work with him?

  Robert stood and held my chair for me as I got up. “We need to get moving. And we need to find a telephone and call your pilots. See if the airport has power or not.”

  “I’ve got my cell phone,” I offered.

  “I’m betting all the circuits will be busy, assuming the cell phone towers still have power, but you can give it a try.”

  He was right. I dialed the number on the card the pilot had given me a good twenty times, and all I got was a busy signal or a message I half understood in Italian that I thought said something about all the circuits being busy. We walked down the street, moving significantly faster on foot than the cars beside us, who were caught in what looked like a city-wide gridlock.

  A few blocks later, Robert exclaimed, “Tally ho!” We crossed the street in the middle of block, winding our way between a veritable parking lot of cars and their fuming drivers. And then I saw what he’d spotted. A public telephone. I tried the phone number again on the landline. The first time the call didn’t go through, but the second time I tried, it did.

  “Hello, this is Ana Reisner. I was calling to see if there’s electricity at the airport and whether or not we can leave now.”

  The copilot replied ruefully, “No, we’re hit, too. The airport’s completely shut down. All the radar over and around Rome is down. No air traffic is moving over central Italy.”

  “Can we take off without radar and get back to Paris today?”

  “It would be exceedingly dangerous to try it, and the captain and I would rather not.”

  “Are you simply expressing a preference with that statement, or are you saying we can’t fly at all during this blackout?” I asked.

  The guy answered apologetically, “I’m telling you it’s unsafe and that we won’t do it as a matter of safety of flight. It’s for your own good, Mademoiselle. I know it’s frustrating, but we have no choice. We can’t take off until power is restored.”

  I sighed. “All right.”

  “If you’ll call us when you get ready to leave the city to head for the airport, we’ll have the jet preflighted and ready to go before you get here. We’ll do everything in our power to get you back to Paris as quickly as possible.”

  “Thanks.” I hung up the phone and relayed what the pilot had said to Robert.

  He nodded. “I thought as much.” Then he added, “And we’re in such an all-fired hurry to get back to Paris why?”

  I sighed. “How crazy do you want to think I am?”

  He grinned at that one. “Why do you ask?”

  “It will determine how close to the actual truth I tell you.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  I sighed again. “Elise Villecourt believes this statue is keeping her alive. When it was stolen, she was convinced that the theft was an attempt to murder her.”

  He absorbed that one in silence. I did see a faint frown cross his face, though. Yup, he thought I was loony tunes.

  He said slowly, “That would explain why so many people seem to want this statue so bad.”

  I blinked. “You believe the statue has magical life-giving properties?”

  He grinned. “That’s no weirder than hearing a ghost tell me to steal a map.”

  I had to laugh. Whether it was out of humor or sheer relief, I couldn’t say. Maybe it was both. “Now what?” I asked.

  “Now, we get off the street. We’ve told any number of people that we’re only here for the day and that we’re heading back to Paris right away. Therefore, we need to do the exact opposite.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Let’s go find ourselves a swanky hotel and check in. With this power outage, they shouldn’t be able to run any credit cards. We ought to be able to pay cash and get a room in complete anonymity. With the exception of not being able to fly out of here, this blackout has been a real boon for us.”

  “Nothing like making lemonade out of lemons,” I retorted.

  We took off walking again and went for what felt like miles. And eventually, Robert found what he was looking for. It was a very old, very elegant hotel just off via Manara in the ancient Trastevere neighborhood.

  And when I say old, I mean old. The place looked as if it had been built pretty darn close to Roman times. The inside was a mix of ancient and modern as only Italy can do. Stone walls bearing ancient tapestries were shown off by subtle halogen spotlights. The front counter was a beautifully carved wood piece that looked as if it had come out of a cathedral, but a state of the art computer system sat behind it.

  Fortunately, that system was, indeed, down. We checked in using cash. I was startled when Robert gave the guy false names—Mr. and Mrs. McManus. Then he slipped the manager roughly a hundred dollars U.S. in euros and murmured something about wishing for complete privacy. He hinted that I was a celebrity of some kind, and the manager seemed to buy the line of bull. Robert definitely knew all kinds of things about being sneaky that I was clueless about.

  We went up to our room, which was breathtaking. The high ceiling boasted dark wood beams and the walls were plaster and stone. A large fireplace dominated one wall, but was balanced by the glass doors leading out to a balcony and an incredible view of red tiled roofs and the hills of Rome. The bed was a baroque canopy affair draped with satin and piled high with pillows. It was a room made for lovers. I almost hoped the power didn’t come back on any time soon. I could definitely envision myself spending a month or two ensconced here with a gorgeous, sexy guy like Robert.

  Since we had no luggage, settling in to the room took about thirty seconds. Robert went downstairs to see if he could scare up any sandwiches or something that didn’t need cooking to eat, and I stretched out on the luxurious bed and closed my eyes.

  It was late afternoon when I opened them again. Golden light flooded the room, turning the walls the color of a wheat field ready for harvest. The oil painting of a Tuscan landscape on the wall glowed so real, I felt as if I could step through the picture and into the place. Dust motes floated in the shafts of sunlight streaming past me, and I watched them lazily as sleep retreated slowly from my brain.

