The Italian Read online

  Stefano Leone rose from his high-backed chair as she approached the desk. He was very tall. She followed his progress up, eyes wide. Jamie’s gaze was riveted on Stefano Leone’s clean, stern features. Dark, knowing eyes, a strong aquiline nose, sharp cheekbones, full, sensual mouth. It was the face of a man born to command. An emperor’s face.

  Magnificent, she thought in awe.

  Chapter Two

  If the woman is bait sent to lure me to my death, my enemy has chosen well, Stefano Leone thought.

  Salvatore Serra was one of the most dangerous men on earth. Cruel, cunning, with a deep understanding of human weakness. And this woman was walking temptation.

  Her allure was tangible from ten feet across a darkened room. As the door had opened to admit her, she’d been backlit from the light in the corridor for a moment. Just long enough for Stefano to see her shape through almost-sheer pants, revealing long, slender legs, a tiny waist and gently rounded hips. She’d turned her face and he’d caught a glimpse of a delicate profile, like the one on his mother’s favorite cameo.

  He could smell her from here. It wasn’t anything as blatant as perfume, but a disturbing combination of flower-scented soap, shampoo and woman.

  Kept under constant guard, Stefano hadn’t had a woman in over three years. Had barely seen a woman. He switched on the floor lamp beside his desk and watched her walk toward him.

  He held himself very still. The woman was dangerous. Lethally beautiful.

  He’d thought her hair was dark but it wasn’t. It was a deep red, and she had a redhead’s coloring. Palest ivory skin, two auburn wings for eyebrows, turquoise eyes. A cat’s eyes.

  He kept the air conditioning on high in his study. The temperature in here was much cooler than the air in the corridor, and he could see her nipples firming from the chill. Her breasts were high, firm and round, the nipples hard little points.

  It wasn’t difficult at all to imagine away the thin top covering her torso, to see the delicate, creamy skin and how it would look against his much darker hand. She was so fair-skinned her nipples would be pale pink and would taste like berries in cream…

  Cristo! Three years without a woman and right now his body remembered each and every long, lonely night. This particular woman was temptation incarnate. She was the very essence of an alluring woman, every inch of her body made for a man’s hands, a man’s mouth.

  She might have been chosen for just that reason.

  She might have been sent to kill him.

  Not right now, of course. His enemies were anything but stupid.

  His men would have frisked her. She wouldn’t have a weapon in her purse and the package she carried would be harmless. She was no match for his strength.

  No, the woman could represent a more indirect danger. Distraction, entrapment.

  It just might be worth it though, he thought. The light illuminated only the right side of her face but what he could see was flawless, stunning in its perfection.

  “Ms. McIntyre?” He could hear the harshness in his voice. The harshness of a man who had lived under a death sentence for three years.

  “Y-yes,” she stammered.

  The woman was frightened and trying to hide it. Her breathing was fast and shallow and he had to work not to drop his eyes to those magnificent breasts swaying slightly because of her altered breathing. He had excellent peripheral vision, however. She was unconsciously chewing on her lush lower lip, removing the rich red lipstick to reveal an even richer color underneath.

  Stefano suddenly had an image of his own tongue licking that lipstick off, tasting that luscious red mouth, then tasting the nipples so clearly visible.

  His body reacted instantly to the sensory detail of the image. Blood rushed to his groin.

  He was shocked at himself. He wasn’t twelve anymore, with an instant erection at close proximity to a woman, the smell of a woman, the thought of a woman. He was a grown man who could keep his genitals under control. Yes, he’d had a very long and enforced dry spell. But still.

  Using sex to get at a man was an old trick, the oldest in the book. It still worked too. An attractive policewoman in Catania had found out the name of Salvatore Serra’s ambassador to the N’drangheta, the Calabrian mob. She hadn’t even had to go to bed with the man, just promise to.

  Sex killed. Remember that, he told himself as his cock went back down.

  The woman had been trying to contact him for days but the firewall of his men had kept her at bay. It was only when the name Harlan Norris was mentioned that he accepted the risk of seeing her.

