Forbidden Kiss (3 page)

Chapter Four

Rom wasn’t going to see what the night brought. He was going to find Casale’s daughter a cab and get on with life.

“I’ll walk you to Grand Avenue and you can catch a taxi there.” He set out towards Grand, cramming his hands into his pockets in an appearance of cold. Shortly, he heard her footsteps fall in with his.

They walked together through the night, cars passing swiftly on the street. Several minutes passed before Rom realized Jule was the first woman he’d been able to share silence with in a long time. Comfortable silence.

He didn’t want a companion. So he started talking.

“How did you come across the Anonymous?”

Jule appeared on his right, tight against the buildings. She curled into herself, fighting the cold wind.

“It was donated after one of the directors died,” she said, her former anger gone in the chill.

“And he had just the one?” Rom had suspected for some time the painting hanging in his bedroom was a message meant specifically for him. He’d never considered before tonight there could be more.

Obviously, he’d underestimated Lawrence and the monk’s fatal obsession of making amends.

“As far as I know,” she sounded unsure.

Rom rounded a street corner and saw Grand at the next intersection.

“They could be a series of panels from a dowry chest, an Altar or even murals from a residence. That would make sense from the period,” she thought out loud. “But I’m still curious about the significance of the sword. You say it was a common dress sword of the time, but why is it featured so prominently in each of the two paintings?”

“Fighting was a way of life. Vendettas were as common as marriages. Men who went unarmed were either foolish or too poor to afford weaponry.”

“Doesn’t sound like much has changed since then,” Jule replied.

“Dueling was respected as a means to solve the unsolvable and increase—or threaten as sometimes happened—a man’s reputation,” Rom said.

Unless your family engaged in the practice one too many times and caught the unfavorable attention of the Prince. Then all hell broke loose. And people—many people—died.

Approaching Grand, Rom hailed the first taxi he saw and turned to Jule for her address.

“555 Little Italy,” she said, pulling her scarf tighter.

Her father’s house. The place she didn’t want to go. A plan took hold in his mind. Rom seized the opportunity to see Jule’s painting and confront Casale where he was most vulnerable. Where he lived.

He prodded her for more information. “Will someone be expecting you? Should I ask the cab to park until you’re safely inside?”

“My parents will be home. They’re, ah, waiting for me I’m sure,” and here she paused for the first time all evening, stumbling for an explanation.

Rom watched the cab turn the corner to make the block and come back up the one-way street. He had maybe thirty seconds to convince Casale’s daughter it was a good idea he accompany her home. To her home office. Under the guise of discussing the anonymous painter further.

“You said the painting is at the Art Institute?” he asked, knowing full well they couldn’t gain access to the museum this late.

She watched the street, her arms fitted close to her sides and her feet softly stomping. “Uh huh. In the work room where we do restoration.”

“Could we go and see it? Now?” He got her attention with that one. She glanced back at him over her shoulder, her brows drawn together.

“Is there something you’ve remembered?” She swiveled to face him.

“The pictures you showed me were not of the complete painting. I need to see the whole thing.” He knew full well researchers like her kept working copies.

“No, just the portion with the sword.” She looked down at her feet, and then back up into his eyes, deciding in quick order to give him exactly what he wanted—an invitation to her home office.

He almost regretted leading her.

“I have more photos at home in my office. There are some large blow ups of the Anonymous if you care to see it tonight.”

Rom saw the taxi approaching in his peripheral vision.

“I would.”

When they were both seated side by side in the back of the cab, Rom spoke first, distracting himself from her body heat and the press of her thigh along his.

“Why all the urgency over these paintings?”

She fussed with the strap on her bag. “As a dealer who works with the big auction houses, you surely understand the cutthroat nature of the art world?”

He nodded.

“Well, how do you think people move up, advance in such an environment?”

“By making a name for themselves and reputation,” he offered.

“The same is true for the galleries and museums. The competition is tough and if I could bring together a previously unknown collection by an unknown Renaissance artist—”

“It would mean a big promotion,” Rom finished for her.

She looked out her window at passing traffic. Something else was on her mind. He let her struggle with it until she found the words.

