Stay the Night (27 page)

The two smallest scarves she wound around her feet, and crisscrossed and tied the ends around her ankles like toe-shoe ribbons. She studied the results in the bathroom mirror; the outfit looked young, daring, and distinctly designer.

The other purses also yielded a makeup kit, mini spray bottles of Italian perfume, some gold earrings, necklaces, and bracelets, and a nice pile of currency.

Chris put on enough makeup and jewelry to make her look as chic as her impromptu ensemble and then went to deal with the security system.

The signorina had a relatively uncomplicated alarm system with electromagnetic sensors, the sort that would be triggered by anyone opening the door or windows. This might have defeated Chris but for two bits of luck. Due to the age of the building, the technician who had installed it had gotten creative with the wiring, running it in nooks and crannies around the door and windows to avoid drilling into the apartment's old masonry and plasterwork. That gave her easy access to what ordinarily might not be exposed.

Chris also had the advantage of having spent years studying different techniques used by burglars and thieves to bypass the exact same type of security system, used extensively in Europe by churches and modest-size museums. Because brownouts were common in most cities, she knew the system had a thirty-second signal delay programmed into it to allow for temporary power disruption.

Half a minute was all she needed to bypass the circuit.

She retrieved a sharp paring knife from the kitchen, some metal hair clips from the bathroom, and went to work. It took her ten minutes to strip the wiring she needed from two lamp cords and jury-rig a bypass circuit for the door. She then found the signorina's breaker box and killed the power to the front rooms, running to hook up the circuit before running back and switching the breakers back on.

She tested the results. Her bypass allowed her to open the door and close it without tripping the alarm.

Chris went to retrieve one of the signorina's purses, put two sharp, thin fillet knives from the kitchen inside it, and walked out into the hall. On the stairs she had to pass two tenants as she made her way down, but other than a sniff from the older woman and a grinning lecherous stare from her husband, they didn't speak to her or try to stop her.

Chris didn't see any taxis, but she remembered several that had been parked in front of a busy hotel that she and Robin had passed on their drive through the city from the airport. She walked three blocks down to it, but had to stop halfway to remove the scarves wrapping her feet, as they began to fray and come apart. Barefoot now, she adjusted the folds of silk over her breasts, exposing a little more cleavage before she walked up to the hotel entrance.

The porters, busy unloading suitcases from three different taxis, ignored her. That allowed her to pick up a man's trench coat that had been tossed on top of the suitcases on one of the carts before she climbed into the back of an unoccupied cab.

“Do you speak English?” Chris asked the driver. When he nodded, she said, “Take me to the American embassy, please.”

Chapter 14

A
t a public mooring in Venice, Robin docked the boat he had appropriated a short distance from the home of Pietro and Lucia Mariana, and went below to put on the garments he had borrowed from the costume shop. The brown suede tunic and trousers were well made, although he chuckled at the design of the clothing.

Modern mortals had no idea how much they romanticized the dress from his human lifetime. If he had run about Sherwood in such fine clothing he would have been arrested on sight.

From the pier Robin walked to the manor and went around to the back, pausing only to conceal his face behind a half mask of black and brown feathers before mounting the steps to the delivery entrance. The kitchen, filled with caterers and waiters, was such a hive of frantic activity that no one gave him a second look.

The theme of the party was Carnivale, and the Marianas had invited every young, rich Venetian to celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary. A small orchestra played in a balcony above the ballroom, which was decorated in green, gold, and sapphire. Several hundred guests danced, drank, and wandered down the extensive buffet.

The happy couple were holding court at one end of the room, but Robin was more interested in the lone wolves prowling the room.

When Salva had called and told him that Nottingham would be in Venice tonight to bring the manuscript to his buyer, Robin knew she lied, and that the two of them had set a trap for him. He didn't know why the contessa had sold him out to his old enemy, but he imagined it was to secure the manuscript. In one sense it was a relief; he could leave Chris safely in Rome while stealing the manuscript out from under Nottingham's nose. Once he had it, Robin knew the contessa would do whatever he wanted.

Robin picked up a trace of dark, hot licorice in the air, and began tracking it through the room. It led him out of the ball and to a cloakroom, where a dazed, smiling maid was hanging up a man's trench coat.

Nottingham's scent pooled here, indicating that he had recently used
l'attrait
in this spot for some purpose, but it was another, lighter, mortal fragrance clinging to the coat that made Robin's gut twist.

She couldn't have gotten out. She would have had to walk naked down the streets of Rome. She had no money or means to travel here
.

“Did a young lady with red hair give you that coat?” he asked the maid.

“Ah,
si
, Salome.” She nodded and smiled.

“Salome?”

“She wear beautiful dress made out of veils.” The maid waved her hand up and down. “All veils.”

Somehow Chris had found something to wear and
had
gotten out of the apartment, left Rome, and followed him to Venice—or someone had dressed her and taken her from it. Robin clenched his hand against the doorjamb, causing the wood to crack and splinter. “Was she with a man with black hair and eyes?”

“No, Signor, she came alone.” The maid gave him a dreamy look, her pupils widely dilated. “The lady, she had no mask, but a man gave me a very pretty ruby mask to take to her.” She frowned a little. “That man have black hair, black eyes.”

Robin turned and ran back to the ballroom.

 

Chris blessed the fact that the FBI had offices around the world, and that as an undercover agent she needed only a security pass code to use the resources of the branch office at the American embassy. She had been tempted to relate the truth of her situation to the agent in charge and let him and his staff take over, but the end result would be that the contessa would have Hutch killed. Also, she didn't think anyone would believe her story. Instead she settled for identification, money, a pair of shoes, maps, and a car, and drove down to Venice.

