Forbidden Kiss (9 page)

Jule pushed out of his arms, the mood spoiled by the truth in his words. She hated hopeless situations and this seemed to be taking the A train to Hopelessville.

She’d come to Verona chasing Rom, fleeing Pio, and searching for safety.

Perhaps the time had come for Jule to stand up for herself and finish what she’d started when she’d left Blake. The journey towards her future. Her happiness. And where did he fit into all this?

“So what’s your story, Rom? Why the false identity? Who are you hiding from?”

“Who said I was hiding?”

“Why else would anyone assume a phony name? Since you’re not a battered woman or a kid on the run, I assume you’re hiding from someone.” She spun, her eyes wide as a thought occurred to her. “You’re not, like, hiding from the mob or something? Are you?” That might explain Pio’s interest in the man.

Rom shook his head. “No. There’s no mob in my background. Nothing even illegal. Sorry, it’s not that exciting.”

“Then what? Why all the mystery? And the lies?” she asked.

“Trust me. It’s a very long story and not worth the time.”

He wasn’t going to tell her. Okay. Time to change tactics and get on with the number one reason she’d come all this way.

“Are you going to share what you know?”

“Work together?”

Jule nodded. He seemed to consider the offer, planting his feet wide and searching her eyes.

Chapter Twelve

He couldn’t put her off. Not anymore. She’d come all this way and braved her family and Mascaro despite his warnings. And when it came right down to it, Rom didn’t want to keep his distance.

He wanted to be up close and personal with Jule Casale. Naked with arms and legs tangled in an erotic dance. If they even made it to a bed. The wall would do. Or a table.

God, she glowed. Fierce and bright. With truth. Integrity. And an optimism he’d not experienced in over one hundred years. But would he kill that glorious hope when he placed her in front of Lawrence’s paintings? Probably.

He would eventually have to leave her. Whether or not his immortality came to end, their relationship would.

“How do I know you won’t expose me?”

“To what?” she said sharply, her hands open and out. “I don’t know what’s going on, remember? I know zero. How can I be a risk to you?”

Oh, but she had the power to rip his heart out. Or what little was left of it.

“We’ll work together. Just don’t expect anything from me, Jule. I’m not a commitment kind of guy and I usually don’t stick around to see how things turn out.”

“So I’ve noticed. How about the truth? Can I at least ask for that much?

“About some things, yes. Others, no.”

“When will I learn?” Her feet crunched on the loose gravel as she turned away and walked back through the open gate. Rom listened until her footsteps faded away into the distance.

He’d see her again. They didn’t have a choice. Either of them.

…

“Do you know a Pio Mascaro?” Rossi asked, a hint of curiosity tingeing his normally professional tone.

Jule’s stomach gave a lurch and threatened to make her reconsider the rapid breakfast of crackers and soda—the only thing she could coax out of the temperamental vending machine in her hotel lobby.

“Yes.” Trepidation filled her entire being. God, what had the man done now? “Why do you ask?”

“He called yesterday looking for you.”

“Dammit.” The expletive slipped past her lips.

“Judging by your reaction, it’s a good thing I referred him to the bankrupt Veronese Museum Coalition. He should be tied up for a couple of days banging on doors and trying to find anyone who knows anything about you.”

Banging on doors…
No!
“He’s here? In Verona?”

“Yes. At the Due Torri Hotel Baglioni. Room 89.”

Jule paced the back office of the thirteenth century church where Rossi was in the middle of conducting an onsite review of the frescoes. For three quick spins of the office, she forgot the elegantly dressed preservationist watching her.

“Should I call someone? The police?”

Get a grip Jule
. If Rossi called the police, she might be tied up dealing with an inquiry while Rom was free to seize the paintings, or do whatever it was he had come to do. She had to manage Pio, Rom, and the paintings all without getting trampled in the process.

She squared her shoulders and met Rossi’s look of concern. “No. He’s just someone I would
really
rather avoid.”

That was an understatement.

“A colleague?”

“No. A family friend.”

“Who followed you all the way from the States? Sounds more serious than you’re alluding to.”

She dropped into an ancient seat lining the stonewall. The wood groaned reassuringly under her. Rossi turned discretely back to the work on the table in front of him, giving her a minute.

The only person who had any idea of her predicament was Rom.

She wouldn’t resort to asking him for help. She couldn’t. That left her on her own with probably less than forty-eight hours to find what she needed.

