Your Scheming Heart Page 3

  She was on his list. O-kay. In the annals of larceny, Sabrina wondered, had the victim ever put his robber on the list of people who could visit him 'anytime?' She had seven floors to think about that in the elevator going up. He'd expected her to come. He'd wanted it. There was no longer any doubt his wallet had been bait. And in a few minutes Sabrina would discover what was on the other end of the line.

  A familiar excitement hummed through her as she stood before his heavy door, took off her coat, and adjusted the lapels of her cream-colored linen suit, the outfit she trotted out when she wanted to look professional and expensive. If she were clever, she could set her own hook in the water here.

  A dark-eyed woman of uncertain ethnicity opened the door at Sabrina's knock. Sabrina took in the white uniform. Maid? Or was she some sort of caretaker? Sabrina figured a man as nuts as the Italian might need one.

  "My name is Sabrina Raven," she told the woman. "I was hoping to catch Mr. Nicolazzi in?"

  Once again, her name acted like magic. The uniformed woman nodded and gestured for Sabrina to come into the hall. The apartment had a high ceiling and was furnished in a manner matching the lobby downstairs. Medieval. Heavy green tapestries, reminiscent of moss, hung from the walls.

  The woman in the white uniform closed the door and took Sabrina's coat. "This way," she said, then proceeded to lead Sabrina through room after room of antique gloom. The apartment was huge.

  Sabrina was finally left at some sort of parlor. The late morning sun just managed to tilt in through a set of east-facing, high French windows. The light had a hard time, however, choking through the smoke that clouded the room.

  Sabrina coughed and waved a hand in front of her nose. Beyond a concoction of hanging sheer curtains she could see the source of the smoke. It was the Italian. He was seated in an oversized wingback chair, pulling air into his lungs through a thin brown cigarette. There must have been more than a few predecessors to that cigarette, for a heavy cloud surrounded his head and dispersed throughout the rest of the room.

  "Signora Raven." His dark eyes regarded her as he breathed out another cloud of smoke. "It is a pleasure to see you again."

  "I'm not sure that I can see you," Sabrina replied, annoyed that her need for oxygen cut into the delicate moment where she needed to determine if he was going to call the cops or not. "I gotta open a window." Without waiting for a response, she hastened to the set of French windows and began operating an ancient metal crank. The stream of Manhattan air that seeped in felt as clear as a mountain meadow.

  Taking a deep breath of it, Sabrina turned to face him. He was wearing a smoking jacket of deep maroon satin. Matching maroon satin slippers clad his feet. One knee crossed over the other as he silently, and with apparent satisfaction, regarded her.

  All he needed was a turban to complete the picture, Sabrina thought, trying to ignore how pretty he still was, smoke and all. "You don't look surprised to see me," she remarked aloud.

  Those very long lashes blinked once against his high cheekbones. "I am only surprised at how long it took you to get here."

  "I took the train up from Florida, not a plane."

  "Ah, the train. A civilized way to travel." He nodded approvingly.

  Sabrina leaned her hips against the windowsill and crossed her arms over her lapels. "And I had to think."

  He blew out a breath of smoke with a small smile. "Indeed. What did you have to think about?"

  "For starters, why you let me steal your wallet. You did let me, didn't you?"

  Nicolazzi turned to the side to tap a neat quantity of ash into what looked like an ancient pewter tray. "I would be a very poor example of the great Nicolazzi line if I hadn't realized someone was picking my pocket. We are taught to hang onto our money."

  "No doubt," Sabrina muttered. "So why'd you do it?"

  He lifted his dark eyes. Now Sabrina could see the intelligence in them, even shrewdness. But also a dash of lunacy. His next words proved as much. "I thought you were a thief, but I had to know for sure. Once you had my wallet I knew that it was true and that, indeed, my prayers had been answered."

  "Your prayers," Sabrina repeated.

  "I told you I was on my way back to Milan. That was true. I had promised my mother, my mother's brother, Sylvio. Luigi, too. I had even checked my luggage onto the flight. But as I waited for the plane to board I prayed God for a sign that I should not give up my quest."

