Take care of her? The words swirled inside Sabrina with decidedly sexual meaning. To her horror, she felt a warm, longing ache in her belly.
No, no, no. It was one thing to have gone soft enough to feel guilty about hurting his feelings. It was something similar to have enjoyed lying down together in some sort of mutual comfort deal. But it would be something else entirely to sleep with him.
He was still the mark.
But it took her too long to get to her feet, too long to bite her nails and then cross to close and lock the connecting door.
Vincenzo was there before her.
She drew in a sharp breath as his hand closed over hers on the doorknob. All he was wearing were some pajama bottoms. She was immediately aware of the rough mat of dark curls across his chest and how the skin beneath those curls stretched tautly over steel, male muscle. The pajama bottoms might have been silk and paisley, but he was all man.
His dark eyes were commanding as his fingers curved over hers. "Come to bed."
"I—" Sabrina coughed out her hoarseness and tried again. "I don't think that'd be a good idea."
A faint smile edged his mouth. "I'm not going to make love to you, Sabrina."
"No?" The utter unexpectedness of this declaration threw her.
"No. Neither one of us is ready for that. Come to bed, tesoro." Taking her hand, he led her to the bed where they'd already lain together. This time he pulled back the sheet.
She hesitated as he climbed into the bed. "Well, what are we going to do then?" Oddly, she sensed a greater danger than sex in whatever he had planned.
Gently he pulled her onto the bed. "I want to hold you, Sabrina, and you need me to kiss you."
She released a small laugh. "I do?"
"Oh, yes." With less resistance than he should have met, he got her under the sheets. Once there, he put his arms around her. "I know just what you need."
Sabrina had to close her eyes against the wonderful warmth that stole through her. "What makes you so smart?"
He laughed softly and rolled her half beneath his weight.
She might have felt threatened by the maneuver, might have felt caged. Instead she felt...cherished. Lord, this was so strange.
"I have been thinking, Sabrina." Looking down at her, he brushed a strand of hair from her eyes.
"That must have been hard work for you."
He smiled and bent to kiss the tip of her nose. "Naturalmente. Very hard. But for you I do my best."
Sabrina was doing her best not to respond to his warmth, to ignore the lovely sensation of the hard body beneath the soft silk of his pajamas. But the physical sense of him wove together with a sticky web of tenderness to create a dangerous spell around her. She felt she was...losing herself. And hardly caring.
"I have been thinking," Vincenzo went on. He brushed his lips against the left corner of her mouth. "About why I met you, why you met me."
"Lord help us."
"Precisamente. Dio." He kissed the right corner of her mouth. "I believe I met you so you could help me feel pain." She stirred beneath him and he held her closer. "No," he protested. "This is not bad, Sabrina. I needed to feel that pain. It was necessary...healthy. I needed you for that. Now, why you met me," he said. "I have to think harder."
She looked up and met his eyes. It was at that moment, for all the tenderness of his touch, for all the softness of his voice, that she understood something elemental.
He was waging war here. He wanted something from her, something she'd be damned if she gave him.
Trust.
While Sabrina stiffened, he lowered the dark lashes over his eyes. "I believe you met me, Sabrina, for the opposite reason, no?"
"No," she stated firmly.
He ignored her denial. Instead he leaned close and placed his lips gently, exquisitely against hers. "You met me," he murmured against her mouth, "so that I could release you from your pain."
An astonishing wave of emotion crashed through her. Boldly, she claimed, "I don't have any pain."
His lips touched hers again, clinging.
Her defenses started to crumble. It incensed her. He shouldn't be able to win so easily. For so many years she'd worked so hard: to stay strong, be tough.
"Don't cry," he whispered.
Startled by the plea, Sabrina only then felt the hot moisture running down her cheeks.
"Tell me," he urged. "Tell me what hurts you so."
He was winning, Sabrina thought. She closed her eyes against the frightening prospect of defeat.
