The Di Medici Bride Read online

  It was the full moon over Venice, she decided vaguely. Erotic, romantic, decadent…casting a light of intrigue and fascination. But no, it wasn’t the moon or Venice, she admitted somewhere in her heart. It was the man. Marcus di Medici. Tall, sleek and sinewed, unleashing his power, the intangible strength of the sensuality she had known she would find and shiver beneath since she had first seen him….

  His mouth drew gently away from hers, and his hands tangled in her hair as he held her close, kissing her cheeks and her throat, holding her, feeling the erratic racing of her pulse. Then, at last, he stepped back and she almost fell; he righted her, then released her.

  And smiled.

  “Christina…” he murmured, and the sound of her name had never sounded so raw and exotic before. But then a cloud passed over the moon, and when she could see his face again, it was cast in shadow and his eyes were elusive indigo. He smiled, and even before he spoke, she knew that the cloud had taken something away, that he had changed.

  “It’s a pity,” he said lightly, “that you’re after money…and I really have so little.”

  She was dying to slap him, but she knew he would be amused, and prepared to stop the gesture before she could complete it.

  She managed to smile very icily instead. “Don’t worry about it. I still find Tony by far the more…charming…of the brothers di Medici. Buona sera, Marcus. Grazie, for dinner—and for the…entertainment.”

  Chris was pleased with her control, proud of her dry reply and relieved that she had held her temper in check.

  But she was raging inside.

  She walked up the steps and across the courtyard with slow and amazing hauteur…but she ran up the steps to her room, and hurled her purse onto the bed with a streak of pure violence.

  Marcus di Medici…she would truly love to strangle him. Just what the hell was his game?

  Her anger fled suddenly, leaving her so weak that she sank down onto the bed.

  His game…

  Yes, Marcus was playing a game. But there was something deeper here, too. Something that went beyond their words, beyond circumstances. Words could easily be lies, and yet…

  It was no lie that he wanted her. That, too, she had known from the first time their eyes had met.

  And yet he was like a dark panther. Accustomed to stalking, accustomed to the kill. Aware of his own strength. Wasn’t she just like any other prey that he had set his eyes upon?

  Chris took a deep breath and began to pace her room, riddled with confusion, doubt and fear. Half the time she was certain that he despised her. But then he would smile, or he would laugh…or he would touch her. And she would feel again that his touch couldn’t be a lie, that the electricity that had sparkled between them and flourished at every new meeting was flaring toward an explosion that was inevitable, that she could never deny. That she would never want to deny. He made her ache with anticipation, made her long to delve past the mysteries or ignore them, just to be with him.

  Chris sank back onto the bed again. Mysteries. The palazzo was filled with them, shadowed by the past. Guilt was the family skeleton.

  But already, absurdly, her heart was rebelling against her mind. There might be evil somewhere, but Marcus could not be that evil.

  He was innocent. Totally.

  Innocent of what? she asked herself.

  Then a sense of foreboding settled over her so chillingly that she had to rise again, running her hands over her bare shoulders and hugging herself for warmth.

  Something was going to happen. She had come here to find out about the past. Well, she had found out. And now she was going to prove that her father had never been a murderer.

  Chris smiled grimly to herself. So what if she was fascinated by Marcus—he had admitted to being fascinated in return. She would be damned if she would be a pawn; he would be forced to play that position.

  Determined, Chris showered and changed for bed, then crawled between the silk sheets, very carefully remaining dead center. She assured herself that she would find out the truth. Alfred Contini would be able to give her all the information she needed.

  If Alfred said that her father was innocent, then it seemed very obvious to Chris that he was.

  But proving it wouldn’t be that easy. As she tossed about—carefully—trying to get comfortable so that she could fall asleep, she realized that she had acquired a very real sense of fear. Of foreboding.

  And she couldn’t shake it until sleep at last claimed her.

  * * *

  Chris awoke in the middle of the night, wondering why she had done so. Then she was touched by the chilling feeling that someone was in her room, watching her.

  She opened her eyes carefully. Moonlight was pouring in from the terrace in a soft glow. She could easily see everything but the farthest corners of the room. She didn’t realize that she had been holding her breath until she exhaled shakily with relief. There was no one there.

  She hesitated for a few moments, then crawled from the bed, carrying her pillow with her. She wasn’t sure why, since a pillow wasn’t much of a weapon. But even when she checked out the corners and the bathroom, there was nothing to imply that anyone had ever been in the room or anywhere near her.

  Puzzled, Chris sat on the corner of the bed, trying to fathom the strange feeling that had assailed her. She had been so certain….

  But why would anyone in the di Medici household want to come in and stare at her as she slept, anyway?

  She shrugged, then stood and walked slowly, as if drawn, to the terrace. She had never been out on it before; she knew it connected her room with Marcus di Medici’s.