Now that Chris had finally found the private home where Robin had been heading, and searched the faces around her, her frustration mounted. How could she find a thief at a party where everyone was wearing masks?

At least he wouldn't recognize her, not wearing a dress made of scarves, and the black stiletto heels she had borrowed from the embassy secretary were two sizes too large, but they made her three inches taller. The elaborate mask the cloakroom attendant had brought to her covered her entire face from chin to hairline, and sparkled with hundreds of tiny faux rubies and garnets. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of the mirrored wall panels and flinched a little. From a distance the mask made her look as if her head were on fire.

Cool fingers skimmed over her shoulder. “May I have this dance, Signorina?” a rasping male voice whispered near her ear.

She turned to face a tall jester dressed in black, white, and silver. For a split second she thought it was Robin, but the hot eyes looking at her through the alabaster mask were black, not amethyst.

“No, thank you.” She smelled licorice-flavored liquor and hoped he hadn't drunk enough to become a pest. “I'm looking for a friend I'm supposed to meet here.”

“Wait.” He took her hand as she turned away. “We could amuse each other until this friend of yours arrives.”

Chris knew she'd look out of place if she kept refusing to dance, so she forced a smile. “Maybe we'll run into him out on the dance floor.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” He put an arm around her waist and guided her out through the whirling couples to the center of the room.

Chris mainly concentrated on not tripping in the loose stilettos, but she became distracted by her partner a few times. He moved as if the music had been composed for him, but at the same time she got the distinct impression that he was no more involved in the dance than she was. He didn't try to grope her, even when their bodies brushed, which also seemed at odds with the way he stared down at her. Then there were his hands. Although he wore black leather gloves, everywhere he touched her Chris felt her skin tighten, and more than once the sensation made her shiver.

“Are you a friend or a relative of our hosts?” she asked him.

“An old acquaintance of the family.” As a man nearby laughed, he turned his head toward the sound, pulling at the collar of his costume.

Chris saw a horizontal scar running across his throat and had to hide a wince. He must have had surgery on his throat; that would explain why his voice rasped the way it did.

Chris absently followed the jester's lead, moving automatically to the final movements of the boisterous Viennese waltz the musicians were playing overhead. She studied the shoulders, hair, and skin color of every man who passed by her. It wasn't until her partner twirled her around and tugged her up against his body that she realized the waltz had ended and everyone had slowed down to the throbbing, sensual strains of a bolero.

“I'd better go,” she said reluctantly. “I don't think my friend will be showing up.”

“I could perhaps serve as his substitute?”

Chris gave him a rueful smile. “My friends are not as nice as you, Mr. . . . ?”

“Guy.” He slid around her, hands encircling her waist, before he took her hands and raised her arms, bringing her face close to his. “You should take the opportunity to make new friends, Signorina.”

Chris saw a man dressed like a medieval huntsman moving toward them. From the width of the shoulders and the silken fall of his black hair, it was Robin. The set of his jaw under the feathered mask he wore indicated that he was not happy.

“Perhaps I should.” She smiled up into his black eyes before she spun away, tugging at his hand as she wove her way through the dancing couples.

Guy followed, occasionally catching her to bring her close or drop her in a brief dip before allowing her to lead. Chris kept an eye on the huntsman, who was now dancing with a giggling blond Aphrodite in a ridiculously short toga, and stayed out of his reach.

The bolero ended with Chris bent back over the jester's arm, her hands curled over his shoulders for balance. He brought her up slowly, bending at the same time until she turned her head and his mouth skimmed over her cheek.

Guy brought her upright, his gloved hand curling around her neck. “You are an excellent dancer, Signorina.”

“So are you.” Chris didn't expect him to pull her into a clinch, but he did, and she stiffened. “I think I'm finished dancing for the night.”

“Are you?” He pulled off her mask, caught her face between his big, black-gloved hands, and kissed her. Chris recoiled, but his lips slanted over hers and he tasted her thoroughly before he set her away from him. “Until we meet again, Agent Renshaw.”

The next thing she knew he disappeared into the crowd of couples on the dance floor.

Ungentle hands jerked her around to face the huntsman with the brown feathered mask. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question.” She tried to go after Guy, but Robin's grip brought her up short and, thanks to the borrowed shoes, she stumbled, off balance. When she righted herself, she said, “That man I was dancing with knew my name. He called himself ‘Guy.' ” She watched his face. “He's Paul Sherwood, or Nottingham, or whatever you call him, isn't he?”

“He is.” Robin put an arm around her.

“The contessa called you last night and told you to come to Venice,” Chris pointed out, “and he was waiting for you. If you haven't noticed yet, Robin, you're being set up.”

“I know,” he said, pushing her through the crowd, pausing to take a deep breath before changing direction and walking her toward the terrace. “You were supposed to stay in Rome. I don't want you caught in the middle between us. This is Kyn business.”

“What are you talking about? You
put
me in the middle of this.” She tapped his sternum with her finger. “You've illegally entered this country and stolen a Mercedes, an apartment, that costume you're wearing, and God only knows what else. You've caused a priceless work of art to be stolen and compromised a federal investigation, not to mention my job. But that doesn't matter, not if Hutch and the other hostages are killed over this thing. We're going to get the book and take it to the contessa and get Hutch freed. That's all I care about.”

Out on the terrace he stopped and put one hand on her throat. He didn't choke her, but he looked as if he wanted to. “Your
partner
is all that matters to you? Did we settle nothing between us last night?”

She gripped his wrist. “You left me locked up, naked, and helpless in a city where I don't even speak the language. How do you think that made me feel?”

“I wrote you a note,” he said, his upper lip curling a degree short of a sneer. “Was that not a sufficient measure to reassure you?”