"It was the family," Vincenzo theorized. "What did they do to you?"
Her resistance was shattering. She heard herself confess, "They took my baby."
She hadn't expected the shock that ran through him. It was like a fifty thousand volt charge. "A baby," he queried hoarsely. "Sabrina, you had a baby?"
"Yes." Sensing his momentary weakness, she raised her lashes to look up at him. "Do you believe me?"
His expression went baffled. He couldn't know why this might be a subject of contention. "Of course I believe you. What happened? How did they get your baby?"
Seeing how badly he was hit, Sabrina sensed a shift in the battle. She hadn't been defeated yet. She could keep her tough. When she pushed at him, he fell away to let her sit up.
"You want the story from the beginning?" She raised an eyebrow.
"Of course." But he watched warily as she got out of the bed.
It occurred to Sabrina that, far from a liability, her miserable story could be an excellent weapon against the result Vincenzo wanted.
Trust. She didn't give hers to anybody.
Smiling tightly, she crossed her arms over her chest and looked at him. He lay half propped on his hands on the bed, staring at her. Oh yes, this could work very nicely indeed. She would outline to him, in clear detail, how firmly entrenched was her position. She didn't give in, not in any way, to anybody.
"It was all perfectly legal." Her voice sounded so controlled, almost flippant, she thought, pleased. "I was underage and besides, I'd signed all the papers."
His dark gaze intensified. "For an adoption?"
She nodded. "That's right. Only things didn't happen the way I'd expected. Not the way I'd been told they would."
He didn't shift from his awkward, half-propped position. "What were you told?"
Sabrina felt a deep sigh escape her and looked to the side. Vincenzo had been right about one thing. There was pain here, still raw and unhealed. "You have to understand I was a different person back then. Completely different. Naive, trusting. Eager to please." She brushed a hand over her hair and turned toward the windows.
"Who was the father?"
His question surprised her. Jimmy's part in it seemed minor, after all that had happened later. "He was another kid at the orphanage." Sabrina laughed softly, remembering. "My opposite in every way. Jimmy was wild, he lived to make trouble." Much later, Sabrina discovered that poor rebellious Jimmy had died crashing a car he'd just stolen.
"Did he hurt you?" Vincenzo asked.
Interested by the steel edge in his tone, Sabrina glanced back at him. "No. No, he didn't. He was sweet to me, actually. We were both lonely. Two lonely, desperate children. And like children, we didn't foresee the consequences of what we were doing."
"You became pregnant."
She nodded. "Understand, I'd never done anything wrong in my life. I'd been too afraid to. I'd been afraid of losing what security I had, living there. So, to slip up the first time, at age fifteen, with something so...enormous— I was terrified."
"They were nuns." Frowning, Vincenzo stunned Sabrina once again with his incredible memory. "Nuns would not abandon a woman with child."
"No, they didn't abandon me. You're right about that." Sabrina's smile turned bitter. "They had something far more clever up their sleeve."
"They suggested the adoption." Vincenzo's frown deepened. "For a girl of your age that would not have been an unusual suggestion. You were against the idea?"
Sabrina pressed her lips together. "They'd sent Jimmy away. I didn't like that. I wanted to talk to him. So I said no."
He was watching her with such riveted intensity that Sabrina had to look away. She faced the windows again, arms crossed tightly under her breasts.
"Then they got clever." Her eyes narrowed at the folds in the curtains. "Extremely clever. They called me to the Mother Superior's office. I thought this was it, they were going to kick me out. Instead I met Robert and Jane Castlewright."
Sabrina closed her eyes as she remembered that meeting, the anxious, eager expressions on the Castlewrights' faces. How very nice they'd been to her. "They were a young couple, good-looking, obviously well off. And they wanted a child."
