“It’s a relic. From now on, you must always wear this. Never take it off.”
“I thought I was safe so long as I left Florence.”
“There are others in America, too.”
Raven dropped the crucifix and it crashed against her chest. “How can some silly superstition protect me from the Mafia?”
A growl emerged from the intruder’s chest and he grabbed the chain.
“Stupid humans don’t deserve to live. I’ll take back my gift and trouble you no more.”
Panicked, her hand closed over his. “No, please. I want it.”
He tightened his hold on the chain until it pulled against her neck.
“Perhaps when you have time to reflect on your situation, you’ll assume a posture of gratitude.”
“Thank you,” she offered quickly.
“This relic offers protection from those who would kill you. Or worse.”
“Will it protect me from you?”
She wished she could snatch back the words as soon as they left her mouth.
He dropped the chain.
“The relic has no effect on me. Best keep that in mind if you’re tempted to speak to the Carabinieri about the palazzo or our conversation.” His tone grew very sharp. “You don’t want me as an enemy.”
She clenched her teeth. “I won’t tell them anything. I promise.”
“You have two weeks. At the end of that time, if you’re still here, you’ll answer to me.”
She nodded.
He grunted once again and much of his anger seemed to cool.
“I shall regret this. But it’s far too late.”
Out of the darkness, she felt his hand cup her face. His touch was light and surprisingly gentle.
“Beauty is vain. It appears and, like the wind, it’s gone. Remember that.” His thumb traced the curve of her cheek. “Good-bye, Jane.”
Before Raven could react to the sound of her legal name coming from his lips, he’d withdrawn. His steps echoed in the apartment and she heard the sound of a window opening.
A few seconds later, the lights came on.
Chapter Ten
The Prince stood on a terrace at the Gallery Hotel Art, disturbed and angry. His evening had not gone as planned. Instead, he’d had to revisit one of his most recent, and serious, mistakes. She’d proved to be an even more attractive mistake than he’d remembered.
Cassita vulneratus.
Now the wounded lark had been healed and he was the vulnerable one. He’d heard truth in her voice when she promised to keep secrets, but he knew how easily human beings could be tricked. Her mind was too strong to control without making her drink from him. And he was unwilling to make her his slave.
If Maximilian or Aoibhe came upon her . . .
He shuddered.
Jane’s scent was masked by what he’d fed her to save her life. Soon her true vintage would be detectable. He’d gifted her with one of his prized possessions, but he knew it would likely attract attention as well as repel it. He’d have to play guardian angel until she left the city, but from a distance.
Once again, a vision of a woman bloodied and abused burned before his eyes. And once again he resolved to stave off that outcome.
Whatever his commitment to Cassita, there remained the problem of the Emersons and Vitali. Emerson had received property stolen years before from the Prince’s home and made the collection public, insulting him and drawing international attention to the illustrations. Vitali was complicit in the installation of the collection in the Prince’s own city.
But Vitali’s mind was susceptible to influence and so his memory of parts of the exhibit opening had been erased easily. The Prince saw no reason to take his life, despite his involvement with the Emersons. Having the director of the Uffizi in his control had clear advantages.
The problem of the Emersons, however, remained. The name William York needed to be erased from their memories and from any connection with the Uffizi Gallery and the theft of the illustrations. But Emerson’s mind would not be controlled, nor would that of his wife.
Emerson would have to be killed and his wife would have to be traumatized into losing her memory.
The door that separated the terrace from their hotel room was ajar, in deference perhaps to their desire for fresh air. The Prince slipped into the darkened room.
The bed was only a few short steps from the door. Emerson was lying on his side, his back toward the Prince.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.
Emerson’s scent was distinctive and yet, somehow, it had changed since their last encounter. Certainly he was far more desirable now than before.
The Prince wondered idly what had precipitated the improvement.
At that moment, two other human scents assailed his nostrils, one new and pleasant and one familiar and unpleasant. Mrs. Emerson’s scent had changed since he’d last been in her presence. Her aroma was noticeably sweeter, but there was still the undertone of disease. Whatever health problems she’d had before were still present. She gave the appearance of health, however. He could see her body visible in bed, curved into her husband’s embrace.