The Di Medici Bride Read online

  He sighed. “Good heavens, Chris, what do you think one is going to find in the catacombs?” Still smiling sardonically, he reached for her. Chris couldn’t help but allow a small gasp to escape, and he laughed. “I’m trying to help you. Watch out. Some of the tombs are low, and you can trip.”

  She had never really known just how warm his hand could be, until she felt his touch in the cold dampness of the catacombs. She felt her fingers curling tightly around his, and at that moment she would gladly have followed him anywhere, as long as it was out of the catacombs.

  It seemed to take them forever to leave the tombs. Before they came to a floor-to-ceiling grate Marcus halted suddenly and trained his flashlight on the wall. It was simple gray marble, with a number of brass plates. Chris realized that it was the “modern” section of the tombs and that the name on the last plate was Mario di Medici.

  Chris felt as if an ominous silence was about to explode into something far worse.

  Marcus started moving again. Now there were just walls and archways and the occasional squeak of a rat. In another moment her heart began to beat with relief. She could see light coming from the chapel, and the stairway that led to the main floor of the palazzo.

  But Marcus stopped before they reached the stairway, turning to stare at her harshly.

  “You told me the other night that Alfred had been murdered. He died of a heart attack, Christina. What were you talking about?”

  “Nothing,” she murmured quickly.

  “Christina…” The pressure of his fingers increased on hers.

  “Nothing! Nothing, I swear it,” she babbled. “I told you, I lost my earring and—please, please, Marcus, let’s get out of here. If I want the jewels I’ll shoot for a di Medici husband, I swear it. Please, Marcus.”

  She was startled when he pulled his hand from hers, slipped an arm around her and bent to lift her into his arms. “You’re shivering, Christina,” he whispered to her.

  She couldn’t hide it; he was holding her very close. She could feel the strength and tension in the rippling muscles of his shoulders. He surely knew that she was terrified.

  Suddenly she decided to tell him about the blackmail note, to enlist his aid—or taunt him into an admission that something was going on. Perhaps something in which he was involved. No! But if he was involved, wasn’t she a fool to speak when she was in his arms, alarmingly at his mercy?

  “Alfred was being blackmailed,” she declared in a rush, attempting to pin his eyes with her own. “There was a blackmail note. I saw it. I have it.”

  His brows drew tightly together in a wary frown. “Where is this note?”

  Chris reached into her waistband, but the note was gone. She closed her eyes with a sinking sensation. She must have lost it before plummeting through the trapdoor.

  “I don’t have it anymore. I swear it was there, Marcus. You have to believe me. You have to.”

  “You have to get your nose out of places where it doesn’t belong, Christina,” he whispered hoarsely, refusing to release her. He smiled. “You’re still trembling.”

  “Marcus, let’s go back and look for the note,” she said, ignoring his comment.

  “Chris!” he snapped, aggravated. “You’re shaking like a leaf, and I’m not crawling around through spiderwebs all night to look for some figment of your imagination!”

  “Marcus!”

  “If there is such a thing, it will still be there later! Come on,” he said more gently. “I’m getting you out of here.”

  She didn’t reply. She held an arm about his neck and kept her gaze locked with his as he started up the steps. He carried her through the long marble hallway, past the entryway with its subdued chandelier, and down the hall to the kitchen, where he set her on the counter. He smiled a bit vaguely, dug a towel out of a drawer, soaked it with warm water and came back to her.

  He gently began to clean her cheeks. “You’re much prettier without the webbing about the face,” he teased lightly.

  He walked away and took a little bottle from a cabinet, shaking a pill into his hand. He poured her some water.

  “Take this.”

  “What is it?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Aspirin. It will help you to sleep tonight if you have aches and pains, or cold clammy dreams about dead contes and contessas,” he teased.

  Chris still wouldn’t take the pill. He sighed with an effort at patience and pulled out the vial. “Look, Chris, they’re all exactly alike! It’s aspirin, I swear it! I wouldn’t be trying to poison my entire family, would I?”

