Played (25 page)

Had the old woman recognized her and perhaps put in a call to the local police? Was that why the woman had fainted? Perhaps the Benedettis had been alerted that she and her father were suspected in the diamond theft—perhaps they’d been given photographs of both of them. Christina jumped to her feet, suddenly swamped with fear. Should she stay and see what was coming or run for her life?

J.T. waited in the upstairs hallway for Francesca, who had disappeared into a room a few minutes earlier. He hoped she would not come back with a negative answer. He wanted to speak to Vittorio Benedetti face-to-face. His instincts told him that it could be a very important meeting, and one that would hopefully put him on the trail to finding Marcus and Evan.

Francesca returned a moment later. “Signor Benedetti will see you,” she told him, motioning him inside. “But only for a few minutes. He is ill, you know. He must rest.”

The master bedroom was designed for a king with large, heavy, masculine furniture, a big chest of drawers, a thick carpet on the floor, paintings on the walls, and a sitting area in one corner of the room. Vittorio Benedetti was seated in a chair by the window. His casual clothes hung on his long, thin frame. His hair was white, and his face had the strong, angular planes of a haughty eagle. He might be sick, but he still had a commanding presence. For a moment J.T. almost felt as if he were in the presence of royalty.

Vittorio waved him forward with an impatient hand. “Francesca said you have information about the diamond.”

“Yes. My name is J. T. McIntyre. I’m a special agent with the FBI.” He extended his hand to Vittorio, who gave him a surprisingly strong handshake. He took a seat in the armchair across from Vittorio.

“What can you tell me about my diamond?” Vittorio asked. “That fool Murano says it was stolen right in front of his face.”

“That’s true,” J.T. admitted. “Did Mr. Murano also tell you that someone has been impersonating your son Stefano at the auction house? He is a well-known con artist who often goes by the name Evan Chadwick.”

Vittorio’s gaze sharpened. “That explains why Signor Murano kept telling me that Stefano was in San Francisco. I told him that Stefano was not in the States, but he insisted I was mistaken. He said he had seen identification, that the man he spoke to was the spitting image of my son, but it appears that Signor Murano was mistaken.”

“The disguise was very good,” J.T. said.

“And this con man has my diamond?”

J.T. cleared his throat. “No, actually, I don’t believe he does. It’s a complicated situation, but I believe the person who stole the diamond is here in Florence, and that it wasn’t greed that drove the theft, but rather a desire to put the stone back where it belongs.”

“Where it belongs?” Vittorio echoed in amazement, his thick brows drawing into a tight line. “It belongs to me. Who is this person of which you speak?”

J.T. hesitated, not sure he wanted to turn up the heat on Christina’s father, but he didn’t have time to mince words. Besides that, he suspected that Vittorio had already been completely briefed on Barclay’s list of suspects. “Marcus Alberti.”

Vittorio’s face turned to stone, and a white fury filled his eyes, but he didn’t appear surprised, just angry. “Marcus Alberti stole my diamond?”

“Yes, but you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Vittorio gave him a hard look. “How did he do it? How did he steal my stone?”

“It appears he had a copy made and was able to switch the real thing with the fake without anyone knowing.”

“Not even his daughter?” Vittorio asked sharply. J.T. would have preferred to omit Christina’s involvement in the matter, but apparently that wasn’t going to be possible. “Not even her. Do you know Mr. Alberti?”

“I have heard of him.”

“Really? I understand he spent some time here in Florence. Do you have any idea, if he were here, where he might be?”

Vittorio stared back at him for a long, tense minute. “No.”

J.T. didn’t believe him. He was lying. Why? Had the Benedettis stolen the diamond themselves? Had Marcus been telling the truth when he told Christina that the Benedettis had switched the diamond before it had ever gone to Barclay’s? Were they all on the wrong track?

He caught Vittorio watching him. The speculative look on the old man’s face suggested he was waiting for J.T. to say something or reveal something. What?

“Can you tell me anything about who owned the diamond before it came into your family?” J.T. asked, trying to find another way to get to the heart of the matter. “Mr. Alberti said something about putting the stone back where it belongs.”

“It belongs to me,” Vittorio repeated, not a hint of doubt in his voice.

