Your Scheming Heart Read online

  He nodded and turned back for the house.

  Only one gate in, Sabrina saw, with a guardhouse. There were no patrolling guards or dogs, but that only indicated an electronic alarm system. A straightforward burglary was out then, not that she'd looked forward to such a thing. Guile was far preferable to the sloppy mess of a break-in.

  "Back to the airport?" Vincenzo asked.

  "Yes, back to the airport!"

  He smoothly circled the plane once more, following the coast north. Sabrina looked down at the foam licking the bottom of the cliffs, at the beautiful houses perched for magnificent views. But her mind was churning, revolving, calculating.

  What if the painting of the Madonna really was somewhere on Francesca Miller's estate? Did she have to steal it from Vincenzo and all that? Surely there were other options.

  Oh, yes, there were. The problem was those other options left Sabrina out in the cold. She'd be without money. She'd have Lise and Darrel hunting her down. But worst of all, she'd lose her chance at exacting revenge on the Castlewrights.

  By the time Vincenzo touched down, perfectly, at the airfield, Sabrina was no closer to a solution and in a foul mood.

  "That was helpful, no?" Vincenzo gently taxied the small plane back to its parking place. "We learned much, no?"

  "We know where she lives," Sabrina admitted flatly. And wished that they didn't.

  His brows flinched at her tone. "Surely we learned more than that."

  "We learned a big, fat nothing. I already told you, I have to think. Finding the house was...superfluous."

  He stopped the plane and turned to look at her, brows drawn. "The more information you have, the better you can think."

  "Yeah, right," she said, clipped. He was right, yet the more Sabrina was discovering about the situation, the more confused she was becoming. With a jerking motion, she undid her seat belt.

  "Wait," Vincenzo said as she moved to open her door. "I have to secure the plane first."

  Sabrina retracted from the touch of his hand on her arm. "All right," she promised, "I'll wait."

  Giving her one more frowning look, Vincenzo jumped out. Sabrina waited, tapping the tips of her fingers together while he placed blocks behind the wheels of the plane. She had her own dreams to take care of here. Were they to come to naught—and over some ridiculous, sentimental attachment to a rich man?

  "All right." Vincenzo opened the passenger side door from without. "I will help you."

  "I can do it," Sabrina protested. She fought off his hands, and then proceeded to fall out of the plane.

  He caught her, of course. His arms went around her waist as she landed against his chest. She ended up suspended with her toes about a foot off the ground.

  Whatever complaint Vincenzo had been about to lodge in her direction appeared to stop in his throat as they were suddenly tangled in each other's arms, their bodies pressed full length together.

  With her face on a level with Vincenzo, Sabrina watched his eyes change from brown to black. His grip on her tightened momentarily before, slowly, he let her slide down the length of him.

  Oh, boy. Every muscle beneath his sweater, every bone and stretched tendon translated through her cotton shirt. Each sensation of his body coiled a spring inside of her. Her thigh grazed his belt buckle and then hit a ridge that was just as hard. Her breath caught.

  Yup. By the time her feet finally hit the ground, both of them understood that Vincenzo was fully capable of pleasuring a woman.

  His eyes bored into her. As he continued to hold her hips against his, his expression transformed to one of pained bewilderment.

  He didn't know he could feel this way, Sabrina realized. Not about someone who wasn't Carlotta.

  She hadn't thought she could feel this way about a man, either. The air felt heavy. Her limbs felt weak. Weak? She felt utterly powerless. She'd had hankerings for certain men, here and there, in her life. But the way she felt now—the way she felt every time Vincenzo touched her—was definitely unique.

  With a peculiar, hoarse sound in his throat, Vincenzo lowered his head toward her.

  Dear God, yes. Though she'd never yearned for such a thing before in her life, Sabrina craved Vincenzo's lips on hers. She longed for that...connection.

  It never happened. He stopped halfway through the motion, closed his eyes and flattened his lips. With his eyes still closed, he let her go.

  "I'm sorry." As he took a long pace backward, his expression filled with disgust. "That was...inexcusable."

