Your Scheming Heart Read online

  "How far?" He rolled the car over the uneven surface with care.

  Sabrina glanced over her shoulder, checking their visibility from the road. "This is far enough. Get out of the car."

  He notched the automatic gear shift into park and turned off the motor. Then, with one hand on the wheel he turned to look at her. There was no fear in his eyes, just a deep curiosity. "Are you leaving me here?"

  Something that shouldn't have been soft toward him squished in her stomach. "Get out of the car, Vincenzo." She removed her hand from the purse, displaying the revolver.

  He raised an eyebrow. That was the extent of his reaction. Then he shifted to unlatch the door. He got out of the car.

  Sabrina followed him, getting out her own side. "Over there, by that tree," she told him, indicating a gnarled oak tree.

  He looked at the gun, looked at her, and then decided to walk over toward the tree. With calm patience, he turned around and stood there, waiting. He didn't display an ounce of fear.

  Sabrina couldn't have said she felt the same sang-froid. Her hands were shaking so badly she doubted she could have got off a shot if she'd had to. A thin layer of perspiration broke out under her suit.

  "I want some answers," she said. The sun was high and a hawk of some kind floated overhead.

  He didn't play coy. "About my wife?"

  "About killing her."

  He nodded and looked down at his shoes. His hands went into his trouser pockets, pushing up the corners of his suit jacket. "I don't blame you."

  "Why did you kill her?"

  His eyes came back up with a strange expression, guilt and pain and rage mixed up together. "You want the whole story?"

  "Yes." That was exactly what she wanted. She had to understand. It was a matter of survival.

  Vincenzo sighed and leaned his back against the tree trunk. With his hands still in his trouser pockets, his gaze went up into the sparsely leaved branches above him. "Have you ever met someone who is your other half? Have you ever met a person who seems to...complete you?"

  The question didn't appear to require an answer. Vincenzo answered it himself, closing his eyes, his chin tilted upward. "Carlotta was that other half for me, and I was hers. We were made for each other."

  "Go on." The gun shook in Sabrina's hands. It was heavier than she'd expected.

  Vincenzo smiled, his eyes still closed. "We knew we were going to marry from the time we played in the sand together as infants. When I was six I made a formal proposal of marriage. She accepted."

  "You're getting off the track."

  "Oh, no." He lowered his chin and opened his eyes. "You must hear it from the beginning, to understand." There was still no fear in his expression. A mighty cool character, Sabrina had to admit. But he hadn't been so cool, apparently, when Carlotta had done whatever she'd done to provoke him to murder.

  "We presented our parents with our desire to marry when we were fifteen," Vincenzo went on. "They would have us wait until we were of age." He sighed, a fond memory smiling over his lips. "Those were a wonderful, tormenting three years."

  "Get to the point."

  Vincenzo ignored her. He was in his own world now. "So, finally, we turned eighteen and we married. It was...wonderful."

  Apparently not, Sabrina thought.

  He regarded Sabrina, his head tilted. "We were very happy. Perhaps you can not imagine, but it is true."

  "When did the trouble start?" she asked.

  A deep sigh escaped him and he turned his head to the side. The skin pulled around his eyes as he narrowed them into the sun. "I suppose that was about four years later. We were ready to start a family then. We felt we were old enough, had taken care of our education. Now was time to take care of the future."

  "So, what happened?" She tensed, reluctant to hear the end of the happy story.

  Still squinting into the sun, he shook his head. "It didn't happen."

  Sabrina frowned, not understanding.

  Vincenzo turned back to look at her. His hands came out of his pockets, gesturing. "We did not— We could not— It didn't happen. No children came. You understand?"

  "But you were— I mean you did—" Sabrina could feel her face start to flush.

  "In bed together, yes. But no children." He paused, running a hand through his hair. "Carlotta begged me to call in doctors. I refused. It...hurt my pride. But after a year of trying, and still no child, and with Carlotta so upset, I said all right."

  "So you went to the doctor?" Sabrina barely noticed that her hold on the gun was relaxing.

  "Yes. Both Carlotta and I went." He grimaced. "An army of doctors. They all said the same thing."

  "Which was?"