“I feel I have to ask what you plan to do if you see my father tonight.” The faux leather of the cab seat squeaked under her shifting weight as she moved nervously. He immediately missed the comfort of her body heat.

“I don’t have any immediate intentions, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She swallowed. “I’ve only just moved back in with them after a rather, uh, trying divorce. Normally our problems wouldn’t be so, er, intertwined.”

Not what he expected her to say. Divorced? Hmmm. He wouldn’t have guessed she’d ever been married. The woman had tenacity. Strength. Resolve. But with a vulnerable core. A spirit like hers deserved to be adored, protected and nurtured.

He turned to look through the window. The northern fringes of Greektown passed outside.

The cab dropped them off at the steps of a three-story brick rowhouse. Lights blazed behind the arched, curtained windows on the street level, shadows moving within.

The house resembled many in the Mid North district with elaborate facades full of wide windows and gabled roofs, all courtesy of the fashionable Italianate style of the late ninteenth century.

Rom paid the driver while Jule fumbled in her bag for change.

“Keep it,” he said when she offered it.

Fortunately, she’d also found her keys in the bottomless bag and within seconds, they were standing in the tiled foyer of Edmondo Casale’s house.

An antique hall tree with an inset mirror stood sentry inside the foyer, reflecting the party within. Casale stood with his back to the door, pouring drinks from a crystal decanter on a sideboard. An older woman, faintly resembling Jule, sat primly on the edge of brocaded wingback chair talking to a third party out of view.

He spared a glance for Jule. In the process of shucking her raincoat, she paused and gave him an encouraging smile—as if he needed it.

“Come on,” she said in little more than a whisper, waving him up the stairs after she exchanged her boots for flat slippers. “We’ll leave them to their business.”

“Jule, dear. Is that you?” A maternal voice hailed them from the formal den.

Jule paused on the stairs, her back ramrod straight. He thought he heard her curse under her breath. Stepping back and allowing her to pass back down, Rom followed Jule through the oak paneled double entry and into a sitting room. Not since his days as a mercenary had he felt the nerve-tingling feeling of walking into a lion’s den. Every muscle tensed in anticipation.

A fire blazed cheerfully in a corner hearth and low music drifted from a stereo hidden in a Birdseye maple cabinet.

“Hi, Pop,” Jule called to her father. “Evening, Mom.”

Casale turned from the sideboard, both hands wrapped around lowball glasses. He took in Jule with an eyebrow raising look that said, “Where have you been?”

“We were expecting you hours ago,” he admonished.

His gaze traveled up the man standing next to his daughter—the reason for her tardiness.

The smirk of paternal indulgence slipped off his face, replaced by complete shock.

…

Rom heard the sharp hiss of indrawn breath as Casale sucked in oxygen. Nobody could fake shock that genuine, so in an instant, Rom had his answer.

Neither Casale or his daughter sought to play him tonight.

Sensing the presence of another person in the room, he turned to find Pio Mascaro. Chicago’s most notorious lawyer. Mascaro had made a famed career of working both sides of the fence; in his youth as a gangster and shylock, but now as a man about to drop into the back side of middle age, he spent his time before the judge as a prominent attorney. A very good attorney who made a helluva lot of money.

“Mascaro.” Rom nodded. Considering the situation, pretending he didn’t know Mascaro and Casale were business partners on the real estate scam would be ridiculous.

Mascaro didn’t appear surprised to see him. He looked at home in the middle of what surely was Casale’s worst nightmare: having the daughter bring home the target of a real estate scheme and felony crime.

Lounging gracefully in pinstriped dress slacks and a crisp white button-down, Mascaro reclined further on the formal couch, coolly throwing his arm over the back of the settee as if settling in for a long show.

“Montgomery. What an unexpected…pleasure.” In a word, Mascaro infused the room with his own brand of twisted anticipation.

“The pleasure is truly mine.” And it was, for a moment. But a more interesting quarry stepped into view and Mascaro’s attention diverted elsewhere.

Jule.

Mascaro looked at Jule like a man who wanted a woman badly, but couldn’t have her. His eyes lingered possessively on her mouth and breasts, making Rom want to play the role of protector and punch the son of a bitch in the face.

