Her Italian Millionaire Read online

  Yes, he could spot an operative with no trouble. This one walked right up to him, unaware that he'd been fooled once and wouldn't be fooled again. His reputation was on the line. He'd promised to bring Giovanni in, and after two years and ten months, he was close to the biggest victory of his career. He could feel it, smell it, taste it. It was the taste of vengeance, and it was sweet. Was he motivated to put the bastard away for a long time because of what he'd done to his sister or their long rivalry? Of course not. It was a job; Giovanni was a crook - that's all there was to it. Just a job. A job that was the most important one of his career, because if he failed, the syndicate would lose faith in his agency. His aging boss might lose his job and his pension right before retirement.

  He glanced down at the pool to make sure she was still there. Yes, that was her, the only pale body in sight, stretched out on a white chaise and covered with a modest black swimming suit that made him wonder what she was hiding.

  He didn't know why he'd thought she was innocent. Maybe it was her fair skin, like the alabaster of the statue of Venus in the museum. It wouldn't stay that way if she didn't avoid the sun. Maybe under that suit was a body that would tempt the saints. He was no saint; the women in his past would testify to that.

  He stood at the edge of the double doors to the balcony and forgot he was in a hurry. The near-naked, surgically enhanced, overdone bodies in string bikinis didn't interest him. Just her. Why was that? Because the more her suit covered up, the more he wanted to see?

  No, it was because she was essential in tracking down Giovanni. Nothing more. Not because he felt so much as a twinge of conscience, knowing he was going to use her. And not because he felt guilty. Marco Moretti, guilty? Not a chance.

  Did it have anything to do with her long legs he imagined she was hiding under the long skirt, the tears that had welled up in big blue eyes or the skin he wanted to touch, to see if it felt as soft as it looked? If it did, he was losing it. Losing his cool just when he needed it the most.

  He turned abruptly and found her purse hidden at the bottom of her suitcase. He found nothing of interest in it, just her airline tickets, her passport with a very unflattering picture of her and her wallet with the photograph of her with her arm around a young man who looked very much like her. He studied it for a brief moment. It was probably her son, though she looked too young to have one that old. Next he went through the rest of the suitcase in seconds, sifting through her underclothes and finding nothing incriminating. And nothing remotely sexy, just the most sensible all-cotton panties and bras he'd ever seen - and he'd seen quite a few. No thongs or bikinis here, no lace or silk. All clean and wholesome, and all-American - but for some reason her clothes came across as innocent and sexy at the same time. Just like her.

  Other than clothes, there was a book with pictures of adolescents, staring earnestly at the camera. Cougars High School Yearbook. Marco ran practiced fingers over the cover and the binding and detected nothing hidden there. Then he flipped through it and looked for her, but there was only one Jackson - a boy named Dan. He took more time than he should to go through the pages until he found an Anne Marie Rasmussen. She looked nothing like this woman, but who else could it be? Underneath the photograph it said:

  Honor Society, International Club, Volleyball.

  Prediction: First woman to land on Mars

  Dream: To own her own bookstore.

  He shook his head. She should have followed that dream. What had happened instead? He didn't pretend to understand the criminal mind, despite the training he'd received. He understood greed and hunger and revenge, all common motives. But this woman was not a common criminal. He knew women and he knew there was nothing common about this one.

  Next he found Giovanni's picture, the face of his nemesis smiling from the page of the book, his dark eyes concealing secrets, his charm hiding the greed and ambition that were to be his downfall. That must be his downfall, if there was any justice in this world. Soccer star, artist, charming rogue. Yes, he was all of those. He could have been anything, but he'd chosen to follow in his family's tradition. And that was his mistake.

  Marco would see to it he would make one final mistake. Today, tomorrow or next week, he had the means to make it happen. The woman had what Giovanni wanted, and Marco had Ana Maria - and he wasn't going to let her go - until he'd caught him receiving one spectacular stolen diamond, and he saw Giovanni behind bars.

