Your Scheming Heart Page 2

  "I have." Lifting his cup, the Italian actually took a sip. Sabrina was amazed when he didn't flinch at the taste. Instead his expression turned set and determined. "I have devoted myself to finding the Lady. You see, I took a vow."

  The guy was certifiable. A vow?

  The Italian set down his cup with a solid clink. The line of his mouth drew back unhappily. "I'll be breaking that vow tonight, if I fly back to Milan."

  Sabrina's instincts were screaming again. Opportunity, they shouted. Big opportunity. But not for her. She had to scram. The trail she'd left since Gainesville wasn't sufficiently covered for her to pick up a game here.

  Which was really too bad. She could practically smell the money involved in this story—and she wouldn't scruple to bilk this man.

  "Breaking a vow is a serious thing," she proclaimed anyway, as if she'd be able to stick around long enough to reap the benefits of this provocation.

  He looked up sharply. "Yes, I said so to Sylvio. But he would not listen. He said that four years is long enough."

  He'd been looking for four years? This painting had to be worth a bundle. Aloud, Sabrina said, "A vow is a vow."

  He stared at her intently. "Yes," he agreed. "A vow is a vow."

  She'd been toying with him, half distressed she couldn't follow this game, and half determined to distract him enough to extract his wallet. But now Sabrina found herself the object of a serious and highly focused regard. It was intent enough to bring her calculating mind to a halt. What was he seeing?

  "Now, I wonder," he murmured, and leaned closer. His eyes darkened and bored deeper.

  It was unnerving, yet Sabrina couldn't look away. There was a peculiar power to his gaze, not forceful, no, almost...religious. In fact, she felt as though he was reaching down with those eyes, deep down inside of her, exploring regions she'd thought carefully locked away.

  Slowly, he lifted one hand. Inside of her, everything froze. She could swear he meant to reach inside of her with that hand, to drag all of her darkness out into the open. He'd see her then, all of her, from her pathetically naive origins through the harsh betrayal and on through the years of rage and yearning.

  A look of sudden and piercing intelligence shot from those dark eyes of his. In that moment Sabrina, panic-stricken, felt sure he knew her, inside and out.

  As if to prove it, he didn't touch her. His hand halted before connecting with her face. As if he knew. His touch would make her bolt.

  While he slowly lowered his hand, Sabrina pulled herself together. This was ridiculous. The man was a complete stranger, and nuts, to boot. He had no special powers or inside knowledge. He certainly didn't know her.

  As if to prove it, an expression of awe came over his face. No inside look at Sabrina could have inspired such an emotion. "Yes, I wonder," he mused softly, "if meeting you is not a sign."

  That did it. She met his too-calm, crazy eyes and felt herself drop back down to earth. She didn't believe in signs. No, nor in vows or magical powers. What she did believe in was cold, hard cash. And she'd been sitting for two whole minutes with that wallet within reach and hadn't done a thing about it.

  "A sign." Shakily, she smiled. Yes, that's what he was, all right. A sign. It was time to get back to business. She laid her hand on his jacket sleeve. This would distract him from the movement under his jacket lapel. "You know, I believe you're right. I believe that it is."

  An expression of reverent joy lit his features just as Sabrina lifted his wallet.

  "Thank you," he said. His tone was completely sincere.

  Meanwhile, Sabrina leaned back and surreptitiously stuffed the slim leather wallet against her back waistband.

  "You have been extremely helpful," he said.

  I could say the same for you. Sabrina smiled back at him, feeling a measure of her own relief, knowing she had the means now to get out of town. If she'd gone crazy for a minute there, letting him get to her, well, it was okay now. Just a glitch in the normal systems. He was no magician, just a man, and not a very smart one at that.

  She stood. "Thank you for the coffee." Her mouth watered at the thought of the meal she'd now be able to give herself. On a train, perhaps, going north. Lise wouldn't expect a train. "And good luck finding your painting." Why not wish him luck? It didn't cost her anything.

  He stood as well, his gallantry apparently in-bred. "Grazie. You have decided me to keep my vow. I will not fly home to Milan after all. I will complete my mission here."

  His smile was all warmth and innocence, naive as a babe.

