He tossed her her coat. “Put that on,” he ordered.
She did, and her fingers were trembling as she belted it around her waist.
He gave the hovering waitress a tip, told her, “Put those kielbasas in bags,” and said to Mossimo, “Thanks for the lunch.”
“What about the job?” Mossimo sat nursing his wrist, and he’d lost that fake geniality. He looked like what he was—a mean, petty thief without skill or finesse.
“I’ll be in touch.”
13
Roberto caught Brandi’s arm gently but firmly and shoved her toward the door.
She was torn. She wanted to unequivocally state that she didn’t appreciate being pushed around. At the same time she wanted out of that restaurant before someone got hurt. Like her. Or Roberto. “What was that all about?” she whispered.
“A disagreement about who would pay for the meal.” Roberto grabbed the lunch sacks from the waitress.
“Do guns always come out when you guys disagree?” She glanced behind her. Everyone at the Fossera table was on their feet, watching with narrowed eyes as she and Roberto strode for the door.
She faced forward again, the skin between her shoulder blades itching. Or maybe the sensation was cold sweat trickling down her spine.
“How did the conversation go with McGrath and Lindoberth?” Roberto asked conversationally.
“The conversation with . . . Oh! With Glenn Silverstein.” How could Roberto sound so normal when bullets could right now be winging their way toward them? “He wants me to check in every two hours.”
Roberto shouldered his way outside. “Does he? What does he think that’s going to accomplish?”
“That it’s going to be a pain in my rear, which I believe is his goal.” The cold air felt good after the stifling atmosphere—or maybe that was just relief. She took a long breath.
The car was nowhere in sight.
“Now where are we going to walk?” she asked sarcastically.
Roberto flipped open his phone and said, “Newby, we’re ready.”
She sidled away from the restaurant windows. Guns. Those people had had guns. Her father had a hunting rifle. Other than that, her whole experience with guns was watching Steven Seagal movies with Alan, and that only under protest. She knew she was naive, but she’d never seen a pistol used to threaten someone. Someone she knew. Someone like Roberto.
She glanced sideways at him.
Yet he looked unfazed, and she realized that during that whole scene, he’d exuded authority. Those men could have beaten him up, could have killed him, yet he’d been the one who had been in control of the situation.
Who was he? A jewel thief? A gangster? Or just a count?
He walked her to the entrance of the next building. Pushing her against the wall out of the wind, he handed her the bags. “Stay here.” And he took off running—running like a man competing in a track meet instead of an Italian count/jewel thief in business clothes.
More to the point, those two guys who’d followed them from the courthouse were loitering at the corner, and when they saw Roberto flying toward them, they ran, too. Ran like they were guilty of something.
Roberto skidded around the corner.
He was out of sight.
Shit. She’d lost him already!
Brandi ran, too. The wind took her breath away. Her heart pounded with the cold, the activity, the fear he’d escaped her custody.
She rounded the corner. Roberto and the two men were nowhere in sight. She stared, feeling helpless and foolish . . . and alarmed for Roberto’s safety.
Why? Why should she be worried about him? She should be worried about herself having to go back to Judge Knight and admit she’d lost Roberto Bartolini. McGrath and Lindoberth wouldn’t be any too happy, either.
But she was worried that Roberto had gotten himself into trouble. Into more trouble. That he’d be hurt.
She was such a fool. She’d been clueless about Alan. She didn’t know what was wrong between Roberto and the Fosseras. And Roberto . . . every time she thought she got a handle on his personality, he changed it.
Worse than any of that . . . mixed into her distress was the knowledge that the kielbasas smelled incredibly good.
How could she be thinking of food at a time like this?
Obviously the only thing she was good at was eating.
And, um, sex. She knew she was good at that. At one point over the weekend she’d reduced Roberto to begging.
She walked farther down the street, trying to keep warm, searching for him, hoping . . .
He came back around the corner at a run. “What are you doing here?” Again he grabbed her by the arm. He hustled her back to the corner. As Newby pulled up in the limo, Roberto shoved her toward the car.
“Would you stop pushing me?” She tried to shove back.
“I’m guiding you.” He didn’t wait for Newby to come around and open the door. He did it himself and “guided” her inside. He dropped into the seat beside her, shut the door, and Newby took off, all in one smooth motion. “Damn it, Brandi, I told you to stay put.”
“I’m lousy at following directions.” And sick and tired of being told what to do, shoved around, and generally made a scapegoat.
There must have been something about the set of her mouth that warned him he was in danger, for he said only, “Hm. Yes. I’ll remember that.” He took the sack out of her hand. “Good girl. You’ve still got the dogs.”
“I’m glad I can do something right. I can’t walk by myself, I get reamed out by Glenn for not keeping you ‘under control’”—she made quotation marks with her fingers—“those men don’t believe I’m a lawyer, I sl—” She shut her mouth. She must be tired. She’d almost referred to their weekend together, a topic of conversation she preferred not to pursue.
“You get peevish when you’re hungry,” he observed.
“I do not.” Although the odor of the sausage, the onions, the sauerkraut was almost unbearably seductive, and that, coupled with her relief at being safe, at having Roberto safe, resulted in a huge belly growl.
