The Vendetta (9 page)

Except when it came to art.

Her entire self came alive when surrounded by art.

Katya stopped at Gran’s study and gestured for them to enter. Lisa took a deep breath. Her grandmother often preferred the ceremonial to the familial. Lisa had never known which side of her to expect—a grandmother or a principessa.

She entered the room, aware of Nick behind her, and stood inside the door. Gran looked just as Lisa remembered her, lovely and sharp for someone ninety-six years old. She sat ensconced in an enormous wingback chair near the fireplace. Even from across the room, her hazel eyes still sparked with the authority that had sent Lisa running six years ago.

“Well, don’t just stand there.” The principessa’s voice made Lisa jump, but she noticed Gran’s hands worrying the crocheted shawl on her lap. “Where are your manners?”

Lisa gestured toward Nick, and he obediently moved forward. “Grandmother, may I introduce—”

“I’m well acquainted with Signore Carnavale,” the principessa interrupted. She beckoned impatiently. “Come here, Annalisa, so I can see you, girl.”

Nick executed a bow that was old-fashioned but entirely appropriate and stepped aside. But Lisa wasn’t about to curtsy and fall flat on her face. She walked forward on shaky knees. “Gran?” Lisa’s voice cracked, and her eyes pricked with tears.

It took a moment. Then her grandmother’s chin trembled and her eyes softened, somehow communicating both regret and forgiveness. Gran held out her hands, and Lisa rushed the rest of the way forward. Kneeling at her grandmother’s feet, she hid her face in Gran’s lap, just as she had so many years ago.

“Ah,
amore
,” said Gran. “It has been too long, hmm?”

Lisa sat back and felt Gran’s fingers push the hair out of her face. Lisa put up a hand to hold Gran’s cool, wrinkled palm against her hot cheek.

“I’m sorry, Gran. I’ve been so stupid.”

“
Guarda,
cara Lisa. I was also wrong. For that I am sorry. I didn’t see…” Her grandmother’s faded hazel eyes closed briefly, then she shook her head. “But no more of that. You are here, and that is what matters.”

Gran looked up and spoke to Nick. “Carnavale, you will accompany my granddaughter wherever she wants to go in Rome while she is here.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, but he replied gravely, “It would be my pleasure, Your Excellency.”

Lisa stood abruptly and wiped the tears off her cheeks. She’d briefly forgotten about Nick. She looked around for a chair and found he’d placed one nearby. When had he done that?

Lisa sat and looked over at him. He stood near the old-fashioned settee, looking calm and comfortable even in these feminine surroundings. His dark suit outlined the strong shape of his shoulders, emphasizing his masculinity.

“I’m sure Mr. Carnavale is a very busy man, and I’m hardly in need of a tour of Rome, Gran. I’d rather spend time with you.”

“I would like that too.” Donna Giovanna patted Lisa’s hand. “But I am afraid that I am not going to be able to spend every last minute with you, Annalisa. The special showing of my collection has quite absorbed my time lately. You received the invitation?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her grandmother’s expression grew gleeful and excited. “Did Signore Carnavale tell you about my new acquisition?”

Remembering their conversation in the car, Lisa cast a glance at Nick. He avoided her look, seemingly fascinated with an ornate and ugly Dresden figurine on the Louis XVI sideboard.

She turned back to her grandmother. “Yes, he mentioned that you have acquired a Rembrandt. Very impressive, Gran.”

“I am proud of my new masterpiece, and I want to show it off,” said the principessa.

She delivered the comment with a flourish that caused Lisa to grin. But her grandmother’s enthusiasm made Lisa uneasy when combined with the information Nick had told her about the painting.

“Who is helping you with the showing? You mentioned a new curator, Peter Van Alstrand?” asked Lisa.

An indistinct noise from Nick sidetracked the conversation.

“Oh, do sit down, Carnavale,” said Gran. “Your constant fidgeting is distracting.”

“I beg your pardon, Excellency.” Nick sat, catching Lisa’s eye in the process. His naughty schoolboy look nearly made her laugh out loud.

The principessa turned back to Lisa. “Where was I? Oh, yes, Peter Van Alstrand has been advising me for a year or so. Particularly concerning the purchase of the Rembrandt. His eye is quite good.”