“Are you having any luck getting us into that palazzo? The one with the anonymous paintings you thought might be worth looking at?”

Rossi lowered a bundle of reports. “No. I’m sorry. But I’ll keep trying. It seems the best lead at the moment.”

Jule nodded and gathered her bag and coat. “Thanks for all your help. I really appreciate it.”

He smiled sympathetically. “Be careful of this man and please let me know if there is anything I can do.”

“You’re already doing it.”

Letting herself out of the office, Jule made her way into the cathedral. Centuries of incense and candle wax teased her nostrils as she walked through the nave. Diffused light fell from upper windows, washing the chapels along the walls with ambient lighting inspiring thoughts of peace and tranquility, exactly the thing she needed most at the moment.

The muffled sounds of parishioners and visitors blanketed her, soothing taunt nerves. Jule took a seat in one of the last pews after she blessed herself. For several minutes she closed her eyes and simply let the calm soak in. When she was focused, she opened her eyes.

She knew what had to be done.

…

Rom hadn’t seen her in two days. He’d been using the time to visit various buildings and residences open to the public in the hopes his own expedition might speed up Rossi’s research. All he’d gotten for it was a hell of a bad mood.

And no sign of Jule. He half thought with her desire and will of iron to speed up the process, he’d end up running into her at some point, what with both of them in and out of galleries, museums, and historic sites. But not a hint of her anywhere.

It didn’t worry him the first twenty-four hours, but as he’d cruised into day two, he started to wonder at her absence.

Where was she?

And then, just as he entered into the never changing seventy-six-degree, climate-controlled Castelvecchio Museum library for researchers, he spotted her sitting at a table. She hadn’t yet noticed him, her head lowered over a book. Her hair formed a partial curtain shielding her face.

Places on his body too long dead to true desire suddenly tightened in response to her nearness. Blood he knew too dormant in his ancient veins roared to life, rushing through him to fill his capillaries.

Any moment now, she’d feel his gaze and look up, catching his eye. He wanted to see the expression up close, to witness the abrupt constriction of her pupils. To hear the tiny, almost inaudible hitch of breath. To know she felt the same as he, dying to wrap his hands around her hips and force their bodies to meet.

So he closed the distance between them. Just yards from her, she looked up at him the same moment her hand reached up to move back the velvety curtain of hair, securing it behind a perfectly rounded ear. He’d actually thought long and hard about that ear. About drawing the lobe between his teeth and biting until he heard her cry out in pleasure.

“Are you all right?”

She frowned at the question. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Yes, why wouldn’t she be all right? It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard from her in two days after not being able to shake her for twelve consecutive hours the previous three. “I haven’t heard from you. I was beginning to wonder.”

“Wonder what? If I’d changed my name and left the country?” Her eyes flew wide, mocking him. “Oh, wait. That’s you.” She flipped her book closed and stood, casting a weak shadow across his own boots. “I’m fine.”

Her body language screamed she wasn’t.

“What’s going on?” He didn’t think he’d like it, whatever it was she told him.

When had he started feeling so proprietary about this woman?

“Nothing for you to worry about.” She stepped back and looked around him towards the library entrance. “Find anything of interest in there?”

“Don’t change the subject. Tell me what’s going on.”

“You tell me. My life has turned upside down since I met you and nothing I do seems to put it right.”

She was worrying him. Rom reached for her, forcing her head up with a pressure to her chin. “What is it?”

Her lips remained firmly closed, her eyes avoiding his. She didn’t feel like sharing. And who could blame her?

“Whatever it is, you can tell me. Although I’ve kept things from you and held to some untruths, you know I wouldn’t hurt you. You can trust me.”

She snorted.

“I’ve found nothing,” he offered. “I’ve been to a dozen different museums in this city and so far, zero. The place I imagined the paintings originated yielded nothing as well.” Lawrence’s old Franciscan order had dismantled everything with the exception of the main chapel sometime back in the eighteenth century. If the paintings had ever been there, they were moved.

She finally looked at him with narrowed eyes, suspicion clear in their blue depths.

“I told you, Jule, I’m willing to work with you. Tell you what I can. Share what I think will help.”

“Well, that’s the problem now, isn’t it? You’ll only share what you consider safe information. You’re feeding me selective bits, like some art newbie who doesn’t have a clue. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I talked to Rossi an hour ago and he thinks he might have something.”

“And?” He prompted easily, with only a minor hint of expectation coloring his voice.