  Blinking, Sabrina struggled to steady her balance. It was unnerving to remark how far off said balance she'd strayed. She was actually in pain, she realized, because Vincenzo—her mark—had not kissed her.

  Crazy!

  "I'm sorry," Vincenzo repeated. Turned nearly completely away from her, he clenched his hands into fists and squinted into the distance.

  "No big deal," Sabrina grumbled, brushing her sleeves. This was a complete lie, but easier to handle than the truth. Good Lord, she'd wanted— She wasn't even sure what, but whatever it was, it was completely unacceptable. "Let's go back to the hotel."

  Nodding, he led the way to the car.

  The silence in the vehicle was taut during the drive back to the hotel. Dismay and frustration rivalled with each other in the air. Sabrina still couldn't assimilate what had happened on the airport tarmac. She'd wanted connection?

  At last Vincenzo broke the silence. With his voice maddeningly normal, he asked, "What do we do next?"

  Sabrina's teeth clamped together. Would he stop pushing her? Especially after— "I've told you. I have to think. Think." Hell if that wasn't the truth. Unfortunately, her brain felt like scrambled eggs. "Thinking takes time."

  Handling the car with ease over the narrow freeway off-ramp, Vincenzo didn't appear to have heard her, or to be suffering any ill effects from that almost-kiss. His concentration was fully back to the problem of the missing painting. "The copy of the Madonna della Montagna should arrive tomorrow. My people in Manhattan sent it Federal Express."

  Sabrina stared out the window, finding it difficult to concentrate on the problem of the painting, herself. She'd wanted him.

  He hadn't wanted her back.

  No. He'd wanted her... But he'd been able to stop himself, put on the brakes.

  She hadn't been.

  She was at a serious disadvantage here.

  "Now that we have found the house, there is nothing to keep us from moving forward." Vincenzo still sounded disgustingly normal. "Even though Mrs. Miller does not accept solicitations from charities, perhaps she would make an exception if we made the charity we represent attractive enough."

  Sabrina glanced toward him. "Kindly leave the conning to me."

  He ignored her. Pulling into the parking lot of the hotel, he said, "She gave an awful lot of money to the Children's Hospital. She is either interested in medicine or children—or both."

  "And she's obviously a tough nut. Even tougher now, after that newspaper reporter reminded the world she was practically a Nazi during World War II. Think she'd be willing to talk to a charity—to anybody—after that article?" Sabrina practically snarled the words. As soon as Vincenzo turned off the motor, she opened her car door.

  Though she tried, she wasn't able to leave him behind as she strode quickly toward the landscaped path leading to the main hotel building. Vincenzo kept pace with her easily.

  "Why do you talk so negative?" he wanted to know. "Before, you did not think it was impossible."

  "Before—" Before, she'd been certain she wouldn't mind taking this painting away from him. Now...? Crap. Sabrina's face felt dark as she tried to quicken her pace down the path between the banana trees. "I'm only trying to be realistic," she claimed. "Whereas you are living in a dream world."

  "But we've come this far."

  Sabrina halted and turned to face him.

  He stopped too, his face set and stubborn.

  Inside Sabrina tension crackled: anger and frustration mixe
d with guilt. She wanted none of these emotions. If only this man, and all he did to her, were gone. "We've come this far," she pronounced slowly, distinctly, "because you are too rich and too stubborn to face reality."

  "Reality." Vincenzo's tone was scoffing. "I listen to my heart."

  "Sure. And your heart tells you this painting is going to change your life. Well it ain't. Trust me, your magical painting is going to be one colossal disappointment."

  His nostrils flared. "So you say."

  "So I know." She was so angry with him she was shaking. It wasn't fair he harbor this delusion of his. It wasn't fair it made him so painfully vulnerable that she had to feel one ounce of compunction— "You are going to be disappointed," she told Vincenzo, feeling ruthless and perfectly justified. "Because finding your precious painting is not going to bring Carlotta back."

  His eyes blazed at her. "I know. Of course I understand that."

  "No. No, you don't. You don't understand that at all."

  He didn't like to hear this. She could tell by the sudden flash of panic in his angry eyes.

  "You think that painting is going to bring absolution? For what? You haven't even admitted to yourself that your wife is really gone! You haven't let yourself grieve for her. Have you?"

