The Vendetta (14 page)

Lisa pressed a hand to her mouth, willing herself not to collapse like a used Kleenex.

“Ms. Schumacher. Lisa.”

Rafaela’s quiet voice beside her brought Lisa back to herself. She stared into the lawyer’s calm blue eyes.

Rafaela gestured to a chair. “Please sit down for a moment. I have a few more things to tell you that may help your decision.”

Lisa hesitated but then gathered herself and took a seat. Rafaela sat in the chair opposite.

“As the principessa’s lawyer, I would advise you to take as much time as you can to make this decision.” Amusement touched Rafaela’s expression. “As a woman, I would say you were right to send Niccolo away. You must decide for yourself, without him looming over you.”

Lisa sat up a little straighter in her chair. “Yes, exactly.”

“There is no requirement in the will for you two to remain married forever. The only specification Her Excellency made on that point was that you and Niccolo must marry within three days of the reading, and you must stay married for at least one year.”

Lisa nodded. “Thank you, that does help some.”

Rafaela patted Lisa’s hands, stood, and started to gather her papers.

Lisa knew she would need every minute of the twenty-four hours she’d demanded from Nick to make her decision. But even then, it would not be enough time. There was only enough time now to wage a short battle between her gut reaction and the weight of her family responsibilities. And that was a problem, because family and obligation were going to force her to stay even while her poor, vulnerable heart whispered—
run
.

Chapter Nine

Lisa sat in Piazza Navona on a low stone bench, staring at the elaborate facade of the cathedral of Saint Agnes in Agony. She was full of fidgets and foot taps as she waited for Peter Van Alstrand. She had rechecked his note at least ten times since she had found this spot. The note had specified this time and place. But knowing Nick’s suspicions about her grandmother’s curator, she was grateful that their meeting would take place in a public venue.

Taking a deep breath, she turned her face to the sun as it began to set between the buildings at the far end of the oblong piazza. Dusk brought a special light to the ancient buildings, and also a lull in the constant tourist traffic.

“Ms. Schumacher?”

She jumped to her feet. “Mr. Van Alstrand.”

“Please, shall we sit for a moment? Can I offer you a coffee?” He gestured to a café facing the church.

They seated themselves in bistro chairs at a demitable near the doorway, where the enticing aroma of coffee and pastries mingled in the air. After they’d exchanged a few pleasantries about the square and its history, he said, “My dear, may I ask if you have decided what you are going to do? Is there some difficulty that I may help you resolve?”

Lisa hesitated. The curator’s body language was stiff and formal, but his words came across as sincere and sympathetic.

“After all,” Van Alstrand continued, “your grandmother entrusted her collection to my care. We worked closely together for over a year. She was a treasure that will not soon be replaced in the art world.”

Lisa nodded, quick tears pricking her eyelids. She looked back at the cathedral and drew a deep breath.

“Mr. Van Alstrand, I need to know about the purchase of the Old Master painting that Gran willed to Nick Carnavale.”

The wind blew a strand of hair across her face, and she reached up to tuck it back behind her ear. Van Alstrand stared at her for a moment.

“Well, Ms. Schumacher, I am afraid that is the one area where I cannot assist you.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Why not?”

He pushed his cup back and steepled his long, skeletal fingers in front of his chin. “Your grandmother was very private about the handling of that painting and its documentation. I’m not sure you have the background to understand the particulars of the transaction and the painting itself. I don’t mean to be insulting, but a full explanation would require an education you don’t possess.”

She narrowed her eyes. He was avoiding the question. More than that, he was patronizing her. She decided to cut the interview short.

“Why did you set up this appointment with me, Mr. Van Alstrand? Surely it was not just to express condolences.”

“No, I needed to warn you. About Signore Carnavale.”

“Warn me?” She tried to read his expression in the fading light, but his long face remained impassive.

“His influence on your grandmother was…unnatural. I have doubts about—”

Appalled, Lisa cut him off. “Mr. Van Alstrand, I know as much as I need to about Nick, and what I don’t know I will ask him myself.”

“Did you know about his mother? She is a reclusive artist. An American like yourself.”

