Chapter 6
Becky’s laughter pealed above the crash of the surf and he chased her, red hair flying in the breeze.
The scent of the ocean was everywhere, a gull squawked above them and the sun shone brighter than he’d ever seen before.
A quick burst from his muscular thighs and he caught her, his arms wrapping tightly around the silky skin of her middle, so little and lithe.
“Let me go!” she screamed, pushing at him as she laughed, and he tickled her.
She twisted in his hold and his hungry eyes landed on her nipple as it strained against the fabric of her bikini.
It reminded him of his first glimpse of her at her house, braless and driving him crazy, only this time he could touch it.
He could touch her, he could have her, he could possess her.
“Rowan…”
“Oh, yeah…”
“Rowan…”
“Becky…”
“Rowan, wake up!”
His eyes snapped open to find her sitting on the edge of the bed, and for a moment he stared at her with blatant lust, his breath coming quickly. Her eyes were wide and her lips fell open, her cheeks growing red and flushed.
“It’s time to get up,” she said quietly.
He sat up and braced his weight on one arm, his face close to hers, his eyes on her full lips that were waiting for his kisses. He leaned in closer and her eyes closed.
“You’re not awake yet, Rowan,” she whispered.
His lips touched hers and he was on fire. She was so soft, so willing and open. He leaned back in the bed, pulling her with him, their passion roaring to life in an explosive burst of heat and energy. He wrapped his arms around her waist and hauled her on top of him, her legs straddling his lap.
You’re not awake yet, Rowan.
Her words mocked him and this moment, his desire for this woman fighting his memory of something else. Becky was here, in his bed, where he’d wanted her to be for such a long damn time. He’d dreamed of her, dreamed of this moment.
Then consciousness was there.
Tamra.
Tamra and Anthony are missing.
A cry escaped his throat and he sat up, awareness flooding his senses. Becky sat back and stared at him, unmoving, her face still. He was a wretch, a horrible man who couldn’t bring himself to let her go, to push her away, to tell her to leave. It was the last thing on earth he wanted.
Gingerly, she brought her hand to his cheek and stroked the stubble there, then let her forehead rest softly against his.
He was steeped in her scent, overwhelmed by her presence.
He closed his eyes as her fingers ran through his hair, showing him with her simple touch that she knew his pain, would assuage it if she could.
His eyes burned and his arms closed around her waist, needing to feel her as close to him as she would allow.
Becky’s legs curled around his backside and he moaned, his lips again finding hers and loving her mouth with his own.
It was wrong and he knew it, even as they moved together through the bedcovers as if they were making love.
This woman could make it better. She could reach inside his very soul and heal everything that was wrong.
When she breathed out his name and arched her back, it was Rowan’s undoing. He cried out and squeezed her hips to him, burying his face in her neck.
Enzo de Toffoli moved though the darkened room with the grace of a man half his age.
His footsteps were light as a slippered child’s, sneaking for a glimpse of Santa Claus in the night, though Enzo himself had long since abandoned any romantic notions of good cheer and happiness.
Life was business, and he was here to get his done.
In another lifetime he’d been a frequent guest in this house, welcomed and treated like family—a hearty prize for the boy who had none of his own. Cutting those ties had been like severing his own limb, and his mind was full of emotional memories as he worked.
He wore black from head to toe, as befitting a man who slips into the home of another, easily moving in on his target.
Discovery would equal ruin, but Enzo had no intention of being discovered.
He was comfortable in the knowledge that his old friend Leonardo was an exceptionally sound sleeper, who’d been the butt of practical jokes throughout their prep school days.
The large room was ornately furnished with a Persian rug and high-backed chairs, the scent of cut flowers perfuming the air.
An enormous fireplace stood on the opposite wall, and Enzo moved toward it with anticipation.
His prize waited to be collected, the ultimate win in a war that had been raging for decades.
Moonlight broke through the cloudy night sky, spilled its blue light onto the carpet.
“No…” he whispered, moving faster now, his eyes trained above the mantel. The frame was not befitting the Madonna, the wood simple and plain, the size too small, and Enzo felt rage rise up and fill his lungs. Shapes came into view, first lines, then the muted colors of grass and trees.
He stood before the illuminated canvas and forgot to breathe.