  The wallet pinched Sabrina's lower back. The poor guy hadn't stood a chance.

  "Signora Raven." He took her hand, but this time didn't let it go. "In a way, you have saved my life. At least, my soul. How can I ever repay you?"

  The utter gratitude in his eyes distracted her from the discomfort of being held by the hand. "Think nothing of it," she muttered. This wasn't guilt. Sabrina never felt bad about robbing a rich man. And this one could afford the loss. He was plenty rich. Oh yes, crazy or not, he was of that class against which she'd declared war years ago. She never felt guilt over a rich man.

  "Good-bye," Sabrina said.

  "Arrivederci," the Italian returned. "Until we meet again."

  Right, Sabrina thought. Not bloody likely. She allowed herself a smile as, safely down the corridor, she worked the wallet free of her waistband.

  But her hands were shaking, for some reason, and she couldn't get past his odd certainty they'd meet again—or that one strange moment of his acute intelligence.

  Dammit, her instincts were howling.

  ~~~

  "Ah, there you are."

  Sitting in the dining car of a train heading north, about to dig into an aromatic piece of sole—the first solid meal she'd seen in days—Sabrina stopped cold.

  She knew that voice. Lise Gunther.

  Damn. Damn. And Damn. Sabrina's hungry stomach shriveled. Looked like she wasn't going to enjoy this meal after all. In fact, she might not end up alive to eat it.

  She'd really thought she'd ditched the woman. Buying a ticket for this train had been ridiculously easy. The Italian's wallet had been generously stuffed. Hundred dollar bills he'd been carrying. Sabrina hadn't even had to risk breaking out his credit cards.

  Once on the train, she'd 'convinced' a waiter to serve her after hours, so she was the only one in the dining car. The sky was black outside the large windows. Small vases of flowers graced the linen on each table. She'd just started to relax.

  Should have known that was a mistake. Since Joe had up and died last year, Sabrina hadn't known many moments of true relaxation.

  Play it cool. Take the offensive.

  With her heart beating madly, Sabrina stuck her fork into the flaky fish, took a bite, and only then turned. "Hey, Lise. How ya doing?"

  The woman who stood in the aisle between the tables could have passed for a corporate executive. In her mid-forties, she wore a sage green jacketed suit, an upswept blond hairstyle, and carried herself with calm authority.

  A bulky man with short-cropped hair and a sneer stood just behind her. Darrel, Lise's human attack dog.

  Sabrina nodded toward the booth seat opposite herself. "Take a load off."

  Lise raised one well-clipped eyebrow. Darrel, appearing to take that as a signal, uncrossed a pair of arms thick with vein-marbled muscle. The sneer on his face turned into a leer. Sabrina suspected, given the chance, Darrel would satisfy a few whims of his own before taking care of Lise's business.

  "Not yet," Lise told him, a mistress chiding her beast. With one gloved hand lifted to stop Darrel, she kept her gaze on Sabrina. "Where's my money?"

  "I don't have it."

  Lise's lips tightened. "Where did it go?"

  "Renting office space, paying for other stuff to look like a real company."

  "And the take?"

  "Wasn't any." Feeling scared sick, Sabrina forced herself to fork in another casual bite of sole. "The widow turned out to be pract
ically destitute. I couldn't take her last dime."

  Lise's gloved hand clenched into a fist. "I expected a return on the money I gave you."

  "And you'll get one."

  That stopped her. Both Lise's eyebrows rose. She lowered her clenched fist. To Sabrina's relief, the woman finally, if slowly, sank into a seat on the booth seat opposite her. "I'll get a return, hm? I'm very interested in hearing how you intend to do that." Lise smiled. "Meanwhile, you can start by giving me whatever you lifted off that man at the airport."

  So, Lise had been onto her as far back as the airport. Chagrined, Sabrina reached for her purse.

  For a man so big, Darrel was amazingly quick. He had his hands on her purse before Sabrina could blink an eye. With a lovely grunt, he handed it to Lise.

  "Thank you, Darrel." Smiling at Sabrina, Lise accepted the small leather purse with grace. "He must take precautions against weapons."

  "I don't carry any," Sabrina muttered.

  Lise didn't appear to hear, or to care. With a satisfied expression, she pulled the Italian's calfskin wallet from Sabrina's purse. Opening it, she soon found the ten one-hundred dollar bills that remained. Her satisfaction deepened. "A lucky take."