Pulling a tray out of a hidden compartment in the side of the limo, he placed it on her lap. He ripped open the bag and handed her one of the warm, wrapped dogs. “Here, eat.”
“Look. You have to tell me what’s going on.” She unwrapped the kielbasa with fingers that shook. “Who were those men?”
“The ones in the restaurant or the ones I was chasing?”
“The ones you were chasing.”
“I don’t know. I want to talk to them so I can find out why they keep showing up where we are.”
She had to admire his skills in answering an interrogation. He didn’t give away any more than he had to. “Do they have guns, too?” Then she bit into the kielbasa. She lost her train of thought. “That is so good,” she said through a mouthful.
He smiled at her. Smiled at her the way he had that night, that weekend, as if she were the most wonderful woman in the world.
Self-conscious, she reached for a napkin and met his fingers as he handed one to her.
Why would eating a hot dog make her think of sex with him?
Well, duh.
She rushed into speech. “Who do you think could be following you?”
“Just about anybody.” He bit into his dog, too, and chewed reflectively. “The FBI, the police, reporters. I thought it was the Fosseras, but Mossimo says no. Of course, he lies like a rug.”
So those guys could have guns. She knew she wasn’t going to like the answer, but she asked anyway. “Why would the Fosseras follow you?”
“Professional curiosity.”
Like a shock of electricity, she realized what he meant. “They’re jewel thieves?”
“Mossimo runs the largest operation in the world right from his house.”
“I could get in trouble for letting you anywhere near a criminal. Near a firearm!” The idea made her almost faint.
“I doubt Judge Knight would be angry if I go
t shot.” Roberto grinned unrepentantly. “After this morning he’s rooting for it.”
“No, really. You were breaking that man’s wrist.” He had looked like he knew what he was doing, too. “They pulled a gun on you. That was not your everyday, run-of-the-mill lunch date.”
“Perhaps not for you. Don’t worry, cara; I won’t let the ugliness touch you.” He popped the top on a Coke and handed it to her.
“Why does there have to be ugliness?” She drank, and the sugar hit her system in a welcome rush.
“With the Fosseras, there is always ugliness.” He took another bite. “I should have asked for deli mustard.”
He was not taking her cross-examination seriously. “You have been remanded into my custody. If you’ll recall, Judge Knight told you the penalties for screwing up, and he told me the penalties if you screw up, and I wish—”
“If I answer your questions, will you answer mine?” Roberto passed her the bag with the fries.
Instantly she was on her guard. “What questions?” The fries were those floppy, yellow, undercooked things, and she passed them back.
“Your fiancé has a wife?”
How badly did she want to know Roberto’s secrets? “Only one.”
He didn’t laugh.
And really, what did it matter if he found out now or later? Everybody was going to find out sooner or later. That bastard Sanjin was going to find out—had probably heard from sleazeball Glenn. Yup, if she didn’t have a year’s lease on her poor trashed apartment, and if she didn’t fully realize that quitting her first full-time position would screw up her résumé big-time, and if she hadn’t had Roberto remanded into her custody, she’d leave McGrath and Lindoberth and go home to Nashville. Right now, the thought of having Tiffany hug her, stroke her hair, and call her “poor baby” sounded like heaven.
Brandi’s hand crept toward her purse, toward her cell phone.
But no. She couldn’t talk to her mother. Not here. Not now. Not with Roberto watching her and waiting for his answer.
“Alan got his girlfriend pregnant and had to marry her.” She wiped her hands on the paper napkin.
“Ah.” Roberto didn’t act surprised, as though men did that all the time.
The bastards.
He looked her over, reflecting on some piece of information to which she wasn’t privy. At last he passed judgment. “At least you didn’t love him.”
“I did, too!” She did, too!
“No, you didn’t. You’re not devastated; you’re irritated.”
“Because you’re irritating!” And obnoxious.
“You haven’t thought about your ex-fiancé all day. A woman whose heart is broken thinks of nothing else.”
“Who died and made you the love expert?” Just because she’d jumped Roberto’s bones without a thought of tomorrow, he acted like he knew stuff about her. Stuff she didn’t know.
“Do you have questions you want to ask me,” Roberto said, “or do you want to fight?”
“I don’t fight.”
He had the nerve to smile enigmatically.
She didn’t fight. She was sensible and rational. So she grabbed at her fraying self-discipline and focused. “Yes. Yes, I’ve got questions. About the Fosseras—why did you go there?”
“They asked me to meet them.” He didn’t seem to care that the fries were underdone. He ate them with good appetite.
“Why? Why would you be so foolish as to go and meet people like that when you’re awaiting trial?”
“No one says no to Mossimo.”
Roberto’s flat tone sent a chill down her spine. “Is he dangerous?”
“Very dangerous.”
“Then why don’t you turn him in to the police?”
“There are several reasons. First, the police aren’t likely to take anything I say seriously. If you’ll recall, I’m up for trial for stealing, and the police will believe it’s a rivalry or a setup, or figure if he kills me, it’s good riddance. Second, he hasn’t done anything wrong that anyone has caught him at. He would take an investigation amiss and kill the person who started it.” Roberto leaned close and looked into her eyes, and his were dark and stern. “Do you understand? You are not to speak to the police about Mossimo or the Fosseras. They don’t care that you’re young and pretty and a woman. They will kill you.”