  "The problem was not Carlotta, it was me." He squinted out toward the sun again. "The doctors, they said I did not have enough—what you say?"

  "Sperm count?"

  "Yes, that's the word. They say it is very unlikely I will ever have a child." His jaw tensed. "I would they had been right about that, if nothing else. If only they'd been right!" He slammed the tree trunk with his hands.

  Shocked by his sudden anger, Sabrina simply watched as he pushed away from the tree.

  "I should have realized then. I was Nicolazzi, the last Nicolazzi, and the Madonna della Montagna was not hanging in the church as she should."

  Sabrina was aghast. "You're going to blame this on that lousy painting?"

  "No!" Vincenzo's response was vehement. His head came up, dark eyes blazing. A fist thumped his chest. "I blame it on me! It was my fault, all of it." He took a restless pace, one hand running back into his mussed hair.

  Sabrina pitched her voice to a calming level. "What happened?"

  "Of course, Carlotta became pregnant."

  "Five years ago," Sabrina guessed. It was all, slowly, starting to come together again, this time in a different picture. The gun lowered in her hand.

  "Yes. We'd given up hope in such a 'miracle.'" Vincenzo pronounced this last word as though it were bile. "Dear God, if you knew how wildly happy we were at this event, how ridiculously happy."

  "Something happened with the pregnancy." Sabrina said this without a question in her tone. Inside of her realization was starting to flower. It curled there, warm and painfully prickling.

  "There were problems from the beginning." Vincenzo shook his head. One of his hands curled into a tight fist. "I should have made her terminate the pregnancy. I should have insisted."

  "She didn't want to."

  "No. She wanted that baby." Vincenzo lowered his fist. "That was my fault, too. She knew how it important it was to me to continue my family line. She couldn't believe that she was more important."

  Sabrina couldn't resist the question. "And was she—more important?"

  "Yes." The one word expressed all the love he'd had for his wife. His head lowered and he covered his face with both hands. "Yes."

  Oh, boy. Sabrina's inner prickling became almost painful.

  Meanwhile, to her surprise, he pulled himself back together, rubbing his hands down his face. "The rest is simple," he went on. "She went into labor early, months too early. There was bleeding. The child died. So did she."

  Slowly, Sabrina lowered the gun all the way. "She died."

  Vincenzo nodded, not looking at her.

  "She died," Sabrina repeated, more forcefully. She spat the next words out. "You didn't kill her." Good Lord!

  "I did." In that statement was every ounce of the stubborn mule that lived within him.

  "You can't kill someone by making them pregnant."

  He glared at her, rageful. "But I did."

  "Vince—" She stopped, frustrated because there was no convincing argument against his logic. One event had led to the other. Vincenzo had caused Carlotta's pregnancy. She'd died as a result of that pregnancy. Therefore, Vincenzo had killed her.

  "Sabrina." With a sudden, worried crease between his brows, Vincenzo stepped toward her. His hands gestured frantically. "Please, put up the weapon."

&
nbsp; "Huh?"

  He strode the rest of the way toward her and put his hand around the barrel of the gun.

  She didn't make the slightest move of resistance.

  "You're pointing the gun at your foot," he chided. "This is a dangerous device. You must watch where you point it."

  "Right." He hadn't blinked an eye when she'd been pointing it at his own chest. But the idea that she might nick her big toenail had him frowning and tsking in concern. He opened the thing and shook out the bullets, scolding up a storm of Italian.

  Sabrina stared at him. Every bitter suspicion she'd ever harbored against him seemed to choke and stumble. Meanwhile, it felt like a balloon was moving up her throat.

  This was a man who had loved, truly loved. She could tell because of a yearning she recognized all too well: the desire to change history, to make different decisions.

  "Vincenzo." Her voice came out a hoarse whisper.

  Snapping the unloaded revolver closed, Vincenzo looked down at her. "Yes?"

  The question was on the tip of her tongue. Why—really—was he looking for the painting of the Madonna? What—truly—did he think it might do for him?

  But as much as Sabrina wanted to ask the question, she feared the answer. She didn't want to know exactly how important the painting was to him. She didn't want to know what kind of pain he hoped it would cure. She shook her head.

