The Fiancée Caper. Maureen Child

cupped both hands around her mug and let the heat seep into her skin. While she stared across the table at Gianni, she forced herself to admit, “I made a mistake and Abigail paid for it. That’s unacceptable to me. I want to get her necklace back. No,” she amended, “I need to get her necklace back for her.”

      He gave her a brief, slow nod, as if to acknowledge that he understood the sentiment driving her. But then he started speaking and the moment was lost. “I wish you luck with that.”

      “I need more than luck,” she countered. “I need you.”

      He laughed shortly, shook his head and then took a sip of his tea before plucking another cookie out of the bag. “And why should I care what you need?”

      “Because of that photo.”

      His features swiftly went blank. “Ah, yes. Your blackmail.”

      “I prefer the word extortion.”

      “Tomato, tomahto.”

      Ignoring that, Marie took a breath. “I’ve done my research you know. I left New York right after the robbery. I cashed in my savings, bought a plane ticket to France and I’ve spent the last few months traveling all over Europe. First I looked for Jean Luc in Paris but didn’t find him, obviously—”

      “He lives in Monaco.”

      “See!” She poked a finger at him. “That’s one reason why I need you. You know things I don’t.”

      “So very many,” he agreed, then frowned and shifted on his seat again.

      “Anyway, when I couldn’t find Jean Luc, the rat, I realized that I was going to need help.” She slumped back against her seat, then straightened up again because the darn thing was so uncomfortable. “Europe’s a big place and finding one thief just seemed like an impossible task. But every cop in the world knows about the Corettis and none of you make where you live a secret....”

      “Why should we?” He shrugged. “We’re not wanted for anything.”

      She skipped right over that. “I wanted the best and the Coretti family is it.”

      “And we’re all so flattered,” he drawled.

      “I’ll bet.” She smiled in spite of his sarcasm because she knew she had his attention. Had had it since the moment he’d seen that picture of his father. “I went to Italy, called in some favors with the force back home and got enough information that I was able to find your father’s place.”

      That muscle in his jaw started ticking again and she noticed that his grip on the mug was tight enough to make his knuckles as white as the rest of this awful apartment.

      “Then I followed him.”

      “You followed my father.” His jaw clenched even tighter.

      She nodded. “For days. I stayed in a local hotel and learned his routines. He’s very sweet. He actually bought me a cup of coffee once in his favorite café. He told me I had a charming accent and wished me a happy vacation in Italy.”

      Gianni sighed and rolled his eyes.

      “Your father’s very handsome—he reminds me of someone....”

      “George Clooney,” Gianni suggested with a tight groan. “My sister calls him an older, shorter, more Italian George Clooney.”

      Marie smiled at the description. “That’s it exactly.” Then she studied him for a second. “You must take after your mother.”

      Gianni smirked. “Very humorous. Does this story of yours have an end?”

      “Yes.” Back to business, she thought, despite the fact that she was actually beginning to enjoy herself. But she wasn’t here to be attracted to or even make small talk with Gianni Coretti and it would be best if she could remember that. Of course, to keep her thoughts from drifting, she’d have to avoid looking into those dark chocolate eyes of his.

      “The picture I took was mostly luck,” she admitted. “I followed Nick to a party at a nearby palazzo and sat there for an hour, watching the rich and famous coming and going. Finally, after an hour, I was so bored I was about to leave. That’s when I noticed your dad on the second-story roof, coming out of the window.”

      Gianni bit into a cookie with enough force to send crumbs shooting across the table.

      Marie smiled. She understood that frustration. She herself had uncles who could on occasion make her furious enough to bite through steel.

      “He never saw me and he went straight home from the party.” Marie took another long drink of her tea. “I made copies of the picture, stashed the copies in different places and then I came looking for you.”

      “Why me?” he asked. “Why not my father? Or Paulo?”

      “Because you have the most to lose,” she said, her gaze locked with his. “I’ve been following you for the last week, and I think the London cops might be very interested to know just how much time you spend browsing high-end jewelry stores in the city.”

      His brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed. “I didn’t steal anything, I was shopping. For a gift.”

      “Oh, I don’t think your bimbos would know the difference between designer and discount. And as I said, I think the London police would be curious about your interest in the shops.”

      She could actually see him grinding his teeth together.

      “I think the cops have better things to do.”

      “Possibly,” she agreed. “But there’s Interpol to think about, isn’t there? I know about your deal. You’ve retired from the business, but your family hasn’t. If this photograph gets noticed, your father will go to jail and it’s even possible that Interpol could tear up your immunity deal.”

      “What makes you think so?”

      She smiled. “This whole law-abiding thing is so shiny and new for you, Gianni, I don’t think it would take much to have the local authorities doubting your devotion to honesty.”

      He scrubbed one hand across the back of his neck and sighed heavily before meeting her gaze again. “Think you’ve sewn me up nice and tight, don’t you? Fine. Tell me exactly what you want. Be specific.”

      “I want you to help me find Jean Luc and get the Contessa back for Abigail Wainwright. I want to clear my reputation.” She folded her hands together on the clear tabletop. “Once I get that, I give you the photo of your father and disappear from your life.”

      * * *

      Gianni took a drink of his tea and wished it were scotch. He was trapped and he knew it. An edge of cold fury slid through his veins like ice water.

      First, he didn’t like intruders. Second, he hated finding out she’d been following him—and hated even more that he hadn’t noticed. Third, his brain kept flashing back to her lying beneath him on his bed and the feel of that curvy body pressed up tightly to him. But mostly, he hated that she was right.

      She had him exactly where she wanted him. His new law-abiding-citizen role was so new that London police and even Interpol might look at him with doubts if Marie O’Hara contacted them. He had spent a lot of time lately in the city’s more prestigious jewelry shops. It would look to the cops as if he were casing the buildings, plotting out their security systems, planning a heist. When in reality he had been trying to find a “new mother” present for his sister.

      Gianni couldn’t see the police believing that story, though. Even as he sat across from her, distracted by the tumble of dark red curls and sharp green eyes, his mind raced to find a way out. Hell, any way out. There simply wasn’t one. If he didn’t go along with this woman, his father could end up in jail. Nick Coretti would never survive a prison sentence. He was a man used to life’s comforts, to the company of women, to the freedom to go when and where he chose. Being locked away would kill