Your Scheming Heart Read online

  "Your suitcase is sitting in the car," she observed, hinting.

  He ignored the hint, his gaze roaming the place unhappily before coming to meet hers. "I will take you to another lake," he suggested.

  "Oh, no." Definitely not. Sabrina was going to no more lakes with Vincenzo. "We aren't going anywhere," she declared. "It's too late to traipse around, and besides, I want to keep a low profile."

  "It is low, all right," Vincenzo muttered, then rubbed his chin. "Perhaps we can play cards, then."

  "Cards?" she asked in disbelief.

  "There are so many hours until morning," Vincenzo explained, moving toward the door. "We have to fill them some way."

  Sabrina released something between a choke and a laugh at this hardly-subtle proposition. At the same time, she wasn't sure it was a proposition. A seduction beginning with cards?

  "No," she said aloud, just to be on the safe side. She didn't want to spend time alone with Vincenzo for even the most innocent of reasons. Sometimes he slipped through and...got to her.

  "No?" At the door, he turned to gaze at her with apparently innocent disbelief.

  "No, we are not going to 'fill the hours' together. You are going to your own room, now, and I'm staying in mine."

  His brows lowered. "You cannot want to be alone—" He gestured with one hand. "—in a place like this." His remark made the aura of the seedy motel room turn eerie.

  "Yes, I want to be alone," Sabrina nevertheless insisted. "Now, go."

  He wrapped his hand around the doorknob and glared at her. "Sometimes, Sabrina, you are not very nice."

  "You noticed."

  He sighed and opened the door. "But you will learn."

  Sabrina thought the event unlikely but said nothing as he left.

  Late that night, however, in the dark and alone, Sabrina could feel the unhealthy humors of the place grow and swirl about her bed. The blues had bedeviled her, off and on, ever since Joe had died. Being on the road hadn't been the same, all by herself. The fact was she missed the old coot.

  Tonight, however, the blues were different, darker, more acute.

  Lying there, shivering, Sabrina began to wonder if Vincenzo hadn't been right, if the place weren't thoroughly evil.

  And then she realized what was bugging her.

  The man at the airport, the one with the newspaper—he didn't make sense.

  She'd assumed he'd been hired by Lise, but was that a logical assumption? Why would Lise hire this guy when she already had Darrel? Besides, the man from Manhattan was too slick and lean for Lise. She liked the beefy, brainless sort. Men who wouldn't challenge or think for themselves.

  But if he wasn't Lise's, then who the hell was he? A frown creased Sabrina's brow. Was there someone else on her case? The victim of a con, perhaps, who'd hired a private detective to find her?

  No. The man had been outside Vincenzo's apartment building, planted there. He hadn't been following Sabrina. If anything, he'd been following Vincenzo.

  Sabrina went cold in her bed, staring up at the darkened ceiling. Vincenzo. He was following Vincenzo.

  For a moment this truth echoed wildly in her brain. Someone was after Vincenzo. But why?

  As if to answer her question, a knock sounded on her door. Sabrina's heart jumped into her throat as she jerked to a sitting position in the bed. The knock sounded again, more urgently, and this time Sabrina realized it wasn't the front door, but the one connecting her room to Vincenzo's.

  Putting a hand to her chest, she let her heart rate slow down. Then she slipped out of bed. An oversized T-shirt clothed the upper half of her body, but the air was cool on her uncovered legs. Hugging her arms under her breasts as she approached the door, Sabrina wished there'd been room in her small suitcase for a robe.

  "All right, all right," she grumbled as the door shuddered under another burst of knocks. "I'm coming." She cracked the door open.

  Vincenzo stood on the other side, dressed far more modestly than herself in a pair of long silk pajamas. They were paisley and maroon.

  "The water closet," he said stiffly, dignified, "does not work in my bathroom."

  "Oh." His toilet didn't work. That meant she was going to have to let him in. Reluctantly, she opened the door a bit wider.

  He pushed it open the rest of the way. "Thank you," he said, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. His hair was barely ruffled and his pajamas did not look particularly slept in. As he strode toward the back and her bathroom, he shot her a disgusted glare. The door closed after him firmly.