  Chris realized that she was still nervous. And she wouldn’t sleep without some kind of help. She dutifully swallowed the pill.

  “Marcus, why wasn’t Alfred buried here?”

  “Alfred was not a di Medici, remember? Not that that would really have mattered; he was family. But he wanted to be interned at the church.” He grimaced. “I can’t say I’m fond of the idea of spending eternity in this place myself.”

  Chris smiled, but then she sobered. “Marcus, what’s going on here?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  But he did. She could tell.

  “Are you protecting someone in your family?”

  “If they need protection,” he said dryly. “It would seem that they do, with a jewel thief in their midst, wouldn’t you think?”

  Chris fell silent. It was useless trying to talk to him. Tonight, at least. If she could get him alone again, far from the house, if she could get him to relax…perhaps ply him with wine, she thought, holding back a laugh.

  He left her to pull a pair of snifters from a cabinet. From another he took a bottle of French brandy. “I think you need a drink,” he told her. He came back to her, standing right before her as he handed her a brandy.

  “Should I? After that pill…”

  He grinned indulgently. “I wouldn’t advise emptying a wine barrel, but a few sips won’t hurt you. You’re as pale as the ‘relations’ I left behind,” he told her, tilting her glass in her numbed fingers so that she was forced to drink.

  She smiled wanly. “Contini was being blackmailed, you know.”

  Had she struck home? she wondered. His expression gave nothing away, but she remembered that several days before he had mentioned something about going through the books—and had snapped at her when she had asked about it. Had large sums of money been disappearing?

  “He said he made out a new will,” Chris said impulsively.

  Marcus shrugged. He was so close to her that his chest was almost against hers, and his hips were wedged between her legs where they dangled down the counter. The warmth of his body was like the sun. Powerful. Searing. Undeniable.

  He plucked the snifter from her hand and set it on the counter. She could only stare into his eyes, aware of what was coming and glad of it, eager for it.

  He moved even closer. She felt the strength and warmth of his body as his arms came around her, holding her tightly, holding her close. His lips touched hers slowly, as if tonight he had decided to explore and savor sensation. His mouth moved lightly over hers, then drew away, and he looked at her again. His eyes held a heated sizzle, but also more. There was a tenderness in his gaze that was almost shattering.

  As if he shared the attraction…and the caring, too.

  Finding no resistance in her eyes, he swept his arms about her once again, and his lips touched hers with a greater passion, hungry, persuasive. He tasted of the brandy, and his scent was like a potent musk, reminding her that she was falling in love with him, that she was enchanted by the probing of his tongue, moving against her teeth, then finding her tongue and all the little crevices of her mouth. She ran her hands down his back, and shivered deliciously, convulsively as his hands ran along hers, before moving between them to caress her breasts. He found her nipples easily against the knit of her leotard top, grazing them to hardened peaks. An ache rose within her; she didn’t want to lose him, not the scent, the taste or the touch of him
. The wonder of being held and caressed beguiled her.

  His lips drew slowly from hers. His whisper was gentle as his lips brushed her cheek. “Go to bed, Christina,” he told her.

  She lowered her eyes quickly from his. Her lips were moist from the kiss; her body still seemed to sizzle from the heat of his. She closed her eyes for a minute, trying to still the reeling sensation of wanting him.

  She needed answers. She was supposed to be the seductress, yet she was getting so emotionally involved. She had to learn to control the sensations of her body and her heart!

  He wanted her; she knew it. But she was going to have to learn to play her role with greater appeal—and far greater finesse—closing her soul against his power over it. He could be tender…very tender. And gentle. Yet she couldn’t let that sway her….

  She raised her eyes. His were very dark, hard and mysterious. “Go to bed,” he repeated softly. He lifted her from the counter. “I’ve got to go out.”

  “Where?” she challenged him.

  He placed his hands on his hips and cocked his head slightly. “If I’m harboring a jewel thief, I need to get rid of the evidence.”