  He stared at Sabrina. If she'd been a two-headed, lizard-scaled monster, his regard could not have expressed amazed horror any better.

  "I've seen you." Sabrina shook her head. "Every time you come in danger of feeling her loss, you cover it with something else. Your belief in the painting. Or some crazy misplaced guilt. Never once, Vincenzo, have I seen you allow the emotion of pain."

  His stare of paralyzed amazement acquired a terrified aspect.

  If she had any heart, Sabrina would have stopped there. But some demon had hold of her. "It hurts, Vincenzo, I know that. It hurts like hell to lose someone you love. And I'm sure Sylvio and all the rest of them are telling you that time will make it better."

  He didn't answer. She knew that's what they must have told him. People had once told Sabrina the same thing.

  "It's a lie." Sabrina's voice rasped as she remembered her own pain. "It's never going to get better. Never."

  He took a step back, wild-eyed. "No," he said, his own voice hoarse. He gazed at her as if she held the ax that would execute him. "No." He backed up some more, watching her warily, expecting the final blow. He needn't have feared. She didn't have it. She'd used all her weapons. But he didn't know that. He turned and ran.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sabrina had the next twelve hours to reconsider the wisdom of the lecture she'd given Vincenzo on the flowered path. During those hours she saw no sign of her once-enthusiastic employer. But she relived, over and over, the surprised pain and shock in his eyes.

  Several times during the day she strolled about the hotel grounds. Her feet found every landscaped path. Not that she was looking for Vincenzo. Why would she do that? He was a grown man, could take care of himself. She didn't feel...responsible for him, or whatever state he might be in.

  But with every hour that passed without finding him, her anxiety grew. A weird anxiety, more on behalf of Vincenzo than herself. It was as if his problems weighed more than her own. They shouldn't have. Her own problems were quite urgent. She'd be up a creek without a paddle if he'd decamped permanently.

  It was after midnight before Sabrina gave up her non-search for Vincenzo. In the hotel coffee shop, the sole patron at that hour, she sat in a booth while the one waitress flirted with the short order cook. Under a pool of warm yellow light Sabrina picked at her food.

  Okay, she admitted it. She was worried about Vincenzo. Where had he gone? What was he doing?...Feeling?

  That's when a shadow fell over her cooling pile of mashed potatoes. Sabrina's heart jumped like a startled kangaroo. Slowly, she lifted her head.

  Vincenzo looked considerably the worse for wear. His buttoned-down collar was undone and his sweater hung like a rag around his neck. Once crisply pleated, his trousers were limp and dusty.

  "May I sit at this table?" he asked.

  A very strange lump appeared in Sabrina's throat, making it difficult to say anything. "Please," she managed to croak out.

  Slowly, as if bone-tired, he sank into the upholstered seat opposite herself. He reached for a plastic menu from the metal holder on one side of the table and asked, "What is good to eat tonight?"

  That lump wouldn't move from Sabrina's throat. "I had the special." She choked the words past the lump somehow. "Meatball and mashed potatoes. Not bad."

  "Bene." He closed the menu. New lines radiated out from his eyes and bracketed his mouth.

  Sabrina's heart sank. He'd aged ten years since she'd last seen him.

  The waitress came, Vincenzo ordered, his food arrived and he picked at it in much the same manner that Sabrina had her own dinner.

  At last, they each gave up the pretense of eating. Vincenzo rose to pay the tab.

  Sabrina stood as well, feeling a little dizzy. During the last twenty minutes she'd realized something very odd. She, the hard-nosed con artist, actually felt bad—about nothing more serious than hurting another person's feelings.

  She felt really bad. So bad she wondered if there was anything she could do to ease the sensation.

  They walked silently together up the stairs to their floor. Vincenzo stopped with Sabrina outside her door.

  Now, she thought. She should do or say something—though she had no idea what—now.

  But it was Vincenzo who spoke. Looking uncertain, he said, "I would like...to come in and talk for a minute. Would that be all right?"

  "Yes, of course." She didn't even consider refusing, or suggesting another venue. Maybe once inside her room she could figure out what she was supposed to say to him.