  The gauze drapes drifted around her as she stepped into the night air. The moon was still shining beautifully. There were no clouds, and it was a silver orb hung against black velvet. Or indigo velvet, really. A blue darkness just like…

  Chris took a few steps along the terrace, her bare feet silent. The French doors to Marcus’s room were open. Curiosity compelled her to step closer to them. She hesitated when she reached them, then peered around one door. Was Marcus, too, out on a silent stalk in the night?

  The moonglow filtered into the room. She saw his bed, placed against the opposite wall. The sheets, a striking masculine indigo, were drawn back invitingly, but there was nobody in the bed. She gazed at the drapery beside her hand. Indigo.

  But the Persian area rugs that lay scattered about the floor were light, and there was a white French Provincial clock on his heavy dresser. It was a striking room, much like its occupant.

  But where, Chris wondered, was Marcus di Medici? Had he been in her room, silently moving about? Looking for something? What?

  She inhaled deeply, then exhaled. She shouldn’t be here. She had been disturbed by a possible covert invasion of her privacy, but wasn’t she doing the same thing? It was ridiculous to be here, barefoot and scarcely clothed, peeking into a man’s room.

  Chris turned to tiptoe back to her own room, but from the other side of the door a hand shot out, capturing her arm, spinning her back around. Terrified, she screamed—but her scream was choked off by a hand quickly clamped over her mouth. Shivering with dismay, she heard Marcus speak just as she looked up and saw his eyes, devil dark, yet blazing where they caught the moon’s glow.

  “Will you shut up—unless, of course, you wish to explain to the entire household why you were sneaking about my room in the middle of the night.”

  Rigid, she shook her head. He released her and planted his hands on his hips. Chris noted that he, too, was barefoot. And clad only in a belted knee-length robe. A gold chain around his neck gleamed. She followed its line down the V of his robe to a medallion nestled in a thick mat of dark hair on his chest.

  “If you had knocked, I would gladly have let you in,” he drawled insinuatingly.

  Chris instantly decided to go on the offensive. “What were you doing in my room?” she demanded.

  “Cara, this is my room.”

  “But you were in mine!” Chri
s declared.

  “Doing what?” he demanded impatiently.

  “I—I don’t know. Standing, sneaking around…”

  “I believe I just caught you sneaking around.”

  “That’s exactly the point. You were hiding behind the door—”

  He sighed with exasperation. “I was behind my door because I heard someone prowling around the terrace.”

  “I wasn’t prowling…” Chris began to protest, then she asserted, “Someone was in my room!”

  He laughed. “Christina, I promise, if I’m ever in your room, you’ll definitely be aware that someone is there…and that it is me.”

  “Oh, go to hell!” Chris muttered, turning to walk back along the terrace to her own doors. She entered her room, then turned around to give the moon one last suspicious glance. Instead she started, gasping as she crashed into Marcus.

  “Shhh!” he warned harshly, bringing a finger to his lips, holding her bare arm with his other hand.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered a little desperately. Not only was she half-naked, but so was he. And he was so close that she could feel the coarse hair on his chest teasing the flesh of her breasts through the silk of her gown. A trembling heat, the sensation that engulfed her when he came too close, threatened to overwhelm her.

  “We’ll check out your room,” he told her.

  “I already did,” she murmured.

  Nevertheless he released her, then moved around the room, a stealthy silent shadow. For a moment he disappeared into her bathroom, then reappeared, hands on his hips once again, one brow laconically raised. “Your door is locked, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you quite certain that you don’t have strange imaginings?” he asked her. “Or fantasies?”

  “Will you get out of here, please?” Chris demanded irritably.

  He chuckled softly. “Certainly, cara Christina…” He didn’t touch her again. But at the doors, he paused and gave her an amused grin. “I do like your ‘prowling’ mode of dress, Christina. In fact, I’m growing very fond of that gown.”

  She was glad that she was in the darker shadow of the room, because a flush rose to burn her features. There was nothing to her gown. She had known it last night; she knew it now. Sheer, spaghetti-strapped and long, but with high slits along each leg.

  She had no reply; he wasn’t expecting one.

  Chris crawled back into bed, determined that she was going to get to a boutique in the morning and purchase some puritanical neck-to-toe cotton nightgowns.

  And then, of course, she wondered why she should be so determined. How many more clandestine meetings was she expecting to have with Marcus di Medici?

  “I should lock those damn terrace doors,” she muttered to herself. But it didn’t occur to her to get up again and do so.

  * * *

  It was almost eleven o’clock by the time she went downstairs the next morning. Once she had fallen asleep again, she must have slept like a rock.

  There was no one around when she reached the courtyard, but the snowy tablecloth, with a single flower and place setting for her, waited invitingly. Chris wandered to the serving cart to pour herself coffee.

  “Buongiorno, Signorina Tarleton.”

  Startled, Chris spun around. Genovese was coming across the courtyard toward her.

  Chris studied the man. He was no more than five-foot-eight and slim, but wiry. His eyes were dark, and his dark hair was untouched by silver, but seeing his weathered olive face up close, Chris knew he was either in his late forties or early fifties. But of course. He couldn’t really be a young man. He had been with Alfred Contini for at least twenty-one years.

