Her Italian Millionaire (9 page)

The place was quiet on Saturday mornings. Street crimes were easily handled by the
ufficio di polizia
in town. The atmosphere here was so different from the wild, chaotic, fume-laden streets of Rome. Marco was glad to be back in his home town, but for how long? There were times, like last night, when he wished he could return to a more simple life. But right now he didn't have the luxury of worrying about his future. Not until he caught Giovanni.

“Well, did you find it?” Silvestro Schiavenza asked.

Marco shook his head. “There's nothing in her room.”

“Then she's wearing it.”

“She's not wearing any jewelry.”

“Not even a wedding ring?”

“No ring. She's divorced.”

“That's right. I forgot. What about some cheap costume jewelry, necklace, bracelet? That's the way they often conceal it.”

“I know. I checked. She's not the type to wear jewelry.”

“Not the type? Every woman is the type. I thought you knew that. You know so much about women.”

“Women, yes,” Marco said. “Jewelry, no.”

“Not even diamonds? Never bought one for one of your girlfriends?”

“She might get the wrong idea.” Women got the wrong idea from him even without diamonds; he had no wish to contribute to any misunderstandings. “I understand they're making them in a laboratory in Russia now that are almost impossible to tell from the real ones.”

Silvestro sighed. “As if we needed a new wrinkle to our problems. So what are you telling me? She hasn't got it? Are you sure? Did you strip her? Did you pat her down at least? For you, that should be no problem.”

“No problem,” Marco assured him. He had no intention of losing his reputation. But he'd had the perfect chance to pat her down during that kiss on the way back to the hotel, and he hadn't. Why not? What was he thinking? He wasn't thinking - that was the problem. He'd gotten involved in that kiss, more than he'd intended, more than he'd wanted to.

“I checked her luggage. I checked the linings. I checked every place it could possibly be. Whether she's hidden it elsewhere, or someone else hands it off to her to give Giovanni, I'll be there.” He looked at his watch. “I must go. I'm taking her to Paestum this morning to meet him.”

“If he shows up.”

“He will, and I'll be ready.”

Marco knew his boss was remembering the fiasco the last time they thought they'd gotten Giovanni. The lights, the sirens, the backup forces. Marco had turned away for one minute to speak to a woman - one minute too many and Giovanni was gone. Disappeared down a rat hole. Now he'd surfaced and there would never be a better chance to trap him. All Marco needed was a little luck and this blue-eyed woman with an important package for Giovanni.

“You'll call for help if you need it. I can have a team there in minutes. Remember, he's a desperate man with great resources.”

“But I have what he wants - the woman.”

“You're sure about that? Why would Giovanni risk getting caught for an American woman when he can have any woman he wants here in Italy?” Marco knew he was thinking, including your sister.

“She's... different.”

The old man sighed loudly. “Nobody's that different. Giovanni is interested in only one thing: money. If our information is correct, what the woman has is enough to set him up for the rest of his life. Don't let her out of your sight and don't get involved with her. If we fail the syndicate again they will lose confidence in us. My job, your job - everything is at stake.”

“I understand. I have no intention of getting involved; I've learned my lesson,” Marco said grimly.

“If we don't catch him actually receiving the jewel, the case won't stand up in court. There's pressure from every side. From the South Africans who control the diamond market, the insurance company in America, the Roman family who claims it belongs to them. This diamond has been stolen not just once, but many times. The Bianchi Diamond is nearly as valuable as the Hope Diamond. Be careful, Marco - people will kill for a diamond, lie or die or even cheat their best friend.”

Marco nodded and went to the door. “Any word from the FBI?” he asked.

“They too are feeling the pressure from the family the diamond was stolen from. But they have no more information for us, if that's what you mean. The Jackson woman has no record, no prior convictions which doesn't mean much when it comes to a chance to make some big money.”

“What about her family and friends - her son, her ex-husband and a friend called Evie? Could they do some checking on them? Discreetly, of course,” Marco suggested.”

“I'll call and ask, if you think it would help.”

“It won't hurt.” He paused. “Not her son. He's just a kid. He wouldn't know anything. But check out her friend Evie and her ex-husband.”

Silvestro scribbled a note on a piece of paper, then he looked up.

“When are you getting married, Marco?” he asked.

 Startled, Marco turned, the doorknob in his hand. Where had that come from? Was there a conspiracy against the unmarried? “Not you, too. Never, why should I?”

“Because one day you'll be old, too old to chase women or thieves. My advice is to find someone now, before it's too late. Someone to spend your golden years with. Give her a diamond and settle down. Then when you're sixty-three, like me, you'll have someone to sit in the square with in the evening, someone to share a grappa and watch the sunsets with.”