  The balcony doors stood open and a breath of air moved through, stirring the white gauze curtains faintly. The air was cool against my skin where the sun had warmed it.

  Robert lounged in a chair that looked more like a throne than anything else, his elbow propped on an armrest, his chin resting on his hand, reading. Bathed in the golden light, he looked like a mythic god, so achingly beautiful he was almost painful to look at.

  He and I were so different I almost couldn’t comprehend his presence in this room—in my life. He loved excitement. Craved adventure. Lived on the edge. I was cautious. Pragmatic. Boring. He was a thief and I worked for the law. We were doomed.

  But what a ride it could be.

  Did I dare jump on that runaway train with him? So far we’d limited ourselves to mutu
al attraction and the unspoken promise of more. I could think of a dozen reasons why I shouldn’t step across the line with him. Not only could he destroy my career and all I had worked for, but I wasn’t at all sure I trusted him. Ah, but he was such a charming rogue. And the sexual pull between us—I seriously doubted I had the will to withstand it. Or maybe more accurately, I lacked the desire to withstand it.

  It struck me in that instant that my self-esteem had taken more of a bruising than I had realized when Jean-Michel rejected me because of my infertility. It was an attack on my womanhood. And I had yet to recover from it. Maybe I needed a man’s man like Robert to make me feel whole again.

  And maybe he was just the most attractive man I’d ever met.

  He turned a page and glanced up. Seeing that I was awake, he put aside the book and stretched in his seat. “Sleep well?” he asked.

  “I did,” I smiled. “Do we have power back yet?”

  “No. Can’t you hear the silence? No air-conditioning, no traffic to speak of, nothing beeping at us.”

  I listened for a moment, and all I heard was a faint murmur of voices outside from below, pedestrians or maybe shopkeepers exchanging a few words. This must be what Rome had sounded like two thousand years ago. It was peaceful. Unhurried.

  I yawned and stretched, feeling supremely lazy. “I could get used to this.”

  “Me, too. Looks like we may be able to make that party tonight, assuming it’s still on. I talked to the concierge, and rumor has it the Italian authorities don’t expect to have full power restored until tomorrow morning.”

  “Do we have running water at least?” I asked.

  He grinned. “Yup, the modern convenience of flush toilets, just not a whole lot of hot water. The concierge said if you’d give him about an hour’s notice, he’ll have the kitchen prepare some hot water and send it up. Apparently, they have some sort of wood burning oven they bake in and they’ve filled it with pots to heat water for the guests.”

  I spent the next couple of hours fiddling around, ordering and taking a bath, toweling my hair dry, and putting on my make up before it got completely dark. We took turns dressing in the bathroom. While I was sleeping, Robert had gone shopping and purchased a black silk turtleneck shirt and gray cashmere sweater that exactly matched his eyes—gray tinged with silver. Paired with his black jeans and black leather jacket, he looked sophisticated and sexier than ever. But then, maybe I was a teensy bit prejudiced.

  I put on the ivory Chanel blouse and a slim wool skirt in a pale aqua color that made my eyes positively glow. Or maybe it was the prospect of spending an evening on a real, live date with Robert that put that sparkle in my eyes. Fortunately, Elise only had low-heeled pumps on her plane, so I was set up to walk to the Palazzo del Furiano, where the exhibition was. It turned out not to be too far from the hotel in the same general area we were already staying in, which was a good thing. If possible, the streets were even more snarled than they’d been this morning. The transportation chaos was complete. What little order there usually was to the Italian roadways had completely broken down.

  When we arrived at the palazzo it was full dark. The entrance glowed eerily, lit by a pair of enormous, no-kidding torches. Valets took our coats and ushered us inside, and time fell away with each step, peeling back the centuries until we’d been transported straight into the fourteenth century. A gathering hall opened up before us, its great Gothic ribs arching up into the gloom. Torches guttered and smoked around the margins of the room, their dusky glow augmented by literally thousands of candles in wrought iron sconces hanging overhead from chains as thick as my wrist. Firelight danced on the giant tapestries covering the stone walls, turning them into living, moving pictures. The effect of the candles and spotlights combined was magnificent.

  Electric spotlights illuminated the numerous and breathtaking Madonna images. They must have a generator running somewhere nearby to power the lights.

  At least two hundred people strolled around the room, but it didn’t look or feel particularly crowded. They were looking at the various art pieces on display around the space, some hanging from the walls, and some displayed on pedestals.

  Robert and I descended the long, shallow staircase into the hall. Pleasure lit his face as he looked around the room. I could only pray it was his appreciation of the art and not its potential value on the black market that brought such a gleam to his eyes.

  A handsome, dark-haired, olive-complexioned man met us at the foot of the stairs. I’d put his age in his midthirties, but he was one of those casually elegant men who will look irritatingly gorgeous at seventy-five. “Good evening and welcome. I am Caleb Adriano. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”

  I managed to control my eyebrows and not let them shoot up. One of the Adrianos in person? From everything I’d heard, this family was more than a little reclusive. They rarely made public appearances. And while this wasn’t a tabloid-newspaper-headlines sort of appearance by any stretch, I was still startled. But then, lots of ultrarich people live fairly low-key lives. Probably trying to avoid robbery or kidnapping or worse.

