I stepped off the bus at Piazzale Roma into the cold, wet, Venetian air. As a born and bred southerner, the humidity didn’t bother me, nor did the drizzle of rain. After all, New Orleans was a glorified swamp. However, wet weather with temperatures hovering a few degrees above freezing was an entirely different matter.
Suck it up, buttercup. There’s a few hundred million dollars waiting for you on the other end of this. The thought cleared away the jetlag and left me smiling.
A quick glance at my watch told me I had time to clean up, grab some food, and relax before my meeting with the Da Vinci expert. Since I’d be spending my night in the Floating City with Leonardo, my new best friend Frankie had insisted that I skip hotels and stay in private accommodations.
I pulled my jacket tighter, tucked my chin deeper into my scarf, and hiked my backpack higher on my shoulder. Leaving the crummy bus station, I crossed the bridge to the city center and my breath caught. I’d been to Venice before, but I doubted the views would ever get old.
Faded stucco, ornate balconies, uneven cobblestone…at first glance, the architecture reminded me of New Orleans—if the streets were canals and the cars boats. Even the smells of murky water, coffee, and seafood made me miss the French Quarter.
And my bed and my shower.
I navigated my way through a crowd of tourists and hopped on a vaporetto. The waterbus was exactly like the name implied—cheap, efficient, floating public transportation. And just like the busses back home, overcrowded.
Rather than fighting for a premium seat at the front or rear of the boat, I huddled near the exit and took in the passing scenery. As an antique dealer, I’d spent a fair amount of time in Italy, but I tended to avoid the overly touristy areas—including Venice. But I couldn’t help but wish I had more time to explore the maze of narrow walkways.
Then again, the City of Bridges was too damned romantic to explore alone. My mind drifted to Sophia. Truth be told, I hadn’t stopped thinking about her since our run-in at the Marchionni mansion. I’d screwed up, let my anger get the better of me, and I’d regretted the way I’d spoken to her—again.
What was it about her that had me acting like a stark-raving lunatic one minute and a love-sick teenager the next?
Stepping aside to allow the crowd to exit at San Marco Square, I pulled out my cell and fired off a text to the art authenticator. My phone dinged a few seconds later. It took some cutting and pasting into a translator app, but the gist of the message was clear.
Professore Boscolo had moved up the time of our meeting.
“So much for getting a nap and a shower.” I pulled up the GPS program and checked the address of my home away from home.
Thanks to Frankie’s detailed directions, I found the apartment with relative ease. I had to hand it to her—she’d chosen the perfect location. It was less than a five-minute walk from the vaporetto stop, close to restaurants and coffee shops, but far enough away from San Marco Square to be quiet.
I checked the instructions in Frankie’s email one last time, entered the code into a keypad on the gate, and dragged myself up two flights of stairs. The aroma of spices and fresh baked bread drifting from the neighbor’s apartment reminded me I hadn’t seen food since breakfast on the plane.
Since my appointment with the professor was earlier than planned, I’d have time to enjoy a traditional three-hour Italian dinner and maybe work in a little sightseeing before heading back to Louisiana in the morning.
I punched a second code into the keypad on the front door and walked inside. My breath hitched. The view outside the picture windows was nice, but the 18th century armoire in the living room was incredible. I dropped my backpack and ran my fingertips over the massive piece of furniture. I’d never come across one in such good shape. Standing in a building that had been built before the armoire, I closed my eyes and imagined the people who’d owned it. How they’d dressed, how the apartment would have looked, how they’d lived their lives.
I was a complete antique nerd. The beauty and the history of the pieces affected me the same way an expensive bottle of wine did others.
A crash echoed down the hall, followed by what sounded like someone scrambling to clean up.
My pulse ticked up a notch.
The likelihood I’d walked into the wrong apartment was next to zero, unless they used the same door codes. Figuring it was a housekeeper, I strode toward the back of the unit. “Hello? Who’s there?”