He would recognize Claudia’s work anywhere, though he had never seen this particular piece.
Sometimes in dreams he wandered through her paintings like he once reveled in her presence, her long brown hair gently curling around her porcelain face.
He could almost see her reclining in the sun-spotted grass, a lazy smile gracing her deep pink mouth.
Enzo stepped even closer to the hearth, longing to turn on a lamp as the greens and yellows came into focus, the sharp bits of dark tree trunk bolder now as he made out their shapes.
And just there, beyond the brightest sunlight, the form of lovers.
Reaching into his pocket, his hand grasped the knife and he exposed the blade, fingers clenched around its shaft.
This was not why he came, but he could not let this picture alone.
Not here, not in this house, not with this man.
He brought his arm up above his head, intending to strike even as the muscles of he shoulder froze in utter stillness.
There is so little of her left, anywhere.
The world had gone on without Claudia de Toffoli as if she had never existed, never loved him, never died. Tears welled in his eyes as he stood there—her image in his eyes, her scent in his nostrils—until his arm, now weak from the strain, fell to his side.
Time passed and the moon was again shadowed before Enzo was able to move his feet.
Determined now, he resolutely checked every room, under beds and in the backs of closets, even the cellar where he played with Leonardo as a boy, and the shed where the gardener kept his tools. If the Madonna Fornirà was here, it was well hidden. But if not here, where?
He stepped into a wide kitchen and a small flash caught his eye, the blinking message light of a cell phone.
Unlocking the screen with a swipe, he saw Anthony’s familiar features, but failed to comprehend how one part of his life had just layered over another like a leaf fallen on a fire.
Staring back at him was a picture of his very own grandson, with Claudia’s eyes laughing back at him from the grave.
The sound of someone walking upstairs nearly made him jump, and Enzo pocketed the cell phone before slipping out the way he came, back into the cover of darkness.
Becky threw another log onto the fire and sat back down at her computer. She was getting bleary-eyed from trying to figure out Tamra’s password for her computer files, feeling like a hack. What made her think she’d be able to crack someone else’s password, just through trial and error?
She heard the water from the shower stop running and looked to the stairway.
Rowan would be down soon, and she’d have to face him.
A deep-seated self-loathing had settled in place of her lust, making her sorry she had agreed to come with him on this journey.
What would the wife of this man use as her password, her secret passion, a little window into what was important to her?
Becky typed, “sorryisleptwithyourhuband”
INVALID PASSWORD
“eventhoughididn’t*actually*sleepwithhim”
INVALID PASSWORD
“iknowitwasstillwrongandimsorry”
INVALID PASSWORD
“hopeyouandthelittleguyaredoingokay”
INVALID PASSWORD
Rowan started down the stairs and Becky felt her belly clench. “How’s it going?” he asked.
A second after he walked in the room, the scent of soap and fresh clean man assaulted her. “Not so good,” she said.
“No?”
“No.” She met his eyes, his stare too personal, too close. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
She scowled at him.
He put his hands up. “Sorry.”
“Yeah. Well, keep your hands to yourself from now on, okay, mister man?”
“Whoa, wait a minute. I wasn’t the only one in that bed.”
Becky slammed her computer shut. “No, you weren’t. And frankly I feel like absolute shit about it, okay? So can we please move on and not go there again?”
Rowan sat beside her. “Becky, don’t feel bad about what happened between us.”
“There’s a perfectly good couch right over there,” she said.
“We have to talk, and then I have to go.”
“We don’t have to talk. You can leave right now.”
“Yes, we do.” He ran his hands through his wet hair. “I didn’t tell you everything about Tamra and me.”
“Listen, Rowan. I really don’t want to play marriage counselor between you and your missing wife.”
“Well, I really need to tell you. I think it would help you to hear it.” He shook his head. “I asked her for a divorce before we went to the museum yesterday.”
The first ray of hope shined into her befuddled mind. “Why?”
“Because I don’t love her, and Anthony’s not my son. Tamra was already pregnant when I slept with her.”
“Then why did you marry her?”
“Because I didn’t find out he wasn’t my son until about two months ago.”
“How did you find out?”
“I just had a feeling. I ignored it for as long as I could.” He smiled a sad smile. “I love him. It took me a long time to do what had to be done. I had my doctor run our DNA to find out for sure.”