She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what to think. The stuff he was talking about . . . who was he? The passionate lover? The charming jewel thief? The imperious aristocrat? Or this grim-faced, intimidating man who . . . who perhaps was far too familiar with killing?
She hated being at such a disadvantage. Somehow she had to investigate him. If only she had her laptop. She glanced around the car. “Where’s the computer?”
“What computer?”
“The computer Newby said was in the car.”
“You wish to send an e-mail to the police?” Roberto sounded polite and unyielding.
“No . . .” But she couldn’t tell him why she wanted a computer, that she wanted to know all the details about him, his life, his occupation, his famous love affairs, and his infamous larceny.
“Sending an e-mail wouldn’t get the information to the proper authorities,” he said.
He was right.
But since the moment she’d left him less than twenty-four hours ago, her life had been chaos, and now she was danger? Yes, she believed that, but who was she most in danger from? From the Fosseras, or from him? “I have to do what I think is best.”
“Please remember, Brandi Michaels, that you are my lawyer, and any information about my movements or our conversations is off the record.”
“I doubt if Judge Knight would look at it that way.” Although he probably would; judges and lawyers usually took a firm stance on lawyer-client confidentiality.
“Then it’s a good thing I’ve been remanded into your custody so I can keep an eye on you.” Roberto sounded quite pleasant.
Yet a chill slid down her spine. He wasn’t threatening her with violence; rather it seemed he relished far too much their unremitting closeness. “What did the Fosseras want?”
“My head on a platter.”
“What would that profit them?”
“You catch on very quickly.” Then the exasperating man ate some limp fries.
“They want you to work for them, don’t they?” She did catch on quickly. Putting her hand on his shoulder, she squeezed it and said, “Roberto, they want you to steal something, and if you get caught again you’ll be in prison for the rest of your life, and the most talented law team won’t be able to stop that.” And she couldn’t bear the idea.
“I swear to you, I am not going to do anything to put your job in jeopardy, and I am not going to do a job for the Fosseras.” His deep voice vibrated with sincerity, and his dark eyes pledged much, much more.
“I depend on your word because . . . Wait!” The limo slowly cruised through the narrow streets of an old-fashioned neighborhood. “Where are you taking me?” And why did her heart leap at the thought that Roberto was dragging her to his lair to have his way with her one more time?
“I thought you’d enjoy meeting my grandfather.”
“Oh.” How deflating. He wasn’t dragging her to his lair.
How flattering. He wanted her to meet his family.
How stupid. This wasn’t about her meeting his family. It wasn’t even about his being remanded to her custody and having to stay close. This was about his convenience and his convenience only. He couldn’t be bothered to take her back where she belonged. She was so insignificant he just dragged her along like extra weight.
Her teeth snapping, she ate the rest of the kielbasa. And enjoyed it, too, damn it.
“You’ll like my grandfather. Nonno’s a good man, a little eccentric, but if you can’t be eccentric at his age, what’s the point of living?” Roberto finished his dog, too, and the whole double batch of fries.
“And?” She waited for the other shoe to drop.
&
nbsp; “He’s a jewel thief.”
Ah. The other shoe. Heck, a boot. “Why would you think I’d like him, then? I like honest people. People with some moral responsibility, who don’t steal things for fun.” She was deliberately offensive.
But Roberto only grinned. “He didn’t do it for fun. It was the family business. The Continis—”
“Continis?”
“My mother’s family are the Continis. They’ve been stealing from the rich for generations. We’re from Northern Italy, up by the mountain passes. We used to rob travelers when they were weak from making the descent.”
“How heroic,” she said sarcastically.
“Poverty teaches you to take what you can.”
She could hardly argue that. She knew very well what poverty did to a person. It helped you develop galloping ambition and made success not an option, but an imperative.
“Nonno’s a legend. He’s got the fastest hands you can imagine. He’ll warn you he’s going to do it, then take your wallet, your watch, your earrings, your handkerchief, your keys. I’ve seen him take the driver’s license out of a woman’s wallet inside her zippered purse and close the zipper on the way out.”
“So he’s a pickpocket.”
“No, that’s too easy for him. No challenge at all.” Roberto grinned proudly. “He’s an international jewel thief. When he was younger he was the inside man, the guy who went in and actually picked up the jewels. He was the man who disarmed the alarm before the alarm knew anyone was there. He could walk across a wired floor and never trip it. He was a ghost, the man hired for the big heists, and eventually the man who planned the big heists.”
She hated herself for asking, but she had to know. “Is that what you do?”
“I hate to buck tradition,” he said mildly.
She glanced at his hands—long, broad, capable of bringing a woman to ecstasy. . . . “You’re good at stealing things.”
“Yes, I am. But, Brandi . . .” His severe tone made her look up into his eyes.
Then she was sorry she did. For the first time since those nights in his hotel room, he focused on her with real sensual intent. “I never took anything from you that you weren’t willing to give.”