Mediterranean Men & Marriage. Raye Morgan

do,” he said boldly. “I’ve made some important innovations. The people I work for are very rich and they don’t throw their money away on useless developments. They want to win races. They hire me to help them do that.”

      “I understand.”

      “But I’m not the only one. There are a hundred designers who would like to take my place. Many of them work night and day, trying to beat me to the punch on new ideas, trying to win. You understand?”

      “Of course.”

      “And some even cheat.”

      She waved a hand in the air. “That goes without saying.”

      He nodded. “Lately there is a man who is following closely in my footsteps. Salvo Ricktorre is very good, and he’s always just one step behind me.” He made a very Italian gesture with his hands. “I can feel his breath on my neck. He seems to come up with ideas very similar to mine very soon after I have them. I’ve developed the habit of keeping my sketches and blueprints in very secure places, just to be sure he isn’t seeing them.”

      She nodded approvingly. “That sounds like a wise thing to do.”

      “Yes. So when my plans go missing, I can’t help but wonder if he has something to do with it.”

      That garnered a small frown, but she still said, “Understandable.”

      He sat back and looked pleased that she concurred. “Of course.”

      She nodded slowly. He was leaving something out. Should she bring it up? Should she mention her father? It might be a good way to smoke him out—if he was giving her a snow job. And if he was on the level—well, that would be obvious, wouldn’t it?

      She bit her lip nervously. It was a risk. If he was on the level, and he really had forgotten everything from those two weeks, bringing up her father’s name and then looking him straight in the eye might just jog his memory in ways she wasn’t going to be happy with. Still she almost felt it had to be done. Taking in a deep breath, she prepared to do it.

      “Who are you working for right now?” she asked, her heart in her throat as she said the words.

      “Right now?” He hesitated, then shrugged and went on. “My most important client is a man named Glendenning Hudson. You may have heard of him.”

      She nodded. Her mouth was so dry, she wasn’t sure if she could form words. She forced herself to meet his gaze and then she waited, wondering. Would he remember now?

      “He’s crazy, of course,” Marco went on blandly. “Most of these superwealthy people are. But they want the best and if you don’t give it to them, they go to someone who will.”

      She nodded again. She certainly agreed that he was “crazy.” That was the whole point.

      “Glendenning Hudson,” she said slowly, turning her head but watching him out of the corner of her eye. “Didn’t…didn’t he have a daughter?”

      She turned back to face him, her heart beating so hard she was sure he must hear it. It took all her strength to keep from letting him hear how rapid her breathing was now.

      He frowned, as though trying to remember. “I think so. Some little party girl who’s the apple of his eye, as I remember. One of those rich girls who grow up too fast and crash and burn too early.”

      “Just one of many, huh?” she said a bit breathlessly. “Not particularly memorable.”

      “No.” He made a face and shook his head. “I think I saw her once. Someone pointed her out at a restaurant. But I can’t recall anything much about her, actually.”

      “Not your type?”

      “My type?” He laughed as though it were not even worth considering. “Not at all. I’m not a teenager anymore. I have other things on my mind.”

      Despite everything, that stung.

      “So only immature boys would be interested in a girl like…” She paused for a moment, then forced herself to say the name she used to use. “Summer Hudson.”

      She searched his eyes quickly, but there was nothing to indicate that he had any idea what she was talking about.

      “No,” he said casually, leaning back and stretching. “Girls like that spend too much time in rehab to be interesting,” he added.

      His words cut into her soul, leaving scars, and she knew that was crazy. What was the matter with her? Of course he despised Summer Hudson. She despised that girl she used to be. She didn’t want to be her anymore. That was exactly why she was here. But it still hurt to know that he didn’t think any more of her than that—that he hadn’t had some magic epiphany when he’d seen her, hadn’t been able to see past the nonsense down to the worthy core.

      But then, no one else had, either. It was a good thing she’d escaped all that and come here. At least she had a chance of being a decent person. As long as she stayed.

      “Anyway, to get back to my missing plans, you do understand why it is important that I find them?”

      She raised her gaze to meet his and she nodded. “Yes. What I don’t understand is exactly what is missing and where they might be.” She challenged him brightly. “And why you are so sure they even exist.”

      “Oh, they exist, all right. I couldn’t possibly have gone two weeks without working on something.”

      She shrugged. “Then where are they?”

      “Good question. That’s what I’m asking you.”

      “I haven’t got a clue. I wouldn’t even know for sure what I’m looking for.” She hesitated, knowing there was no hope in dissuading him from this search, but thinking it was worth a meager try at the very least.

      “I think you ought to go back home and look in your recovered luggage again. After all, if they are gone, how do you really prove they were ever there if you can’t remember what you did?”

      He shook his head, frowning at her. “This is beginning to sound like a fractured version of ‘Who’s on first?’ Just listen for a moment. Don’t talk.”

      Ah, yes, she had to admit, this sounded like the Marco Smith she’d known and loved. All that Italian brashness and arrogance came out in flashes now and then, and this was one of them. Lucky she had a sense of humor, she decided, and then she pretended to zip her lips together and looked at him mockingly while she folded her hands in her lap.

      He gave her a fretful look, then went on. “When I’m working, I’m always jotting down specifications, looking for new combinations, figuring the math, checking the statistics on temperatures, wind, tides and so on. And I’m always sketching. Then, when my ideas begin to gel, I draft out more formal blueprints. And as I work, I constantly make copies of everything I do. In the end, I’ll always have two sets of plans.”

      He looked at her and she nodded helpfully, her lips still zipped. He rolled his eyes and went on.

      “I usually carry the originals with me in a portfolio and mail the copies to myself in a cardboard mailing tube. Just in case. This time, I ended up without either copy.” He looked at her expectantly and she smiled, her lips still pressed together.

      “Shayna, speak,” he ordered impatiently. “I didn’t mean it. I only wanted you to give me a chance to explain.”

      “Ahhh,” she said, as though she’d just been released from holding her breath. “Thank you.” She couldn’t resist a grin.

      “Okay, here’s all I know. I only went up to your room in the hotel once, and that was on the morning of the day you were to leave. And when I walked into your room, I saw the floor covered with blueprints and other design papers.”

      He nodded, narrowing his eyes. “Yes, that is how I usually organize them, and put them in order, especially if there are