Take Me Two Times Page 22

  Because of her fascination with her surroundings, it wasn’t until she got off the vaporetto in the San Marco area of Venice, where her hotel was, that Gwen remembered her cell phone was still off. As she made her way to the lovely Europa e Regina, she turned it on and discovered that she had five messages. She hurriedly checked into her room, which had a breathtaking view of the Grand Canal.

  The walls were a soft apricot, and the headboard of her bed and both nightstands were varnished robin’s-egg blue with hand-painted floral designs and gilt trim.

  The windows were done in soft sheers framed by heavy embroidered brocade. A burled walnut writing desk sat awaiting her, its comfortable chair inviting and cozy. Gwen dropped her purse onto the desk and sank down into the middle of the bed with the phone.

  A full-size, bow-fronted dresser with polished bronze handles completed the suite, and her reflection stared back at her from an elaborate eighteenth-century mirror as she listened to the first two messages.

  “Gwen, it’s Dante. The police found Esteban Velasquez dead, wearing a poisoned mask. I need to talk to you.”

  What?!

  “Gwen, it’s Dante again. Call me right away. The police are not happy that you’ve left the country.”

  Gwen reeled with the implications of a dead Esteban Velasquez . . . in a mask.

  She called Dante immediately, relieved when he answered. “It’s me. What’s going on? How did Esteban die? Who found him?”

  “He was found in the hotel room that you tracked him to. Wearing a cheap Mardi Gras mask,” Dante said. “They’re not certain of the cause of death—it will take a while before the toxicology tests are back—but it’s consistent with nicotine poisoning. He wasn’t shot or stabbed or injected with anything, as far as they can tell.”

  “Nicotine poisoning?”

  “Yes. Concentrated nicotine is highly toxic and absorbs through the skin. It can kill in as little as five minutes.”

  “I don’t understand what’s going on,” Gwen said.

  “Neither do I—but the cops would like to talk to you.”

  Gwen tightened her hand around her phone. “Why?”

  “The manager of the Manatee Motel ID’d you from a photo, despite the wig, and you are now officially a person of interest.”

  Gwen’s stomach rolled. “Surely they can’t take it any farther than that, though. There’s no evidence that can link me to Esteban’s death.”

  “You’re seeing your ex again. Jaworski Labs has concentrated nicotine on the premises, which he once had access to. The forged mask is missing from the building. And you’ve both conveniently left the country.”

  The forged mask was now missing? “Both of us? What do you mean? I traveled alone.”

  “Quinn Lawson,” Dante said, “apparently boarded a British Airways flight bound for Venice late this morning.”

  “Oh, my God.” Gwen tried to absorb this. How had he known where she was going? Why had he followed her? And more important, when would he turn up?

  “You need to come home, bella. Talk to the police. Put an end to their speculations.”

  “Dante—I can’t. I can’t do that yet. I have a couple of important leads.”

  He sighed. “I very much encourage you to come home. You may be, as the Americans say, in over your head.”

  Gwen’s lips tightened. He couldn’t have said anything more calculated to make her stay. “Thanks, Dante. I appreciate it. See you soon.”

  She hung up the phone racked with guilt. Esteban Velasquez was dead . . . poisoned, in a bizarre repetition of history, by a mask. And apparently she’d led the murderer to his location.

  chapter 29

  After sleeping for a few hours to beat the jet lag, Gwen showered and dressed quickly. She took the elevator down to the grand reception area of the Europa e Regina, where the floors were done in a visually arresting black-and-white marble harlequin pattern, the walls were painted a warm yellow ocher, and every elegant architectural detail screamed luxe perfection. Fabulous Venetian glass chandeliers lit every immaculate inch of the place, but they didn’t manage to make her mood any sunnier.

  Outside, Gwen walked down Calle Larga Marzo in search of coffee, huddling into her chartreuse suede jacket and wishing she’d brought something warmer and more weatherproof. It was drizzling slightly, and the temperature was in the upper forties.

  She crossed the bridge over the canal and meandered through the charming, narrow streets until she got to the Piazza San Marco. There she found her coffee at a little sidewalk café and fed the famous hordes of pigeons some of her pastry.

  The Basilica di San Marco never failed to awe her, with its five domes and multitude of spires, the four horses of Saint Mark’s, and the magnificent carvings of the Labors of the Month inside the central arch. Outside and inside the basilica were countless treasures—mosaics and sculpture and religious relics.

