before a naked woman entwined with a writhing serpent, Kate ran her knuckles along the smooth marble.
It might have been the play of light and shadow but it seemed that her hand was shaking.
Marco moved up behind her and took hold of her arms. Beneath the whisper-soft fabric, her skin was as cold as stone.
“You’re shivering,” he murmured. “Here, take my coat.” Shrugging out of the garment, he draped it over her shoulders.
“Grazie.”
“Prego.” Her hair had come loose, and a tangle of wind-snarled curls fell over her shoulders. Burying his fingers in their silky texture, he brushed them aside and pressed his lips to the back of her neck. “I am sorry.”
The muscles tightened in her throat as she swallowed. “For what?”
“For… for a great many things. But mostly for putting you in danger. I should have anticipated that there might be trouble.”
Kate turned into his arms, her face impassive, save for a tiny quivering at the corner of her mouth. “I’m responsible for my own decisions.” Her lashes lifted in a flickering of burnished gold. “Besides, I thought you didn’t have a conscience.”
“I don’t, cara. I’m an amoral cad.” He slid a booted foot across the floor, forcing her back against the sculpted stone. “A wicked wastrel.”
“A ruthless rake?”
Her arms looped around his neck and his pulse began to thud wildly against her soft skin. Through his own salty sweat, he could smell the heady sweetness of her scent.
“Si. The worst sort of rotter,” he rasped.
Her breasts grazed his chest, leaving two singed spots of fire.
“Are you trying to convince me? Or yourself?”
Gritting his teeth, Marco held back a groan. “Dio Madre, you are playing a dangerous game, Kate.”
The coat slipped to the floor.
“That’s nothing new. I’ve been doing it so long it’s become second nature.” The sardonic smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Pooled in their aquamarine depths was a ripple of some elusive emotion.
He leaned in closer, and though she quickly looked away, he caught the fleeting glimpse of the vulnerable young lady she tried so hard to hide. Catching her chin, Marco pressed his fingers to the delicate flesh and felt her tremble.
“Kate—Katarina,” he whispered, slowly framing her face between his palms. Against his sun-bronzed skin, she looked so pale and fragile that he feared she might shatter at any moment. “You don’t have to pretend with me. You can just be yourself.”
A tear pearled on her lashes, but she blinked it away. “Myself,” she echoed. “Oh, you have no idea how wicked a person the real Kate Woodbridge is.”
Kate wasn’t quite sure what had come over her. She felt as if she had fallen overboard into a churning sea, and the only way to keep from drowning in doubts was to cling to something strong and solid.
She skimmed her hands along the slope of Marco’s shoulders, reveling in the sculpted contours of muscle and sinew. But unlike the surrounding stone, he pulsed with an inner fire. His breath, still traced with brandy, warmed her cheek and a hard, masculine heat rose up from the slabbed planes of his chest, burning away the damp chill of the air between them.
“Oh, trust me, Kate. I have seen enough wickedness in my life to recognize its face. And you do not remotely resemble it.”
“You are wrong,” she whispered. Hearing Tappan talk so easily of murder had shaken her to the core. A decent man lay dead, his life snuffed out as if it were of no more consequence than a candle flame. And the shock waves stirred guilty memories, ones she had thought lay buried in her past. But perhaps such ghosts were never really laid to rest.
“I—I am not innocent of murder.” The words slipped from her lips of their own accord. “Not Von Seilig, but another man.”
A tomblike stillness gripped the moment. Clouds scudded overhead, shrouding Marco’s face in a passing shadow. The distant bark of the dog was the only sound to penetrate the windowless walls.
Kate shifted in a soft rustle of silk, forcing herself to seek his eyes. She would not be so cowardly as to dodge the look of disgust. Marco might be an unprincipled rogue, but no man would view the confession with anything other than loathing.
“I imagine there was a good reason for it, Kate. No matter what you say, you are not a cold-blooded killer.” The moon broke through the darkness, lighting the glimmer of sympathy on his features. “You are not alone. I, too, have taken a life. More