“Well, let’s just say for argument’s sake that hundreds of years ago it was taken from somewhere. It’s my understanding that the diamond dates back to the fifteenth century. If that were the case, where else might it belong?”

“I cannot help you,” Vittorio said.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” J.T. paused. “I should warn you that I’m not the only one looking for the diamond. Besides law enforcement, the con man who originally intended to steal the stone is also after it. If there’s anything you can tell me to help me get to Marcus first, it would be better for all of us. This man, Evan Chadwick, already impersonated Stefano. That means he knew enough about your family to be able to get Stefano’s identification and to pass himself off as your son. He is dangerous and he is crazy. And he is not to be taken lightly.”

“Are you implying that Stefano is in trouble?”

“It’s possible.” J.T. felt it was important for Vittorio to realize the potential danger to his family.

“No,” Vittorio said with a negative shake of his head. He stared down at his clasped hands for a long moment. Then he lifted his gaze. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

J.T. was disappointed by his cool response. “You should try to contact Stefano. Sometimes when Evan steals an identity, people end up dead.” He got to his feet. “I’m staying at the Brunischelli Hotel in town. Call me if you feel inclined to talk.” He turned to leave.

“Wait,” Vittorio said in his imperious voice. He waved him back into the chair. “There is more I can tell you.”

The herbal tea was delicious. Christina took a sip of the hot brew and glanced across the table at the housekeeper, who had introduced herself as Maria. Once it had become clear to Christina that Maria had not called the police and that they were simply going to have tea, she had started to relax. Perhaps she could get some information out of the housekeeper before J.T. returned. Sometimes the hired help knew more about a family than anyone.

“This is very good,” she said.
“Grazie.”

Maria nodded. “What is your name?”

Christina opened her mouth to give the cover story she and J.T. had agreed upon, but the words didn’t want to come out. “Christina,” she said simply.

Maria lifted her teacup to her lips and took a drink.

“Have you worked for Signor Benedetti for a long time?” Christina queried.

“
Si.
For almost forty years.”

“You must know him very well. What’s he like?”

Shadows filled Maria’s eyes. “The signore is a hard man. He lost his heart a long time ago. He never found it again.”

Well, that was certainly a cryptic statement. Christina waited for Maria to explain, but she didn’t. Christina decided to change the subject. “What happened when you answered the door, Maria? Did we startle you? You seemed surprised to see us—actually me,” she corrected. “Why?”

“I…just felt dizzy,” she said with a flutter of her fingers. “Would you like a cookie?”

“No, thank you.” Christina frowned. “You said a name right before you fainted.
Isabella.
Isn’t that the name of Vittorio’s wife, the one who died a long time ago?”

Maria slowly nodded. “
Si.
She died many years ago. I was her childhood nurse. I was with her from the day she was born. I came to live here after she married, to help her raise her children. When she was gone, I had to do it without her. This house has never been the same. The life went out of it.” She gestured toward the garden. “This was her special place. I keep it for her—in her memory.”

That explained why the beautiful garden seemed so at odds with the air of cold grief that lingered in the house. However, Maria’s rambling did not explain why she had fainted when she’d seen Christina.

“What is your last name, Christina?”

Maria’s abrupt question made her nerves begin to tingle. “Why do you want to know? What’s going on?” Christina asked. “You wanted to talk to me alone, didn’t you? That’s why you sent J.T. upstairs without me.”

The housekeeper’s gaze didn’t waver. “What is your last name?”

Christina hesitated for a long moment, then said, “Alberti.”

A pulse jumped in Maria’s throat. Her hand shook as she set her cup down on the saucer so hard that some of the liquid spilled over the side.

“You know my name,” Christina said. “You know my father, don’t you? How do you know him?”

“I knew Marcus a long time ago,” Maria answered. “He was a young man then—a friend of Isabella’s.”

A shiver shot down Christina’s spine. Her father was a friend of Isabella’s, Vittorio’s wife? And Vittorio Benedetti had sent his collection to Barclay’s, where Christina just happened to work? That seemed an unlikely coincidence. What was the tie between Vittorio and her father?

