It was as if some invisible hand had taken hold of Kat in that moment—was pulling her up by the back of her black jacket, bringing her to her feet.
“Get down!” Gabrielle snapped, reaching for her cousin, but Kat was already moving to the edge of the ridge.
“Where are you going?” Hale asked as she walked purposefully toward the drawbridge, trying to shut down the part of her mind that asked Drawbridge?
“Kat!” Gabrielle hissed. “You’re going to get caught.”
The smile Kat flashed over her shoulder was almost wicked. “I know.”
The gates loomed taller as Kat approached. Lights shone strategically around the perimeter, highlighting the drops of rain that were starting to slice through the black sky. Still, Kat walked slowly, deliberately, across the fields and toward the villa walls. She felt the stare of the security cameras. She sensed the movement of the guards. To keep her mind occupied, she tried to guess the age of the villa, the names of the original owners, the history of the lake. She tried to focus on the falling rain, her frizzing hair.
But mostly she tried to look calm as she strolled to the small metal box on the side of the road. She prayed her voice wouldn’t betray her as she stared into the small camera and announced into the speaker, “My name is Katarina Bishop.” Lightning struck behind her. “I’m here to see Arturo Taccone.”
Chapter 9
If the Taccone villa was a place that typically did not receive guests, it did not show it.
The man who opened the door reminded Kat oddly of Marcus, the way he wordlessly took her wet coat and softly asked her to follow. There were marble floors and chandeliers, fresh flowers, and fires burning in two of the four rooms she passed. But there were no stacks of mail lying on tables, no coats or scarves hung carelessly on the backs of chairs. It was a place that valued beauty and order in equal measure, Kat knew. So she stayed quiet, following her guide toward a set of double doors more intimidating than the drawbridge. She stood silent, waiting for an audience with Arturo Taccone.
He was sitting behind an antique desk when the doors opened, near another roaring fire in a room much like the study of the Hale family’s upstate home. There were books and decanters, tall windows and a grand piano that Kat guessed he frequently played. Though the house was at least twenty thousand square feet, Kat had an inkling that this was the room where the man of the house really lived.
“Leave us,” he ordered Kat’s guide. She heard the double doors close behind her and knew that it was at least a little bit foolish not to tremble at being left alone with him. And yet her hands stayed steady. Her pulse didn’t race.
“I should welcome you to my home, Katarina,” he told her, tipping his head slightly. “I must say, this is a surprise. And I like to consider myself someone who is not easily surprised.”
“Well,” Kat said slowly, “I was in the mood for spaghetti.”
Taccone smiled. “And you’ve come here alone,” he said, but it was really a question.
“Now, I could say yes, and have you think I’m lying.” She took a step forward, ran her hand across the baby-soft leather of a wingback chair. “Or I could say no, and have you think I’m bluffing. So maybe I’ll just say . . . no comment.”
He pushed back from his desk as he studied her. “So you have—as you Americans say—backup?”
“Not really.”
“But you’re not afraid, are you?”
She was in Arturo Taccone’s favorite room, but in every way that really mattered, Kat was back on her home turf. “No. I guess I’m not.”
He stared at her. After an excruciating pause, he asked, “Perhaps you don’t think I’d hurt a little girl?”
For reasons Taccone would never understand, Kat was surprised at the words. It was strange to hear herself referred to in such a way. Little, she supposed she couldn’t deny. But girl was odd. Woman or lady wouldn’t have been any better. She had simply been so long inside boys’ clubs that she forgot sometimes that, anatomically at least, she was not a younger, smaller version of the men who sat around Uncle Eddie’s kitchen table. That she was, from a biological standpoint, very much like Gabrielle.
“That’s a lovely piece,” Kat said, pointing at a Louis XV armoire near the fireplace.
The man raised his eyebrows. “Did you come to steal it?”
“Darn it,” Kat said with a snap of her fingers. “I knew I should have brought my big purse.”
Scary men do scary things, but for Kat, nothing was as terrifying as the sound of Arturo Taccone laughing. “It’s a shame we didn’t meet under different circumstances, Katarina. I think I would have enjoyed knowing you. But we did not.” He stood and walked to a cabinet, poured himself a glass of something that looked very old and expensive. “I take it that you do not have my paintings.”
“That’s kind of been my story all along.”
“If you’ve come here to ask for more time, then—”
“Like I told your boys in Vegas, I’m working on it.” She glared at Goon 2, who had slipped inside and was standing like a statue by the door. “Or didn’t you get the message?”
“Yes, yes.” He took a seat on the leather sofa in the center of the room. “You have indeed been making some interesting inquiries. Your great-uncle’s home in New York . . . that, I could understand. Your uncle is the sort of man who should be consulted. But the trip to Las Vegas”—he leaned back and took a sip—“that came as a surprise. And then I learned that we had visitors this evening. Well, you can understand if I’m perplexed.”