Your Scheming Heart Page 4

  "What's your cut?" Lise asked, interrupting Sabrina's thoughts.

  "Fifteen grand," Sabrina promptly lied. "Assuming I can obtain the thing."

  Lise nodded and wiped her gloves of breadcrumbs. "I'll take the painting."

  Though Sabrina had been expecting this, Lise's bald demand still took her aback. After all, Sabrina had promised the Italian to get him his damn painting. He was paying her to do so. Somehow that made this different from a normal con. "Are you sure?" Sabrina queried. "Something like that won't be easy to fence. I should warn you, it has...a certain reputation."

  Watching the pigeons scrambling over the breadcrumbs, Lise only smiled. "There are always buyers. Particularly for ancient objects with interesting reputations."

  "She—I mean it is supposed to grant fertility," Sabrina blurted.

  Lise's smile went sly. "Fascinating." She glanced toward Sabrina. "Where is this fine painting?"

  "Illinois." And that was as much as Sabrina was going to tell the woman. "We're leaving tomorrow."

  "We?" Lise frowned. "Who's going with you?"

  "Him," Sabrina replied, stifling a grimace. "Nicolazzi."

  Lise's frown grew stern. "You're taking the mark on the job with you? That's no good, Sabrina."

  "Hey, I work with what I've got." Sabrina made sure not to show her own, private chagrin over the situation. She, too, had tried to dissuade the Italian from coming along. In fact, she'd told him flat out that he couldn't. She wouldn't stand for it. He was paying her to do a job and she needed to be allowed to do it.

  He'd been just as adamant. How did Sabrina intend to get herself to Sand Hill, Illinois, or take care of her incidental expenses? Did she intend to lift wallets to pay her way? Oh no, he wouldn't have that. For one thing, she might get caught, and then where would his condottiere be?

  So Sabrina had suggested the eminently practical scheme of being furnished with a stake. He'd laughed. That infuriating Italian had laughed in her face. Did she think he was born yesterday? No, he was coming. Wherever Sabrina went, he was coming along.

  Lise stood up, brushing her gloves of stray breadcrumbs. "You'll have to get rid of him," she pronounced. "He'll get in the way. He'll ruin everything."

  Sabrina remained seated, slowly blinking up toward Lise. But she was still seeing the Italian's handsome face, laughing. Once again she'd felt warmed, brought close—not a place she wanted to be.

  "Don't worry," she told Lise. "I've got a good idea of how to do just that. Get rid of him."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Nothing Sabrina tried would get rid of him.

  Out the windows of a Greyhound bus travelling west, night made bright splashes of color and urgency out of the signs rushing past along the highway. Sabrina squirmed into a more comfortable position in her seat while grimacing at the sound of her mark in the back of the bus, murmuring in a soft Italian.

  He was playing cards back there, good-naturedly entertaining some old geezer, a countryman. The old man had been delighted to find someone who spoke his native tongue. Vincenzo had expressed an equal delight.

  At the sound of laughter wafting forward from the card game, Sabrina ground her teeth.

  The blasted man was having a ball.

  He should have been miserable. To end up on this bus, Sabrina and Vincenzo had begun at JFK airport. They'd taken a private helicopter across to LaGuardia, after buying tickets for Miami. From LaGuardia there had been a bus back to Grand Central Station in Manhattan. A walk through the train station to the opposite exit had brought them to a cab that had driven them to the Greyhound depot.

  Sabrina had had two reasons for taking this circuitous route. Number one, she wanted to shake whatever tail she suspected Lise had planted on her. She didn't intend to cheat Lise Gunther. A woman would have to be crazy to plan on doing that, but neither did she care to be watched.

  The second reason for her convoluted travel itinerary had been more subtle and more devious. She'd wanted to exhaust the Italian. She'd wanted to make him see how little he'd actually enjoy coming along on this jaunt.

  Sabrina was pretty sure she'd taken care of the first problem, losing Lise's tail. But she'd failed abysmally at the second problem. That Italian hadn't whimpered a single complaint. No, he'd followed her over half of Manhattan with boundless enthusiasm and good cheer, going right along with the most arbitrary of her decisions.