“I’m actually trying to find my father,” she said. “I think he might have information about the diamond that Signor Benedetti sent to San Francisco to be sold at auction. Do you have any idea where my father might stay here in Florence?”

“He used to stay at his family’s farmhouse, a few miles outside of town. Perhaps you would find him there.” Maria let out a breath. “You don’t know, do you, Christina?”

“Know what?” she asked, chilled to the core by the ominous tone in Maria’s voice. “What don’t I know?”

16

J.T. waited for Vittorio to continue, but the man seemed to have lost his voice. Finally he said, “I spoke to Stefano this morning after I talked to Signor Murano. I alerted him to the fact that someone has been impersonating him. He will be back in a few days, but he is alive and well.”

“Good. I’m happy to hear that.”

“I am confused as to why you believe this con man would be a danger to me if he doesn’t have the diamond.”

“He’s looking for it,” J.T. replied. “And you would be one step on the path to finding it. If Evan believes he can find Marcus Alberti through you, he will. It wasn’t difficult for me to get into your house today. It would be even easier for him.”

“I will make arrangements to correct that,” Vittorio said.

J.T. nodded approvingly. “Now, will you please tell me what you know about the diamond, because I believe its history will ultimately provide the key to learning where it is now and to getting it back. I assume that’s what you want.”

“I don’t want the diamond back,” Vittorio said shortly, surprising J.T. “The stone is cursed. That’s why I chose to sell it.” He paused, and a grim smile crossed his lips. “I can see that you don’t believe in curses. I felt the same way for most of my life, but too many accidents, too many deaths, too many unexplained diseases have made me a believer.”

“I see. So you sent the cursed diamond to Barclay’s to be sold to some unsuspecting buyer.”

Vittorio shrugged. “What is that expression you use in America—‘Let the buyer beware’?”

“Right, let the buyer beware. Only, you’re not telling me the whole story.” J.T. paused, thinking about what he’d learned. “You know Marcus Alberti. And you’ve heard of his daughter, Christina. You knew she worked at Barclay’s. Was this a setup from the beginning? Did you want Marcus to steal the diamond? Was that the plan?”

“Don’t be a fool. I wanted the money from the sale.”

“I don’t think that’s all you wanted,” J.T. said.

Vittorio returned his gaze “That’s true. I also wanted Christina to touch the diamond before it was sold to remove the curse from my family.”

“How could Christina remove the curse?”

“Her bloodline goes back to Catherine de Médici, the woman who cursed the stone. I believed that if Christina wore the diamond, since she is a descendant of Catherine’s, it would remove the curse from me. Added insurance, so to speak.”

“Why didn’t you tell Christina the story before you sent the diamond to Barclay’s?”

“I didn’t want her any more involved,” Vittorio said, his tone ice-cold. “She was to wear the diamond and then to sell it.”

“But whoever bought the diamond would still be cursed,” J.T. pointed out. “Because they wouldn’t have the right blood running through their veins.”

“That was not my concern,” he said.

Vittorio Benedetti was a ruthless businessman. J.T. could see that plain as day. The rest of his story was a muddy mess. Clearly, J.T. was still missing something. “What aren’t you telling me, Signor Benedetti? Because I suspect there’s more.”

“What don’t I know?” Christina repeated.

Maria stared back at her. “Forgive me. It is nothing. I should not have spoken. Do you wish more tea? A cookie? I wonder what is taking your friend so long?”

“Maria, please. You asked me a question, and I need to understand why. You know something about me, about my father. You have to tell me what it is.”

“He would never forgive me.” Maria clasped her hands together on top of the table, twisting her fingers in agitation.

“Who? My father?”

Maria shook her head. “No, Signor Benedetti. He made me promise. And I have kept that promise for many years.”

Christina searched desperately for a way to make Maria talk. She suspected that whatever secret Maria was keeping was in some way important to her and to her father. She decided to go for broke and confide in Maria, throw herself on the old woman’s mercy. “Please, Maria. My father is missing, and he’s in terrible trouble. I think he stole the diamond. He told me that it didn’t belong to Vittorio, that he had to take it back to where it was supposed to be. The police are after him, and me as well. If there’s something you know that can help me understand any of this, I would be forever in your debt.”