  God, Sabrina thought disparagingly. Yes, the guy was nuts, all right. "You mean your quest for the Madonna della Montagna?"

  "Yes, of course. For the Lady." He fit his Michelangelo lips around the thin cigarette and breathed in deeply.

  "Forgive me if I'm being dense here, but how was getting your wallet stolen a sign you should continue looking for the painting?"

  Smoke spewed slowly through his nostrils. "Because I need a thief."

  Sabrina was finally beginning to catch on. "You need a thief to steal the painting."

  He nodded, obviously pleased that she understood.

  "So you know where she is, then?"

  He hesitated, then lifted the cigarette to his mouth. "I think so."

  Sabrina could detect a wealth of excitement beneath this laconic response. After four years she didn't blame him for getting excited. She knew the hunter's anticipation when closing in on the game.

  "But why steal the painting?" she wanted to know. "It belongs to you—"

  "To my town."

  "To your town," she corrected wryly. The Italian sure acted as if the Lady belonged directly to himself. "Anyway, why can't you just apply to get the painting back—or sue?"

  His lids hooded as he very precisely stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Moving through legal channels is a lengthy process. And uncertain. This is an American citizen who has the painting, a war veteran, no? My claim may not be all that impressive to an American jury."

  "You could offer to buy the thing," Sabrina countered. "Or have you tried that already?"

  "No." This was emphatic. He became animated enough to rise from his chair. "No. I will never offer money to buy the Lady!" Vincenzo drew himself up proudly. "The Nicholazzi do not pay ransom."

  Sabrina raised a brow. "Interesting family tradition."

  "It is, unfortunately, a necessary one. At times over the past five hundred years my family has been...well-off. We would not be made into a source of income for bandits."

  Five hundred years of accumulated wealth. Sabrina's mouth started to water. And if it was tempting to her, it would be just as tempting to a bandit. "So what happens to the unfortunate Nicolazzi who does get kidnapped? Your family policy would mean curtains for him, wouldn't it?"

  "We are taught to avoid such situations. However..." Pursing his lips, Vincenzo pushed back the corners of his smoking jacket to tuck his hands into his trouser pockets. He turned to take a pace away. "However, accidents happen. In such cases it is...advisable...to hire a condottiere."

  "A mercenary," Sabrina translated.

  "An expert in such matters. A professional." He turned to fix her with a gaze of mixed shrewdness and lunacy. "You are my condottiere."

  A shiver went down Sabrina's back that had much more to do with the instinct of prey than predator. A shaft of fear sliced through her. His? She didn't belong to anybody.

  He was watching her as though he could read her thoughts. "Do not worry. You are also my responsibility," he said quietly. "I will protect you."

  Rebellion instantly overrode her fear. "I take care of myself, thanks all the same." As if she were going to trust him. "Speaking of which, just how much is the pay of a condottiere for this particular rescue job?"

  The half-loony look in his eyes turned all shrewd. With studied cool, he strolled back toward his wingback chair. He was using the time to estimate value, Sabrina knew, judging what he could get away with.

  She raised her chin, prepared to hold out for a considerable packet—assuming she even took the job. Getting paid for her work, being employ
ed, didn't sit so well. She was an independent contractor, always had been. All the same, if the pot were sweet enough...

  Coming to a halt by the chair, he rested one hand atop it, then turned to face her. "One hundred thousand dollars. American."

  A decade of discipline kept Sabrina's jaw from dropping open. Instead she willed her face to a mask of perfect blandness. One hundred thousand dollars? The painting couldn't even be worth that much... Could it?

  "One hundred thousand dollars," Sabrina said aloud, keeping her voice calm, unimpressed. God Almighty. In one blow she could earn enough money to put into play the plans she'd had for ten years now. Her fondest, deepest, most secret dream could come true. Sabrina realized that despite those years of training she was starting to tremble. One hundred thousand dollars. Together with what she'd slowly saved over time, it could be enough. Whatever reservations she'd felt about being employed fizzled into thin air.

  "Half now," Sabrina said. "Half when you get the painting."

