“Fascinating,” he said dryly, that Italian accent of his flavoring the sarcasm. “And how does this affect me and my family?”
“I’m getting to it.”
But she was really thirsty. Maybe it was nerves. Maybe she just needed to move around. Maybe it was sitting on the sofa with him perched on the stupid glass coffee table, so close his knees were practically brushing against hers. There was a near electric buzz of heat bouncing between the two of them and it was distracting enough that Marie felt her insides bubble in anticipation.
Irritated at the thought, she jumped to her feet suddenly, jolting a flash of surprise onto Gianni’s features. Well, good. She’d hate to think that he was all rigid control when she herself was starting to babble. She only babbled when she was nervous and tonight her nerves were jangling wildly.
“I could use a cup of tea. Do you have tea?”
“I do beg your pardon for being a thoughtless host,” he murmured and stood up as well. “And of course I have tea. We’re in London.”
“Good. Good,” she said and started for the kitchen, clutching her phone and tiny bag as if they were lifelines. The awful white marble felt cold against her feet, but at least she was out of the heels that had made her toes ache. He was right behind her. And she couldn’t just hear him—she felt him.
“Sit down and talk,” Gianni said as they walked into the kitchen.
Marie took a seat in one of the ghost chairs, frowning at the clear Plexiglass as she did. “These are really hideous chairs, you know.”
“I’ll make a note of it,” he assured her and filled an electric teakettle—white, of course—at the sink before setting it on the counter and plugging it in to heat. “You’re not talking about what I want to hear.”
“Right.” She took a breath and idly watched him move around the room, getting down mugs and a small white teapot. He scooped loose tea into the pot and then leaned both hands onto the white granite countertop and fixed his gaze on her. Waiting.
“I was offered a job as head of security at the Wainwright Hotel in New York several years ago,” she said, starting at the beginning in the hopes of keeping everything straight. “I left the force and took the job.”
“Kudos,” he muttered.
“Yeah. Anyway, everything was fine until a few months ago. That’s when Abigail Wainwright was robbed.”
“Wainwright.” Gianni repeated the name and his brow furrowed as he flipped through what had to be a huge catalogue of information in his brain. At last though, he said, “The Contessa necklace.”
“Exactly.” Nodding, Marie scooted in the chair, trying to get comfortable, then gave it up and folded her arms on the glass tabletop. It felt cold on her skin, like everything else in this mausoleum, she thought, but it didn’t matter. He knew what she was talking about just as she’d known he would.
“Abigail’s in her eighties and she’s lived in the penthouse of the hotel for the last thirty years.” A pang of misery swiped at Marie as she thought of the elegant, sweet older woman. She hadn’t deserved to be robbed in her own home, of a necklace that had been in her family for generations. The fact that it had happened on Marie’s watch made a bad situation even worse.
That it had happened because Marie had let her guard down made it untenable.
“I didn’t steal the necklace, nor did my family,” Gianni pointed out and unplugged the teakettle when it began to shriek.
“I didn’t say you did,” she countered stiffly. “I know who the thief was anyway.”
“Is that right?” He poured the boiling water into the teapot, then replaced the lid and set the kettle back onto the counter. “Who?”
“Jean Luc Baptiste.”
Marie was watching him carefully so she didn’t miss his reaction. Distaste twisted his lips briefly before anger flashed in his eyes. Tugging the knot of his tie loose, he tossed the tie onto the counter, where it landed like a splash of blood against the white granite. Then he unbuttoned his collar and shrugged out of his suit jacket. “I know of him.”
Wow. Out of that jacket, his chest looked broad and muscular and way too good. It was easier to ignore the attraction she felt for him when he was all buttoned up and stiff in that beautiful suit. But as she watched him roll up the sleeves of his shirt, baring tanned forearms dusted with dark hair, she had to swallow hard past the knot in her throat.
“Jean Luc,” he said, “is sloppy, arrogant and usually finds a woman to dupe into helping him.”
At that, Marie had to clench her own jaw and she knew that Gianni enjoyed seeing her irritation.
“Anyway...” Marie said, shoving her unsettling thoughts to the back of her mind. “Jean Luc stayed at the Wainwright Hotel for a couple of weeks and he was...charming.”
And oh, how it humiliated her to admit that she had swallowed that charm hook, line and sinker. But was it so surprising? He had been handsome and smooth and so...French. He had romanced Marie, sweeping her off her feet, dancing attendance on her, and she had stupidly bought all of it. At least, she reminded herself, she hadn’t been idiot enough to sleep with the man. Though if he’d been there another week or two, she might have.
Gianni snorted. He carried the mugs to the table, reached back for the teapot and set it down as well before going to a cupboard and grabbing out a package of cookies. He didn’t speak until he was seated at a chair opposite her. “Jean Luc wouldn’t know real charm if it hit him over the head. And yet, he conned you.”
Marie flushed and hated that she could feel that stain of red heat sweeping over her face. If she felt it then he could see it. Even worse, she hated admitting that Gianni was right. Marie’s entire life had been spent around cops. Her own father had raised her to have a healthy cynicism and a low, as he called it, “B.S. meter.” That meter usually clanged and gonged whenever someone was trying to pull one over on her. But Jean Luc had slid beneath her radar and left her feeling as foolish as any other victim of a con man. “He did.”
“And is he as good a lover as he would have everyone believe?”
Her eyes went wide. “I wouldn’t know. That’s one mistake I didn’t make.”
Chuckling, Gianni mused, “Jean Luc must be losing his touch. And so,” he added before she could say anything to that, “he used you to gain information on your hotel and security measures. Then he helped himself to the Contessa and disappeared.”
She sighed. “Pretty much.”
Shaking his head, Gianni poured them each tea and asked, “Milk? Sugar?”
“No thanks.” She picked up her cup, took a grateful sip and asked, “Why are you being so nice? Tea? Cookies?”
“No reason we can’t be civilized, is there?”
“Oh, no,” she agreed wryly. “The cop and the thief sitting at the same table sharing cookies. It’s practically a fairy tale.”
“They’re good cookies,” Gianni said, taking one before pushing the package toward her.
After a bite, she had to agree. This was so strange. Not at all as she’d imagined her first meeting with Gianni Coretti going. “Anyway, back to the story.”
“Yes, I can’t wait to see how it ends.”
She frowned at him. In the bright overhead light, his dark brown eyes shone with what might have been humor, but she couldn’t be sure. “Abigail didn’t blame me for the theft,” she said, remembering the older woman’s kindness. “But the board of directors did. I was fired.”
“Not surprising. You let down your guard to a thief.” Gianni leaned back in the chair, then frowned and