  Scanning the room, Sabrina looked for something that would cover her better than the thin T-shirt. The best she could come up with was her denim jacket. She was just buttoning it on when Vincenzo emerged from the bathroom. Her immediate thought as he walked forward was that the denim jacket did absolutely nothing to hide her legs.

  If Vincenzo noticed her legs, he didn't show it. He came to a stop several feet from her, with his hands on his hips. The scowl of disgust remained. "This is ridiculous," he proclaimed.

  "All right, all right. We'll leave in the morning." Even Sabrina had to agree she'd rather not spend another night here.

  He waved a hand in the air, dismissive. "But what about the rest of tonight? I cannot sleep."

  She stared at him. "Well...what do you want me to do about it?"

  Bad question. The hands came off his hips and his stance relaxed. "Sabrina." As he took a step toward her, his gaze went all penetrating, like it could sometimes. "You have not been able to sleep, either, have you?"

  Sabrina hugged the stiff denim jacket closer about her middle. The only light in the room was from the lamp she'd lit by the bed. By it the elegant sculpture of Vincenzo's face stood out in soft relief. The silk material of his pajamas hinted at an equally elegant sculpture of body. Swallowing, she took a step back.

  He caught her hand. "It is not good to be here alone." His voice was soft and deep. "A person needs an ally in a place like this."

  "An ally," Sabrina repeated. His thumb was in her palm, stroking, coaxing. The same warm sensation she'd felt by the lake came stealing into her. "You want me to be your 'ally' for tonight?"

  His eyes were dark on her. "Tonight I need you. Don't make me sleep alone."

  God, he was good at this. His eyes, his voice, his touch—all began to weave a sticky spell around Sabrina. Entranced, she watched him dip his head until his lips met her knuckles. The feel of those lips, soft as velvet, went right to her viscera. "I can't believe this." She was horrified, of course, outraged, and yet she didn't pull her hand away.

  "Please." Lifting his head, he shot her the most wistful look she'd ever seen. "I won't disturb you, I promise. I don't even snore."

  He didn't snore?! This had to go down among the more bizarre propositions Sabrina'd heard. It pushed her out of her spell, at least a little bit. Determinedly, she drew her hand from his. "Well, that's real...commendable, Vinnie, but I'm afraid I'm not in the market for that sort of thing. I'm your condottiere, remember, not some cheap trollop."

  His brows drew down abruptly. "Trollop? What, you think—?" In the dim light she could see a dull red suffuse his face. "Ah, no," he said, very faintly.

  "You've made use of the facilities," Sabrina pointed out. She stepped toward the connecting door, hugging her denim jacket like armor. "Now, you'd better go."

  But he only stood where he was, looking more and more discomposed. "You do not understand. I just wanted to sleep here—to use your other bed."

  "Oh, right." Sabrina stood by the open connecting door, waiting. She was shivering beneath the jacket and her legs felt very naked. "That's why you were playing patty-cake with my hands."

  "Sabrina." He took a step toward her, palms upraised, a gesture of surrender. "I swear, I had no intention of—" He stopped and swallowed visibly. "I was not trying to seduce you."

  Oh, no? She could still feel his lips on her knuckles, so soft and a little bit wet. Glaring, she said, "You'd better go."

  "No, not like
this." He walked toward her purposefully. "First you must believe me."

  "Fine, I believe you. Now, good-bye and good night." Didn't he realize he was just making matters worse?

  He came to a stop right in front of her. "Sabrina. Please listen. I need you to understand."

  "Why?" She couldn't stop trembling. He was so close she could feel the heat beneath his clothing. She could smell him, soap and shaving lotion and man. She'd never been this aware of a man, of all the nitty-gritty details. "I don't need to understand anything."

  "But you do." Gently he touched a lock of her hair. "It's not that you aren't a very beautiful woman. Very desirable."

  She looked away from him. His touch affected her. It did things to her that she couldn't control. Okay, not just his touch. There was a gentle aura that hung about him. It made her want to soften...to believe in him. "Don't," she breathed. "Don't do this."

