Her Italian Millionaire (4 page)

Well, whatever problems Giovanni had were not her concern. She could only assume he was trying to make time for her, and for that she was grateful. She'd come to Italy for a change from the predictable existence she'd been living for the past twenty-odd years. What more could she want than a tryst with her first high school crush in the moonlight in the shadow of ancient ruins?

But this was Giovanni's last chance. If he didn't show, she was getting back on the bus to Sorrento on the left hand side of the bus, then taking the train back to Rome. There she'd see all the sites on her long list, visit Evie's cousin Misty, who was supposed to meet her at the airport if her flight hadn't been changed, deliver a box of Misty's favorite American candy and just enjoy herself.

With a shiver of anticipation, she decided to go to the pool. Swimming was one sure way to stay awake, and her new black swim suit was perfect for a forty-one- year-old woman in reasonably good shape. It was also practical, the way it dried quickly and folded up into a small plastic bag. Attractive, even, with the flattering deep V neckline and a little skirt that made her hips look slim. But when she got to the pool, she realized it was far from sexy. Her suit looked like something somebody's grandmother would wear, compared to the skimpy bikinis worn by the other women at the pool - even those older and fatter than her.

But as she swam back and forth across the pool, the tension flowed out of her body the way the water in the pool sloshed over the sides. When she got out she shook the water off her short hair, shocked all over again at how lightheaded she felt. Then she lay down on a thick-cushioned chaise and let the afternoon sun warm her pale skin.

Marco used his pass key to get into her room. He wasn't surprised very often, but this Ana Maria wasn't at all what he'd expected. He wondered how she'd gotten recruited and what she was getting out of it. He had to give them credit for choosing her. She looked so innocent and unsuspecting, she would have fooled anybody. But he saw past the wide eyes and the tourist disguise. He'd almost missed her at first, the photo he got showed long hair. Very clever, cutting it before she arrived. But he'd recognized the big blue eyes.

Yes, he could spot an operative with no trouble. This one walked right up to him, unaware that he'd been fooled once and wouldn't be fooled again. His reputation was on the line. He'd promised to bring Giovanni in, and after two years and ten months, he was close to the biggest victory of his career. He could feel it, smell it, taste it. It was the taste of vengeance, and it was sweet. Was he motivated to put the bastard away for a long time because of what he'd done to his sister or their long rivalry? Of course not. It was a job; Giovanni was a crook - that's all there was to it. Just a job. A job that was the most important one of his career, because if he failed, the syndicate would lose faith in his agency. His aging boss might lose his job and his pension right before retirement.

He glanced down at the pool to make sure she was still there. Yes, that was her, the only pale body in sight, stretched out on a white chaise and covered with a modest black swimming suit that made him wonder what she was hiding.

 He didn't know why he'd thought she was innocent. Maybe it was her fair skin, like the alabaster of the statue of Venus in the museum. It wouldn't stay that way if she didn't avoid the sun. Maybe under that suit was a body that would tempt the saints. He was no saint; the women in his past would testify to that.

 He stood at the edge of the double doors to the balcony and forgot he was in a hurry. The near-naked, surgically enhanced, overdone bodies in string bikinis didn't interest him. Just her. Why was that? Because the more her suit covered up, the more he wanted to see?

 No, it was because she was essential in tracking down Giovanni. Nothing more. Not because he felt so much as a twinge of conscience, knowing he was going to use her. And not because he felt guilty. Marco Moretti, guilty? Not a chance.

 Did it have anything to do with her long legs he imagined she was hiding under the long skirt, the tears that had welled up in big blue eyes or the skin he wanted to touch, to see if it felt as soft as it looked? If it did, he was losing it. Losing his cool just when he needed it the most.

He turned abruptly and found her purse hidden at the bottom of her suitcase. He found nothing of interest in it, just her airline tickets, her passport with a very unflattering picture of her and her wallet with the photograph of her with her arm around a young man who looked very much like her. He studied it for a brief moment. It was probably her son, though she looked too young to have one that old. Next he went through the rest of the suitcase in seconds, sifting through her underclothes and finding nothing incriminating. And nothing remotely sexy, just the most sensible all-cotton panties and bras he'd ever seen - and he'd seen quite a few. No thongs or bikinis here, no lace or silk. All clean and wholesome, and all-American - but for some reason her clothes came across as innocent and sexy at the same time. Just like her.

 Other than clothes, there was a book with pictures of adolescents, staring earnestly at the camera. Cougars High School Yearbook. Marco ran practiced fingers over the cover and the binding and detected nothing hidden there. Then he flipped through it and looked for her, but there was only one Jackson - a boy named Dan. He took more time than he should to go through the pages until he found an Anne Marie Rasmussen. She looked nothing like this woman, but who else could it be? Underneath the photograph it said:

Honor Society, International Club, Volleyball.

Prediction: First woman to land on Mars

Dream: To own her own bookstore.

He shook his head. She should have followed that dream. What had happened instead? He didn't pretend to understand the criminal mind, despite the training he'd received. He understood greed and hunger and revenge, all common motives. But this woman was not a common criminal. He knew women and he knew there was nothing common about this one.