  He dropped his lashes, a smile tugging at his mouth. "I give you half now and you're on your way to God-knows-where, laughing at me. No."

  "I get something up front."

  "No."

  Sabrina shrugged. "Then you aren't getting this condottiere, mister. I get something."

  His expression remained placid as he smoothed his hand down the curve of the wingback chair. "The money is in a Swiss bank account. I know only the first three numbers of the account. The remaining numbers are in a sealed envelope which I will give to you now. When I get the painting, I will give you my numbers. The entire sum of money will then be yours."

  "A Swiss bank account, huh?" Sabrina regarded him through narrowed eyes. The smoke had begun to clear from the room, thanks to the open window behind her. "How do I know it's there?"

  He shrugged. "Call the bank. They will confirm the fact."

  "Fine, I'll do that. Right now. Got anything so modern as a phone in this castle?"

  He was smiling again as he led the way to a thick wooden desk where a telephone sat.

  Ten minutes later Sabrina had added a few international charges to the Italian's bill and had also found out that, indeed there was the equivalent of one hundred thousand American dollars in a numbered account set up by one Vincenzo Nicolazzi. And no, Mr. Nicolazzi did not have access to all the numbers of the account, by his own request. He could not remove the money.

  Sabrina put down the phone. Vincenzo had resumed his throne and lit another cigarette. He drew on it, watching her.

  He was nuts, Sabrina thought, but a very shrewd nuts. At the moment he was hiding it well, sipping on that cigarette, but she could tell how excited he was, how anticipatory of her answer, his dark eyes glittering. This painting meant a great deal to him. That was his secret she knew. That was her advantage.

  One hundred thousand dollars and an advantage like that.

  It was enough.

  Sabrina leaned against the undoubtedly priceless antique desk and crossed one ankle over the other. "I want a fee. Even if I can't get the painting."

  His eyes narrowed on her. "No."

  "Oh, yes."

  Squashing out his cigarette, he stood and then moved toward a decorated armoire. He opened one door. Inside Sabrina could see various colored bottles of alcohol.

  "I'm not going to waste my time if this turns out to be a wild goose chase," she said.

  "You won't." His back was toward her as he reached for two champagne glasses. "You will find the painting."

  Right. Sabrina had an excellent track record, but even she struck out upon occasion. And she'd never attempted to steal a painting. She smoothed her fingers over the polished edge of the table. "Only if you've done your part and know where it is."

  He hesitated, then nodded as he popped the cork on a bottle of champagne. "Very well. A fee."

  "In writing, Vince."

  He turned back with two full glasses, looking amused. "My word is not good enough?"

  His amusement thinned her dissipating patience. "You're rich," she stated bluntly. "I don't trust rich people. Ever."

  That brought him to a dead stop. He cocked his head.

  Sabrina felt her face warm. She could guess what he was thinking. He wasn't the one who'd stolen her wallet.

  But he surprised her. "I will not take advantage of you," he said softly.

  Sabrina scoffed. "Sorry, mister, but I know your type. A person would think you have everything in the world you could want, and yet somehow, some way you find something you want that I have. And then you take it."

  He stared at her, the champagne fizzing in the glasses.

  Stupid. Why had she said that, admitted so much? What if he questioned, wanted to probe?

  Fortunately, any budding curiosity appeared overwhelmed by indignation. Stiffly, he turned. With careful deliberation, he set the champagne glasses down on the desk, then opened the top drawer and withdrew a piece of paper and a pen.

  "Very well." His voice was crisp. "I will make out a contract, obligating me to pay you a stipend in...eight weeks if you haven't yet been able to obtain the painting."

  "Fifteen grand," Sabrina ordered. It was what she owed Lise.

  He hesitated, the pen poised over the paper.

  "Look," Sabrina said, "I don't know what kind of character has the painting now. This could be dangerous."

  He turned his head to stare at her. Again, Sabrina could see his deep insult. "I will not let you come to harm," he claimed, enunciating carefully.

  Right, Sabrina thought. Like he cared. "Fifteen grand," she insisted.

  He turned back to the paper and began to write. "Fifteen thousand," he muttered under his breath, clearly displeased. Finished, he took the paper and handed it to her. "You accept this paper, you accept the job."

