Page 27 of The Thief

“But you didn’t fence it.”

He shakes his head. “I should have,” he admits. “But I couldn’t bear to get rid of it.” He looks like he didn’t mean to tell me that. “It’s been hanging in my bedroom ever since.”

It’s a painting of a mother with her child, and I don’t need to be a therapist to understand why Antonio was drawn to it. And when I think of a sixteen-year-old boy who couldn’t bear to give up a painting because it stirred something in his heart, a lump forms in my throat.

“Good to know,” I reply pertly, pushing that feeling away. Just because I understand doesn’t mean I agree with what he did. If he felt compelled by the Titian, he could have bought himself a poster. Or, given that he has access to a forger of some skill, he could have commissioned himself a copy. I’m not going to give him a free pass just yet.

He grew up without parents. Unlike you, he was probably stealing the painting to survive.

I push that thought away. “In your bedroom. So, the way to get access to the Titian is to sleep with you?”

And why did you say that? Why do you keep bringing up having sex with him?

He gives me a crooked smile. “That’s one way, yes,” he replies, putting his hand on my thigh in an unmistakable invitation. “Are you offering?”

Yes. No. I don’t know.“I’m not.” What the hell am I doing? Instead of pushing his hand away, I’m leaning toward him. If I had any sense, I’d be afraid of him. Not attracted to him. “You warned me against stealing in Venice,” I murmur, trying to summon up some of the terror I felt yesterday when he caught me with his painting. “What happens if I break your rules? Will you send someone to beat me up, or will you kill me yourself?”

He holds my gaze. Looks me up and down in a slow caress. I’m clothed from head to toe, but he looks at me like he’s imagining me naked. “Neither,” he says, a light sparking in his eyes. “But if you try to steal my Madonna again, I will assume you’re sending me a message.”

“And what is that?”

“That you want me to fuck you.” He gives me a pleasant smile. “Choose your next move wisely, cara mia.”

14

LUCIA

All the way home, I’m fuming from Antonio’s threat. But underneath my anger, a reluctant admiration simmers. There’s no doubt about it. If we’re fighting a battle for the Titian, he won the first round with laughable ease.

Damn him.

Bad boys do nothing for me; I wasn’t lying about that. But Antonio Moretti isn’t a boy. He’s aman. A complicated,morally grayman.

He’s one of the richest people in Italy. He has the finest private art collection in Europe and is a generous donor to several museums. He supposedly speaks a half-dozen languages and is constantly seen with beautiful, accomplished women, and when I think of them, jealously coils tight in my stomach. I feel inadequate, and it’s not a sensation I enjoy.

He’s powerful and capable of violence and ruthlessness. He killed someone today, and he admitted that to me with no hesitation.

And yet. . .

And yet, ten years ago, on a night when I desperately needed a shoulder to lean on, Antonio was there. I was a complete stranger, but he came to my rescue without hesitation. I was so drunk I couldn’t see straight, and instead of judging me, he took care of me. He listened. He was kind.

He was there for me today as well. I was soaking wet and chilled to the bone, and he offered me a warm shower, dry clothes, and, best of all, a distraction from my thoughts. We spent a couple of hours cruising the bay, and while I was with him, I forgot to be sad.

Choose your next move wisely, cara mia.

The smug jerk had been laughing when he said that to me. My temper flares. I suppose he thinks he’s very clever, maneuvering me into a no-win situation.

It wouldn’t be a no-win situation to sleep with Antonio Moretti.

I push that thought away. Antonio won this round, yes. But he’s not going to win this contest. I won’t let that happen.

No matter how sexy I find him.

I won’t be manipulated by him. I refuse. He doesn’t get to unilaterally set the terms of engagement.

I simmer in a fury for a couple of hours. I pace back and forth, and then, on impulse, I march into my bedroom and root around my purse until I find the small jewelry box I’m looking for.

My mother’s pendant lies inside on a thin gold chain. I’ve carried it with me everywhere, but I’ve never put it back on, not since I took it off my neck ten years ago.

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