Nick’s mother was American? “I appreciate your concern, but I have no wish to discuss Mr. Carnavale with you. I would, however, appreciate your continued assistance with the collection. The one decision I have made is that I am determined to go ahead with my grandmother’s plans to display the collection in a special gallery showing. The one to commemorate her seventy-fifth wedding anniversary.”

She dug briefly in her purse and handed him a piece of paper with her cell phone number. “I would like to meet with you early next week to discuss the pieces Gran had earmarked for the showing and the arrangements with the gallery. Shall we say eleven o’clock on Tuesday?”

He regarded the phone number and then slipped it in his pocket. “Very well, Ms. Schumacher. We will play this your way. I do not apologize for my forthrightness, however.” His eyes bored into hers but she held her ground. “Ask Signore Carnavale about his parents the next time you see him.”

She stood up from the table and put out her hand, all business now. “Thank you for the coffee. I will see you next week?”

Mr. Van Alstrand shook her hand slowly. His skin felt dry and papery. “Of course, Ms. Schumacher. And the pleasure was mine.”

Lisa turned and walked away past Bernini’s Four Rivers Fountain and on toward the Palazzo Pamphilj. She didn’t look back but she knew the whole time that Van Alstrand watched every step.

* * *

Aware that her self-imposed separation from Nick was almost over, Lisa set up their meeting at one of the famous picture galleries in Rome. After an hour or so of looking at paintings and sculpture, Lisa would be able to think again, would be able to breathe. Her meeting with Van Alstrand had made her angry, but the conversation with her grandmother’s curator had also made Lisa’s decision about the will easier. Now she just needed to tell Nick what she’d decided, if only her nerves didn’t get the best of her.

It was a testament to her current state of mind that she passed through the imposing Baroque facade of Palazzo Barberini and barely glanced at the marble relief in the foyer. Her shoes clacked on the white marble steps as she mounted the staircase to the grand salon. The room itself was a masterpiece, and there was no shortage of art here.

She sought the benches that ran down the center of the ornate room, as wide and as long as small beds, sporting thick, red velvet cushions. The arrangement had seemed odd to her when she’d first come here six years ago, until she’d looked up and caught sight of the fresco. Cortona’s tribute to the Barberini family sprawled in magnificent detail across the ceiling of the salon.

She lay down on a bench and waited for Nick, losing herself in the virtuoso depiction of art and architecture.

“This is an interesting place for a meeting, Lisa.”

Lisa flinched, but didn’t get up. Right now she much preferred looking up at the fresco to confronting the man Gran had decided she should marry. Lisa had made her decision but she was not yet ready to meet those quicksilver eyes.

“So, you got my message.” She stalled, tracing the elegant outline of Venus’s foot with her gaze.

“Lisa. I was worried about you.”

She looked at him then, but the dim lighting cast his face in silhouette against the bright colors of the ceiling. She looked back up at the fresco. “I am not a child, Nick,” she said. “Am I not allowed some time on my own?”

She heard him sigh, and he sat down beside her. She flicked him another glance. “Lie down and look at the ceiling with me, Nick.”

“I have seen Cortona’s fresco many times.”

“Lie down. You may see something you haven’t before.” She tilted her head toward him and sent him what she hoped was a challenging look. She didn’t think the ever-elegant Nick Carnavale would lounge on his back in a public place like a tourist. So she was stunned when he turned on the bench and lay back. His shoulder brushed against hers. The heat of his body warmed her along the length of her side. A jolt of pure lust stabbed her core, and she surreptitiously squeezed her thighs together.

“All right, piccola. Tell me what fascinates you about
The Glorification of the Reign of Urban VIII
.”

Nick’s proximity overwhelmed her all at once. He smelled spicy and tantalizing. His voice caressed her, and his soft hair mingled with her own long strands on the bench cushion.

“Well, I…I mean it’s in the detail and the…the…colors.”

Nick leaned up on one elbow and used his free hand to pull a strand of hair from her cheek. “Hmm…insightful.”

Lisa rolled her eyes. She would not let this man’s presence overpower her. Fortunately, she could recite Cortona’s importance to the art world in her sleep. She had written an entire thesis on the subject. She cleared her throat and concentrated on the painting.