  In the back of the bus, the soft, murmuring Italian stopped. Sabrina imagined she could hear the cards being gathered up and seats shifting. Soon Nicholazzi would be heading back toward her seat.

  Quickly she closed her eyes. Feigning sleep, she took slow, deep breaths. The bus jounced gently along the highway. A few low conversations could be heard, but most of the passengers were hunched over in their seats, trying to sleep.

  She could feel when he came opposite her seat, feel him looming over her in the aisle. Her muscles tensed. She didn't want him to touch her, but his hand would probably land on her shoulder, shaking her.

  Instead she felt a soft weight settle over her shoulders. Surprised, her eyes blinked open. What? Oh, it was a blanket. He'd laid a blanket over her.

  "Scusi," he said, straightening. "I did not mean to wake you."

  His sheer beauty astonished her anew every time she looked at him. The planes of his face were too sharp, however, to look feminine. At the moment his jaw was dark with late night stubble. Definitely male. She turned her gaze aside, annoyed by the way she kept noticing his looks.

  "Well, you did," Sabrina said. "Wake me up."

  He flinched at her sharp tone, which made her feel even more annoyed. And yet, he didn't go away. Instead he held up a pillow. "Would you like this?"

  "No," Sabrina said, though a few moments before she'd been wishing for exactly this luxury. Would he stop being nice to her already?

  Sighing, Vincenzo sank into the seat next to her. He hugged the pillow to his lap. He was wearing a unique response to Sabrina's edict that he dress more 'normal.' Sabrina didn't know what was particularly normal about the thick alpaca wool sweater, nor the crisp, black designer jeans. He still looked like he was carrying about a thousand dollars' worth of clothes on him. On a Greyhound bus he stuck out like a debutante at a rodeo.

  "We will be at Sand Hill in the morning," Vincenzo observed. "Do we go to Sergeant Miller's house right away?"

  We? Sabrina thought. But she'd leave that argument for morning. "The former Sergeant Miller," she corrected Vincenzo. He'd showed her all the information he'd gathered over the past four years. It had been an impressive amount. Mr. Nicolazzi had gone through three countries and a hundred World War II soldiers before he'd narrowed the search down to the American, former Sergeant Alan Miller. "And no, we'll find a cheap, out-of-the-way motel first," Sabrina said. "Establish a base." See if I can still get rid of you.

  Vincenzo nodded. Agreeable.

  Again.

  Jeez, all this amenability was...inhuman. For one thing, he had to be dying for a cigarette. Vincenzo hadn't been able to smoke since they'd left the Greyhound station five hours ago. But instead of irritability, he was Mr. Yes to everything Sabrina said. It was almost like he wanted her to like him.

  Please. She wasn't going to like him. He was the mark.

  Wondering if it would be possible to provoke the man to fight, after all, Sabrina sat up in her seat, drawing the blanket around her. "Say, Vinnie, I got some questions."

  He turned, looking like he'd be happy to answer anything.

  Oh yeah. They'd see how long that lasted. "I want to make sure I understand our half of this right," Sabrina said. "The Madonna della Montagna, she's been missing since when?"

  "Since sometime near the end of World War Two. At the time the Nazis pulled out of the town."

  "So that was, what—over fifty years ago?"

  "Fifty-two years, yes."

  "Fifty-two years." Sabrina frowned. "And in all that time nobody tried to find the painting?"

  Vincenzo shook his head. "No one."r />
  Her head tilted. "Not even you—" She paused. "At least, not until four years ago."

  The muscles around his mouth and eyes tightened. "That is correct," he slowly admitted.

  "Right. So." Sabrina threw her dice. "Why'd it suddenly become so important to find her four years ago?"

  He froze. Like marble. Then his face went blank. Too blank. Slowly, he blinked. "The Lady, she brought prosperity to my village. Of late, the village has suffered. Drought, then floods. The crops are failing and the village is dying. We need her back."

  "I see. So you've spent the past four years of your life—trying to help the people who live in your village?"

  The briefest of hesitations, almost unnoticeable. "Yes."

  Oh, come on. No one was that selfless, and particularly not a rich man. Even without that hesitation, Sabrina was convinced there was more to Vincenzo's quest than his trite explanation covered. Lots more.

  Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't feel the need to understand her mark's motivation. All she really required was the probable location of the damn painting. But this wasn't your average con job, and the man wasn't cooperating in the more basic of Sabrina's desires: staying home.

  She prodded deeper. "Okay, so the village needs the Lady. But what about yourself?" She remembered what he'd told her in the airport bar. "Do you, personally, need the Lady's power to bring—" She waved a hand. "Prosperity, or whatever?"

  He stared at her, his face still blank. Sabrina had thought the man didn't own a poker face, but now she was starting to wonder. She had no idea what was behind that mask.

  He spoke slowly. "I am Nicholazzi. It is my—my duty to bring the Lady back home. Naturally, I cannot hope to enjoy my own, eh..." His gaze shifted. "...my own personal fruits if I have not first fulfilled my duty to the town."

  "Naturally," Sabrina drawled in a murmur. So she'd been right to think he was actually after the painting for himself. Although what, exactly, did he mean by 'personal fruits?'

  "You must understand," Vincenzo continued. "I am the last. After five hundred years, the Nicolazzi line has narrowed down to me."

  "Because of the missing painting?"

  He nodded, absolutely serious. "I was the only Nicolazzi born after she was stolen. My father's brothers were all killed in the war. I am the only one left."

  Sabrina stared at him. "You think nobody else was born—because of a missing painting?" She paused, drawing in a slow breath. "Are you telling me you don't think you can manage to have kids, either—until you bring it back?"

  Somehow his mask became even more impenetrable. With a nod, he said, "This is correct."

  Good Lord. Couldn't he see how crazy this was? "Come on, Vinnie, you're a...fairly good-looking guy. I'm sure you could find a mother for your children without some old piece of canvas and paint to help you along."

  His gaze filled with scorn. "You have not listened to a word I said."

  "I've listened," Sabrina protested. "And believe me, for my own selfish reasons I'm glad you have this strange idea. But I have to admit I take a more...pragmatic view of reality."

  The scorn lasted a moment longer and then, slowly, his expression smoothed. A faint, amused smile curved his lips. "Ah, you Americans. So skeptical. If you cannot see it, feel it, or taste it, you do not believe."

  "It's a philosophy that's managed to keep me alive."

  "No." Vincenzo shook his head. "You do not live."

  Startled, she laughed. "Pardon?"

  "You do not live. You survive."

  "Well, yes. That's what I said."

  His eyes looked sad as he regarded her. Oddly, it appeared to be sadness on behalf of herself. "I wonder very hard about why we met."

  "I thought I was a sign, an answer to your prayers."

  He nodded, deliberately ignoring her sarcasm. "Yes, there is no doubt why I need you. But I wonder." He paused, regarding her. "I wonder why you need me."

  Sabrina felt a deep, fear-ridden shiver go up her back. It was imperative he never know just why she needed him, the long-suppressed hopes his money might bring about. Revenge was mixed up in those hopes, a specific revenge against the Castlewright clan. But even stronger than the revenge was an over-powering yearning, an ache to see her son again. Since Joe had died the ache had grown even stronger. Little Jimmy was the only living being to whom Sabrina might feel connected, the only one who might be able to stave off the cold.

  "Everyone can use money," Sabrina said aloud. Indeed, money was absolutely necessary to get what she wanted. "A hundred thousand dollars is no small change."

  But he didn't appear convinced by her reasoning. Instead he sat there with his arms loose around the pillow as his dark eyes scanned her face. "Money is not what you need," he stated calmly.

  "Easy for you to say."

  He refused to respond to this salvo. He just kept that steady, patient look on his face. Then he reached out a hand. His finger came under her chin and he lifted her face to study it.

  After all her efforts to avoid his touch, Sabrina barely noticed the contact between his hand and her face. What disturbed her far more was the calm confidence in his eyes as they slowly studied her. Sabrina had learned to keep her thoughts and feelings from showing in her face. Yet she had the sinking notion that it didn't matter. Just like the last time he'd done this, in the airport bar, she felt as if his dark eyes could ferret out her secrets.

  Slowly he smiled, releasing her. "I know what you need."

  Sabrina's heart lashed out hard against her ribs. What had he seen?

  His hands went down to his lap. "This pillow."