  Robert spoke in surprisingly good Italian as Caleb bent over my hand, kissing it as only an Italian in full flirt mode can. “We’re friends of Scarlet Rubashka’s. She invited us to come this evening. I do hope we are not intruding.”

  “Ah, yes. Her French and English friends. She mentioned that you might be coming. No, no. No intrusion at all. I’m so glad that this unfortunate power outage didn’t prevent you from joining us.”

  I didn’t correct him and explain that I was American and Robert was Scottish. My French usually was taken for native Parisian. I did, however, politely extricate my hand, which he still held long after he’d finished smooching it. “Actually, it’s because of the blackout that we were able to come tonight. We’d planned to leave this afternoon, but the airport is closed.”

  He nodded in commiseration and captured my hand once more, tucking it into the crook of his arm. Sheesh. How pushy was that? Then he said, “Let us go see if we can find bella Scarlet. She asked me to let her know when you arrived.”

  I was startled when Caleb abandoned his post by the door and dived into the crowd with me, leaving Robert to trail along behind. I glanced over my shoulder at him, and he rolled his eyes, looking irritated. I couldn’t blame him. I had definitely been absconded with. And while I might not be all that accustomed to alpha males like Robert, there was no doubt in my mind that having his date swiped this blatantly would not amuse him.

  Fortunately, we found Scarlet quickly—not that it was hard to spot her flaming hair from the other end of the long room, even in the semidarkness. She wore a tight knit dress almost as brilliantly red as her hair and starkly avant-garde in design. She looked like a time traveler from the twenty-fifth century displaced into this gathering. But then, that was Scarlet. She was one of those people who would decorate her Christmas tree in lime and fuchsia and somehow make it work. I always felt as boring and bland as a bowl of oatmeal beside her, but I couldn’t help loving her joie de vivre.

  “Annie! Robbie! I’m so glad you could make it! Some collection, huh?”

  Caleb didn’t let go of me until Scarlet had spotted him hanging on to me. I’m sure he did it on purpose. Trying to make her jealous, was he? I smiled to myself. I was all about advancing the cause of romance between the two of them. Scarlet was a great girl. She deserved a rich, sexy guy like Caleb, who’d pamper her forever. Had I met him a few days ago, I might have been interested in him myself. But she could have him.

  Yeah, I know. I was feeling extremely generous now that I had a gorgeous, sexy guy of my own to flirt with. Belatedly, I answered her. “We’ve only just arrived. We haven’t really had a chance to look at the collection.”

  Scarlet reached out casually and snagged Caleb’s cashmere suited arm. Staking her claim on him, was she? Good for her.

  “Then come on!” Scarlet exclaimed.

  For his part, Robert waste
d no time moving in and resting his hand in the small of my back, laying claim to me in no uncertain terms, either. My bones liquified as heat radiated outward from his palm, through the thin silk of my blouse and straight to my core. And then that weird time-stop thing happened again.

  The centuries fell away from around us, and the hall was new, echoing with the sounds of a lute and a young male troubadour singing in a clear tenor voice. Ladies flirted over their hands with lords posturing for them in their medieval finery.

  Robert’s head turned in super slow motion and he gazed at me, surprise dawning in his expression. His fingers tightened on my waist, and I felt an overwhelming need to turn, to lean into him, to lay my body against his. My hands came up, resting on his chest. I felt the softness of his sweater, the hardness of the man beneath. His heart beat once beneath my palm. It resonated through me like Notre Dame Cathedral’s thirteen-ton bell ringing under my hand.

  The vibration rolled through me and over me, grandiose and yet intensely personal. As personal as the sexual vibrations this man would send crashing through me if I but took that last step into a relationship with him.

  It was almost as if an invisible hand between my shoulder blades was shoving me toward him. But it wasn’t as if I resisted it. He leaned toward me at the same time I leaned toward him, and our entire bodies came into contact. The effect was incendiary. Wildfire rushed through me. And I burned for this man.

  “Whoo! Get out a bucket of cold water and toss it on you two!” Scarlet laughed, effectively breaking the spell.

  Robert blinked down at me and I up at him. He murmured, “Did Jane do that, or was that just us this time?”

  “Does it matter?” I managed to say, as blown away as him.

  His grin nearly knocked me over. “I will admit I’d like to take credit for all of that, but no. I don’t give a damn where it comes from if you don’t.”

  “Nope, no complaints from me.”

  His arm tightened around my waist and he steered me toward the nearest exhibit. I stared at it, registering only that it was a wooden triptych painted with an image of a black-skinned woman holding a baby. They both had golden halos above their heads and looked like fairly traditional Virgin Mary images. My eyes passed across the placard at the bottom and saw the words describing several variations of the depiction of Black Madonnas, ranging from nearly identical to the Virgin Mary as in this painting, to images including swords, keys and urns of water, which were perhaps a holdover from earlier pagan forms of worship.