“Pietro da Cortona argued that art’s appeal to the senses was a reason in itself for its existence. He connected art with epic poetry and his style—particularly this very fresco—influenced the decoration of great rooms of the upper classes of most of Europe into the eighteenth century. In fact, the grand salon in my grandmother’s palazzo has a Cortona-inspired fresco on the ceiling.”

Nick flashed a smile at her moment of erudition. “That’s very good.”

At his comment her head threatened to explode. Her brows snapped together in a ferocious frown. “Don’t patronize me. I warn you.”

His gaze, warm with amusement, swept from her chin to her hair, and then focused on her eyes. Her heart squeezed in her chest.

“I would never underestimate you, Lisa.”

She raised a hand to touch his smooth lean cheek. “I think I am going to have to marry you, Nick.”

She saw a small muscle in his jaw jump. Triumph blazed, quickly hidden by his long lashes.

“I know,” he said, and then he bent over and pressed his lips to hers.

* * *

Lisa stood at the window of her room in Nick’s villa.

Having decided that there would be a wedding, Nick had suggested his villa in Tuscany as a perfect venue for a quiet ceremony. They’d taken the coast road up to Lucca on his motorcycle. Lisa smiled, remembering her reluctance to get on the big road machine at first.

“Just try it, Lisa,” he’d said. “If you hate riding, I promise we’ll take the bike back to my place and get the car.”

She’d snorted in disbelief. “Let’s just skip the motorcycle part, and you can go get the car right now. I’ll wait right here.”

He’d grinned. “Come on. It’ll be fun. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

He’d been right—she’d loved the feeling of the wind in her hair, his warm body pressed against her, and her arms wrapped tightly around him as the scenery flew by.

She looked out at the villa’s garden, her eyes drawn to the magnificent hills beyond. The warm breeze carried the scent of juniper and olives, and the late afternoon light had a golden sheen to it. It surprised her that the rolling hills of Tuscany managed to maintain their ruggedness even while every inch succumbed to cultivation of some kind. The civilizing influence of generations blended with the landscape so well, an observer couldn’t tell which had more of an influence on the other—the land or the people.

“Do you like the view?”

Nick’s deep voice caused her to turn. He leaned casually on the doorframe, his arms folded across his chest. He still wore the T-shirt and jeans of the motorcycle ride, every soft fold clinging to sleek muscles in his thighs, belly, and biceps. A smile curved at the corner of her lips. Yes, indeed, she liked the view.

“I was just comparing you to the landscape.”

He stepped into the room. “Really, how?”

She took the two steps that brought her nearly in contact with him. “I was thinking you have a lot in common with the hills of Tuscany. You’re both rugged but smooth, a little dusty, and…”

She took the last step and twined her arms around his neck. He raised a brow, but she noticed that his hands slid around her waist to rest on her back.

“Beautiful,” she whispered.

Her mouth reached for his, and she delighted in the slight jolt of surprise she felt in him. Seduction could play both ways. She molded her mouth to his, tracing the curve of his lower lip with her tongue. He held still for a beat longer, however, and in that moment doubt crashed through her. What if—

His hands crushed her against the hard length of his body, vanquishing her fear of rejection. Their lips and tongues clashed in a battle for control, and when she felt the tremor in his body and the pounding of his heart, her own heart surged in her chest. She reached for the button on his jeans, only to feel his hands clamp down on her wrists.

She pulled her head back and frowned. “Don’t stop me again, Nick. I want this. I want you. Without wills or contracts or temporary agreements. I want to see what is between us.”

His eyes shut and his hands tightened. Then suddenly, he relaxed. His lids lifted to reveal amusement and banked heat. He moved his hands to cup them around her face.

“You’ve got this backward, you know, piccola. I believe the traditional order is wedding
then
wedding night.”

“I’m not really a traditional girl. Besides, there’s nothing traditional about this arrangement.”

“Well, maybe I’m a traditional guy.” He brushed her hair back, and his mouth lifted in a half smile. She reveled in the tenderness of his voice and hands.