Sabrina had to stop to rub a hand over her face. Never in her life had she received the type of eager affection that Jane and Robert Castlewright had poured out toward her. She'd been intoxicated by it, bewitched. "Well, Vinnie, they had a deal for me, a deal I couldn't refuse. It was beyond my wildest dreams."
In Italian Vincenzo said something swift under his breath. "I can guess what this deal was," he said darkly. "They claimed you could still see the baby after it was born."
"Better than that. I could take care of the baby. I could be its nanny. For as long as I wanted. My whole life, if that suited me." Pain swept through her as she recalled her naiveté, her ridiculous, youthful trust. But as the pain wounded, scraping old scars, it seemed to pass on through, and then fade. Sabrina blinked, confused.
Quickly, she struggled to recapture the hurt, the betrayal. "I spent the months of my pregnancy at their house on Long Island." She needed to remember those agonizing emotions in order to win the war. "They acted like I was part of the family, Robert, Jane, and Robert's parents. All they must have wanted was to watch over my health habits, but I took it all at face value." And she'd never been happier in her life.
"What happened when you had the baby?"
She turned around to smile at him. "What baby?"
His brows drew down. He had to be smelling defeat. Once he heard the last of it he'd know he'd been beaten. A person who'd been through what Sabrina had couldn't be asked to trust again, to feel, to care.
"I didn't have a baby," Sabrina told him. "At least, that's what the nurses claimed when I woke up in the hospital. I'd been in a terrible accident, they claimed. My pelvis had been hit. My head, too. That's why I was confused."
Vincenzo didn't say a word, simply stared at her. For once Sabrina couldn't properly translate the expression on his face.
She looked away. "I had a good idea what was going on, but I had to see for myself. So I slipped out of the hospital that night." The pain had been terrible. Simply walking had taken all her will and determination. "Somehow I made it all the way out to the big house on Long Island." Closing her eyes, Sabrina could see again the black iron gates, could see her fists close around the bars, shaking them, demanding entry.
"They called the police. The police!" Sabrina halted, struggling to pull herself back together. When she went on she was tense but under control. "They sent a bunch of them. Police. And some medical types in white jackets. They grabbed onto me." Sabrina shuddered. "Hands. So many hands. Someone stuck a needle in my shoulder. Tranquilizer, I guess."
It was an effort to turn her head to meet his eyes. But this was the coup de grace and she wanted to see his admission of full and final defeat when she delivered it. "I woke up," Sabrina calmly stated, "in a mental hospital."
She saw shock. That was just what she'd wanted, exactly as she'd planned. What she hadn't planned was the incredible lightening inside of her as she stood there, facing him. Layer by layer, chunks of heavy steel seemed to lift from her body.
It was her armor—abandoning her! No! That wasn't supposed to happen. It was supposed to work the other way around. The story was supposed to remind her, the memory was supposed to keep her hard and cold and detached.
As for Vincenzo, his eyes didn't register the surrender she'd expected. Instead she saw a surprising understanding in their glimmering depths. Beneath that understanding was the clear, quiet sheen of triumph. He thought he'd won!
"Sabrina." He moved to sit on the edge of the bed and then held out his hand. "Come to me."
No. Sabrina backed away. At least, she meant to back away. In truth she simply stood where she was, swaying. No, he couldn't have won! Didn't he understand?
"I understand," he claimed, as though he knew her distress. "Come."
She swayed some more, fighting the urge to walk into his arms. How could she want that? Hadn't she learned a damn thing all those years ago?
Apparently not, because before she knew it, she'd walked over and Vincenzo's lean strength closed around her. She found herself pulled into his lap. Panic was what she should have felt, dismay and horror at her weakness. Instead she pressed her fists and the side of her face against his chest and let him cradle her in his arms.
"It's all right, tesoro," his deep voice rumbled against her ear. "You are here with me now."
That made it all right? And yet, the harder she clung to him, the deeper a peace flowed into her. Her eyes drifted closed.
"I understand better and better," Vincenzo murmured, "why you need me. Sleep now, tesoro. Sleep. I will take care of you."