  Chris lowered her eyes again, then raised them with a sweet smile. “Marcus…do you think we might get out of here… together…alone…for an evening?”

  He stared at her for several seconds. “Yes, I think that we might.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes. Now go to bed.”

  Chris kept smiling sweetly as she hurried out of the kitchen and through the entryway to the stairs. In her room, she locked the door carefully before running to the shower to wash away the last of the spiderwebs from her hair and body.

  When she crawled into bed she was more confused than ever. Marcus just couldn’t have been blackmailing Contini. But Marcus had been right there when Contini died, and he had been in the catacombs tonight. He had a flair for being in strange places….

  She was always throwing thinly veiled accusations his way—which he denied. She couldn’t help but think that he was protecting someone. If only he would talk to her. If only she could trap him in some way.

  It was difficult when you loved the man you were trying to trap. Loved him and distrusted him. And sometimes hated him.

  Chris slept very restlessly.

  And again she woke up in the night, certain that someone was in her room. But she didn’t really feel that she was awake; perhaps she was only dreaming.

  In her dream she opened her eyes carefully, keeping her lashes lowered.

  It was Marcus. In a short robe, he was standing by her dresser. It seemed that he was going through her things.

  She wanted to call to him, to stop him, to accuse him. But it was only a dream, and she couldn’t say anything; she couldn’t stop him or accuse him. She was too groggy to do so.

  Chris blinked. Marcus wasn’t there. It had been a dream. She rolled over and fell quickly back to sleep.

  When she woke up in the morning she wasn’t so sure that it had been a dream. She had been so tired! And she had taken the pill…and had the brandy.

  Angrily Chris crawled out of bed and hurriedly washed. She was going to march straight downstairs, find Marcus and demand that he explain what he was up to.

  She hurried down the stairs and through the hallway to the courtyard, but paused before exiting the inner terrace. There was another family argument going on.

  Genovese was standing at the head of the table. Sophia was screaming something at him, and Tony was laughing. When Sophia turned on Marcus in anger he merely lifted a brow and shrugged, then said something very calmly.

  Gina watched everyone silently, her eyes darting from her sons to Sophia to Genovese.

  Chris decided she might as well make her presence known.

  She walked out onto the patio, her skirt swinging, her smile cheerful. She pretended not to notice that a dead silence had followed her entry. She poured herself a cup of coffee, saying, “Buongiorno.”

  Marcus moved forward to crush out a cigarette; then he leaned back in his chair, watching her with a polite smile. “It is a good day for you, Christina. Genovese tells us that he has found Alfred’s new will.”

  “Oh?” Chris tried to sip her coffee with nothing more than polite interest. Her heart was beating painfully.

  “Yes. It seems that Alfred’s funds have been distributed evenly. Half to you, half to the di Medicis—and Sophia, of course.”

  “Half!” Chris gasped.

  “Oh, yes, and you’re the executor. In charge of the pensions and so on. There are legacies for Genovese, Joe Conseli and Fredo Talio. Also a few other friends and servants and distant relatives.”

  “I…doubt if it’s legal,” Chris murmured uneasily. Dear God, they were all staring at her as if they would like to throttle her. Except for Tony and Marcus. Tony was amused. Marcus was…almost disinterested.

  “Ah, what a pity!” Tony teased, catching his brother’s eye. “Now she’ll no longer need a di Medici husband.”

  Marcus shrugged. “Maybe she wants it all?”

  Chris thought that he was smiling. The two of them were crazy.

  Tony chuckled again. “We should think this one out, Marc. I would say that one of us might need a Tarleton wife.”

  Gina stood up and excused herself, then quickly left the table. Sophia followed suit, throwing her napkin on the table and muttering, “It’s disgraceful!” She glared at Chris and walked away.

  Genovese cleared his throat. He spoke in Italian to Marcus, but Chris understood his words: “What shall I do?”

  “Take the will to Sal’s office, please. He can handle it from there. Oh, take the launch. It will be quickest.”