I don't need company in the square. I can drink alone and watch the sunsets on my own. But thanks for the advice. I'll think about it.”

“Do that, and when you think about it, think about me. Because I want to retire and plant roses and enjoy the sunsets with my wife, but if we don't get that diamond back...”

“We will. I promise you on the grave of my grandmother.”

“Your grandmother is alive and well, I saw her yesterday. She's worried about you. She prays for you.”

“I'm glad someone does.” Before Silvestro could nag him further, Marco was in his car and on his way to the hotel.

He stopped only to buy coffee and rolls, which he thought might impress Ana Maria as a thoughtful gesture. But when he knocked, there was no answer.

 The cleaning woman called to him from the end of the hall. “
Troppo tardi
,” she said. “
E andata
.” She gestured with her hand.
You're too late. She's gone
.

“
Que cosa
?” he said, his teeth clenched. She was out cold when he'd left her. How could she be awake, on her unsteady feet, and out of the hotel so soon? He cursed her. He cursed himself. He cursed his superior for calling him in this morning and the whole agency he worked for.

He raced down the stairs and jumped into his car, spilling the coffee from the cardboard cup onto the leather seats and speeding down the hill, taking the curves much too fast on the way to the bus station. If she was going to Paestum, she'd have to go by bus, unless she'd hired a taxi to take her. But why so early? Why go alone?

He parked his car across from the beach. The sun, still low in the sky, slanted its rays on the calm blue water. The beach umbrellas were still packed away, the paddle boats were beached, and workers were sweeping the sand of debris. The air smelled of salt water and fish.

He saw her right away at the first cafe along the strip. She had a cup of coffee in front of her, her tote bag over her arm and her suitcase at her feet. She was wearing sunglasses, and absolutely no jewelry he could see. She was writing something on the small, round table in front of her. He parked his car and ambled casually to the café.

“Do you mind if I join you?” he asked.

She looked up. If he thought she'd be pleased by his asking permission this time, he was wrong. There was a long silence. All he could see was his own face reflected in her sunglasses. “There are other tables,” she said at last.

He straddled a wrought iron chair and lighted a cigarette. “I prefer this one.”

“Do you mind not smoking?” she said wrinkling her nose at the smell of smoke. “In California it's illegal to smoke in a cafe.”

“Even outside?” he asked incredulously.

She nodded.

“You're in Italy now,” he reminded her.

“You're at my table,” she reminded him.

He stubbed out his cigarette on the cement floor.

“What happened last night?” she asked.

“We had dinner and I took you to a concert. There was a fortune teller…”

“I mean later, at the hotel. I must have had too much wine, because my head hurts like hell this morning. And I can't remember how I got home.”

He was relieved to learn she had no memory of their kiss. He wished he could forget as easily.

“You walked. Not very well, not very steadily, but you walked all the way back to the hotel.”

“And then?”

“And then you went to bed.”

She nodded slowly. “How do you know?”

“Because I carried you up the stairs and dumped you on your bed. When I left, you were sound asleep.”

Her sunglasses slid down her nose and she stared at him with bloodshot eyes. “I don't know what to say,” she said.

“What about '
grazie, molto gentile
?'“

“
Molto gentile?”
she asked, “or
molto suspicioso?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, smothering a smile. At least she tried to speak Italian. Most tourists didn't. But then, she wasn't most tourists.

“What I mean is that I don't know you. You follow me everywhere and I don't know why. You say you're a tour guide, but why aren't you out guiding someone, then? What do you want with me?”

“Just to help you.” He gave her a long, steady look.
Last night I wanted to make love to you. Today I want to catch you with one of the world's most spectacular diamonds and send you back to America in the custody of international agents.

But a stab of guilt hit him between the ribs as he looked into her bleary eyes. What if she really was an innocent tourist? What if all the intelligence they'd gathered was incorrect? The agency had made mistakes before.

If she never met Giovanni, if she never handed over any stolen goods, he'd almost be sorry. This case was getting even more interesting. Marco loved his job and he loved a challenge. It was his personal life that was less than exciting. Women had left him feeling numb. Ever since he'd met Ana Maria yesterday, he'd felt anything but numb. His senses had come alive along with his libido. This woman, this case - they were both one hell of a challenge. He wouldn't jump to any conclusions, not yet.

“I might remind you,” he continued, “that you don't speak Italian and you don't understand our customs. You are a stranger in a strange land. You cried three times, you drank a little too much wine, and you got lost on the way home. It has been my pleasure to help rescue you from these incidents, from embarrassment. And yet...and yet, I have not asked you for one lira, nor have I heard one word of thanks from you even after I took you to a concert, had your fortune told, and got you safely back to your hotel. What more do you want?” he demanded with an edge to his voice. It was time to put her on the defensive, and see how tough she was.