  Yes, she was afraid. Perhaps she was afraid of the stern, protective military ring surrounding him. Tight security and armed men were enough to make anyone fearful.

  Then again, her fear could be the fear of an agent carrying out a dangerous mission—to lure him to his death. She could well be an emissary of Salvatore Serra.

  He had to keep his body under control, no matter how enticing she was. His men protected him with their lives. He couldn’t let them down.

  “Sit down, Ms. McIntyre.” Stefano thought with grim humor of the various outlandish versions of her name his men had supplied. Not too many McIntyres in Sicily.

  When she hesitated, he put a note of steel in his command. “Sit down. Please.”

  She didn’t take her eyes off him. She groped until her hand found a chair and then sat down. And stared. Beautiful eyes wide, hands clutching a purse and a package so hard her knuckles were turning white.

  “Are you going to give me that package?”

  She started and looked down as if in surprise at the package in her hands.

  “Oh of course,” she murmured. Her voice was soft, musical, slightly breathless. She looked up and tried to smile. “Sorry.” She handed him the package and his hand touched hers as he took it.

  Stefano clenched his teeth. Her skin felt every bit as soft as it looked. Softer. The softest thing he’d touched in…what felt like forever. His life was a cage of iron, with iron men surrounding it. Nothing soft in the cage at all, only sharp edges that cut.

  He sat down, hefting the package. It wasn’t a bomb. Buzzanca was an arteficiere, a bomb expert. He’d already defused two bombs meant for Stefano. Buzzanca would never let anything slip by him.

  If it truly was from Harlan Norris, his old friend, it could only be one thing.

  He unwrapped it slowly. He had long since schooled himself never to show emotion and he knew his face didn’t betray anything as he opened the unusually beautiful wrapping paper to disclose a book.

  It took all his willpower not to show his delight as he looked down at the book in his hands. A first edition of Asimov’s Foundation Trilogy.

  As far as Stefano knew, Harlan was the only person on earth to whom he’d confessed his addiction as a child to the science fiction classics, and Asimov in particular.

  He had two hundred pages of banking records to go through, from a bank in the Caymans where Serra was suspected of laundering drug money. He also had another several hundred tedious pages of testimony to read from a former Mafioso turned informer.

  It had been three years since he had read anything not related to the capture and indictment of Salvatore Serra, but Stefano knew that tonight he would be indulging in the stirring tales of the destiny of mankind out beyond the stars.

  He knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that the book was from Harlan.

  But was she?

  “This is a very kind gift from your grandfather,” he said, watching the woman closely. “I guess he remembered that I enjoy science fiction. Before you go, I’d very much like to send him back a gift. Does he still collect cigarette holders?”

  The woman’s smooth brow furrowed. She leaned forward, the loose silk top gaping, showing him an enticing view of delicate collarbones and smooth white skin down to the beginning swell of her breasts. It was an effort not to lean forward to get a better view.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Leone—Judge Leone,” she said in that soft voic
e. “Perhaps your memory is a little faulty. My grandfather collects pipes.” She wrinkled her nose and gave a small smile. “The older and smellier, the better.”

  Indeed, Harlan had collected pipes. The older and smellier the better.

  She turned her head into the light—and he saw it.

  Stefano was taken back fifteen years to a dark, comfortable study in Cambridge. Stefano had spent many a pleasant evening at Harlan’s comfortable old Cape Cod-style home during the time he’d spent at Harvard.

  One evening, after Harlan’s housekeeper had prepared one of the few edible meals Stefano’d had in America, they had repaired to Harlan’s study. Over an excellent cognac and illegal Cuban cigars, they’d spent an amiable hour solving the world’s problems.

  His eye had been caught by the silver-framed photograph of a laughing imp. The girl was a skinny carrot-top with prominent braces. “My granddaughter,” Harlan had said with pride.

  “Ah—nice-looking girl,” Stefano had said politely.