  Marco slammed the book shut, replaced it and checked under the mattress and in the closet. The closet was empty and so were the dresser drawers. It had to be here. Where was the dazzling gem that was so famous it was once displayed in a museum? He expertly tapped the suitcase with his knuckles to see if it had a false bottom. Nothing.

  Next he went through her tote bag. In it were two guidebooks on Italy, a diary, a paperback novel and a box of elaborately decorated chocolates visible through the cellophane wrapper. The note taped to the box read, “For my homesick cousin Misty. Enjoy. Love, Evie.” He had no idea why women got so homesick for a certain candy that they had to import it. His grandmother sent his sister boxes of marzipan from a certain candy shop in town. Surely that was proof Isabella was not cut out for an ascetic life, eating bread and thin soup behind cloistered walls. But that was none of his business.

  In the bathroom he went through Ana Maria's cosmetics, checking everything, even squeezing the American toothpaste and twisting her lipstick tube. Nothing.

  The envelope was on the night stand next to the bed. He read the note quickly and nodded to himself. Paestum was the perfect place for a hand-off. Did Giovanni have any feelings for this woman? Or was he using her as he'd used so many other women for his own ends and to throw Marco off the track?

  He heard footsteps in the hall and he froze. They came closer and the key turned in the lock. Four giant steps and he reached the balcony seconds before the door opened and she came in. What was the matter with him? Now his body was plastered against the outside wall on the balcony where he could easily be seen from the pool. He forced himself to breathe slowly, praying she wouldn't come out here. If she did, what could he say? He was checking for termites, bringing extra towels, fixing the plumbing?

  He could hear her inside the room, walking around on bare feet and opening drawers. His mind was racing, his body stiff. Then he heard water running in the bathroom. A shower—he was in luck!

  He peered around the corner of the doorway and saw her through the open bathroom door, bent over to pick something up from the floor. He had a great view of her bare backside and rounded hips. He paused and looked . . . and looked. Idiot! He made a silent run for it, slipping on the wet floor where she'd dripped water from her suit. He cursed under his breath, opened the door, then went out into the hall and closed the door softly behind him. He was breathing hard. Whether from the close call or the view of the sweetest ass he'd seen in a long time, he didn't know. Maybe both - he hadn't seen many bare asses since he'd sworn off getting involved with women.

  He walked down the stairs casually and confidently, and stopped by the front desk.

  “Where did the message for the Americana come from?” he asked.

  The clerk shrugged.

  Marco pulled out his ID card.

  The clerk glared at him. Nobody wanted the government meddling in their business.

  “I don't know. There was a call. They read the message, I wrote it down.”

  “A local call?” Marco asked.

  The man didn't know.

  “I want to know when she leaves the hotel and where she's going,” Marco said, handing the clerk his card with his cell phone number.

  “How should I know where she's going?” the clerk asked sullenly.

  “She's a tourist. You could suggest a restaurant, offer to give directions.”

  “What am I? The tourist information bureau?”

  Marco sighed and went outside to smoke a cigarette, but before he could light up his phone rang.

  “Pronto, Marco. What about
tonight? When do you pick me up?”

  Damn. He'd forgotten all about Adrianna, but she hadn't forgotten about him. The minute she heard he was back in town, she'd been after him to spend time with her. He'd finally given in and told her he'd meet her for dinner. “I told you not to call me on my cell phone. It's for business.”

  “Business, pfah. Other policemen don't have such business.”

  “I do. I'm sorry, I have to cancel our dinner tonight. I have work to do.”

  “What work? I don't believe you. What kind of a policeman has no days off, who's always working?” He could picture her full lips in a pout. “Where are you?”

  “Working.” No one knew that he hadn't been a simple agente di polizia for years. Not since he was assigned to the Guardia Financia y Straniero, who were working with the South African diamond syndicate to put a stop to illegal diamond trading between the US and Italy.

  If his grandmother knew, she'd consider it her right to brag about him to her friends.