Next he found Giovanni's picture, the face of his nemesis smiling from the page of the book, his dark eyes concealing secrets, his charm hiding the greed and ambition that were to be his downfall. That must be his downfall, if there was any justice in this world. Soccer star, artist, charming rogue. Yes, he was all of those. He could have been anything, but he'd chosen to follow in his family's tradition. And that was his mistake.

 Marco would see to it he would make one final mistake. Today, tomorrow or next week, he had the means to make it happen. The woman had what Giovanni wanted, and Marco had Ana Maria - and he wasn't going to let her go - until he'd caught him receiving one spectacular stolen diamond, and he saw Giovanni behind bars.

Marco slammed the book shut, replaced it and checked under the mattress and in the closet. The closet was empty and so were the dresser drawers. It had to be here. Where was the dazzling gem that was so famous it was once displayed in a museum? He expertly tapped the suitcase with his knuckles to see if it had a false bottom. Nothing.

Next he went through her tote bag. In it were two guidebooks on Italy, a diary, a paperback novel and a box of elaborately decorated chocolates visible through the cellophane wrapper. The note taped to the box read, “For my homesick cousin Misty. Enjoy. Love, Evie.” He had no idea why women got so homesick for a certain candy that they had to import it. His grandmother sent his sister boxes of marzipan from a certain candy shop in town. Surely that was proof Isabella was not cut out for an ascetic life, eating bread and thin soup behind cloistered walls. But that was none of his business.

In the bathroom he went through Ana Maria's cosmetics, checking everything, even squeezing the American toothpaste and twisting her lipstick tube. Nothing.

The envelope was on the night stand next to the bed. He read the note quickly and nodded to himself. Paestum was the perfect place for a hand-off. Did Giovanni have any feelings for this woman? Or was he using her as he'd used so many other women for his own ends and to throw Marco off the track?

He heard footsteps in the hall and he froze. They came closer and the key turned in the lock. Four giant steps and he reached the balcony seconds before the door opened and she came in. What was the matter with him? Now his body was plastered against the outside wall on the balcony where he could easily be seen from the pool. He forced himself to breathe slowly, praying she wouldn't come out here. If she did, what could he say? He was checking for termites, bringing extra towels, fixing the plumbing?

He could hear her inside the room, walking around on bare feet and opening drawers. His mind was racing, his body stiff. Then he heard water running in the bathroom. A shower—he was in luck!

He peered around the corner of the doorway and saw her through the open bathroom door, bent over to pick something up from the floor. He had a great view of her bare backside and rounded hips. He paused and looked . . . and looked. Idiot! He made a silent run for it, slipping on the wet floor where she'd dripped water from her suit. He cursed under his breath, opened the door, then went out into the hall and closed the door softly behind him. He was breathing hard. Whether from the close call or the view of the sweetest ass he'd seen in a long time, he didn't know. Maybe both - he hadn't seen many bare asses since he'd sworn off getting involved with women.

He walked down the stairs casually and confidently, and stopped by the front desk.

“Where did the message for the Americana come from?” he asked.

The clerk shrugged.

Marco pulled out his ID card.

The clerk glared at him. Nobody wanted the government meddling in their business.

“I don't know. There was a call. They read the message, I wrote it down.”

“A local call?” Marco asked.

The man didn't know.

“I want to know when she leaves the hotel and where she's going,” Marco said, handing the clerk his card with his cell phone number.

“How should I know where she's going?” the clerk asked sullenly.

“She's a tourist. You could suggest a restaurant, offer to give directions.”

“What am I? The tourist information bureau?”

Marco sighed and went outside to smoke a cigarette, but before he could light up his phone rang.

“
Pronto
, Marco. What about tonight? When do you pick me up?”

Damn. He'd forgotten all about Adrianna, but she hadn't forgotten about him. The minute she heard he was back in town, she'd been after him to spend time with her. He'd finally given in and told her he'd meet her for dinner. “I told you not to call me on my cell phone. It's for business.”

“Business,
pfah
. Other policemen don't have such business.”

“I do. I'm sorry, I have to cancel our dinner tonight. I have work to do.”

“What work? I don't believe you. What kind of a policeman has no days off, who's always working?” He could picture her full lips in a pout. “Where are you?”

“Working.” No one knew that he hadn't been a simple
agente di polizia
for years. Not since he was assigned to the Guardia Financia y Straniero, who were working with the South African diamond syndicate to put a stop to illegal diamond trading between the US and Italy.

If his grandmother knew, she'd consider it her right to brag about him to her friends.

“My grandson is no longer directing traffic on the Coast Highway or arresting petty thieves. He's too good for that. Too smart. He's chasing one of the country's biggest jewel thieves,” Nonna would say. “When he cracks this case he will be famous. His name will be in all the papers. And my granddaughter will finally understand why we broke her engagement.”

Word would instantly spread through town and he'd be useless in his job. It would be impossible to catch Giovanni. The bureaucrats who oversaw his agency would lose confidence in him and Silvestro, his boss. They might close the office, and they'd both be out of a job. Marco's real job must be kept secret.