  Sabrina's heart pounded. This was the moment. Her chance to convince Lise Sabrina was more useful healthy and alive than...anything else. Lifting a shoulder, she claimed, "That's not the half of it."

  Lise paused, eyeing Sabrina before handing the bills to Darrel, who casually stuffed the money into his front shirt pocket. "No?" she asked.

  "Unh unh." Taking the offensive, Sabrina pointed over the table with her fork. "There's a whole lot more where that came from."

  Lise tilted her head. "Explain."

  "Take a look inside his wallet."

  With another brief, thoughtful pause, Lise did. Her gray gloves paged through the plastic sleeves. Sabrina had been through the wallet at least a dozen times. She knew exactly what Lise would find.

  "'Vincenzo Nicholazzi,'" Lise read. "New York driver's license." Her eyebrows went up. "Manhattan address."

  A most exclusive address, but Lise could see that as well as Sabrina had.

  "This must be his mother," Lise opined, flipping the driver's license over.

  Sabrina, too, had figured the heavy-set woman with the dark hair shot with gray must be the Italian's mom. She'd been amused the man carried her picture. Lise, however, didn't crack a smile.

  "What is this?" Lise was looking at the last plastic sleeve. Her brows drew down. "This isn't a person."

  "It's a painting," Sabrina explained.

  Lise looked up at her. "He carries a photograph of a painting?"

  "Not just any painting," Sabrina pointed out. "A five hundred-year-old painting." With special powers, she added to herself.

  Lise gazed down at the photograph in the wallet, then back up at Sabrina. She did not remark on any resemblance between the two, but then, Sabrina hadn't expected her to.

  "Is this what you were talking about?" Her pale eyes went shrewd on Sabrina. "The 'lots more?'"

  Sabrina held out her hand for the wallet. "I bought a ticket all the way through to New York. What do you think?"

  Lise kept her hands on the wallet. "You're going to see him?"

  She'd never expected to lay eyes on the man again. "Yup," Sabrina replied.

  "After stealing his wallet?" Lise stared at her. Darrel looked down, too, apparently concurring this was a crazy idea.

  Sabrina wasn't so sure she didn't agree with them.

  "A man like that," Lise cautioned, "with money and connections—he could have the police on you in one second flat."

  "He won't." But Sabrina had considered the possibility.

  Lise's gaze narrowed. "Joe always said you had an instinct for this sort of thing. How much do you think is involved?"

  "Enough to pay you back for the busted real estate job, and then some." Every time Sabrina remembered the crazy look in the Italian's eyes, she was sure of it.

  Slowly, Lise leaned back in her booth seat. Even more slowly, she smiled. "That would be interesting."

  About half of Sabrina's fear fell away. Lise was interested. "And profitable," she added.

  Lise chuckled. "Are you expecting me to put up another stake in this game?"

  She'd be willing to? Sabrina relaxed some more, but shook her head decisively. "Nope. All I need is enough to get me to New York halfway presentable." Pointedly, she eyed Darrel's front pocket.

  Still smiling, Lise snapped her fingers at Darrel. "No, you couldn't show up on Mr. Nicholazzi's doorstep without making some attempt to return his money, could you?"

  Reluctant, but obedient, Darrel produced the folded thousand dollars.

  "Don't think to give me the slip again," Lise warned, putting the Italian's wallet and Sabrina's purse on the table.

  "Wouldn't dream of it." But it was all Sabrina could do not to cringe under the glare of Lise's suddenly ruthless eyes.

  The female gangster looked utterly capable of murder.

  It had been a huge mistake to get involved with her. At the time, two months ago, Sabrina had been full of admiration for Lise Gunther, her power, her drive. She'd seemed to embody what Sabrina had wanted to become, herself. And, okay, she'd wanted someone to work with; it had been damn lonely without Joe.

  She should have stuck to herself.

  "Friday," Lise told Sabrina, rising from her seat. "Meet me at the merry-go-round in Central Park. I'll want details."

  "Sure. See you then." Sabrina stabbed her fork into her fish. She would meet Lise. Now that Lise knew Vincenzo Nicholazzi's name and address, Sabrina was stuck with her.

  One last time, anyway. Sabrina would do the job, whatever it turned out to be, pay Lise off, and say goodbye.