  “My grandson is no longer directing traffic on the Coast Highway or arresting petty thieves. He's too good for that. Too smart. He's chasing one of the country's biggest jewel thieves,” Nonna would say. “When he cracks this case he will be famous. His name will be in all the papers. And my granddaughter will finally understand why we broke her engagement.”

  Word would instantly spread through town and he'd be useless in his job. It would be impossible to catch Giovanni. The bureaucrats who oversaw his agency would lose confidence in him and Silvestro, his boss. They might close the office, and they'd both be out of a job. Marco's real job must be kept secret.

  “You said that,” Adrianna said. “You promised dinner tonight. I'll meet you, where?”

  He shook his head. She reminded him of one of those lampreys that clung to the rocks at the sea, impossible to pry off. “All right, the Vista dei Mare at eight o'clock,” he said.

  “Vista dei Mare? That's so far. Can't you come to town?”

  “No.” He wished she'd decline. It would make his life easier. He had no time for women now. Maybe after he'd brought Giovanni in, maybe not. Women had messed up his life more than once. Women had distracted him and he was prone to distractions anyway. This time he would concentrate. This time he would win.

  “All right,” she said. “I'll be there.” If she could have slammed the phone down, she would have, but of course she was using her tiny, jeweled cell phone.

  Marco went back into the hotel and spoke to the clerk again. This time he gave him some money along with his instructions. He was barely out the front door to the patio when his phone rang again.

  “Nonna, what is it? I told you not to call me on my cell phone.” Why had he ever given anyone this number?

  “I tried your number, but you are never home, if you call your empty house a home. The shutters are closed and the tomatoes in your garden are withering on the vine. Now, don't forget dinner tonight,” his grandmother said. “I am cooking the puttanesca sauce right now, your favorite. With tomatoes from my garden.”

  “Ai dio mio,” he said under his breath. “Sorry, Nonna, I can't make it tonight.”

  “ But it's my birthday,” she said.

  “It is? No, it isn't. That's what you always say. Your birthday is in April.”

  “What kind of a grandson doesn't call his grandmother to wish her happy birthday?” she said as if he hadn't spoken.

  “Happy birthday,” he said.

  “Antonio Ponti gave his grandmother a new flat screen TV for her birthday with a remote control.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “I want my grandson to call me once in a while. Now that you're back in town I want you to come for dinner when I make your favorite dish. Is that asking too much?”

  “No, Nonna. I'll come. But I can't come tonight.”

  “You have a date, yes? You can bring her to meet me.”

  “You wouldn't like her.”

  “How do you know? Did you hear Antonio is getting married next year to Bianca Camerata.”

  “In bocca al lupo,” he muttered. Into the mouth of the wolf.

  “What?”

  “I wish him the best.”

  “Better hurry or all the good women will be taken,” she said. “You're not getting any younger.”

  He leaned against the brick wall of the patio and closed his eyes. She didn't need to remind him he was getting too old to play games. To chase thieves or women. After he caught Giovanni, he'd retire from this kind of work and take a desk job with the agency.

  “I'm not getting married,” he said. “It's too late. I'm too old. And all the good women are taken.”

  “Non fa niente,” she said, dismissing this excuse. “I'll find you someone and you can settle down here in town where you belong. Since when is forty too old for a man? Think about me, do I die before I become a great-grandmother?”

  Neither mentioned his sister Isabella and the reason she wouldn't be able to give Nonna the much-wished-for great-grandchildren.

  “I'll think about it,” he said wearily.

  “Don't think,” she said. “Do.”

  He hung up with a wry half smile. If she knew he was after Giovanni, she would have understood and wished him Godspeed. But he wasn't going to tell her or anyone until it was over. Until the bastard was behind bars and the diamond was back where it belonged.

  Anne Marie woke up from her nap groggy and confused. Her inner clock said it was morning but the sun was setting here on the Amalfi Coast, casting a golden glow over the cliffs and turning the sea to the color of lapis lazuli. She splashed cold water on her face and got dressed in the same outfit she'd worn to meet Giovanni. She wasn't going to see anyone she knew tonight.