“I guess I don’t need to introduce everybody,” Jule said, forcing attention from the awkward standoff. She affected a lightness, which Rom knew from standing beside her she didn’t feel. Her body vibrated with tension.

She’d noticed Mascaro’s leering.

“Tell me how you met the famously reclusive Rom Montgomery,” Mascaro demanded in a politely inquisitive tone, pinning Jule with his interrogator’s gaze.

Rom watched Jule fold further into herself, withdrawing from the people in the room. She’d been outgoing and unflappable despite the panic attack earlier in his gallery, but here in the warm and familiar environment of her own home, she withdrew like a flower folding its petals for the night.

He didn’t care for the effect the environment had on Jule.

“He’s helping me with a painting I’ve been researching, Uncle Pio. The one I told you about, Pop.” She avoided Mascaro in favor of her father. “The one with the Piazza scene and the duel.”

Casale still couldn’t find his voice. Probably because his balls were lodged in his throat.

Rom wanted to rattle his brain until he treated his daughter with the attention and love she deserved, but he kept his hands clenched at his side. Making a scene here wouldn’t benefit him and only serve to hurt Jule.

With all eyes on Casale, Pio appraised her body with a blatant disrespect her father should address, but didn’t. Casale allowed the lawyer the liberty while Mrs. Casale occupied herself with refilling the ice bucket.

A scenario began to form in Rom’s mind. And he goddamn didn’t like it.

He laid a hand at the small of Jule’s back, curling the tips of his fingers around her waist in a possessive gesture. Mascaro followed the movement with his eyes, his brows drawing down into a darkening scowl.

Jule shot Rom a look of surprise over her shoulder. She didn’t, however, pull away and offered an unexpected and genuine smile.

Rom smiled back rather foolishly, caught up in the relief radiating from her body.

Mrs. Casale finally had the good grace to dispel some of the tension. “Mr. Montgomery, welcome. I’m Claudina Casale,” she said, offering him a place to sit across from Mascaro. “Can my husband get you something to drink?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Jule. Sit beside me for a minute and tell me about this painting,” Mascaro said, nodding to the empty space on the settee beside him.

Rom gave Jule’s waist another squeeze, pulling her closer, her hip coming to rest against his thigh.

Did he feel a tremor?

“I’d love nothing more, Uncle Pio. But Mr. Montgomery doesn’t have much time and we need to go over some images in my office.”

Good girl.

“Please, won’t you have at least one drink?” Mrs. Casale asked, plainly feeling her hostess duties in question.

Rom shook his head. “I can’t stay long.”

“Pop? You okay?” Jule waved, getting her father’s attention at last.

Casale seemed to come around. He drained the alcohol from one glass and started on the other before he remembered himself.

“I’m fine,” he rasped between gulps. “We won’t keep you.” He pointed to the stairs and shuffled back to the sideboard to refill the glasses.

Rom bent until his lips teased Jule’s ear. “Let’s go.”

He meant for the intimate gesture to spur Jule into action and to infuriate Mascaro. It did both.

Mascaro tensed so subtly, if Rom weren’t watching for it, he would have missed it. Jule headed for the stairs and he followed. Keeping an eye to the open room, he saw Mascaro stand, following them into the entry.

Gripping the newel post, Rom paused after Jule was well ahead. Mascaro joined him at the bottom of the stairs.

“She’s not for you, Montgomery,” Masacro began in a condescending tone.

“And you’re her father’s idea of the perfect man?” he threw back, wanting nothing more than to knock the bastard’s teeth out.

Mascaro smiled, the confidence of a man with a purpose lighting his eyes. “She’s spoken for and forbidden to you. Her brothers are quite protective and sensitive to the family’s lack of money.”

“Why haven’t they thrown your ass in the Chicago River then?”

“Paying for the service in advance has its privileges,” Mascaro said.

Rom squeezed the railing until the wood creaked. The son of a bitch had a warped sense of propriety and Jule was the unfortunate victim. But forbidden? It was reminiscent of another time and another woman, long ago.