Revenge (30 page)

He shrugged and moved away from her, propping
himself up on his elbow. “As you wish. I cannot help it.” His eyes
lingered on hers, then slid down to trace the curves of her body.
“
Bellisima
,
so bellisima
.”

She started to smile, then suppressed it.
“Aren’t you still intent on forcing me to go to Capri?”

He grinned. “I am.”

“Then you’d better get in the shower.” She
lay back on the bed and watched him walk across the room, the hard,
muscled beauty of his form making her breath catch and her sex go
wet. She wanted him even now, damn her. When was she going to
learn? Enrico Lucchesi was bad news in a sexy package. That was
all. He was not the man of her dreams, he was not the man who was
going to make her happy. She had to keep telling herself that until
it sunk in.

Making love with him yesterday had been a
mistake. A delicious mistake, but a mistake nevertheless. Whatever
she did, she wasn’t going down that road again. That road led
somewhere she couldn’t go.

Humming to himself while Kate was in the
shower, Enrico quickly shaved and brushed his teeth, then dressed
in the clothes he’d pulled out the night before. He picked up the
gun from the nightstand. Capri was generally safe, jet-set hotspot
that it was, but you never knew. His father always said that the
man who was prepared for anything had the advantage over the fool
who trusted in luck.

He checked again that the clip was fully
loaded, then put the gun in his jacket pocket. Was it fair of him
to expose Kate to this life? Could he really continue to put her
selfishly at risk? He scrubbed a hand across his face.
Madonna
. He didn’t see how he could continue to endanger
her—and yet, he couldn’t see how he could let her go.

The shower shut off, then Kate stepped out
and started drying herself. He walked over and leaned against the
doorjamb, his eyes drinking her in. When she noticed him, roses
bloomed in her cheeks. “Stop staring,” she said, turning half away
from him.

“I love the rear view too, you know.”

Her cheeks bunched up with a smile, but her
eyes stayed on her legs. He stepped closer to her and tugged at the
towel. “Let me.” She resisted for a second, then let go.

He rubbed the towel over her shoulders,
tossing the dark red sheaf of her wet hair to one side. He dried
her back, the planes of her shoulder blades, the curves of her
buttocks, then turned her around and brushed the plush white cloth
over her breasts and belly, his touch teasing, lingering. He loved
this moment with her, the intimacy of it, her trust in him a
welcome contrast to the wildness he’d woken up to. He hoped she’d
let him in again. He hoped she could find it in her heart to
forgive him. He hoped she’d someday tell him she loved him.

But if he was going to earn her trust, her
forgiveness, her love, he was going to have to trust in her, wasn’t
he? He was going to have to tell her everything. And soon. Or he
was going to have to let her go.

Kate looked at Enrico as he gazed upon her
body. She felt an upwelling of warmth at his tenderness, the
reverence with which he touched her.

“I’m sorry, Rico. For doubting you.”

He looked away from his task, meeting her
eyes. “You had every right.” Wrapping the towel around her
shoulders, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “I am asking
a lot of you.” He looked down at his feet. “Sometimes I think I
should
put you on a plane. Send you some place far from
here. Some place safe.”

Fear knifed through her gut. It must have
shown on her face, because he said, “I will make sure you are safe,
so if you want to go home, you can.”

Kate wasn’t sure what to say. She still
didn’t know what she wanted. Him, or home? She finally settled on
“Thank you,” trying to imbue the words with gratitude, hoping he
could hear it, that he would understand what she was trying to
say.

He looked at her, tension rising between
them. He opened his mouth, looking like he was going to ask a
question. Then his face changed and he said, “The plane is waiting
for us.”

Kate nodded and shooed him out of her way.
She ran a comb through her hair, deciding to let it air dry, then
pulled on some clothes and brushed her teeth.

Enrico started out the door with their bags,
then he turned around and came back in. “What if we drove back? It
will take a few extra days, but I would love to show you the coast.
I can have someone bring the Maserati down to us.”

She smiled. “I’d love it.” Might as well see
as much of Italy as she could. While she was still here. “But you
have to bring that bag back over here then. I’ll need some more
clothes.”

He shook his head. “I am buying you a new
wardrobe, remember?” His eyes flickered up and down her body, a
grin spreading across his face. “You will love the stores in
Capri.”

She picked up her purse and walked over to
him, her smile slow and teasing. “Will I now?”

“Oh yes.” He leaned down to kiss her, his
lips lingering on hers. “And I am going to love buying you
everything.”

“Everything, huh? Then I’m going to need more
luggage too.”

“As you wish,
mia cara
.”

Kate tried not to feel guilty when she heard
the endearment. She wasn’t leading him on if she wasn’t sure, was
she?

Franco Trucco had always prided himself on
his discretion. It was what made him the ideal accountant. And
being the
contabile
for the Lucchesi
cosca
, as his
father had been before him, was a great honor. The
contabile
was a man of respect, third in charge after the
capo di
società
and the don himself. In his role, Franco kept track of
and dispersed the
cosca’s
funds to the men on the payroll.
He also had the don’s ear, so being friends with Franco had certain
benefits. He never lacked for friends.

However, Franco prided himself on being a
humble, modest man. Certainly, he was a man of means. But he was
not king, and he didn’t aspire to be so. Only a fool would want the
crown, and the danger that came with it. It was so much better to
be near the top than actually there. He had nearly as much
influence with much less risk. And that was important. He’d seen
what Carlo Andretti had done to Don Rinaldo’s family.