  When she went downstairs to ask the night desk clerk if she'd had any messages, he said no. Of course not. She had her message from Giovanni; she had her instructions. Then she consulted her phrase book and took a deep breath.

  “Conosce un buon ristorante?” she asked even though the man probably spoke perfect English. How was she going to get better if she didn’t practice She wished she could add, “near here,” in Italian but she couldn’t. She didn’t want to take any more taxis, trains or buses until she had to. She wanted to walk. She’d had enough diesel fumes and cliff-hangers on mountain roads.

  “There is the Vista dei Mare, Signorina,” he said with an amused look. “Very good, very nice, very popular, very close. I will make a reservation. For eight.”

  She looked at her watch. It was only six. Of course Italians didn't eat until eight. “Yes. All right. Thank you.”

  He nodded and picked up the phone. She understood a few words like ristorante, Signorina. Why hadn't she studied more, studied harder? Because she never really thought she'd get here. Never thought she'd ever get divorced, and she knew Dan would never bring her here. Never thought she'd have the nerve to come by herself.

  But she had. She was here. The clerk caught her smiling to herself and gave her an odd look. As her smile faded, he brought out a map.

  “You are here,” he said, putting one tapered finger on the map. “Restaurant is here.”

  It wasn't far. Only about a half an inch away. She folded the map and put it in her shoulder bag, thanked him and started for the front door.

  “Signorina, where are you going?” he called.

  She turned. “Out...just to look around,” she said. “Why, is it dangerous?” It looked like a nice neighborhood, filled with villas on quiet streets. She'd taken all the precautions recommended by the guide books, like wearing her money belt filled with traveler's checks, and her passport hung around her neck under her shirt. This was hardly the slums of Naples – still, she was a stranger here; maybe he knew something she didn’t.

  “No, no, of course not. I was merely inquiring.”

  People were certainly not shy about inquiring. What were some of the questions Marco had asked? What do you want? What will you do now? What if he doesn’t come?

  “I’m goi
ng for a walk until dinner,” she said.

  He nodded as if that were the right answer. As she left, he was reaching for the phone again.

  Her gaze swept the patio for signs of Marco. He wasn't there. She didn't know why she felt a twinge of disappointment. She certainly didn't want him harassing her anymore with offers to show her around. He'd probably found some other American to hustle. Whatever the reason, he was gone. Hopefully for good.

  There were plenty of people on the streets, none of whom looked like petty thieves or tried to pick her up or pick her pocket. They were sauntering, just as she was, in the early evening dusk. At home everyone rushed home at six o'clock. Nobody took time to sit at a cafe with friends or strolled around admiring marzipan candies in the sweet shops or bought a gelato cone and walked down the street eating it when they should be home making dinner.

  She stood in front of a furniture store, wishing she could dump everything in her house, every memento of her previous life - from the Oriental carpet that had faded along with her marriage to the gold-plated mantle clock, a wedding present she'd always hated from his parents. When she got home she'd do the whole house over Italian style, with bright Mediterranean colored cushions, light wood and ceramics, and lots of blue and yellow tile.

  Anne Marie left the shopping district and suddenly she was in a different neighborhood of older, smaller houses, of gardens filled with flowers and rows of beans and eggplant. She paused at a small stone house where tomatoes grew on vines supported by wire stands.

  She could so easily imagine herself living in a house like this. She'd be Italian, of course, and she'd can these tomatoes for the winter ahead, along with basil and garlic. When her husband, who might look like that stranger at the hotel this morning, came home from work, he'd call out, “Honey, I'm home,” which would be something like “Cara, sono a casa,” in Italian. Then he'd come into the kitchen, kiss her passionately, untie her apron and peel off the rest of her clothes. They'd make love right there in the kitchen, on the warm tiled floor, with the smell of red, ripe tomatoes in the air. He'd confess he couldn't concentrate on his work, that all he could think of was coming home to her. When she mentioned the simmering sauce on the stove, he'd whisper in her ear she should live for the moment.