Huh. He wasn't going to take care of her. Nobody did that but herself. All the same, damned if she didn't end up falling asleep, right there in his arms.
~~~
Sabrina woke to the golden glow of California sunshine pouring in through the sheer curtains of her hotel room. For a moment she lay on the soft mattress, enjoying the hue of the light, enjoying the warmth of her bed, and feeling a general sense of peace and well-being.
It took a minute, and the sound of the shower going in the next room, to make her remember what had happened the night before. A spear of apprehension ran through her dreamy well-being. She jerked to a sitting position in the bed, then pushed the hair from her eyes. Had she really told Vincenzo all of that? No, she couldn't have done something so foolish. And of all people, to have picked this crazy Italian.
Slowly she rose from the bed. All right, so she'd lost her cool, fallen apart. That wasn't so surprising after ten years. Vincenzo had been a sympathetic ear. That was it. That was all.
But from her own bathroom Sabrina could hear the water of Vincenzo's shower and above that, the sound of him singing. Then there was the noise of something clattering against the tub followed by a break in the song and a spicy string of Italian.
She couldn't help the smile that broke out on her face. It matched the funny, warm sensation that splashed in her chest. Oh, God. More apprehension ran through her. What was going on here? Surely she wasn't becoming susceptible to this man.
Okay, yeah, she'd obviously been a little susceptible last night, but she hadn't gone all the way, so to speak, not literally or figuratively.
When Sabrina emerged from her bathroom, Vincenzo was standing by the round table in her bedroom, tearing apart a large Federal Express package.
As she toweled dry her hair, Sabrina observed the crisp ensemble of beiges he wore. His hair was still wet, very dark, and slicked back out of the way. Once again, she noted a warm feeling in her chest. Just a natural result of observing an incredibly beautiful man. That's all.
"Ah, Sabrina." A smile immediately lit his face as he turned around, apparently noticing her presence in the room. It was a perfectly innocent smile, and then his gaze dropped to take in the towel wrapped around her breasts. He cleared his throat. "You look wonderful this morning. Why don't you get dressed and I will show you what has arrived." He turned back to continue unwrapping the contents of the package from what appeared to be a mile of bubble wrap. "Don't worry, I will not look."
"I'll only be a minute," Sabrina replied dryly as she grabbed some clothes and headed back for the bathroom. No doubt he wouldn't look, but getting undressed in the same room with him was way too domestic.
Once Sabrina had emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed, Vincenzo pointed with fatherly pride toward a painting that stood on the table, propped against the wall.
She came to a halt, staring at the thing. Her first thought was that the tiny photograph in Vincenzo's wallet hadn't come close to doing it justice. There was a deep richness of color and texture in the woman's dress and hair, and in the leaves of the tree that framed her. It was evident even halfway across the room.
"It's so small," Sabrina remarked, stepping closer. Together with the frame, the painting couldn't have been more than nine by twelve inches.
"That was the style at the time. Small. This copy is most faithful to every detail of the original—or at least that is what all the literature tells me."
Sabrina edged closer, fascinated. Even in a copy, the painting held a certain mesmerizing quality. The lady's eyes, in particular, drew her. Just as Vincenzo had described, there was a layer of rebellion underlying the sadness in her dark eyes.
"It looks well made," Sabrina murmured, observing the tiny, precise brush strokes. Joe's education of her in such matters had her estimate of the original's market value soaring upward. Automatically, new calculations zipped through her brain.
"Eighteenth century." Vincenzo smoothed his fingers across the top of the frame, but kept his gaze on Sabrina. "What do you think of the Lady?"
"The woman in the painting, you mean?" She knew exactly what he meant, and why he asked. There was a power to her face, to that look in her eyes.
"There is a story, you know," Vincenzo said. "About the model."
Unable to hide her curiosity, Sabrina glanced up at him. "They know who sat for the portrait?"
