“It wasn’t the singing. It was everything, the way you held her hand and the way she watched you. You’re a very nice man, Vito Ciccotelli.”
“You said I was bad to the bone.”
She nipped at his lip, sending lust surging along every nerve. “The two don’t have to be mutually exclusive.” She got up into the truck and faced him. “I think I’ll call the local opera society. Maybe they can send some visitors to Gran. I should have thought of the music, Vito. It was her whole life. I can’t believe I didn’t see it.”
“You’ve been concentrating on getting her well.” Vito climbed behind the wheel and pulled his door closed with a slam. “Don’t beat yourself up.” He pulled into traffic, toward Anna’s house. “Besides, Tino made the recording for me.”
“But you thought of it. And the flowers. I should have thought of that, too.”
“I have to admit to an ulterior motive for the roses. The vase is your granny-cam.”
Sophie blinked at him. “What?”
“All those crystals? One is a camera. Now you’ll know if Nurse Marco is really mean.”
Sophie looked at him. “You’re amazing.”
“No, not really. Tino picked it out after my brother-in-law Aidan gave us a few ideas while you were building the castle last night. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention the camera to Tess. She gets a little uptight about people being filmed against their will.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Good. Now we’re going back to your place where I’m going to sing to you again. Just keep remembering that I’m amazing.”
She laughed. “Later. I promised the boys I’d help them finish the castle. So first, your house. Then we can go back to Gran’s and… make love. Amazingly.”
Vito drew a pained breath. “I was thinking about fucking like minks on the stairs.”
Her chuckle was evil. “First I build a castle. Then you can lay siege.”
He watched them drive away. He’d been lucky, he thought, removing the earpiece before the slamming truck door burst his eardrums. If the cop had closed his door a minute sooner he would have missed the magic words.
But he didn’t believe in luck. Just intellect, skill, and fate. Only fools believed in luck, and he was no fool. He’d survived on his own wits. And he’d continue to. He thought of Van Zandt, sitting in a jail cell in his expensive suit, and felt intense satisfaction. But there was a little regret, too. It was a shame to waste a business mind like Van Zandt’s. But there were lots of good business minds out there.
He already had one lined up. Van Zandt’s most eager and vicious competitor, still on his way up the ladder. Simon had contacted him with the work he’d done so far and it had taken less than fifteen minutes to agree to terms. The Inquisitor would still be released and the furor around Derek’s murder and Van Zandt’s incarceration, not to mention all the murdered victims, would send sales soaring to the moon.
And in the end, he’d still get what he wanted. Exposure. A platform to launch his own career. Notoriety to sell his paintings. He wouldn’t be able to use the name Frasier Lewis anymore, but that was all right. It didn’t matter what name went on his work. As long as people know it’s mine.
Just one more series of paintings needed to be completed. Van Zandt had been right about the queen. As soon as Simon had seen Sophie Johannsen in full glory he’d known she was exactly what he needed, what he wanted. And he knew himself well enough to know he wouldn’t be able to able to walk away from the game until every piece was perfect. He needed to see Sophie Johannsen die.
Except the woman had proven herself smart and careful. Every moment she was with a cop. But now he knew how to separate her from the herd.
Friday, January 19, 11:30
P.M.
“It’s a nice keep.” Beaming, Sophie nodded at Michael. “These are beautiful blocks.” She and Pierce sat behind a semicircle about four feet in diameter and three feet high constructed of smooth wooden blocks. They’d even included the skinny windows Sophie had informed them were arrow slits for defense against their attackers.
Which had then required a run to the local toy store for a Nerf archery set. At least the books they’d been using the night before were neatly back on Vito’s shelves, so he wouldn’t complain too much that his living room was now a Norman castle.
Sophie rubbed her fingers over one of the blocks and Vito knew she wouldn’t find a single splinter. “They must have cost the Earth.”
Vito’s father pretended nonchalance. “Just some old blocks I had in storage. Dom and Tess got them after school today.” But Vito could see he was beaming, too.
“Dad handmade the blocks for us when we were kids,” Vito said from his recliner, which had been turned into the drawbridge. The rest of the furniture had either been removed or turned over and converted to battlements. “Dad is a master carpenter.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “Really? Well, then the trebuchet makes sense. Cool.”
“I’m ready,” Connor said, guiding the model into place. Gone was the makeshift wooden-spoon trebuchet they’d fashioned last night, replaced with a scale model that could probably hurl a Thanksgiving turkey. Connor had wanted to try a frozen chicken, but thankfully Sophie had put her foot down on that one.
Vito suspected his father had been working on the model all day, carving it with the whittling knife he was never without. In the old days Michael could have cranked out a model like that in an hour with his woodworking tools, but those had been sold when Michael had been forced to give up his cabinet-making business because of his heart.
“No, you’re not ready,” Sophie told Connor. “You don’t have anything to hurl yet.”
“You need to get this battle on the road,” Vito said dryly. “It’s almost midnight and Pierce and Connor have to go to bed.” Which is where he’d wanted to be all evening.
“Uncle Vito,” Pierce whined. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.” He looked to Sophie hopefully.
“Sorry, kid,” Sophie said. “I have to work tomorrow, too. Tess, Dominic?”
“We’re coming,” Tess called, and she and Dom emerged from the kitchen with Ziploc bags filled with cooked pasta. “I’ve never cooked for a siege before, but here it is.”
A fierce military campaign ensued, each of the boys taking turns manning the trebuchet while Sophie and Michael rebuilt the battlements as needed.
Tess took cover behind Vito’s chair. “Dad hasn’t had so much fun in years.”
“Mom won’t let him,” Vito murmured. “She worries about every breath he takes.”
“Well, Mom’s not here. I sent her and Tino to the all-night Wal-Mart with a long grocery list. You guys don’t exactly keep a well-stocked kitchen, and I’m going to be cooking lots of meals to put in the freezer for when Molly comes home from the hospital.” She shrugged. “Mom needed to feel useful, so she’s happy. Dad’s happy. The kids are ecstatic. You look happy, too, Vito.”
Vito looked up at her. “I am.”
Tess sat on the arm of his chair. “I’m glad. I like your Sophie, Vito.”
His Sophie was currently ducking a bag of cooked pasta. “So do I.” He realized both he and Sophie had achieved something for the other’s family tonight. It was a solid beginning to a relationship Vito intended to nurture for a long, long time.
“This is a good start,” Tess murmured, “to a nice life. You deserve that.” Then Tess squealed along with Sophie when one of the bags hurled from the trebuchet slammed into the ceiling and broke on impact, sending sticky pasta flying everywhere.
Vito grimaced. “This is never gonna come off my walls and ceiling, is it?”
Tess chuckled. “I see a lot of pasta-covered walls in your future, Vito.”