“A Scaligeri Palazzo. Operated by a bankrupt non-profit. The place has been closed for six months while the case awaits a hearing. Rossi said it may be difficult to impossible to get inside.”

“Unfortunate,” Rom said, turning the problem over in his head.

She spun on her heel and marched away, then swung back to stand in front of him, her arms on her hips, her dark hair blowing around her shoulders.

“I’m going in. With or without approval.”

Her statement caught him off guard. She couldn’t possibly be considering breaking into the place. “Whoa, Jule. Let’s talk about this.”

“What’s to talk about? I could be here in Verona for months waiting for the palazzo to open. Months I don’t have.”

He stood swiftly, not liking her tone. “What do you mean? Now I really must demand you tell me what’s happened.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She brushed away his question with visible impatience. “Too much is riding on this. I’m going in and I’m asking if you want to come.”

She was serious. And suddenly it clicked in Rom’s head. She asked him because for someone to commit a crime such as breaking and entering, they really should know what they’re doing. It would greatly reduce the chance of going to jail. And apparently Jule thought Rom an expert.

“What about your reputation? And your vow to not join the family business?” He paused, but his words didn’t seem to be reaching her. “You do realize what will happen if you’re caught?”

Jule gave him a look that said
don’t patronize me
.

“And you’re okay with that?”

With a withering look in his direction, she slid her book into her shoulder bag and turned her back on him, heading for the exit.

She would do it. With or without him.

He never really had a decision to make. So he followed her out of the library garden and onto the narrow sidewalk leading into the heart of Verona.

Someone had to watch the woman’s back.

…

“So who owns the palazzo we’re about to break into?” Rom asked, still worried about Jule’s state of mind.

Twilight teased at the edges of the horizon, casting glowing drops of light on terra cotta roofs. Rom and Jule sat outside one of the cafes along the row of similar places in Piazza delle Erbe.

It was as though he’d never left.

There is no world without Verona walls,

But purgatory, torture, hell itself.

Casing the shuttered palazzo told Rom what he needed to know. No electricity. Apparently bankrupt meant no utilities, which meant no alarm. It could also mean all climate sensitive items had already been removed from the museum.

Jule didn’t agree. She still planned to go ahead when Rom suggested they wait for Rossi’s report.

He’d stall forever if it meant he wouldn’t have to enter that house. The house of a man he’d killed. A man Shakespeare had dubbed County Paris.

“I don’t know who runs the nonprofit. But it used to be the residence of one of the della Scalas top supporters.” Jule looked at him as if to ask if he knew the historic family who once ruled the city with an iron fist.

Yes, he knew them. Had fought them, too.

Rom figured he knew which della Scala she referred to. “Cangrande I?”

Surprised, Jule raised her eyebrows. “Yes. How did you guess?”

No guessing involved. He remembered the bastard. The podesta—chief magistrate, ruler of Verona—lay entombed across the street from his old house.

“He was Dante’s patron and Giotto’s too. A lethal warrior, but a genius statesman. He brought other neighboring cities under his reign and allegiance in his fight against papal power.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know anything about Renaissance art.”

He offered a half smile. “I don’t really. But Cangrande I is history every student in Verona learns.”

Jule set her nearly empty water bottle on the café table and leaned in, lowering her voice.

“What is your connection to Verona? Rossi said you speak fluent Italian and he mistook you for a native.”

“I was born here.”

To her credit, Jule didn’t even blink. “When?”

Now, that question would have to wait. “I left Verona as a young man, before the age of twenty.”

“Why?”

“Why are you still living with your family?” He turned the tables on her, hoping to deflect some of her curiosity. And he really wanted to know more about her. Her divorce and why she couldn’t wait to break into a museum and ruin her reputation in pursuit of something she may not ever be able to share with the rest of the art community.

“This isn’t about me,” she said, refusing to take the bait.

“I think it is. Something is propelling you to this end, and I’m concerned about what that something is.”

“Why, because it presents a threat?”

“Possibly.”

Jule pushed the water with a quick shove and slouched back into her seat, folding her arms across her torso in a very protective grip.

Who was she afraid of? Rom? Or something—someone else?

“Look. My endgame is simply this: I want to see those paintings before anyone else does. Now that I know others exist,” he tipped his head, acknowledging her contribution for getting him this far, “I need to examine them before you or anyone else has the opportunity to split them up. They may be relevant to my family.”