The Mercenary (18 page)

“Left,” he directed.

She turned when Giorgio said, “Turn.” Walked up steps on command and kept her stiff and sore back

ramrod straight. She was sick to death of macho men. She hated scary, threatening men.

Hell, she hated

being scared period.

There was light ahead and Giorgio turned off his flashlight. “Walk.” He pushed her ahead of him with the

metal tube of the flashlight. Tory wanted to smash his broken nose a second time just for the satisfaction

of hearing him scream again. She tilted her chin and kept her eyes fixed firmly ahead.

A ten-foot-high elaborately carved mahogany door stood closed before her. She moved aside and

waited while he opened it with a key, then cautiously stepped into the room.

A magnificent Persian carpet, in shades of cream and burgundy, stretched over a dirty and aged white

marble floor. As Giorgio marched her across the carpet, she could see several black heel marks scuffed

into the light-colored fibers.

Overhead was a frescoed ceiling. On the walls hung priceless paintings. Their elaborate gilt frames,

however, were adorned with cobwebs, and the delicate brushwork was muted by dust. A magnificent

gilded table stood against one wall, where a three-foot-high Venetian glass vase held what must have

been an artistic arrangement of cut flowers. Long-since dead, brittle and brown leaves and petals were in

piles on a tabletop thick with dust. The whole place smelled musty.

Their footsteps were muffled by the thickness of the carpet as they passed white Carrera marble statues

and other incredible objets d’art, all of which needed dusting. Tory held back a sneeze.

At the far end of the room, seated on enormous burgundy velvet couches, sat three men.

One to each

sofa.

Giorgio prodded her with the base of the flashlight again as her footsteps lagged. The closer she got, the

more Tory’s apprehension grew. Her heart lodged in her throat, and her nerves were raw.

She recognized Ragno, but the other two men had their backs to her.

“Eccola,” Giorgio said nasally.

Ragno rose, his expression hidden from the men behind him. The pale hand he wrapped around

Giorgio’s upper arm trembled with fury. “Grazie,Giorgio,” he said loudly, then continued in a furious

undertone. “Your timing needs improving. Can’t you see that we have unexpected company?” His

sibilant voice sent a shiver up Tory’s spine. She winced as Ragno’s thick fingers dug into her bare arm.

His pink sausagelike fingers looked ridiculous holding a delicate crystal wineglass. He took a sip and

looked at Giorgio over her shoulder. “Did she give you any trouble?”

“Nessuno,signor.”

“Buono.Wait outside until I call for you.”

Tory heard Giorgio’s muffled footsteps as he walked away.

The fingers on her upper arm tightened. “Watch what you say, Miss Jones. If our visitor suspects

anything unusual, you will both die.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw one of the men cross his legs. She kept her eyes warily on

Christoph Ragno. His scalp reflected the light from the gigantic chandelier overhead.

Grasping her arm in what could look like a solicitous gesture, he led her toward the three couches.

Tory’s skin crawled at his touch, and she tried to pull her arm away. His fingers squeezed her upper arm

warningly.

She glanced down at the man seated on the sofa.

And almost fainted.

Marc.

His expression was politely blank as he inclined his head in greeting, but his pale eyes blazed with

warning.

“Come and sit down, my dear Miss Jones, and let me introduce you to my companions.”

Tory shrugged off Ragno’s hand as he led her to a sofa. She sank down, and accepted a glass of wine.

She was sure all three men could see the pulse throbbing in her throat. She dared not look at Marc, who

sat across from her.

“This is Samuel Hoag.” Tory turned a stiff neck and looked at the other man. He was tall and painfully

thin, with black hair that was parted neatly on one side. A small mustache cut across his thin upper lip,

giving him a sinister, movie-villain look. She righted her wineglass as it slipped on her knee. There was

something repulsively hypnotic about him.

His eyes, behind rimless glasses, looked deceptively benign as he stared back at her without expression.

He had enormous pale hands that stuck out of his jacket sleeves like a nightmarish character from a Tim

Burton movie. Tory shivered, the stem of the glass pressed into her palm.