The shhhh of an aerosol was my only warning before a chemical mist blinded me. A split second later, something large smashed into my side. I had no idea what had hit me, but I found myself face-down on the terrazzo floor. My eyes stung, my spine ached, and heat radiated through my scalp—but it didn’t throb like a typical headwound. It felt more like my assailant had burned the side of my head.
Definitely not a housekeeper.
I drew my elbows close to my sides. Palms flat, I shoved off the floor while twisting my hips. My attacker lost their balance long enough for me to get a knee under my body and shove them off. My vision was still screwed up, but I caught a flash of dark hair and pink clothing.
She landed with a thud, a whoosh of air leaving their lungs, and a groan. “Porca puttana!”
Too stunned to make sense of what had happened, how I felt about it, or who to blame, I stared at the absolute last person I’d expected to see—Sophia Abruzzo.
She glanced at me and emotions spun across her face. Surprise, frustration, anger, fear, round and round they went. “Sorry. I didn’t know it was you.”
“Did you just call me a pig whore?” Stupid question, but it was the first thing that popped into my brain.
“Literally, yes. But it’s more like son of a bitch in America.” Sophia rolled to her back. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I could ask the same of you.” I sat on my heels and wiped my face with the hem of my shirt. “Christ, did you try to blind me with deodorant?”
“Anything can be a weapon, but yes, I used what I had on hand.” She motioned in my direction. “You’re…going to need some help with that?”
“With what?” The side of my head, where she’d burned me, stung like crazy. It felt as though something was hanging from my hair. My first thought was that she’d cut me and a flap of scalp hung loose, but that didn’t make sense. I wasn’t bleeding. I reached up to touch it.
“No! Wait!” Sophia grabbed my wrist. “Don’t pull it.”
I jerked away from her and pain stole my breath.
She frowned. “I told you not to pull it.”
Narrowing my eyes, I used my free hand to investigate the wound. My fingers brushed against an object. It definitely wasn’t flesh. Whatever it was felt wooden and flat. “What the hell is that?”
“I…um…” She glanced down at a narrow strip of gauze stuck to her calf. “Sorry?”
Holding the thing in place, I pushed to my feet and stormed into the bathroom. It took my jet-lagged, and freaked-the-hell-out brain a few seconds to understand what I was looking at.
An extra-large popsicle stick dangled from the side of my head.
Sophia stood in the doorway. “I was hot waxing my legs. They don’t sell this brand in the States.”
“Are you fucking serious?” I couldn’t believe her. “You thought this would take someone down?”
She shrugged. “I was aiming for your eyes. Lucky for you, I missed.”
“Yeah, lucky me. I should empty my life savings and buy lottery tickets.” I leaned closer to the mirror, braced my scalp with one hand, and tugged with the other. I saw stars.
“Stop messing with it or you’ll have a bald spot.” She moved closer and reached for the stick. “Let me help you.”
I sidestepped her. “No. You’ve done enough. Why are you in my apartment?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Your apartment? I’m here on an assignment.”
“And I’m here on business.” Picking at the now-cold wax, I said, “Your sister booked this place for me. Call her.”
“Business having to do with an expensive painting?” Her voice thinned.
The pieces of the puzzle created one hell of a disastrous picture. I was going to murder Dante Marchionni. Better yet, I was going to sell the painting and pay someone to take him out.
Still holding the stick in place, I glared. “Let me guess, you’re here to play bodyguard?”
“Play?” She planted her hands on her hips. “I don’t play. My job is to provide close personal protection, or in this case, to protect a painting.”
“Call Frankie. Tell her I no longer need a bodyguard and leave.” Still half-blind from the deodorant turned pepper-spray, I couldn’t be sure, but I suspected she’d rolled her eyes.
She huffed out a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. There isn’t time to get someone else, and you need protection.”
“Protection from you maybe.” Muttering under my breath, I leaned closer to the mirror and tried to get the wax out of my hair. It didn’t work. “Why did you attack me?”
“I thought you were…” She glanced away, drew a breath, and met my gaze in the mirror. “Jack, please. You need help and I need this job.”