Maria pursed her lips together. Her gaze roamed across Christina’s face. “Come with me,” she said abruptly, rising to her feet.

“Where are we going?”

Maria didn’t answer. She led Christina into the house, down the long hall, and through the arched doorway leading into the living room.

“If anyone asks, you came in here on your own. You found out by yourself,” Maria said. “You understand?”

Christina nodded, feeling the knot of fear in her stomach grow bigger.

The housekeeper stopped in front of a large framed photograph on the wall. It was a family portrait, a man and a woman and their three sons. The Benedettis, Christina realized. But as her gaze zeroed in on the woman in the picture, her heart came to a crashing stop.

“Isabella,” Maria said, pointing her finger at the woman in the photograph.

“Oh, my God!” Christina clapped a hand to her mouth to prevent herself from screaming. How could it be? The woman in the picture looked exactly like her. It was as if she were gazing into a mirror. No wonder Maria had fainted when she’d seen her. She’d thought she was Isabella come back from the dead.

“Isabella died a year after that photograph was taken,” Maria said. “The boys were so young, Stefano only ten, Frances eight, and Daniel, the baby, five.”

“I don’t understand.” Christina shook her head, trying to clear her brain, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

“You didn’t know?” Maria asked again, her gaze locking with Christina’s. “Your father didn’t tell you? All these years—he never said a word?”

“A word about what?”

“Your mother.”

Christina immediately began shaking her head. “I don’t have a mother. She left when I was a baby. And her name was Rose,” she added desperately, latching on to the one fact that she had about her mother’s identity.

“Isabella Rose.” Maria pointed again at the woman in the picture. “She is your mother.”

“No. No.” Christina began backing away. “That’s not true.”

“They met in the library,” Maria continued. “Isabella loved books and art. She was a smart girl, but she had married Vittorio when she was eighteen years old. She couldn’t attend the university, as she wished. So every afternoon when the boys would attend school or take their naps, she would go to the library in town. She met him there—your father. She told me they started out sharing coffee, but their relationship quickly progressed. She was starving for love, for affection. Vittorio didn’t provide either.”

“No!” Christina clapped her hands over her ears, but she could still hear Maria.

“Your father was so passionate. He swept her off her feet. Then the summer ended and he went home, to America. She didn’t realize she was carrying his child until he was gone.”

Christina shook her head, her eyes blurring with angry, disbelieving tears. Her mother was not Isabella Benedetti. She was not the result of her father having an affair with a married woman. It wasn’t possible. It was wrong—so wrong. “No,” she said again, but the word came out weak, unconvincing.

Maria gently pulled Christina’s hands away from her ears. “Yes, it is true. Isabella is your mother.”

“I can’t listen to this,” Christina said, turning on her heel. She ran to the front door and yanked it open. She pushed through the gate and tore down the street, not sure where she was going. She just knew she had to get away from the house, from the past, from the secrets, from the lies. What was true? What wasn’t true? She had no idea anymore.

J.T. sprinted down the street after Christina. He couldn’t believe how fast she was moving even in a pair of high-heeled sandals. She was running like the wind, as if her life was in jeopardy. What the hell had happened to her? He’d come down the stairs from Vittorio’s room just in time to see the front door slam. He’d given Maria a questioning look, and she’d simply shrugged, but she’d looked guilty as hell. Had Christina learned something about her father?

“Christina!” he yelled. “Wait up.”

Christina didn’t slow down or even turn her head. She gave no indication that she’d heard him at all. As she reached an intersection he felt a rush of panic. A car was coming down the street, and Christina was paying no attention. A shot of adrenaline urged him forward. He grabbed her arm, yanking her out of the way just in time. She stumbled and almost fell to her knees. He caught her around the waist. He could feel the heat of the car as it blew past them just inches from their bodies. The driver gave an angry honk on his horn, then sped away.

Christina stared up at him in bewilderment, raw pain in her big green eyes. She looked as if someone had just killed her puppy, told her Santa Claus didn’t exist, done something to destroy what was left of her innocence.

“What the hell happened to you?” he demanded, his hands tightening on her arms.

She couldn’t seem to hear him. His words weren’t registering in her brain. It was as if she’d lost herself in her own head. He gave her shoulders another little shake. “Dammit, Christina, talk. You’re scaring the shit out of me.”