  “Buongiorno, Genovese,” Chris murmured a little awkwardly, taking a sip of her coffee. “I, uh, I’m sorry to be late. I appreciate the coffee you’ve kept for me.”

  “There are croissants in the basket,” Genovese said, his English heavily accented.

  “Molto grazie,” Chris told him softly.

  He smiled, then chuckled. “No, signora. Molto bene, as in food, eh? Mille grazie. A thousand thank-yous.”

  Chris laughed, too. “Thank you for the lesson, Genovese. Maybe one day I’ll get it all right.”

  He pulled out her chair. “Once, when you were a little, little girl, you had it all right.”

  Chris sat, wondering why she felt so uneasy to have the man behind her. Alfred trusted him implicitly. But it seemed that since she had come to Venice and the Palazzo di Medici, she didn’t like having her back turned to anyone.

  “Strange, isn’t it?” she murmured. “Some things are easy to remember…and some things are not.”

  He was still behind her. “You remember nothing of your years in Venice?”

  Did she? Yes, bits and pieces, a fragment here and there…or perhaps it was only the pretense of memory, something totally subconscious that surfaced without her command.

  “No, absolutely nothing.” She lied cheerfully. “Where is everyone?”

  “Alfred and Marcus are out on business; Tony has not returned from Firenze. Sophia has gone shopping; Gina is in the chapel.”

  “The chapel?”

  “Si, she…meditates.”

  “In other words, she wishes her privacy?” Chris asked him.

  “Ah…yes,” Genovese murmured, at last moving around the table. “If there is anything that you need…”

  “There is nothing at all that I need, Genovese. Mille grazie.”

  “Then I will leave you,” he murmured.

  Please do! Chris thought silently, and was angry at herself for allowing the man to make her uneasy. He’d never been anything but perfectly courteous and polite. She was allowing herself to become frightened, and that bothered her.

  Chris was glad to be alone. She ate a croissant and sipped two cups of coffee, then decided to spend the afternoon following the path she had learned last night. She would find that boutique and purchase new nightgowns. She would also find a bookstore and buy herself a good English-Italian dictionary. Then, if Alfred couldn’t help her, she would find out what newspaper morgues and record offices she could get to so she could study the media coverage of Mario’s death and see what had been written about the involvement of her father, and everyone in the household.

  So decided, she ran upstairs for her purse, then found Genovese in the hallway and told him that she’d be gone for most of the afternoon.

  He was like a very concerned parent, offering to accompany her so that she didn’t get lost. Chris assured him that she was a seasoned traveler, and that even if her command of the Italian language was close to nil, she knew enough to get around the streets.

  He still appeared unhappy when she left.

  But Chris loved her afternoon out. She found exactly what she wanted in the boutique: nightgowns so all-encompassing that only her face and hands were left bare. On impulse she also bought a stunning black cocktail gown that had been greatly reduced in price.

  It was fun to wander around. She adored all the alleyways and little bridges and the beautiful old churches she came to on almost every corner. She stopped at a little sidewalk café and bought herself cappuccino and some bread and cheese for lunch, and tried to think out all of the things she had learned since coming to the palazzo.

  But uneasiness settled over her again, the feeling that something was about to happen. Ridiculous, she told herself. It was just Venice. She was allowing herself to get wrapped up in the past, and it was nothing less than ridiculous.

  But she was convinced that someone had been in her room last night. Marcus? He had been up; he had caught her as easily and stealthily as if he had been waiting for her….

  No, he wouldn’t lie. Why not? she charged herself. Because he was Marcus. Because she…

  Was falling beneath his spell. Thinking about him in the bright sunlight made her shiver, then grow hot.

  Impatiently, Chris paid her bill and started to wander back toward the palazzo. Alfred would tell her something on F
riday, she was convinced. She would prove her father’s innocence, then bow regally out of the picture and return to Paris, where she could decide what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.

  Thinking about her life reminded Chris that she had spent a day with no exercise at all. When she returned to the palazzo she hurried straight to her room, changed into a leotard and worked out on the floor to limber her muscles.

  When she decided she had practiced long enough for a seasoned mime on vacation, she was thirsty. Not trusting her system to Italian tap water—even in Paris, she drank only bottled water—Chris decided to find the kitchen and get a drink. She drew a skirt on over her leotard and tights and hurried down the stairs in her dance slippers, remembering to follow the arched hallway to the right.

  She found the formal dining room—a huge place containing a grand old table with enough chairs for twenty people—and knew the kitchen must be right through the archway behind it.

  But at the archway, Chris paused.

  People were arguing in the kitchen. Violently. Two voices were rising in very rapid, very vehement Italian.

  One of the voices belonged to Alfred Contini. The other, Chris realized slowly, belonged to Genovese.

  She paused for several seconds, then decided that she didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping, even if she couldn’t understand a word. She hurried back through the dining room to the entryway, then decided to wander out to the courtyard. There might be something to drink set out on one of the serving carts, and she hoped that Alfred would make an appearance, and possibly explain something about what had been going on.