  From then on, she'd work toward her ultimate goal by herself.

  "Friday," Lise repeated, and stalked down the aisle.

  With a brutish leer, Darrel followed.

  Shuddering, Sabrina took another bite of her fillet of sole, though it had lost much of its appeal. Damn it, why had Joe had to have that idiotic heart attack and die? Sabrina had trusted Joe. He'd been old, cranky, and demanding, but he'd...been there.

  For a moment, a heavy loneliness fell over her, the same sensation that had hit her with such surprising force after Joe's last attack.

  Reaching across the table, she picked up the Italian's wallet. The heavy sensation receded as her curiosity, and a strange disquiet, took over.

  Vincenzo Nicholazzi.

  How much had been real, and how much fake? He really was Italian and he really was loaded. Of that much Sabrina was certain. But what about the rest of it?

  Quickly, she paged through the plastic sleeves of the wallet until she got to the end.

  Sabrina took a deep breath as she looked down at the old, black-and-white photograph. It was the Madonna della Montagna. She was sure of it. A deep wrinkle scarred the middle of the wallet-size reproduction, but Sabrina could see all she needed to see.

  She could see the Renaissance costume of the three-quarter profile bust. She could see the suggestion of an intricate background of flowers and leaves.

  And, most clearly of all, she could see that the woman with the oval face, dark eyes, and hair as black as midnight bore not the slightest resemblance in any way, shape, or form to herself.

  Sabrina stared down at the little photograph. He'd lied to her. He'd out-and-out lied!

  But why? That was the question that plagued her. What had he possibly hoped to gain by claiming Sabrina resembled the Madonna della Montagna?

  Slowly, Sabrina closed the wallet. Nothing. She could think of nothing he'd gained. In fact, the only result of his deception had been to allow Sabrina close enough to steal his wallet.

  Although, one of the many things of which Sabrina was uncertain was whether or not Mr. Nicholazzi had known she was lifting his wallet. But that made no sense. Why would he have allowed her to steal it?

  Unless...

  A memory
niggled at her. Joe, giving her one of her first lessons in con artsmanship. "You have to give them a little something first," Joe had said in his rasping voice. "You have to feed them some bait. Once they've bit down on the line, then you can reel it in."

  Sabrina gazed out the train window at the lights in the darkness zipping by. She appeared to have been fed some bait. But if so, why? What could a man as privileged and wealthy as Vincenzo Nicholazzi possibly want to steal from her?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Two days later, Sabrina paid off a taxi in front of a building every bit as imposing as the address on the Italian's driver's license had implied. Fifteen stories of dressed granite lifted into the New York sky, complete with turrets, battlements, and diamond-paned windows. It could have come straight out of a medieval storybook.

  Standing on the pavement, with traffic rushing and honking behind her, Sabrina wondered what the hell she was doing. Was she actually going to knock on the door of a man from whom she'd stolen fifteen hundred dollars? To her rational brain this seemed lunacy.

  But there were deeper levels at work than the rational. Sabrina's instincts were screaming for her to proceed along this reckless course.

  Shrugging the shoulders of her camelhair suit, she approached the ornate glass entry doors. Each one appeared to weigh a ton. A man stood to one side of them, leaning against the wall, but it was Sabrina's sort of luck that he wasn't dressed in uniform. Definitely not the doorman, he continued to read a newspaper that half hid his face. Blithely, he allowed Sabrina to struggle with the heavy door on her own.

  New Yorkers had no chivalry.

  The lobby was an even deeper medieval than the exterior of the building. Heavy chandeliers hung from an ornate timber ceiling. Thick, dark furniture stood like sentinels, daring anybody to try and actually use them.

  The setting was daunting, but getting past the guard at the modern reception desk turned out to be remarkably easy.

  "You can go up," the guard calmly announced after she'd given him her name.

  Sabrina stared at him, confused. She could go up? "Um, how—? I mean—"

  "Mr. Nicolazzi has put you one his list of 'anytime' visitors. You can go up."