  Sabrina's eyes fell to the thing. That?

  "Here." He handed it to her.

  Sabrina glanced up at him, suspicious. "The pillow."

  "Yes."

  She thought for a minute. "If I take that," she asked, "will you leave me alone? No more questions, no more conversation for tonight?" It occurred to her that she'd been the one to start the questioning, but somehow he'd turned the tables on her. He'd circled way too close to her vulnerable center.

  He nodded eagerly. "Yes. Here. Take it."

  Reluctantly, still suspicious, Sabrina took the silly pillow. As she stuffed it under her head and arranged the blanket more closely around herself, she noted that the Italian appeared inordinately pleased.

  Damned if she could figure out why.

  ~~~

  The street where former Sergeant Alan Miller lived looked remarkably ordinary. Sabrina viewed it carefully from the driver's seat of their rented car. One-story bungalows sat respectably back from the street, allowing struggling spring lawns to attempt growth behind short picket fences. Bare trees spread their branches over the sidewalks.

  Without taking her gaze from the street, Sabrina said, "Put that out."

  "But Sabrina, please. I will leave the window open." Vincenzo's resistance against his nicotine addiction had apparently been used up during the Greyhound bus ride. Since they'd arrived at their hotel the night before, the scent of his thin brown cigarettes had wafted in a continuous stream under the closed connecting door between their two rooms.

  "It's a smelly, disgusting habit," Sabrina now told him. "You won't do it around me."

  Sighing, Vincenzo stubbed his newly glowing cigarette into the side ashtray of the car. "Whatever you say, Sabrina."

  Funny how obliging he was now. He'd been anything but obliging two hours earlier, when Sabrina had ordered him to wait in the motel for her while she scouted out the Miller house. It had been like arguing with a rock. Accordingly, he sat beside her now in the rented Continental as Sabrina slowed past the Miller house for the second time.

  There was a bicycle parked in front of a closed garage door. Colorful toys were scattered over the lawn. Sabrina drove past the house.

  Beside her Vincenzo fidgeted. "Are we going to approach Mr. Miller today?"

  "I'm thinking." Sabrina was thinking about those toys on the lawn, and the very small bicycle with training wheels. />
  "Naturalmente, I am eager to find the painting," Vincenzo said. "But you are the expert. I leave the details in your hands." Yet his head turned to keep the house in sight as long as possible after they'd passed by.

  Sergeant Miller would have to be at least seventy years old by now, Sabrina figured. How many seventy-year-old men kept the toys of a toddler in their front yard? She drove around the block, thinking about that, calculating odds. They weren't good. Meanwhile, she was bristlingly aware of Vincenzo's banked anticipation. He thought he was at the end of the hunt here.

  Sabrina turned the car back to the leg of the square block that housed the Miller address. She pulled up in front of the house.

  "What are we doing?" Vincenzo's question was low. Now that they were directly in front of the house, he appeared afraid to look at it. He looked instead at Sabrina.

  "We're going up to the door," she told him.

  "Just like that?"

  Sabrina clicked open her car door. "Just like that."

  She was wearing her "professional woman" outfit, the cream linen suit. It didn't bring her appearance anywhere close to the sharpness of Vincenzo's, even though she'd made him put on an off-the-rack business suit.

  He'd come the closest to a complaint yet at the department store this morning where she'd made him buy the thing. It wasn't the expense, he'd said, looking down at the clothing in horror. It was the cut. And the material. And the fit.

  Sabrina had insisted. She didn't want him looking any more outstanding than he already did.

  Now he trailed behind her as she strode confidently up the brick walk to the front porch. At the door, she rang the bell.

  Obviously nervous, Vincenzo had just straggled up to her side when the door opened.

  Both Sabrina and Vincenzo looked downward.

  "Hello." Clutching the doorknob with one hand, her thumb in her mouth with the other, a girl with golden ringlets stood gazing up at them with innocent curiosity. She couldn't have been more than four years old.

  That hair. For an instant something clenched in Sabrina's stomach. It was the exact color her Jimmy's would be. The instant quickly passed, as did the stomach-clenching. Sabrina was a professional, after all. And this child was not Jimmy. But Vincenzo continued to stare.