“And this is our new friend, Sir Ian Spenser.”

Marc toasted her with his wineglass, his face bland. “Charmed to meet you. Miss Jones, is it?” His

British accent was so plummy it belonged in a Christmas pudding.

Tory took a hasty sip of wine and choked back a response.

She had absolutely no idea where or how Marc had procured the fabulous suit he wore.

It was

expensive and Italian designed, in a lightweight fabric that flattered his long legs and hung beautifully from

his broad shoulders. A slim gold watch was barely visible beneath the correct half inch of white

Egyptian-cotton cuff. The finishing touch was a conservative old-school tie.

He looked absolutely, mouthwateringly wonderful. He also looked slightly bored as he sipped his wine

and watched her as he would a stranger.

Tory didn’t want to know what was going through Marc’s mind as he looked at her bashed-up face and

ripped T-shirt. She wondered just how Ragno was going to explain her odd appearance to “Sir Ian.”

Ragno cleared his throat noisily in the silence. “Sir Ian will be our guest tonight. He came to see his old

school friend, Prince Draven Visconti, who is vacationing in America this month with his family.

Unfortunate that you missed each other, Sir Ian.”

“Most unfortunate, old chap.” Unfortunate indeed, considering that the prince had been assassinated

several months ago. Marc rose to go to the bar. “May I?” His pant leg brushed Tory’s ankle as he

strolled by her. “More wine, Miss…Jones?” He held up the decanter, pouring his own before turning to

the other two men when she mutely shook her head. She’d seen the nerve ticking in his jaw as he walked

past her.

He was mad as fire, and Tory didn’t have to be a mind reader to figure that out. The last person he was

expecting to see here was her. Well, wasn’t that just too bad! She certainly would have preferred being

back at camp waiting, too!

Samuel Hoag sat stiffly in the corner of his sofa, his long legs stretched out. She fixed her eyes on the

pale, hairless skin of his shin above his socks.

Hoag said, “No more wine,” in a curiously mellifluous voice, while Ragno accepted, allowing Marc to

refill his glass.

“Miss Jones was in a small accident at the marketplace this afternoon,” Ragno said, smoothly accounting

for her appearance. Savoring the wine, he shot Tory a warning look. “Mr. Hoag and I felt it best to offer

her our hospitality in the absence of the royal family.

“I’m sure the princess has something suitable for you to wear for dinner, Miss Jones.” He looked at her

torn shirt with distaste. He called for Giorgio.

“Take Miss Jones to the family suite,” he directed. “See that she is suitably dressed for dinner.”

Tory managed not to look at Marc as she was removed from the room. But she could feel his gaze

burning into her back.

When Giorgio opened the double doors, she noticed a man standing sentry outside—a blond version of

Giorgio, with a gun holstered on his hip. The guard glanced curiously at her, and she edged her way past

him, following Giorgio up a narrow circular stone stairway and along a dimly lit corridor.

The farther along they went, the more elaborate and elegant the furnishings became.

They turned a

corner and Giorgio gestured toward a gilt-and-ivory inlaid door.

“Princess’s room.” He took her arm, opened the door and roughly pushed her into the room.

She glanced over her shoulder as she shrugged his hand away. “How’s your nose?” she asked with false

sweetness.

He backed up, his fingers tenderly touching the grotesque swelling, and narrowed his eyes malevolently.

“Signore Ragno said get dressed.” He walked backward to the door, as if he had to watch her every

movement. “Get dressed,” he warned. “I’ll come to get you.”

“Don’t hurry back on my account,” Tory said to the closed door, as she heard the key turn in the lock.

She made mental contact with Alex to let him know what was going on, then did a quick inventory of the

room.

It was quite beautiful, decorated in shades of lavender and purple with accents of white.

Like the room

downstairs, it was covered with a thick layer of dust, and the once-fresh flowers were dead and

crumbling.