  Harlan had looked at him with amusement. “Not right now she’s not, Stefano. There’s no reason to lie. But take my word for it; she’ll grow up to be a beauty. See that mole?” He’d pointed to the left side of the girl’s face.

  “Yes,” Stefano had replied cautiously.

  “That’s in the position the French call ‘beauty’. Trust me. She’ll be a head-turner some day.”

  Stefano had made some vague conciliatory noises and then they had gone on to talk about the new Law of the Seas Treaty.

  Jamie McIntyre had a small mole on her left cheekbone. In the position the French called “beauty”.

  This was Harlan Norris’ granddaughter.

  Stefano leaned back and for the first time in three years, his muscles relaxed completely. When was the last time he’d been in the company of a beautiful woman? These last hard years had cost him more than the company of women; they had cost him his essence.

  What the hell had he become? Before his arrival in Palermo, he had considered himself a highly civilized man—urbane, cultivated, sophisticated. Before being assigned the investigation into Salvatore Serra, he’d have known exactly how to deal with a lovely woman—and frightening her was not part of his repertoire.

  Over the course of the past three years, he’d been turned—had turned himself—into a primitive being. A hunter descending to the level of his prey. He was hunting one of the most ferocious men alive. Slowly, all the trappings of civilization had fallen away, one by one, until he was stripped bare of everything but his strength, his determination to take Serra down and his loyalty to the men who provided a wall of living flesh around him. He wasn’t equipped anymore to deal with a beautiful woman.

  A beautiful woman, moreover, who was the granddaughter of a man who had shown him kindness and courtesy, and from whom he had received a first-rate grounding in international law. This man had sent him a wonderful gift, and in return, Stefano had subjected his beloved granddaughter to the treatment usually meted out to criminals.

  Well, maybe it wasn’t too late to make amends.

  He glanced at his watch and winced. It was too late to make amends tonight. He had an appointment with a snitch, who might be willing to give information on someone else who might be willing to give away Serra’s hiding place. It was the latest in a long series of frustrating meetings with the underbelly of humanity, but he had to make the appointment. Even if a thousand lowlifes disappointed him, the thousand-and-first might yield up his nemesis.

  “I owe you an apology, Ms. McIntyre. I can’t imagine what you must be thinking. I apologize profusely for your treatment by my men.”

  Her brow furrowed again. “I wasn’t treated with discourtesy by your officers, Judge Leone.”

  “You must call me Stefano.”

  “Stefano,” she said softly

  She smiled and his heart beat just a little faster. Later, after she was gone and his hormones weren’t scrambling his brains, he would have time to reflect upon the astonishing fact that a woman’s smile could still make his heart rate increase.

  The smile transformed her face, turned her from a perfect sculpture into a living, breathing woman. Those stunning eyes turned soft. The smooth planes of her face shifted and he saw with sudden insight that this was her usual expression. Smiling and warm.

  She looked around, taking in the no-nonsense decor, the law books and piles of documents. Her gaze came back to his and she went right to the heart of his life. “You must be after some very dangerous men to be so carefully protected.”

  To deny it would be foolish. Stefano didn’t say anything. Couldn’t say anything. He merely nodded his head once.

  “I know several very brave judges have been killed here in Palermo. I’m glad for you that your men protect you so well.”

  Your men. The thought of his men sobered Stefano. “What are you doing here, Ms. McIntyre?”

  “Jamie, please. Though you’re very good at saying ‘McIntyre’. My name has been mangled pretty thoroughly since my arrival.”

  “Jamie it is. So why are you here?”

  “As I told you on the phone, I’m here on a study-vacation. I’m a designer and I’m hoping to get some inspiration in Palermo. I majored in art and art history and I’ve always been interested in the architecture of this city. Such an unusual blend of Moorish and Romanesque and baroque styles. I thought I could get some good work done, and I have. It’s a beautiful city.”

  “Mm.” Stefano was noncommittal. He’d only seen Palermo through tinted bullet-proof windows. “What kind of a designer are you?”