"Oh, yes. In my town it is a well-known story. Her name was Maria Visconti. As the daughter of one of the families vying for control of Milan, she became a prisoner, a political pawn. My ancestor, Giancarlo Nicolazzi, had the job of holding her for ransom."
"Nice job," Sabrina remarked.
Vincenzo only smiled. "He had his comeuppance. He fell in love with his charge. She spurned him, of course."
"I should hope so."
Vincenzo lifted a shoulder. "And then Giancarlo commissioned this painting. The artist understood just what to do. He painted Maria as a virgin: pure, helpless, but with a spirit of fire."
Sabrina tilted an eyebrow at him. "Did it work?"
Vincenzo's smile turned smug. "Three months later she was carrying Giancarlo's child."
Sabrina released a disgusted breath and Vincenzo laughed. He was in an awfully good mood. And why shouldn't he be? she wondered. He'd won a major battle the night before.
Not that he'd won the whole war.
She liked him and all. Obviously, she was attracted to him. But they weren't together or anything. And she didn't trust him. Not all the way, at least, the way she'd trusted the Castlewrights.
"Is your family known for taking prisoners?" Sabrina eyed him sidelong. He had to be aware he'd attempted the same thing, himself, last night.
Vincenzo's amused gaze turned warm. "I think the present Nicolazzi is more of a captive than captor. Come here, tesoro." He held out one hand.
Ah, she'd been expecting this, almost dreading it. He was drawing the battle lines again, preparing a new skirmish. She wasn't really ready—but it would be more dangerous to admit vulnerability than to accept this challenge. She put her hand in his.
He pulled her toward him and sat down in a chair at the table, deliberately placing himself below her, at an apparent disadvantage. "You are frightened still, wary." He clucked his tongue. "Don't you know by now that I'm your friend?"
"Friend," Sabrina repeated, expressing some disbelief.
"Ah, perhaps a little more than friend," he admitted. He drew her between his thighs, so that her knees hit the front edge of his chair's seat. "And you are my friend, as well."
Both of Sabrina's hands were in his. A combination of guilt and want shimmered through her. "Is that what you think?"
He brought one of her hands to his mouth and pressed his lips against the back of it. "I think you were my friend last night."
With the touch of his lips, the wanting part of her inner mix got stronger. "A one-time deal," she claimed, pushing the inconvenient emotion down.
His lips curved as he raised her other hand to his mouth. "You have been my friend since the beginning."
Now the guilt took a turn. "You mean when I stole your wallet?"
Releasing both her hands, he looked up at her with a wry smile. "I am very sorry, Sabrina. But despite your best efforts to the contrary—you care."
A wriggly snake moved through her chest. She had a terrible feeling he was right. They weren't together, and she didn't trust him—but she did care.
This was a definite problem. Where did this caring leave her? Or the painting?
"Vince?" Frowning, she put her hands on his shoulders.
"Yes, Sabrina?"
"You're shaking."
His eyes dropped halfway closed. "It feels very good to touch you."
"Ah." This confession eased the sting of defeat. Her frown softened into a satisfied smile. "So. Now it's you who's frightened."
"Perhaps. A little."
She lowered her lashes, tasting some triumph of her own here. "What are you scared of? I won't bite."
"No." Vincenzo laughed nervously. "I am afraid you will taste much too good."
Temptation sat right beneath her. She could smell his aftershave, feel the muscles shift beneath her palms. Normally Sabrina was very good at resistance. At the present moment, even, she was fully aware of the risk. She didn't want to draw any closer to togetherness here. But she leaned downward anyway.
"Maybe I'm not all that sweet," she suggested, and touched her lips to his.
It was the magic again, the kind of thing that happened every time he took her hand. Only this time it was Sabrina who'd created it. A novel pleasure rushed through her at learning she had that power.