Lisa glanced at Nick again. This time he frowned with an infinitesimal shake of his head. What did
that
mean? Oh, she was not good at this intrigue. She widened her eyes at him. He made a gesture toward her grandmother with his chin.

Silence had fallen in the room. Lisa realized that during her byplay with Nick, Gran had actually dozed off.

Surprised, Lisa looked back at Nick. “Does she do that often?” she whispered.

He cast an affectionate smile at her grandmother. Lisa’s heart squeezed, robbing her of breath.

“Yes,” he said. “Every afternoon, at about this time.”

He stepped forward, leaned down, and gently touched the principessa’s hand.

“Your Excellency.” His deep voice rumbled low.

Gran didn’t startle as Lisa expected. Instead, she raised her eyelids like a lover waking from a dream. Then her trademark smirk appeared. She turned to Lisa, the smile playing over her lips.

“You’d better watch this one, Lisa. He’ll steal your heart and not look back.”

* * *

Later, after Nick had graciously excused himself and left for another appointment, Lisa slowly unpacked her suitcases into the Louis XV wardrobe that graced the far wall of her room. She hadn’t noted any real changes here either. A delicate Aubusson rug still covered the parquet floor—its colors complemented the pale green silk on the walls and the familiar counterpane quilt on the tester bed. The elaborate desk, wardrobe, dresser, and side tables had probably all belonged to Louis XV himself. Lisa smiled at the thought that royalty might have graced her bedroom ensemble.

As in every room in the palazzo, the art on the walls elevated the room from merely fancy to striking. In this room in particular, each piece represented a memory of her too-short time here with her grandmother. A landscape of Tuscany brightened the small writing desk, making her think of a trip to Florence. A still life over the night table popped with peonies and ripe peaches that looked good enough to eat. Lisa’s fingers brushed over a small Limoges figurine and a white ormolu clock on the mantel.

She walked to the tall windows, pulled aside the drapes, and looked out the window to the courtyard below. Spring showed its face there, too, in the ivy winding up the walls and the pots of young flowers. She would go up later to see if Gran still maintained the roof garden that had framed a spectacular view of Rome. It had been one of her favorite study spots.

As she leaned toward the window, another small painting caught her eye. It was one of Lisa’s first attempts to capture light and shape on paper. In the watercolor cityscape, the perspective was off and the colors blended too much, which had muddied the subject terribly. But here was her work in an elaborate gilded frame. She put a hand to her mouth as tears brimmed, threatening to spill.

Her transition from art student to barista had had something to do with that final argument with Gran, but more to do with her mother’s subsequent illness and death. She ran her hand gently over her muddy watercolor. She missed painting.

Lisa had come to terms with the fact that she did not possess true artistic talent. But even if she hadn’t been able to render form on canvas, she thought of paintings as old friends. The pictures in her mother’s art books had been her fantasy world growing up. The great tomes of color photographs—tracing an eclectic history from Michelangelo to Van Gogh to Andy Warhol—had stood like sentinels on every coffee table in every house they had lived in as they’d followed her father around the country for his military career.

It had all seemed so simple back then. Her grand plan had been to study art, to really learn it, so that she would be worthy of her grandmother’s collection. But her biggest dream, her most secret dream of all, had been to someday inherit the di Giorgio collection. She had wanted to curate it, to even—if she dared admit it—improve on it. But Gran had rejected her after Lisa’s unfortunate fling. The principessa had interfered with Lisa’s personal life, and Lisa had had just enough of her mother in her to rebel. So here Lisa was now, a barista in a minor gallery, with a meager nest egg that someday might pay for a collection of her own.

Maybe, in the end, that was better. She would see what she could do help Gran, but she wasn’t prepared to give up her own dreams for the responsibility of her grandmother’s collection.

Tired, she slipped off her ballet flats and climbed up into the high four-poster bed. As she stretched out on the soft quilt, she considered for about the thousandth time that art was something she had in common with Nick. Maybe the only thing they had in common.

She snorted. She couldn’t lie to herself. That kiss at the airport had curled her toes. And her body was so attuned to his presence, all the fine hair on her arms stood on end when he was in the room. She rubbed her elbows briskly at the thought of such a personal tracking device.

