her left hand making lazy tracings between her breasts. “Perhaps he saw me when I stopped by the clock shop asking about the watch.”
“Ah yes, the watch.” Suspicion darkened his tone. “I would like to know more about this watch.”
She stopped in front of him and pouted, knowing it would plump her lips provocatively. “You would rather hear about the gift to our stage director than kiss me? Perhaps I should go . . .”
She reached for the front of her dress as if to pull it up.
He stopped her. “No. Stay. You are right. We can talk later.”
“As you wish.” She swayed forward, arching her back until his hand grazed her body. His sharp intake of breath told her everything she needed to know. He wanted her. Badly. All she had to do was turn that want into blind desire and the mission was as good as finished.
She captured his hand and held it to her bare breast. “Feel how my heart beats for you?”
His answer was a soft growl.
She stepped back but didn’t release his hand. “Let’s finish our drinks, and then we can find a more comfortable place to . . . talk.”
He hesitated, and for a breathless second she thought he would refuse. Then he let her pull him back to the table. With a flirtatious smile, she picked up his glass and handed it to him. Then she picked up hers and poured as much lust and sexual promise as she could into her gaze as she raised her glass.
“Alla nostra,” she said, remembering a toast Marcie had taught her.
Stefano’s smile turned predatory as he raised his glass and tapped hers. “Sì, ‘to us.’”
Together they tossed back the contents of their glasses and then laughed.
The clock showed just over fifteen minutes left.
Vi’s fingers trembled as she put the glass back on the table. If the knockout drops didn’t work, she was in real trouble. Stefano might be close to forty or even fifty, but that didn’t mean he was harmless. He looked to be a fit man and one who likely had experience in overpowering young women.
Stefano reached out to run his finger down her spine in a long caress. She shuddered and then stiffened as his fingertip hooked on the loose fabric of her dress and began pulling it lower. “You are very beautiful, my little Vi. I would see more of you.”
She swallowed her fear and turned into his arms. “I would like that, too. But not here. Where is your room?”
“Not far.” He brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck. “Come, my little love.”
He placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the door he had previously pointed out as the one leading to his private rooms.
On the way, Vi noted a pair of silver candlesticks. Would it be out of line to grab one and give him the kibosh? True, it would leave a dent in his head, but it would certainly get the job done. And a lot more quickly than those damn drops . . .
Stefano mumbled something in Italian, and his steps slowed, then faltered. Relief rushed through her veins as he swayed on his feet. Then his eyes rolled up in his head, and he dropped to the floor in a slow spiral.
Not bothering with modesty, Vi knelt beside him, her dress pooling around her waist, and began strip-searching the man. Tie, shirt, suspenders, pants, undershirt, underwear, socks . . . nothing was sacred. The sound of the clock echoed through the room, moving her ever closer to failure. Mounting frustration made her fingers clumsy, and she began to curse at herself, the stupid mission, Ansel, Stefano, anyone and anything.
Finally, she sat back on her heels, failure burning in her stomach like acid. She had found nothing that even remotely looked like a map, not even a scribbled note. Damn it all to heck and back. Major Ricca said they thought Stefano had it on him, because it wasn’t in the apartment and it wasn’t in his wallet. But what if the major was wrong?
She squeezed her eyes shut to concentrate. The courier had a map. It was taken from him. Then activity around the bunker had indicated the map was back in Italy, but by this point the information could have become verbal. But even verbal maps were likely noted somewhere. If I heard something I wanted to remember, where would I write it down?
Partisans had checked his pockets. They