Tory caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror and groaned. Her hair was a wild, tangled mess,

her jaw sported the bruise from Giorgio’s fist, and her cheeks were streaked with dirt and tears.

She headed for the opulent gold-and-white-marble bathroom. Filling the enormous tub would take up

half her allotted time, but she didn’t care. After sprinkling violet-scented crystals into the churning water,

she went back into the bedroom to find something to wear.

When Giorgio opened the door a short time later, without knocking, Tory was ready.

She’d washed and

dried her hair and used the hot rollers she’d found on the dressing table. The princess’s gigantic walk-in

closet was filled with fabulous clothes for all occasions.

She’d wasted precious moments pulling out a few pieces of casual clothing, hiding them for a later

escape. Then her fingers had lingered on several stunning evening dresses.

It was irrational, she knew, under the circumstances, but she wanted Marc to see her in something

sophisticated, something…sexy. Marc, yes. The terrorists, absolutely not. She chose the most

conservative gown she could. The princess hadn’t had a modest bone in her body apparently. The dress

Tory chose was probably for some formal state function. With apologies to the absent princess, Tory had

managed to pour herself into the dress and pull up the short zipper at the back just as Giorgio walked in.

“Dinner’s ready.” He’d changed into an ill-fitting suit that was too tight for his lumpy body, and he stared

at her unblinkingly out of swollen eyes.

“Lead on, Macduff,” Tory said as she pulled on the shoes and picked up the sheer silk scarf she’d

tossed on the bed earlier, draping it over her arm.

Giorgio gave her a blank look and gestured for her to precede him. They turned right instead of left this

time and continued down an endless corridor, their footsteps muffled by the thick runner.

She caught a glimpse of herself in an enormous mirror at the top of the stairs. The heavily beaded

emerald silk gown clung to her body as if it had been painted on. The low-cut, square neckline exposed

more of her breasts than was wise, and she could feel her hair caressing her bare back.

The billowing

sleeves were caught at the wrist with elastic, effectively hiding most of her grimy cast.

As she passed the

mirror she realized with a sinking heart that while the dress had seemed deceptively modest in the

bedroom, when she walked she exposed her leg to midthigh.

She stopped dead at the top of the wide staircase. She must be out of her mind. What had she been

thinking about when she’d selected this particular gown? Marc, that’s who.

The last thing she wanted to do was let those men see her like this. Tory quickly turned away from the

staircase, almost coming nose to nose with Giorgio, who was right behind her.

He pulled his gun out from under his jacket and leveled it at her chest.“Giú.”

“I have to change,” Tory said firmly, swallowing her heart as he motioned her down the stairs with the

deadly weapon.

“Giú.”

“Look,” Tory tried, tiredly. “I’ll take two seconds to find something else and be right back.” There was

nothing less revealing. She’dlooked. But perhaps she could pull something over the gown….

“Giú. Down.” He pushed the gaping mouth of the pistol at the swell of her breasts, and Tory saw in his

eyes how much he would love to pull the trigger.

He was the same height as she was in heels, and she was tempted to call his bluff, but one look at his

dark eyes discouraged that idea. She sighed and took the first step down the red-carpeted stairs, holding

on to the marble banister for balance.

Between the tightness and weight of the blasted dress and the unfamiliar high heels, she was liable to roll

down the staircase and break her neck, so she made her way cautiously into the enormous foyer.

Giorgio grunted at a man standing outside the double doors. The guard swung the door open to the

dining room, not bothering to hide the rifle resting over his arm. Tory shivered, tossing the ends of the

sheer scarf over her shoulders so that it draped in front, effectively covering her cleavage.

The three men stood as Giorgio led her into the room. A painting the size of a small house adorned one

wall. It was a breathtaking depiction of Palazzo Visconti before roads and modern civilization had blotted

out the landscape.

The cherrywood dining table probably seated more than fifty people. The three men, still standing, were

at the far end. Great. Tory drew in a deep breath, raised her chin and started walking.

“Miss Jones, how nice of you to join us.” Christoph Ragno pulled out the chair beside him, and Tory