Movies were running through her head—Sybil’s old classics. The Barretts of Wimpole Street had been her biggest hit, with Sybil as Elizabeth Barrett and Deke Robinson doing his best work playing Robert Browning. Robert Browning, who carried Elizabeth Barrett off to Italy. The current Robert Browning had left Sybil behind, taking only her jewels and quite probably her life. It hadn’t required great deductive reasoning on Holly’s part—Sybil had coyly, nauseatingly referred to Tim Flynn as the Robert Browning in her life.
But Sybil’s best movie had been Judith. She’d come within an inch of winning an Oscar for that one, playing the biblical heroine who’d seduced the enemy general and then calmly proceeded to cut off his head while he slept. Holly didn’t know whether she’d actually manage to decapitate Flynn, but the idea brought a slight feeling of warmth to her cold heart. However she did it, she was going to kill Tim Flynn.
She almost made a clean getaway. Ian Andrews was stalking down the hallway, clearly in a foul mood, as she headed for the elevators and her appointment with death. He looked up when he heard her approach, and his scowl deepened.
“What the bloody hell are you all dolled up for?” he demanded, his green eyes running over her expensive silk suit, the spike high heels that made her an inch taller than he, her perfectly coiffed black hair.
She must have inherited some of her parents’ acting ability. She managed a serene smile, ignoring the dampness of her slender palms, and shrugged. “What else? I’m going shopping.”
“Shopping?” He shouted the word. “You silly, shallow, selfish woman! Have you even bothered to check on your mother? Have you tried to find out anything, anything at all, or have you just been sitting there polishing your nails?”
Her nails were freshly manicured, a fitting, deep blood red, and they curled against her damp palms. “I presumed you were taking care of things,” she lied.
“I couldn’t find out a bloody thing. If Flynn’s entered the country in the last twenty-four hours he came in under a phony name.”
Holly shrugged again, shutting down her twinge of guilt at not confiding in him. “Maybe he’s still in Lebanon. Maybe Maggie and Randall have got him tied up somewhere. Maybe he’s already dead.” And maybe he’s sitting in a luxury suite a few short blocks away, unaware that his downfall is about to arrive in the shape of an elegant young woman. Against her will, a small, sour smile lit her face at the thought.
Ian stared at her, not missing the smile, not missing much at all. “Maybe,” he said finally. “Why don’t you come back in the room and I’ll tell you what I discovered?”
“You said you didn’t find out a thing.” If she went back into that hotel room she’d have a hard time getting out again. Besides, he might notice the knife was missing, and then there’d be no way she’d be able to complete her mission. Ian would insist on accompanying her, and that was the last thing she wanted. If he didn’t scare Flynn away he’d be the one to kill him. And at that moment Holly wasn’t going to give that privilege away to anyone.
“We can figure out what to do next,” he said.
“I’m sure you can take care of that all by yourself,” she said lightly. “You wouldn’t listen to my suggestions anyway. Don’t worry, Ian. I promise only to buy enough to fill six suitcases.” With a little wave of her hand she continued down the hallway.
She could feel his eyes on her, boring into her back. She hadn’t fooled him. No matter how good she was at lying, she hadn’t fooled Ian Andrews. But it would take him awhile to do something about it. And once she was gone he’d have a hell of a time tracking her down.
The elevator doors whooshed shut behind her, and for a brief moment she allowed her stiff shoulders to relax. And then she straightened them again. Escaping Ian’s eagle eyes was the least of her worries. Tim Flynn was going to require more than a little acting ability. She clenched her hands around her leather purse and wished that Ian had stopped her.
It was all absurdly easy. Signor Palmo met her in the lobby, clearly on the lookout for her distinctive figure. He plied her with espresso and biscuits before ushering her into the executive elevator that led directly to the penthouse, and nodded and leered when she requested as much privacy as the Cielo could afford for her meeting with Mr. Browning. The Cielo could afford a great deal of privacy, and the other penthouse suite was unoccupied. No one would interrupt, Signor Palmo said, with a romantic little sigh. Mr. Browning was a very handsome man, with eyes as blue as the sky and a smile that could light up the darkest room. He would be a worthy match for the belissima Holly Bennett.
She waited until the elevator descended to the lobby again, waited in the marble-floored, deserted penthouse hallway, and the last of her nerves vanished as if by magic. Now that the moment was at hand she was very calm, determined. Reaching up, she pressed the bell on the ornate door of the ambassador suite.
He was a very handsome man. He opened the door in shirt sleeves, his reddish hair rumpled, his beautiful blue eyes sleepy and friendly. He’d checked her out through the peephole, she’d known that, and known that she’d passed muster. She took no pride in her beauty. It was a tool she worked with, and it served her well in this case. Timothy Seamus Flynn’s handsome face creased in a sleepy, welcoming grin, and Holly’s serene smile answered it.
“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you.” She pitched her voice low and sexy with just a trace of a flawless Italian accent. “My name is Annamaria Castellano.”
“Yes?” His voice was low, musical, and beguiling. It was no wonder Sybil had succumbed.
This was the hard part. Holly smiled, batting her eyes. She could only thank God that Ian hadn’t tossed her small package of tinted contact lenses out the window in Beirut along with everything else. She looked at Tim Flynn out of eyes as green as Ian’s, not the distinctive aquamarine that would have given her away immediately. She shrugged prettily. “I’m afraid I cannot tell you why I’m here, signor,” she said. “I was sent to make sure you were comfortable, that your needs were seen to.”
He still didn’t move away from the door, but his lazy smile broadened. “Who sent you?”
“A man named Bud Willis.”
It was a shot in the dark, but the best she could come up with. It worked. Flynn’s grin vanished for a split second, then returned, even wider, and he opened the door, ushering her in. “Very hospitable of the man, considering he’s a ghost.”
She was prepared for that, having listened to Maggie and Randall’s arguments over breakfast the day before. “That’s a moot point.”
“Is it?” He shut the door silently behind her, locking it, and Holly clutched her leather purse a little more tightly. The knife was resting in there, the knife and five thousand lire. Enough for a taxi back to the Ultima once the bloody deed was done.
“Can I get you a drink, Annamaria?” His voice caressed her name.
“That would be nice.” Her voice shook slightly. He reminded her of a cobra, coiled and ready to strike. Her plans had been stupid, half formed, not taking into account the reality of the man. She’d thought to seduce him, screw him into a stupor, and then cut his throat. There was no other way she’d get the chance, but right now the very thought of touc
hing him made her physically ill. Maybe she could get him drunk.
She moved toward the window, looking out toward the distinctive shape of the Vatican, still clutching her purse. There was a small noise, and she jumped, back against Flynn’s hot body.