  "I can't." His hand dropped. A great sadness weighed in his voice. "I could not seduce you, Sabrina, even had I wanted to. Understand, I haven't had the capacity to pleasure a woman. Not since my wife is gone."

  His words hung like lead in the air. "Your wife?" Sabrina could have been struck by lightning. Her gaze swept back to his face. All thought of seduction vanished into the cool night air. "You were married?" Somehow, the fact of a wife in Vincenzo's life was even harder to swallow than that his gorgeous self might be impotent.

  "I was married, yes." His eyes were very dark on her. "For ten years."

  Ten years! Sabrina gaped in astonishment. No. Vincenzo was too crazy to have had a wife—and for ten years. "Your wife left you?" she asked, seeking the most probable explanation.

  The expression on his face changed, the soft edges hardened. From dark entreaty, his eyes turned cold as ice. "My wife died," he said, his diction precise.

  "Died," Sabrina repeated, staring at him.

  "This is what I said."

  Cold seeped into the room, a cold that had nothing to do with the air temperature. In the few feet that separated them it was colder than anywhere else. In that space rage reigned, cool and clear and powerful. The source of that rage was Vincenzo.

  "Your wife died four years ago," Sabrina asked, "didn't she?" It was all, slowly, starting to come together. The search for the missing painting, its magical powers...the guilt.

  "Yes." Vincenzo turned toward the connecting door. His hand closed over the knob. "Four years ago."

  Although perched on the threshold, Vincenzo didn't walk through. He simply stood there, waiting. It was as though he knew there was more to be said, but he had to wait for Sabrina to come up with the proper question.

  Goose bumps broke out on her skin. The proper question was self-evident. She didn't know why it was so difficult to get out of her mouth. "How did she die, Vincenzo? How did your wife die?"

  Vincenzo didn't face her to answer, just stood there, one hand on the knob of the door. In his voice was anger, but it was cool, repressed, controlled.

  "I killed her," he said. Then he walked through the door and closed it behind him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  He'd killed her. The idea played like a refrain in Sabrina's head as she walked into the motel office the next morning. He'd killed his wife.

  The office was as dingy as the day before. A fly buzzed against the broken blinds over a window. Sabrina stared at the dust on the counter, listening to the song in her head once again.

  Vincenzo had killed his wife.

  It was essential she take this apparent nonsense seriously. She hadn't believed it at the time, just after the connecting door had closed after him. She wasn't sure she could believe it now. Vincenzo? Mr. Angel Face? The man with the magic chemical hands?

  On the other hand, she couldn't discount the rage she'd felt shimmering off of him last night. In fact, every time she'd ever referred to the beginning of his quest, she'd seen that frightening cold fury in him.

  She had to proceed on the assumption those few moments of fury here and there revealed the true Vincenzo Nicholazzi. No angel at all.

  The beady-eyed motel owner emerged from the back room, rubbing the shirt over his belly. His eyes lit when he saw her. "Yeah, whadda you want?"

  "I'd like to make a purchase." Sabrina had set Vincenzo the task of loading the car while she was supposedly checking out and retrieving their deposit.

  Vincenzo had been quiet when they'd met again that morning, without his customary sweet smile. He hadn't looked her in the eye. Overall, his behavior indicated a person who knew his dark secret had been exposed and felt a corresponding guilt.

  So why was it so hard to believe he was guilty?

  "Yeah?" The motel owner eyed her suspiciously.

  The fellow had every right to be suspicious. Sabrina was about to commit an act of which she, personally, had always disapproved.

  "You keep a gun, here, don't you?" Moisture dampened her palms. She hated weapons, but she had to protect herself. She had to act as though Vincenzo were a murderer, even if that was hard to believe. She'd be nobody's sucker.

  The motel owner's expression closed. "I dunno know what you're talkin' about."

  "I'd like to buy it," Sabrina said. "No questions asked. Cash."

  He made no move to acknowledge this offer.

  "Five hundred dollars." Sabrina had a feeling this was far too much money, but figured the excess should cover any concerns over the irregularity of the purchase.

  "Five hundred—?" He wasn't crafty enough to disguise pleased astonishment.