Her eyes slowly began to clear. She blinked and her gaze came back into focus. “What…what happened?”

“That’s what I want to know. You just ran in front of a car. You almost got yourself killed.” He skimmed his hands up and down her arms, feeling the need to reassure himself that she was still in one piece. Even through her sweater he could feel the chill in her bones. Whatever she’d learned had left her ice-cold. “Let’s walk,” he said. “You can catch your breath. Then you’ll tell me everything that happened.”

He put his arm around her and they began to walk. Her gait was awkward. She leaned heavily on him, as if she wasn’t sure she could make it on her own. She didn’t ask where they were going, and he didn’t care. He just wanted to get her blood moving, give her a chance to walk off the panic that had sent her rushing headlong into traffic.

One block turned into another and another. They left the residential area and drew closer to the historic center of the city. He knew Christina still wasn’t feeling right, because she made no comment about the beautiful architecture or the statues or anything. Her mind was somewhere else—somewhere frightening. He wanted to bring her back, but he didn’t know the right words. He’d never been good at reading women’s emotions. When he tried to guess, he usually guessed wrong. Not that it took much guessing to figure out that whatever Christina had learned from Maria had completely upset her world. It had to be about her father. What the hell had Marcus Alberti done now?

The streets grew more crowded as they neared some popular restaurants and bars. Christina seemed to wince at the noise, the people, so he walked her toward the river. It was quieter there. Night was falling on Florence, and the rising moon was reflected in the silver waters of the Arno. A street performer sat on the cement ledge that ran along the river, strumming love songs on his guitar.

Christina paused, the music bringing her out of her reverie. He watched her face as she listened to the song, and saw not just pain in her expression but anger as well. At least she was coming back to life. That was a good sign.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly. “Can you tell me now?”

“Love is what’s wrong,” she said, with a frustrated wave of her hand. “People like that guy who play love songs and pretend that love is the most wonderful thing of all, but it’s just a crock of lies. Love creates nothing but problems. It’s crap, that’s what it is,” she added loudly.

The guitar player shot her a pissed-off look, and J.T. quickly urged her farther down the street. “Could you be more specific, Christina? I don’t think you and Maria just talked about love.”

“We did talk about love. That’s exactly what we talked about.” She met his gaze for the first time. “Actually, I’m wrong. It wasn’t love we were talking about. It was lust. You know what lust is, right?”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea,” he said, almost afraid to speak. She was definitely on a roll now.

“Maria wanted to separate us, you know—you and me. It was deliberate on her part. She wanted to know who I was, my name, my age, my father’s name. And you want to know why?” she challenged.

“I really do.”

“Because I’m the spitting image of Isabella Benedetti—that’s why.” Christina paused, her eyes suddenly bright with tears. “She was my mother, J.T. Isabella and my father had an affair.” Her voice broke. “She was my mother.”

Her words shocked him to the core. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it certainly hadn’t been that. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. That’s why Maria fainted when she saw me,” Christina replied. “It was as if she were looking at a ghost. Once her head cleared and she figured out I wasn’t a phantom, there was only one other conclusion she could come to—that I was Isabella’s daughter.”

He blew out an amazed breath. “That’s a hell of a secret.”

“You can say that again.”

“So Isabella was married to Vittorio—”

“When she slept with my father,” Christina finished bitterly. “That’s right, J.T. I’m the daughter of a thief and an adulteress. Maybe I could put that on the résumé for my next job, whatever that is, since I doubt anyone in the art world will ever hire me again. Who could blame them? I have such an incredible pedigree.”

He frowned. “Okay, slow down. Back up. How did they even meet each other?”

Christina turned and looked out at the river. “Maria said they met in the library. My father swept Isabella off her feet. It was a summer thing. Apparently Isabella wasn’t happy with her husband, so she and my father had an affair. Then my dad went back to the States and Isabella discovered she was pregnant. I have no idea how I came to grow up with my father instead of her—I assume she didn’t want me. I guess that part of the story that my father told me was true. My mother didn’t want me.”

J.T. moved in behind her, slipping his arms around her waist. “You don’t know that,” he murmured.