  Raising her brows, Sabrina took the paper. "You just hired yourself a condottiere."

  For another second he glared at her with all his righteous indignation, and then he smiled. Oh, what a smile. Not triumphant or smug, but definitely pleased. No, more than pleased. His smile—was warm.

  For a strange moment Sabrina felt as though they were somehow in this together. For an instant she felt like she'd come in from the cold.

  With a shake, she turned aside, wondering if the man's lunacy was catching. They weren't together. She willed the cold to close around her again, familiar, strengthening. "There's one more thing."

  "Yes?" He'd gone back to fetch the champagne.

  "The painting, the Madonna della Montagna." Because it was easier to do so than to refuse, Sabrina accepted the glass he handed her. Then she waited until he was facing her, waited until she could look him straight in the eye. "You said that I looked like her. Why? Why did you say that? Just to get my attention?"

  His glass of champagne lowered while his expression sobered. "But you do look like her."

  "I saw the photo in your wallet, Vince. There's no resemblance whatsoever."

  "Oh yes. Yes, there is. In fact, looking at you, it is quite...striking."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake!" Losing her patience, Sabrina thrust the glass of champagne back at him. Some of it spilled onto the expensive wood floor. "The lady in the painting is dark. Her hair is dark. Her eyes are dark. And her face is completely different from mine. There is no resemblance at all!"

  "It is in the eyes," Vincenzo said, unfazed by her outburst. He held a champagne glass in each hand and deeply searched her face. "Such rebellion in those eyes, but only to cover a deeper sadness. Sad eyes. As though they have seen great tragedia. Yes," he nodded, satisfied. "You are very like."

  Sabrina couldn't have felt dizzier if she'd actually imbibed the champagne he'd handed her. Tragedy? He'd seen tragedy in her eyes?

  "Drink," Vincenzo commanded, and handed back her champagne. "We celebrate. The beginning of a fruitful partnership. And, of course, to the Lady."

  Automatically, Sabrina raised the glass to her lips. She let the liquid wet her lips. But inside she was trembling. Tragedy. It was
n't possible that this man could have seen anything, really, in her eyes. No. No one knew. No one saw. Not even Joe had known the worst of the story.

  "To the Lady," Sabrina murmured. But she kept her eyes on the Italian as she pretended to take another sip of champagne. What was going on here? Had he guessed anything close to the truth about her? It seemed impossible, but—

  Halting the crazy thoughts, Sabrina narrowed her eyes. Clearly, the more time she spent in this guy's company, the more she'd have to watch to make sure she didn't go nuts, too.

  ~~~

  Lise Gunther managed to look like she belonged sitting on a bench before the gaggle of screaming, playing little children. She looked like somebody's proper New York grandmother in her cashmere suit. However, Sabrina knew that the thick, tough man leaning against a tree some yards away was the tool Lise used to enforce her cold-blooded decrees.

  Lise barely spared Sabrina a glance from the children playing in the sandbox in front of her. But her attention was clearly not on the next generation of little Rockefellers. "Talk," she commanded.

  Sabrina took a seat on the bench. She hugged her coat higher around her neck against the early spring chill. "The painting is five hundred years old. My guess is its value is in six figures. The Italian thinks he knows where it is."

  Lise opened a paper bag by her side, withdrew some breadcrumbs and threw them to the waiting pigeons. "Go on."

  "He's paying me to steal it for him."

  Lise raised an eyebrow. "Can you?"

  "Sure. If it's where he says it is. But I have my doubts about that."

  Lise vouchsafed her another glance. "Why?"

  "He's been close before. It's four years he's been searching for this damn thing."

  With a tight, pleased smile Lise threw another spray of breadcrumbs. "It must be very valuable," she murmured.

  Sabrina didn't correct Lise's assumption. Personally, she suspected the painting's value didn't match any monetary scale. No, despite everything Sabrina knew about rich people, she didn't think the Italian was in this for the money. There was something deeper to this obsession of his. Something, presumably, that had happened four years ago when he'd started searching for it.