“I feel awkward and overwhelmed more than anything.”
“That is not how you appear to me.” He lifted her chin. “Knowing what I know about your character and your heart, I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful.”
She turned away. “Stop.”
“I love you.” He kissed her cheek, the way a shy boy kisses a girl he cannot help but kiss.
“I love you, too.”
William relaxed in her arms. Raven hadn’t realized he was holding himself tensely until she felt the change.
“What’s wrong?” She touched his face.
“I will never have your nobility of spirit, or your protective nature, but as long as I have your love, I can be content.”
Moisture pricked the corners of Raven’s eyes. “You’re giving me a toothache.”
He pulled back. “How is that possible?”
She laughed. “It’s a figure of speech. It means you’re being too sweet. Say something awful.”
William’s expression changed and he brought his lips to her ear. “I want to take you back to the house, so I can spread you on my bed and do all kinds of wicked things to you.”
She nuzzled his chin with her nose. “My toothache is gone.”
With another laugh, he took her hand and led her back to the villa.
Chapter Twenty-two
Two weeks later, Ispettor Batelli watched the black Mercedes pull away from Santo Spirito. He pulled lazily on his cigarette, leaning in a doorway across the piazza from Signorina Wood’s apartment.
Detective work could be reduced to one maxim—follow the money. This line of inquiry was frequently augmented by another maxim—follow the ragazza. He’d been doing both relentlessly for some time.
Batelli meditated momentarily on the ragazza’s vulgar linguistic counterpart, as he watched the lights go on in Raven Wood’s apartment. She was the point at which the paths of William York, the dead Interpol agent Savola, and the robbery of the Uffizi converged.
Professor Emerson had tried to persuade him to stop the investigation, suggesting that the stolen Botticelli illustrations might emerge on the black market once the intense police scrutiny abated. His observation had merit, but Batelli would not admit defeat.
He was convinced the thieves who’d targeted the Uffizi did so already having a buyer. He suspected the artwork was still in the area, but hidden. Further, he suspected the theft was in some way connected with the mysterious William York.
He didn’t know the name of the man Raven was seeing. He’d taken photos stealthily, but his attempts at identifying her lover had been thwarted. The man seemed to appear only after dark and he usually kept his face hidden, as if he suspected he was under surveillance.
From what Batelli observed, the man roughly matched Emerson’s physical description of William York. But without a photograph of the man’s face, the description was useless.
The Interpol databases yielded nothing about anyone called William York. An attempt to lift fingerprints from the back door of Signorina Wood’s building yielded nothing, because none of the prints could be linked to anyone matching his description.
The license plates of the Mercedes were also a dead end. The car was registered to a Swiss diplomat who did not match her lover’s description.
Batelli’s intuition told him he’d run into a crime lord. He couldn’t identify the nature or ethnicity of the organization, but it wasn’t the Mafia and it wasn’t the Russian mob. He began asking questions of a friend of his who worked on an anti–organized crime task force, but his friend was as puzzled as he was.
Which was why Batelli continued to watch Raven and her patron, hoping for some kind of clue as to his identity.
Batelli had no idea that even as he shadowed Raven, a vampyre shadowed him.
Chapter Twenty-three
Aoibhe fixed her dark eyes on the Prince and wrinkled her nose. “You smell of pet.”
The Prince ignored her, striding in the direction of the training hall.
He’d had precious little time with Raven that day. She’d worked her normal hours at the gallery before beginning her volunteer shift at the orphanage. He had had to content himself with petting in the Mercedes on the way from the orphanage to her apartment, after which she was supposed to spend the evening with Lidia, her neighbor.
The Prince begrudgingly bade her good night before descending into the underworld. He was bored, restless, and eager for a diversion. As always, Teatro held little interest for him, and although he was in a mood to feed, he was not inclined to drink from anyone other than her.
He’d agreed they should spend the night apart, so Raven could attend to Lidia, who was receiving chemotherapy, and so he could attend to the principality. But the separation made him irritable.
An irritable vampyre is someone all creatures should avoid. Alas, Aoibhe was not conscious of this maxim.
She trotted after him, her green velvet dress billowing behind her. “Did she rub herself over your entire body? I can hardly breathe for the stench.”
The Prince turned on her, his face a mask of anger. The truth was that Raven had, indeed, rubbed against him. They’d enjoyed one another in the backseat of the Mercedes in a way that was both decadent and heady.
The Prince didn’t want Aoibhe to know the depth of his attachment to Raven—for her sake.
At the sight of his anger, Aoibhe retreated backward. She curtsied. “I beg pardon, my lord.”
“There was a time when you found the fragrance of my pet to be most desirable. If that opinion has changed, I recommend you keep your mouth shut.” He turned on his heel and continued on his path.
Something that looked a good deal like triumph flashed across her face, but only for a moment. She followed. “The Bacchanalia will begin in a week’s time. All is ready.”
“Good.”
She spoke at his elbow. “In celebration of the coming festival, perhaps I could procure a drink for you. Something young? Something fresh?”
“I am well fed.”
“Then perhaps another diversion?” She paused in front of a heavy wooden door. The Prince stared at the door, contemplating her suggestion.
She opened the door and held it, allowing the Prince to see inside the gymnasium. The space was very large and had an upper gallery. Vampyres young and old prepared for battle, practicing with various weapons.
He entered the gymnasium and, once again, Aoibhe followed, closing the door behind them.
At the sight of the Prince, a hush fell over the crowd. Citizens bowed their respect, pausing their sparring.
“I’m sorry Max isn’t here. He could do with a lesson,” Aoibhe commented.
The Prince said nothing.
She moved to whisper in his ear. “We haven’t had news of Max and Pierre. I would have thought they’d have completed their mission by now.”
He growled his frustration.
“Let’s find you a worthy opponent.” She gazed around the room quickly. “Alas, I’m the oldest one here, except for you.”
“Niccolò and Lorenzo need to spend more time training.”
“Undoubtedly. A youngling could probably best them.”
The Prince walked to the cache of weapons and chose a large, heavy broadsword. He walked to the center of the gymnasium, tossing the sword from hand to hand. Aoibhe sought a weapon that roughly matched his and followed.
The other vampyres quickly retreated, moving to the perimeter of the hall.
At the sight of her, the Prince scowled. “You can’t fight in a dress.”