Between her desperate tone and her wide brown eyes, my knee-jerk reaction was to tell her to stay. I’d always been a sucker for a damsel in distress. However, I had a hard time picturing Sophia locked in a tower or tied to railroad tracks. The woman could take care of herself.
“I’ll be fine on my own.” I ignored the way she bit her lip and the slight slump of her shoulders and the dip of her chin. I certainly didn’t notice the contrast of her dark skin against the straps of her pink tank top or her long legs in the little pajama shorts.
She rested her hand on my shoulder. “Surely, we can get along for twenty-four hours.”
Something she’d said earlier bugged me—a couple of things actually. “Frankie and Dante didn’t tell you who you were meeting?”
“No. They sent me here to pick up a painting and bring it back to the States.” She folded her arms. “It seems they played us.”
“It appears that way.” I doubted they were the only ones in on the gag. The situation had Shanna written all over it. In fact, she’d acted strange when I mentioned Dante was sending an Italian speaking bodyguard. Not to mention her misguided belief that I had feelings for Sophia.
“We could beat them at their own game.” She flashed me a wicked smile. “They obviously want to get a reaction out of us. I say we don’t give them the satisfaction.”
A non-reaction would likely put an end to the matchmaking, or whatever the hell my friends and her family were up to. But I hated the idea of relying on a woman who could drive me to violence one minute and harden my cock the next.
I needed answers, and the damned popsicle stick out of my hair, before I could agree. Turning back to the mirror, I tried in vain to loosen the wax. “Who did you think I was?”
“What?” She might have played dumb, but I caught the fear in her voice.
“Earlier, you started to say you thought I was someone else. Who did you think had broken into the apartment?”
“My former husband.”
I whipped my head in her direction. Big mistake. The wooden stick swung and wacked me in the eye. “The crime boss?”
“That’s the one.” Sophia curled in on herself. Arms wrapped tight around her middle, she turned for the door.
Damn it all to hell.
Enzo and Shanna had told me about the piece of shit she’d been forced to marry. Miguel Salvo had been responsible for the bruises on her face the night we’d first met. If she’d thought I was him, I understood why she’d attacked me, but I couldn’t wrap my brain around why she’d come to Italy in the first place.
So much for not seeing her as a damsel in distress. I lifted her chin until she met my gaze. “This job means that much to you? You’d risk your safety coming here?”
“Yes.” Her gaze drifted to my lips. She seemed to catch herself staring and shifted her attention to the ridiculous popsicle stick. “Let me help you.”
I was tempted to rip it off but took a step back and sat on the toilet lid. “Fine, but hurry. I’m late for my meeting.”
“A little heat should soften things up.” She grabbed a hand towel and the blow-dryer. “But I was talking about helping you get the painting home.”
“You’re right. It’s a day. What can go wrong?” Allowing her to do her job was the least I could do after the way I’d treated her at the mansion. However, when she leaned in and put her breasts in my line of vision, I saw exactly what could go wrong.
“Tell me if it gets too hot.” She pointed the blow-dryer at the wax, flipped it on, and about killed me.
Struggling to stay still, I fought the urge to bolt. “Just rip it off. I need to get to my appointment.”
“At least let me get the spatula out.” Sophia cupped my cheek and repositioned my head.
The gesture felt intimate. More intimate than the fact her tits were in my face and her leg was between mine. One glance at her parted lips, and I had the sudden urge to pull her into my lap and kiss her until I forgot why I despised her.
She must have felt the same because she leaned even closer.
I shot to my feet.
The abrupt change in position sent her off balance. She stumbled backward and took the popsicle stick with her.
I broke out in a cold sweat. A split second later, pain tore through my entire scalp. I’d taken a bullet in Afghanistan—and it felt as if I’d taken another one.
Sophia glanced from me to the dark curls stuck to the wax coated stick. “Oh my God. I’m sorry.”
“I can handle it from here. Get dressed.” I closed my eyes, took a long slow breath, and stared into the mirror.
A bald spot, roughly the size of a robin’s egg, stared back at me.