  Nervously, her fingers fumbled with the lock before she managed to get it open. Then, while Vincenzo waited for her to precede him into the dark room, she switched on the overhead light by the door.

  As soon as he stepped in, Vincenzo switched the bright light off again. Instead he reached into the bathroom directly off the entry hall and turned on the light in there.

  "This is better, I think," he diffidently pointed out as they walked into the main part of the room.

  With only the bathroom light, it was dim where they ended up standing by the dresser. They couldn't see each other that well and it felt, oddly, safe. "Yes," Sabrina quietly agreed. "This is better."

  Some of the tension softened in his shoulders and he threw his mangled sweater on top of the dresser. For Vincenzo to have treated his precious clothes that way—

  Her hands curled into fists against the thighs of her jeans. "Oh, Vincenzo—"

  "Sabrina." He cut her off.

  But she'd finally figured out what she had to do. Apologize. Incredible, but true. She had to apologize to her mark. She had to tell Vincenzo she was sorry she'd so obviously hurt him.

  Looking up, she swallowed and persevered. "All those things I said this morning—they were terrible, awful—"

  "No." He cut her off again, this time more forcefully. His hands came down on her shoulders. "No, Sabrina. Don't apologize. Everything you said—all of it was true. Completely true." Sighing, he released her shoulders. "Especially the part about my refusing to feel grief." With a shake of his head, he reached to fiddle with the sleeve of his sweater where it lay on the dresser.

  Slowly, he made a fist in the material of his discarded sweater. "You were right...about Carlotta. Today I did what you said. I...told myself to realize she is gone." He gave a deep, shuddering sigh as he stared at his sweater. "I knew that, of course; I just hadn't let myself believe it. Not really."

  She could see his face in profile, the finely chiseled nose, the sensuous mouth, all drawn now with grief. Sabrina felt a tense helplessness. Her apology hadn't helped. But what else could she do? Floundering, she asked, "So now you do believe it?"

  The corners of his mouth drew down as he nodded. "You were right." His voice di
pped down to a hoarse, nearly inaudible whisper. "It hurt to think that she is gone, truly gone."

  "Oh, Vince—" Inside of Sabrina the strangest sensation began. It felt as if a tough shield around her was cracking. Meanwhile something warm and soft struggled to emerge.

  Vincenzo's hand went up to the bridge of his nose.

  The gesture was such a clear indication of pain that the warm, soft creature inside Sabrina moved. Before she knew it, she'd closed the small distance between them. His tall length shuddered as her arms went around his waist.

  "Oh, Vincenzo, I'm so sorry." She hung onto him even as he stood there, unresponsive. "So sorry." It had been years—years!—since she'd spoken such words. Compassion was an emotion she'd taught herself to despise. Now, giving into it made her feel light-headed.

  She shifted even further off balance when his arms went around her, suddenly, convulsively. "I miss her so much!" Vincenzo whispered, fierce.

  "I know." Sabrina closed her eyes. It felt as if his pain moved through their embrace into her. Oddly, once it was in her, it didn't feel like pain, but simply dissipated. "It's okay to miss her," she told Vincenzo.

  He shivered and his arms tightened around her. She had a feeling he was crying. The idea frightened her, but she held on, taking that too. In the strangest way, the warm soft creature pulsing out of her shield of armor seemed to...strengthen.

  At length he sniffed and stilled. The dim light from the bathroom gave no urgency to breaking apart, though. They simply stood there, locked in each other's arms. It felt so comforting that Sabrina didn't even notice how long they stood that way, their breath going quietly in and out.

  Then one of his hands moved in a circle over her back. "Sabrina?" His cheek rested against the top of her head.

  "Yes?"

  "It feels very good to hold you."

  Sabrina blinked against his rumpled shirt. "It feels good to hold you, too," she admitted. It did. Very good. The lean strength of his back muscles resisted her embrace quite nicely. The faint scent of him, distinctively Vincenzo, was pleasant where her head rested on his chest. The whole thing felt...safe.

  He sighed, making her feel every muscle in his chest and diaphragm. "I don't want to let go of you."