So Franco had done his work quietly and with
pride, enjoying his position and the fruits that came along with
it. And he had loved Don Rinaldo and Don Enrico. Truly they were
princes among men. When Don Rinaldo stepped down after his heart
attack, Franco vowed to advise Don Enrico well and to serve him
with all the discretion the Trucco family had always rendered. At
the time, Franco had thought nothing could ever change how he
felt.

But he’d been wrong.

As always, the end had come because of a
woman. But not just any woman. Franco’s daughter, Fiammetta. His
youngest, and the smartest and most beautiful of his three
daughters. Franco kept it to himself, but Fiammetta had been his
favorite. He’d secretly delighted in her impertinence, her quick
wit, her penchant for misbehaving. She’d done all the things Franco
would have liked to have done, and had she been a son, he could
have openly relished her behavior, instead of censuring it in
public but winking at her in private and letting her off with a
kiss. She’d kept the secret of his favor. It had been better for
them both that way.

After Don Enrico’s wife Antonella had died,
an idea had come to Franco. The don needed a wife, and Fiammetta
had needed a husband. Franco had seen how Don Enrico had rebuffed
all the eligible girls presented to him; a direct approach would
not work. Care—discretion—had been needed, as always. So when the
don’s assistant had moved into another position within the
cosca
, Franco had seen his opportunity. He’d had Fiammetta
installed as Don Enrico’s secretary within days. He’d whispered not
a word of what he’d hoped for to Fiammetta. Despite their bond,
she’d been headstrong enough to foil his plans. So he’d prayed to
the Virgin and hoped.

The Virgin had answered his prayers. Franco
had known it when one day Don Enrico’s and Fiammetta’s eyes had
kept locking together, then sliding guiltily away during a meeting.
The way Fiammetta had flipped her hair out of her eyes when she’d
known the don was looking, the way she’d shifted in her seat and
licked her lips when she had been taking notes, the way Don
Enrico’s eyes had tracked her movements like a cat eyeing its next
meal—Franco had known what all these signs meant. He’d rejoiced in
his heart. His status would increase; his family would be elevated
further once they’d married into the Lucchesi family. His grandsons
would be
capi
, would head the
cosca
.

But nothing had turned out as Franco had
hoped. Instead, his daughter, the light of his heart, was dead. And
the way Don Enrico could no longer meet his eyes meant he was
responsible, even though his blood-alcohol test results had been
lost, even though there was no proof, no admission of guilt from
the don. Franco knew. Don Enrico was guilty. But how could he
avenge his daughter?

Franco had long known about the unusual
payments first Don Rinaldo, then Don Enrico had been making to
Edmund Tyrell, their attorney in England. What he didn’t know was
why, as he’d told Vincenzo Andretti. Now it was time to
investigate. Time to unearth the worms beneath the dirt.

Franco’s arduous review of the books revealed
that the payments had gone out to Tyrell every month at the same
time for twenty-two years, before stopping five years ago. But
these payments weren’t the attorney’s usual retainer. That was a
separate payment. This one was marked Personal, meaning it was to
be counted against the don’s compensation.

Calling Tyrell and inquiring about the
payments would of course be fruitless. The man was as tight-lipped
as any man of honor. And making such a call would tip off Don
Enrico to his inquiry. There had to be another way to find the
truth.

Franco puzzled over this matter for days. The
answer came while Franco was staring at another series of unusual
payments to Tyrell. These payments started nine years ago and
stopped after four years. They were also marked Personal, but with
a second notation, “C.U.,” and were for varying amounts. Since the
amounts weren’t round numbers, they must be payments for something
specific.

What could “C.U.” mean? Franco racked his
mind for names of associates with those initials, names of
businesses, names of places. But nothing came to mind. Because both
series of payments stopped five years ago, the payments to the
mysterious “C.U.” in the spring and the others at the end of the
same year, the timing suggested these payments were somehow
linked.

Taking another tack, Franco dug into Don
Enrico’s trips to England. Perhaps something about his meetings
with Tyrell would yield him a clue. At first, he saw nothing. Then
he noticed a coincidence. About five years ago, Don Enrico had
traveled to England, visited Tyrell, and then made a side trip to
Cambridge in the summer, to attend the commencement ceremony for
the son of a business contact in London. “C.U.”—could that mean
Cambridge University? Franco’s spine tingled. Four years of
payments could indicate that Don Enrico had financed someone’s
degree. But who? And why?

A phone call to the university, during which
Franco posed as a government auditor looking into Edmund Tyrell’s
books, elicited the answer to the first question. The payment was
for tuition, on behalf of Mr. Nicholas Reginald Clarkston.

Franco’s heart stopped beating for a moment.
Reginald. It was an alternate translation for Rinaldo. Could this
man be Don Rinaldo’s child?

An online search of Nicholas Clarkston’s
particulars made Franco’s pulse race. The payments to Tyrell
commenced the same month Clarkston was born. Judging by the date of
Clarkston’s birth, he was fathered while Don Enrico was at boarding
school in London.

Franco was not one to believe in
coincidences. Clarkston must be Don Enrico’s illegitimate son, not
Don Rinaldo’s. Traditionally, at least one of the middle names
given to a boy belonged to his grandfather. Thus, Reginald.

But he needed proof. He ordered a copy of
Nicholas Clarkston’s birth certificate. Since U.K. law dictated
that only a paper version of the certificate could be ordered, it
would take at least five days to arrive. Five long days, but then
he’d have proof, assuming the father’s name was listed. Proof Don
Enrico couldn’t refute or deny.

A further search for details about Nick
Clarkston yielded another interesting tidbit: Clarkston had
recently started to work at Interpol. Perhaps that too could work
in Franco’s favor. If he didn’t get his justice the way he
preferred, perhaps he could turn the son against the father.