  Sabrina laid the money on the counter. Five one-hundred dollar bills. They were part of the cash she'd originally stolen from Vincenzo at the Miami airport. Poetic justice.

  The motel owner scooped the paper off the counter with commendable speed. "I'll get the gun."

  "I want it loaded."

  "Sure, sure."

  He'd killed his wife. Sabrina had seen the furious passion in Vincenzo's face. It was possible he could have flown into a rage one day, wasn't it...?

  "Here." The motel owner laid a wicked-looking revolver on the countertop. "Be careful, it's loaded."

  "Good." Sabrina slid the gun into her purse. She was pleased it was small enough to fit. No suspicious bulges were visible. "And this is just between the two of us, you understand."

  "Of course, of course." The man wiped his forehead with one hand while his eyes went past Sabrina out the front window toward the parking lot. Vincenzo was out there loading the suitcases into the car.

  "My friend would disapprove," Sabrina explained. The motel owner hadn't needed an explanation to sell her the gun, but he might need one to keep him from calling the police once they'd driven off. "He doesn't believe in owning firearms."

  "Foreigner," the motel owner commiserated with a shake of his head.

  Sabrina met Vincenzo by the car.

  He closed the trunk and straightened to look at her. With two fingers he removed a cigarette from his mouth and threw it on the ground.

  A look of challenge passed between them. They both knew she was going to have to get in the car with him. She was going to have to be alone in the car with a murderer.

  "Why don't you drive?" Sabrina suggested.

  Vincenzo raised an eyebrow. She'd not let him behind the wheel yet. But he only nodded and did as she asked. Perhaps if she'd thought about it at the time, Sabrina would have realized he was being just a tad too cooperative, too willing to allow himself to become vulnerable.

  But Sabrina had other things on her mind. The purse was heavy over her shoulder as she got into the car, her palms damp. She was wearing her East Coast lawyer outfit, a gray off-the-rack suit with matching pumps; she appeared for all the world as if she were still intending to visit that widow with Vincenzo.

  He also wore a suit and tie. But, as usual, he looked significantly better-dressed than she.

  "You'll have to give me directions." Vincenzo started the car. "I don't know my way around Los Angeles."

  Well, that was at least one point to
her advantage. She could use a few advantages, considering. "Turn right," Sabrina instructed as he paused at the driveway. Right was opposite from the direction they'd driven in. She didn't want anything to look familiar to him.

  Vincenzo pulled right onto the street and drove. His demeanor was sober. He did not attempt to explain or excuse anything about his confession the night before.

  Murder. He could have done it. Sabrina gazed out the car window and forced herself to admit this. He was a man. Men were men. They got jealous. They got angry. They lost their tempers. Not to mention, she'd believed from the beginning that his passion for finding the Madonna was connected to a guilty conscience.

  And he was rich. The rich thought they could get away with anything.

  Vincenzo drove. Their rented car passed some dilapidated structures that served for houses. Laundry hung out on lines. Spare tires and rusted metal parts scattered weed-strewn yards. Yet even as they got ever further from civilization, Vincenzo never asked where they were going.

  "Left at the T intersection," Sabrina said. Left was toward the mountains. Vincenzo didn't question her instruction, though it would take them in the opposite direction from Laguna Beach and the address Harry had given them. He simply turned left.

  Sabrina rubbed her palms on the car seat, her purse safely cradled in her lap. Maybe Vincenzo wasn't offering explanations, but she wanted them. She needed to know just how deep she was in. It was the only way to figure how to get back out again.

  As they sped past the last rickety shack they became the only car on the two-lane highway. Still, Vincenzo didn't ask where they were going; he didn't display the least caution or suspicion. The highway landscaping of oleander gave way to the natural brush of the southern California region. Sumac, sage, and prickly pear dotted a sandy ground.

  "You see that dirt track ahead on the right?" Sabrina asked. "I want you to turn onto it."

  For the first time he hesitated. It was only a brief hesitation. Then, shrugging, he slowed and pulled onto the dirt track that led at right angles from the highway through the brush.

  "Drive up a ways," Sabrina ordered. Sliding her hand inside her purse, she curled her fingers around the cold metal of the gun.