Ultimate Weapon (McClouds & Friends #6)(69)

“Ah, Valerio. Tesoro,” she cooed. “Am I so dangerous? Is that why you stayed away for so long?”

“Only for my peace of mind,” he assured her, his voice smooth. “But to give you a treat like this, I will risk coming out of hiding. Would you like to meet this woman, and see her wares?”

“Of course. I wish to see them all.”

“I thought so,” he said silkily. “I have a favor to ask in return.”

“You know that I can deny you nothing, tesoro. Ask.”

“Do you know a woman named Ana Santarini?”

“Ignazio Santarini’s boring wife? What on earth do you want with that stupid cow? You cannot possibly intend to f*ck her!”

“No, not at all,” he assured her. “But I need an introduction to her for this jewelry designer. Could you arrange it for me? Preferably at her own residence.”

He heard the machinery grinding in Donatella’s mind. “I might be persuaded…if I could have the pleasure of your company once again.”

He sighed silently and rolled his eyes. “Of course, piccola. Could you arrange for the day after tomorrow, when I bring this designer?”

“So soon? You are crazy! I don’t even know if she is in town!”

“Invite her to see the jewelry,” he urged. “It would appeal to her.”

“And have that Santarini slut know all of the secrets of the pieces that I buy? She will tell everyone! What is the point of it?”

He clenched his fists. “Ti prego,” he said softly. “Please. For me.”

She made an irritated huffing sound. “I am going to Paris for a week to shop,” she announced. “You will join me there?”

“I cannot wait,” he said through clenched teeth.

“The entire week? Prepare yourself. It will be strenuous.”

“Have no fear,” he assured her. “Send me a text message with the meeting time and location with Santarini, va bene?”

Donatella paused and made a little clicking sound with her tongue. “Anxious, Valerio?” she purred. “What’s going on? Are you in trouble? Tell Donatella all about it, bambino mio. Maybe I can help.”

A muscle in his jaw started to twitch. He was in a bad way if even an empty-headed vacca like Donatella was tuning in to his nervous tension. “You already are helping me,” he said softly. “My angel.”

“February seventh, in Paris,” she reminded. “Mark it on your calendar.” There was a thread of steel in Donatella’s voice.

“Certainly. A dopo, dolcezza.”

A tedious back-and-forth of stupid endearments, and finally he managed to close the telephone. He released a long, controlled sigh.

Three steps back. A week of stud service in a luxury hotel in Paris was not too much to pay for Imre’s life. He would do it if he had to. But a sour, wrong feeling clung to him. It made him want to take a bath.

Ah, well, what the f*ck. He might be dead by February seventh anyway. That was the best he could do to cheer himself up.

He headed back to the hotel, preparing himself for disaster. Steele had probably fled in the time it had taken to do this infernal errand.

But when he peered into the ballroom, she was there, wrestling a whimpering, protesting Rachel into her coat, bulging black diaper bag dangling on her other shoulder. She was deep in conversation with Erin McCloud. Now the other woman talked earnestly, looking worried. Tam shook her head in response. The McCloud woman patted Steele’s shoulder. Tam nodded, hoisted the child onto her hip, and headed toward the exit. Her pale face was set in stark lines, her eyes haunted. She looked so different with her hair down, shining and loose, brushing her perfect ass. Everyone stared as she passed.

She ignored the swathe of speculative murmuring in her wake.

He backed into the lobby and positioned himself carefully, waiting only until the direction she was going to turn was clear before he melted around the corner and into a stairwell.

Relief made his knees weak. She was not going out the front, to the parking lot. She was going out the back toward the breezeway that led to the guest houses. She was not running from him. Not tonight.

He was grateful. He did not have the strength to chase her again. He had no more cards to play, no more tricks. He was all out of ideas. If Steele ran now, his choices were brutally simple.

Steele or Imre. One of them would have to die, badly.

He followed at a safe distance, took note of the door she and Rachel disappeared into, and then strolled along the herringbone path.

A wrought iron bench sat in the shadows of a huge tree roughly opposite her guest room door. He sat down, bone weary. A thousand years old. The cold of the hard metal bench penetrated his clothes, burning into his flesh. He would have to get his coat if he meant to sit here any length of time, he thought, but he did not move.

He could not take his eyes off that door.

He didn’t like being compelled by anything, whether the forces originated from inside himself or out. Being manipulated by Novak, Hegel, even Donatella, was bad enough. Being jerked around by the shadow parts of his own f*cked-up psyche was intolerable.

Yet there he sat, rooted to the bench, his ass turning to ice. Guarding her door but not to prevent her from escaping. On the contrary, he wanted to fend off the dangers that lay in wait for her.

He was cast in the wrong role in this f*cking Greek tragedy.