  His brows lowered. "So, Sabrina." He paused, clearly hesitant, then looking away, cleared his throat. "Do we see Mrs. Miller today? Or...do we not?"

  She drew in a sharp breath, knowing what he was really asking. Was she still with him? Was she still willing to help him find his stupid painting? The question made her feel as though someone were pounding on her in the middle of her chest.

  "It's something of a drive," she croaked out. "We won't get there until after lunch."

  He nodded, but she could see the relief he was trying to disguise. He'd thought she might abandon him. Her pounding-in-the-chest feeling got worse.

  "Come, then, let's go," Vincenzo said.

  As they climbed back into the car, Sabrina knew that she, too, ought to feel relieved. She didn't. Oh, she didn't have to worry any more that Vincenzo was a cold-blooded murderer. No, now she had something far worse to worry about: that he might be every inch the sweet, caring man he seemed to be.

  ~~~

  Sabrina brought the car to a halt atop a sunny hillside overlooking the ocean. Both she and Vincenzo stared out the windshield at the sign in front of the building that sat comfortably nestled against the hill. It was a pale pink stucco building with a simple arcade across the front. Heavy Mexican tile adorned the shallow roof.

  "This couldn't be it." Vincenzo's voice was low, disbelieving, as he stared at the sign.

  Sabrina could relate to his incredulity. She looked down at the address Harry had given her again. It matched the numbers proudly displayed in brass above the central stucco arch. "This is it. Unless Harry made a mistake." Never, in Sabrina's memory, had Harry ever made a mistake.

  "It's a convalescent home!" Vincenzo exclaimed, pointing to the sign.

  "Yes, I noticed." Sabrina clicked open her car door. There was no sense sitting in the car hoping those brass numbers would magically change. "Come on."

  She started up a flagstone path toward the stuccoed arcade, but quickly noticed that Vincenzo wasn't following. She stopped and turned around.

  The afternoon sun glinted gold on his dark hair as he stood by the car. In his eyes was the old bleak look. "The painting is not here."

  "Yes, I know that." Sabrina retraced her steps, approaching him. She knew as well as he that personal objects didn't follow people when they moved into old age homes. "But checking into this lead will bring us a step closer."

  His gaze down at her was indecisive.

  Now Sabrina understood why he went off on these fits of pessimism about finding the Madonna. He didn't think he deserved to find her—or whatever she symbolized.

  "Come on," she urged.

  He didn't budge. The sun beat fresh scent from the lawn in front of them while a breeze off the ocean riffled a lock of hair that had strayed from Sabrina's chignon. It was a beautiful day, but Vincenzo's expression only turned bleaker.

  Was he giving up? Sabrina wondered. After four years looking for—whatever the painting represented—was he giving up the search? Maybe confessing the whole thing to Sabrina had made him see the futility of the endeavor. Finding that painting would not really help him.

  A sharp pain went through her chest. Did he intend to doom himself to sorrow?

  But wouldn't that be for the best? a practical voice spoke up inside. He'd pay her the fifteen grand she owed Lise, she'd be rid of a difficult job. And she'd be rid of him. Back to Italy he'd go, back to the family to which he'd already promised his return.

  She'd never see him again.

  A funny icicle of fear worked its way into her throat. No. She needed him to get that painting... It meant a hundred grand. He couldn't give up.

  Sabrina reached down. Her hand found his. "Come on," she urged, the funny fear clogging her throat. "Let's give this a try." With her fingers laced through his, she tugged.

  Something changed behind his eyes. His gaze dropped to their joined hands.

  Only then did Sabrina realize what she'd done. Her gaze dropped, too, taking in the fair, slender fingers intertwined with a much darker, larger set.

  She'd touched him. Voluntarily reached out and touched him.

  "All right." Above her, Vincenzo's voice was deep and unmistakably pleased. Hurriedly, Sabrina drew her fingers from his, but the pleased note didn't leave the man's voice. "Let us see if we can find Mrs. Alan Miller."

  ~~~

  Twenty minutes later Vincenzo was looking far less pleased. Sabrina didn't know why he should complain, though. They were on their way down the hall to see Mrs. Alan Miller, weren't they?