“Do you know who the father is?”
“No idea.”
Becky shook her head. “You don’t think the real father has anything to do with this, do you?”
He turned his head to stare at her. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I mean, if he knew Anthony was his child, maybe he wanted him back.”
“That’s possible. But the painting, the Madonna Fornirà has to be part of this, too.” Rowan stood and began to pace. “Crap. Maybe I’m overthinking it and you’ve hit the nail on the head. I’ll call Marco from the car and let him know.”
“Who’s Marco and where are you going?”
“Marco Santini. The FBI agent.”
She wasn’t good with names, but it seemed odd that Rowan and Santini were on a first-name basis. “Okay.”
He smiled. “I have a cousin named Marco.”
“I was wondering how you remembered his name.” She opened the cupboard. “And where are you going?”
“I have to check on a few things.”
She closed the cupboard and raised an eyebrow. “You have to check on a few things?”
“Yeah.”
“So… you’re not going to tell me where you’re going.”
He sighed heavily. “I’m going to see about Anthony’s DNA.”
“What do you mean, see about it?”
He faced her. “I’m going to get Anthony’s DNA results from my doctor and see if Marco can run them through the FBI’s computers.”
“What are we, on Dragnet? That’s a little far-fetched, don’t you think?”
“Anthony’s grandfather’s an ambassador and there are stories of art thieves in the family tree. It never hurts to look. Besides, they can check for relatives now, too, not just parents. Maybe it will give us something to go on.”
There’s something funny going on here.
She wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but something just wasn’t quite right. She bristled at her suspicion that Rowan wasn’t being honest with her, but saw no benefit in challenging him at the moment.
Gwen’s words echoed in her mind. I was standing right next to him, and I didn’t believe him.
Amen, sister.
“Ask him if I’m related to the Pope while you’re there.”
He grinned. “I’ll do that.”
“Are you going to be back in time for dinner?”
“Probably. Give me a few hours.” Rowan peered at his smartphone, seeming to check his messages.
Becky opened a cupboard. “Whoever did the grocery shopping did a great job.”
He looked up. “Huh?”
“I said whoever did the grocery shopping did a great job.”
“Oh, yeah.”
She knew she should let it go, even as she heard herself ask the question. “Who did the grocery shopping?”
He looked up, wide-eyed. “My friend. Bill.”
“The hunter?”
He nodded.
“What does he hunt?”
“Moose.”
She raised her eyebrows dramatically. “Moose?”
“Yeah. See anything for dinner?”
Becky scowled at him. Her dad was a hunter, and she knew damn well no one was hunting for moose in these woods. He was lying to her, an offense she took very seriously. “Maybe there’s some moose in the freezer.”
“You know, don’t even worry about cooking. I’ll pick something up on my way back. We need to come up with that password.”
“What about ‘Bullwinkle’. That might be the password.”
He looked at her.
“Or bullshit.” She smiled. “Or ‘you can suck it if you think I’m going to believe a damn thing out of your mouth after this.’ That might be the password.”
He put his phone on the counter with a thud. “Deer?”
“Yes?”
He shook his head. “I meant to say deer, not moose.”
She stepped close to him, her hand on her hip. “Don’t know when to cut your losses and come clean, do you, cowboy?”
“This is ridiculous. What difference does it make what he hunts?”
“What’s your friend’s name again?”
“Bill!”
“It makes a difference because you lied to me. People who lie to me don’t get the chance to do it again.
If you’re lying to me about moose, what else are you lying about?
Huh? Maybe that wife of yours isn’t such a bad person after all.
Maybe you’re not really going where you say you’re going.
Maybe you’re just trying to get me into bed, you dirty slimebag cheater man.
” She stormed out of the kitchen and dropped onto the couch, then opened her laptop.
“As soon as we figure out this damn password, you are on your own, mister. I am so outta here.”
“Becky, you can’t seriously think I would lie…”
“We’re done talking about that.” She held her hands frozen over her keyboard, then clenched her hands in frustration. “We need the name of the baby’s father. Someone she cared about. Something besides Fiscal Codes and birthdays.”
He picked up the keys off the counter. “I’ll see what I can do.”