He didn't pull away. No, he let her kiss him, let her take the lead. He trusted her, responding to her every press and retreat. He allowed her full license to enjoy him.
And enjoy him she did. Her head was full of him, her hands trembling, when she finally managed to separate their mouths. "Well," she whispered. A whisper was all she could manage. "What do you think?"
His lashes stayed lowered against his cheeks. "I think you taste far sweeter than I had even imagined." Before Sabrina could enjoy this confession he'd wrapped one hand around the nape of her neck and pulled her down to mesh mouths again. This time he took control, playing, enjoying, pleasuring.
A heat rose up in her and a bone-deep weakening as their mouths became more intimate. The magic deepened, like a net falling all around them.
His hands went to her waist, holding her steady, long fingers spread across her back. His upraised thumbs just grazed the underside of her bra. She ached for him to move his hands upward, to feel them against her softness.
He actually did move a micro inch in that direction, before quickly lowering his hands. His lips brushed past hers to the more neutral territory of her cheek. "Sabrina," he hoarsely whispered.
"You're stopping?" Her arms were wrapped around his head, her heart racing.
Laughing softly, he pulled out of her embrace. "Amante. If I didn't stop now, I might never."
"Vincenzo." She caressed his clean-shaven cheek. "It's all right. I want you." Oh, boy, did she want him. If she were thinking more clearly, the strength of her desire might have frightened her. As it was, her want was getting the better of her brain.
"Ah, Sabrina." Sighing, he took her hand and kissed the palm. "We will become lovers, but not today."
Her breasts still ached. She wanted badly to be kissed again. Her stupid brain could go to perdition. "When?" she demanded.
He didn't answer at first, rubbing her fingers with his lips. "When...we are ready. Now, come tesoro. Sit in my lap. We both need to cool down and you'll be in a much better mood if we do it together."
"My mood is just fine," Sabrina claimed, disgruntled he could sense her physical irritation.
"Come." He pulled her into his lap, resting his cheek against her forehead. "Put your hand on my chest. Feel how fast my heart is beating? You see? I'm in no better shape than you." In a lower tone he added, "Worse, I imagine."
With her palm pressed against the crisp front of his shirt, Sabrina could indeed feel the rapid tap of his heartbeat. So why had he stopped? They both wanted this. Neither of them were children.
Then she remembered. A wave of dismay crashed through her.
The painting.
Vincenzo won't touch a woman until he finds that painting. Even though he supposedly understood now that Carlotta was dead, he hadn't given up the idea he needed absolution for her demise. Until he got that, he wouldn't be enjoying a full life.
The wriggly snake crawled through her chest again. Sylvio had been willing to condemn his nephew to a lifetime of celibacy. Sabrina was not willing to do that. An idea began to form in her mind, a way to get Vincenzo what he needed, but without sacrificing herself in the process.
"Vincenzo?" She moved her palm upward to straighten his collar.
"Yes, Sabrina?"
"We need to talk business."
Though she couldn't see his face, she sensed he was raising an eyebrow. "What business?"
"About getting into Francesca Miller's house."
The hand he'd been moving through her hair stilled. "I thought you said it was impossible to get into her house."
"Yeah, well. I've had some time to think since I said that."
He moved his hand slowly through her hair, his fingers combing gently. "What have you been thinking?"
"Well, it's a long shot, and it's risky." She craned her head to look at him. She wanted to see his reaction. "But I just may be able to get you that painting."
For once, that expressive face of his wasn't giving a thing away. He simply looked down at her with dark, watching eyes.
"You do still want the painting, don't you?" Sabrina asked, tension building inside of her. His eyes had turned shrewd, the way they could, observing her. What was the problem? Sabrina wondered. He obviously needed that painting—and she'd been hired to get it for him. None of that had changed.
But he gazed at her for a long time before finding his answer. It was as though he thought the answer lay in Sabrina, and not his own mind. "Yes," he said at last. "Yes, I want you to get me the painting."