  The convalescent home wasn't bad, for something of that ilk. Terrazzo tile stretched over the floor. Heavy wood beams held up a creamy plaster ceiling. The scent of dried flowers wafted pleasantly in the air.

  "What's the problem?" Sabrina finally asked Vincenzo, as they stopped outside the closed, extra-wide door to Mrs. Miller's room.

  "You could have warned me." He scowled, straightening his tie.

  What—and missed the fun of seeing his expression when she'd told his sob story to the director? Wisely, Sabrina hid her smile. "Sometimes I have to think on my feet, you understand."

  "An American GI," Vincenzo sneered. "As my illegitimate grandfather?"

  "We had to give the director some reason for wanting to see Mrs. Miller. You, Mr. Andreoni, are eager to find your true family roots."

  Vincenzo made a low, disgusted noise. "We have not had an illegitimate birth in my family for at least a hundred years." Saying which, he knocked, and then swung open the door to Mrs. Alan Miller's room.

  It was a spacious room, clearly private, with high ceilings and large paned windows that opened onto a flowered lawn.

  Sabrina's first thought on beholding the frail old woman in the wheelchair was that she was much too old. This lady was ninety if she were a day. As Alan Miller's widow, that was two decades over. Vincenzo shot Sabrina a baffled look that said he figured the same.

  Exchanging that glance, they started into the room.

  A pair of pale blue eyes gazed back at them. "Hello?" the old woman said in a wavery voice.

  "Hello, how do you do?" Sabrina took the lady's tiny, bent hand. The skin was tissue thin. "My name is Sara Redmon. I'm the attorney for Mr. Andreoni here."

  Vincenzo took hold of the woman's hand as well. "Buon Giorno." His smile betrayed no disappointment over the fact that the walls held no magical painting of the madonna.

  The old lady now smiled, her face turning into a whirlpool of wrinkles. "Please, please, sit down," she said, looking up into Vincenzo's face.

  Somehow he grabbed a chair without letting go of the old woman's hand.

/>   Sabrina meanwhile tugged another seat from the corner. She put it on the other side of the old lady's wheelchair from Vincenzo. "Mr. Andreoni is looking for his grandfather," Sabrina explained, using the cover story she'd given the director of the home. "We've come to see you because, well— He's wondering if he might not be, er, related to Alan Miller."

  "To Alan?" The old lady gazed into Vincenzo's face with plain incredulity. "Oh no. This one is much too pretty to be related to anyone in my family."

  Sabrina could have sworn Vincenzo blushed. "So Alan Miller is related to you?" he asked.

  The old lady sighed. "Alan Miller was the name of both my husband and my son. Both gone now."

  So Harry the Hacker hadn't made a mistake, after all. Alan Miller was dead, both the man who'd sold his house in Sand Hill—the father—and the guy who might have stolen the Madonna della Montagna—the son. And this news meant—now, what? Where could that painting be?

  "We're sorry to hear he passed away," Sabrina said. A true statement.

  The old woman shot her a sour look. "A son shouldn't pass away before his mother. But then, Alan was not very good at being a son." She paused, her gaze going thoughtful. "I'm not sure how good he was at being a husband, either."

  "Alan was married?" Sabrina's interest sharpened. Excellent! If there was a widow, after all, she might still have the painting, or at least know what had happened to it.

  The elder Mrs. Miller nodded. "Oh, yes. Alan was married for fifty years. Fifty years, and he never really helped Francesca. Children might have worked." She turned back to Vincenzo, her eyes alight with curiosity. "Now, what about you, young man?"

  She was asking Vincenzo if he had children. Dear God, Sabrina thought. "He's not married," she said quickly.

  "Oh?" Agnes Miller's attention returned to Sabrina. The old lady gave her a peculiar look. "I see. And how about you, dear? Are you married?"

  "Uh...no."

  "I see," Agnes said again. Her eyes went from Sabrina to Vincenzo, sly.

  "Back to Alan's wife," Sabrina said firmly.

  Ignoring her, Agnes kept her attention on Vincenzo. "Did you two travel here together, all the way from Italy?"