Reckless

Poor Jeff. Eight hours on a train with no hope of rescue!

By now he’d no doubt found the most attractive woman on board and started chatting her up relentlessly. Anything to distract himself from being outwitted.

But he had been outwitted. They all had.

Tracy sipped her champagne gleefully.

The day of reckoning had come.

CHAPTER 27

LAKE MAGGIORE WAS LIKE a dream, a postcard image come to life. Tracy was staying in a small pension just moments from the shore. Every morning, after a delicious breakfast of fresh berries, local yogurt and sweet bread rolls that were a specialty of the house, she wandered down to the lake and swam. More often than not she was the only bather. The clear blue water was all hers. She felt like a queen, oblivious in those glorious moments to reality.

Flipping on to her back, gazing up at the cloudless blue sky, the Monte Rosa looming over her like a benevolent giant, Tracy imagined that she were someone else entirely. A princess, floating in a fairy-tale kingdom. Or a restless soul, newly arrived in paradise.

Was Nicky somewhere like this? Tracy hoped so. She felt close to him here, peaceful and calm. Which was odd, given the reason she had come here.

An old friend had tipped her off about Hunter Drexel resurfacing in Northern Italy. Antonio Sperotto was a gentleman thief from Milan, specializing in stolen ecclesiastical masters. He was also an inveterate gambler.

“Your man turned up at a poker game at Rocca Borromeo,” Antonio informed Tracy. “At least I assume it’s your man. He’s going by the name of Lester Trent, and nobody’s ever heard of him.”

“Were you at the game?” Tracy asked.

“Not personally, no. A friend was there. Evidently Mr. Trent relieved one of the Agnellis of more than two hundred thousand euros. Caused quite a stir, I can tell you.”

“Did this friend of yours talk to him?” Tracy asked. “What else did he find out?”

Antonio Sperotto chuckled. “My dear, these things aren’t like book clubs. This is serious poker. There’s no chitchat. Although apparently one of the Borromeo daughters wandered in at one point, which distracted some of the men.”

“But not your friend, I take it?” Tracy teased. Antonio was so gay he would have made Liberace look macho. Most of his friends fit the same mold.

“Giovanni can appreciate beauty, darling, in all its forms,” Antonio pouted. “But no. I suspect he was more distracted by the frescos. Did you know the Borromeo frescos are the oldest examples of nonreligious, Lombard Gothic work still in existence? They were painted in 1342, but the colors gleam as if it were yesterday!”

Tracy didn’t know. She was more interested in Lester Trent.

“Trent appreciated the young lady,” Antonio told her. “Although rumor has it he generally prefers his playmates a little further down the social scale. He likes professionals.”

“Hookers?”

“That’s what I hear,” Antonio said. “Apparently he’s had a string of girls ferried over to the place where he’s staying.”

Tracy thought about Sally Faiers, her love for Hunter and her loyalty. Sally had gone to Belgium to try to help Drexel and had been shot to death for her troubles. And now here he was, with Sally barely cold, already screwing around. In between planning his next act of murder on behalf of Group 99, no doubt.

Bastard.

“Where’s he staying?” she asked Antonio.

“In a stunning medieval villa, the Michele, on another of the private islands. It’s owned by the Viscontis, a local aristocratic family. He must have rented it from them.”

“Visconti,” Tracy muttered. “I feel like I’ve heard of them.”

Antonio shrugged. “They’re rich. Not quite in the Borromeos’ league, but not short of a bob or two either. She owns a fabulous collection of diamond jewelry, one of the largest in Italy.”

“That must be it.” Tracy grinned.

A look of worry crept over Antonio Sperotto’s face.

“You’re not going to try anything foolish, are you, Tracy?”