  Genovese nodded and left, too. Chris gazed after him uneasily. Certainly Genovese couldn’t wish her any harm; he had discovered the will and presented it. He could have just torn it to shreds….

  But something about him made her uneasy. He often appeared weasely and ageless, his eyes colorless. When he looked at Chris, he made her uncomfortable.

  Marcus stood up abruptly. “I have things to do at my own office.”

  “Wait!” Chris cried. “I want to talk to you.”

  “It will have to wait. I’ll be home early.” He smiled slightly, and she wasn’t sure if it was with mockery or not. “We’ll be seeing each other all evening, remember?”

  He started to leave the courtyard, heading in the direction of the steps to the via.

  “Damn…” Chris began.

  “Give up,” Tony advised. He pushed back his own chair. “I’d best get to work myself.” He kissed the top of her head. “Something’s bothering him about the books. That’s why he’s so brusque. Don’t let him bother you. I’ll bring him home for lunch, I promise.”

  Tony left, too. Chris sat alone at the table for a while, then decided she might as well work off her aggravation and fear with some exercise.

  She did. She went upstairs and worked out for a long while, trying not to wonder what the new developments meant. Marcus in her room at night…Alfred Contini leaving half his money to her. Well, if things had been left to her, she was damned well going to get into the galleries and find out what was going on with the books.

  Chris glanced at her watch and saw that it was almost lunchtime. She showered quickly and dressed, determined to corner Marcus and find out what he had been doing in her room.

  Just as she was brushing out her hair, she heard his voice from the grand entryway below. She stepped out onto the balcony and glanced down. He was talking to Genovese, but he seemed to sense her presence. He looked up at her expectantly.

  “Stay there, Marcus, please!” Chris called.

  He smiled, his eyes a dazzling fire. “I’m here.”

  Chris whirled from the balcony banister, moved toward the stairs with firm steps and started down.

  But on the fourth step the floor suddenly gave away. The wood of the step groaned and shattered beneath her weight.

  Chris fought valiantly
for her balance, but her shoe was stuck in the cracked wood. She jerked at her foot and went catapulting down the rest of the stairs, a scream tearing from her throat.

  She landed with a hard crash on her head. She stared upward. The chandelier danced like a trillion suns above her.

  “Christina! Christina!” It was Marcus’s voice that she heard, his arms that she felt around her. His eyes were fire, she decided. A blue blaze. But like the crystals of the chandelier, they began to dim.

  Bit by bit the light faded, and then was gone completely. The pain in her head had been like a large black bird, spreading its wings over her eyes, over her mind, and she slipped silently from consciousness, murmuring, “Marcus…”

  CHAPTER 7

  Even in the realm of her subconscious, it was dark.

  Chris dreamed she was in the catacombs. The walls were dank and musty and she could hear a roar, as if the water of the canal surrounding the tunnel was rushing like a full sea in turmoil. All the archways were deep and darkly shadowed, yet she had no choice but to run from one to the next, toward the crypt.

  She was being pursued.

  She kept telling herself that her pursuer could not be Marcus, but when she turned in flight she saw him, tall, dark and as mysterious as the shadows, not running after her but maintaining a steady pace. He was stalking her. And she knew that when he passed from one archway to the next he could change, if he so chose. He could become St. Mark’s great winged lion, or he could become a panther, as black and deadly as the night.

  She kept running until she found herself in the crypt. She banged against the gate. Marcus was calling her, and she looked back. But in the darkness she couldn’t tell which he had become, the winged lion or the panther. Was he trying to hurt her, or help her? She didn’t know, so she forced her way through the gates. And then she remembered that all she would find at the end of the tunnel was the walled tomb where dozens of di Medicis lay together in the sleep of eternity. She wanted to turn back, but someone was pulling on her wrist. She stared at her hand, trying to scream. The stone reliefs from the tombs had become flesh, and those long-dead di Medicis wouldn’t allow her to escape.