In her mind, she replayed their moments together in the ski lodge, and more recently at the airport. The flush in her cheeks bloomed low in her belly too. His kisses were scorching hot and unforgettable, which only made her resolution to keep him at arm’s length more vital. She’d tour Rome with Nick, but she needed to stop kissing him if she was going to keep her wits about her. She smiled, growing drowsy as the soft spring air and the comfortable bed lulled her.

She needed to stop kissing Nick, but she knew she wouldn’t.

But lust was one thing, love another. Gran was off the mark there with the comment that Nick might break her heart. How could he break it when she had it so cleverly hidden away?

* * *

Nick sat in a hot bath with a glass of sambuca in his hand, looking up at a lovely nude woman painted by that master of nudes, Titian. Any of these things individually should have been relaxing, and all three together should have been the ultimate anti-stress treatment. But Nick had found his usual distractions ineffective since his most recent encounter with Lisa and her grandmother. He took a sip of the anise-flavored drink, pursing his lips at the bittersweet flavor.

His cell phone shrilled from the marble ledge of the bath. He swore under his breath, frustrated by the distraction, but answered the phone anyway.

“
Dimi
.”

“Niccolo,” a soft woman’s voice sounded on the other end of the line. “You sound irritated. I love you irritated. Especially when I am the cause. Am I?”

Nick sighed, a half smile forming in spite of his irritation at the phone call. Rafaela could always get a laugh out of him. “Rafaela. How are you, my little cousin? No, my irritation is not with you, it’s just…I can’t get the American woman out of my head.”

“Hmm. Interesting. When do I get to meet the woman who has ruffled the ever-smooth Niccolo Carnavale?”

He rolled his eyes. He’d surprised himself with that admission. And the last thing he needed was Lisa and Rafaela together. His cousin’s cheerful, flamboyant personality would soon corner all of Lisa’s time. Time that Nick needed to carry out his own plans.

“Soon,” he said. “We’ll have lunch. Can we get to the point of your call, cousin?”

“No time for the niceties. That’s what I love about you, Nick. I have some information for you, but I can’t tell you much. The principessa has called a meeting tomorrow to discuss the terms of her will.”

Nick sat up in the bath. “And Van Alstrand?”

“Not invited.”

He heaved a sigh of relief. “What are the changes?”

Rafaela made a clucking sound and Nick gritted his teeth. “Ah, ah, Nick. You know I can’t tell you that. Even if I knew.”

His cousin took her job as a lawyer seriously. If her client’s instructions were to withhold information, Rafaela would act accordingly. In a family dominated by males, she’d fought to earn her law degree and the respect of her clients. Nick knew he’d get nothing more out of her and was lucky that she’d called with even that little bit of information. He’d have to use another source to find out what the changes were.

“Keep your eye on that painting, cousin,” he requested. “And thanks.”

“Will do. Glad to help, Nicky. Kiss her for me.
Ciao, bello
.”

“Ciao, Rafaela.”

Nick sank back into the tub, tension tightening his shoulders and back. Van Alstrand. Bile rose at the mere thought of the man. He’d warned the principessa against him but, in her typical stubbornness, she hadn’t listened. Not only had she not listened to his warnings to stay away, she’d made the bastard the curator of her collection.

And now Van Alstrand had access to the Rembrandt.

Nick surged from the bathtub, water sluicing down his naked form. He reached for an Egyptian cotton towel and wrapped it around his hips, still thinking about his cousin’s phone call. He needed access to the palazzo, needed to stay as close to the principessa as possible in order to find out where the elderly woman had hidden the Rembrandt.

Or the fake.

Or both.

What the principessa didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Grazie a Dio
,
she’d encouraged him to play escort to her granddaughter. The best way for him to gain access to the palazzo would be to continue his pursuit of Lisa. String her along. Continue his seduction.

Nick went through the familiar motions of shaving while Lisa occupied his thoughts. Seducing Lisa wouldn’t be difficult. She’d responded so eagerly and with such passion to his physical pursuit. She was hungry for his body, that he knew.

And he for hers, which would make the seduction all that more realistic.

He rinsed his razor, set it on the sink, and then washed his hands. His fingers automatically ran over the G-shaped scar on his left palm. His reflection in the fogged mirror caught his attention. Gray eyes, so like his papa’s, peered back. He stared at the unfocused image, clenching his fist, willing away the memories. But the night of Papa’s death crashed into his mind. Blood, so much blood. His father had—