  “Eclectic.” She pointed to the book. “For example, I designed that wrapping paper.”

  He picked it up, turned the shimmering paper in his hands. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” She fell silent and so did he. Her skin glowed in the penumbra like pearls underwater. He couldn’t have taken his gaze from hers if a bomb had gone off in the next room.

  A discreet knock sounded and Stefano started out of his trance.

  “You must go now.” Stefano didn’t have to put regret into his voice. The idea of this enticing young woman leaving filled him with regret. “But I’d consider it an honor if you’d have dinner with me tomorrow night.” He smiled at her, marveling that he still remembered how. How long had it been since he’d last smiled?

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  He rounded his desk, standing by her chair until she stood, then walked her to the door with a hand at her back.

  His mother had raised him to be a gentleman. He rose to his feet, he held open doors, he cupped elbows with the best of them. But his hand at her back had nothing to do with manners. He wanted—needed—to touch her. The trip from his desk to the door was all too short.

  They stopped at the door. The light didn’t reach here and he could vaguely see the glow of her eyes. The room was so silent he could hear her breathing. His own breathing.

  Moving slowly, Stefano lifted her hand to his mouth. You weren’t supposed to touch your lips to a woman’s hand, but the temptation was too great. He brushed that soft, soft skin with his lips, lingered. He ran his thumb across the back of her hand then reluctantly released it and opened the door.

  Buzzanca was right there, hand raised to knock again.

  “Buzzanca,” he said in Italian, not taking his eyes from hers, “see that Signorina McIntyre gets home safely.” He straightened and switched his gaze. “I want you to see her to her door. That’s an order.”

  Buzzanca saluted. “Yes sir.”

  And Stefano knew it would be done.

  He smiled down at her. “See you tomorrow night,” he said softly.

  Her chest rose gently on a breath. “Yes.”

  Stefano watched them walking down the corridor. The man he trusted most in the world and the most enticing woman he’d ever met.

  Suddenly, he had a vision.

  Anyone who knew him would have scoffed at the idea of Stefano Leone having visions. He was a realist
and a lawyer. Lawyers didn’t do visions. But whether born of a sudden unsuspected gift for prophecy or of his own burning desire, he suddenly saw something else.

  He saw her walking down another corridor, naked this time. Laughing and looking teasingly over her shoulder. Her naked form was enchantment itself. Slender, sleek, womanly.

  He caught up with her, with this entrancing woman, and turned her around in his arms. She lifted a laughing face to his and he moved fast. His lips took hers hungrily and she wasn’t laughing anymore but moving against him, loin to loin, chest to chest. He moved forward, taking her with him, until her back was against the wall. His hands moved over her, seeking hungrily all those places where she showed her desire for him. He discovered immediately that she was wet, ready. As she had been so many times before.

  Blood rushed from his head to his cock and he groaned. She sighed gently into his mouth and he was lost. Feverishly he unzipped, lifted her legs. He could feel her heartbeat behind her naked breast, hammering as he opened her with his fingers and thrust his cock inside.

  She was hot, wet, tight…and he trembled. He pulled back, almost out, then thrust again…she shifted closer, legs tightening around him, and he started pounding into her, over and over again…

  He weakened, stopped, still embedded within her, his lips at her smooth pale neck. Her arms were around him and his cock was rock-hard, buried deep inside her, but he felt himself slipping away.

  He took a hand from her smooth skin and touched his side. It was wet.

  He reached higher, to the hilt of the blade buried between his ribs, embedded in his heart, and knew his life’s blood was escaping, knew he was dying—

  “Good night.”

  Stefano came to himself with a jerk.

  Jamie McIntyre was in the elevator with Buzzanca. The door was closing.

  Stefano leaned a hand against the doorjamb. What had happened to him? He was breathing heavily and sweating. Thank God the dim light hid his erection.

  “Good night,” she said again, her voice soft with distance.

  He desperately pulled air into his burning lungs.

  “Buona notte.” His voice was hoarse. “Good night.”