  As Gwen sat there drinking it in, she knew it was well past time to come clean with Avy. ARTemis was her company, after all, her exposure more than anyone else’s. Gwen had to put her mortification and her ego aside. She needed help, and she needed it before anyone else was murdered.

  She dialed Avy’s cell phone number and was surprised when she woke her, since it was early afternoon. “Hi, Avy, it’s Gwen. Sheila tells me you’re in Venice.”

  “Gwennie! How are you?” Her voice was raspy with sleep.

  “Late night?” Gwen asked.

  “You could say that.” Avy yawned audibly.

  “Anything exciting?”

  “Mmmmphhh,” her friend said. “Just an evening at the home of a friend of Liam’s in Venice. Pretty uneventful, but I don’t know. . . . I just couldn’t drift off last night.”

  “Well, you’re not going to believe this, but I’m here in Venice, too.”

  “No kidding?” Avy’s voice sounded a bit wary.

  Gwen couldn’t bring herself to tell Avy what was going on over the phone. “Listen, do you want to get together for dinner tonight, the three of us? I’d love to meet Liam.”

  Slight hesitation. “Sure. We’d really like that. Why don’t we meet here at the Gritti Palace dining room? Around sevenish?”

  “All right. See you then.” Gwen closed her phone and tapped it thoughtfully on the table. Ostensibly, Avy and Liam were here for a romantic holiday . . . and why not, since Venice was one of the most beautiful cities in the world?

  They were in love. They were engaged to be married. Yet she’d known Avy for years, ever since they’d been college roommates. And Sheila was right: There was something very odd about this romantic getaway of hers. She’d left so abruptly from that meeting, saying only that she had to go, that it was important. That Gwen should take on her assignment.

  Was she helping Liam, a world-renowned thief, to steal something? That didn’t fit Avy’s moral profile, but then again, marrying a cat burglar didn’t, either. Like Sheila, Gwen wanted to know exactly what was going on. She supposed she’d learn more in a couple of hours.

  The Gritti Palace was situated fairly near Gwen’s hotel in the San Marco sestiere, on Santa Maria del Giglio. A fifteenth-century palazzo, it was luxurious in the way that only old Venice can master, radiating history and grand-ness from every corner.

  Far more interesting to Gwen, who had stayed there with her parents, was Sir Liam James, who was a veritable Gritti Palace of men. She eyed him as she gave Avy a bear hug. Liam looked as if he’d jumped off the pediment of a Greek temple and donned a Savile Row suit, stopping only to imbibe a martini and seduce a young Grace Kelly on the way.

  Gwen turned to Avy, who seemed a little too interested in Gwen’s reaction to her fiancé. And that was very unlike her.

  “You look awfully tired for someone on a romantic getaway,” Gwen teased her. “This man has clearly been keeping you up at night.”

  Avy gave a short laugh and cast Liam a pointed glance.

  “Not so,” Liam protested with a wicked grin. “She has been keeping part of me up at
night.”

  Gwen flushed, while his eyes seemed to go greener.

  He took both of her hands in his manicured ones and kissed her soundly on both cheeks. “My dear Gwendolyn, what a pleasure it is to meet you! Come, what can we get you to drink?”

  “It’s nice to meet you, too, Liam,” she said, taking a step back. “But it’s just Gwen.”

  “All right, Just Gwen,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “What will you have?”

  “Pellegrino,” she said. “Thank you.” She’d kill for a nice, belly-warming glass of Chianti, but that was out of the question, given her condition.

  Handsome, charming, affable, and clearly besotted with Avy, Liam cleared up the mystery of why she was with him in one smile.

  God had mixed a powerful man cocktail when He’d created Liam James. He’d combined two fingers of eighty-proof George Clooney with a dash of spicy David Beckham and dropped in three cool cubes of Pierce Brosnan. Then he’d garnished the lethal concoction with an amusing wedge of Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean. One whiff was enough to make the average woman drunk. A single sip would have her naked, and two would make her insane.

  Liam James was a man who could melt the panties off a nun in seconds flat, and Avy was certainly no nun.

  Curiously, Gwen found that he paled in comparison to Quinn. Liam seemed . . . what was the right word? Frivolous. He struck her as a man who filched what he wanted, whereas Quinn got his hands dirty and created it from scratch.

  But Liam did seem perfect for Avy, and Gwen had to laugh at her friend’s reaction to him: She seemed annoyed and frustrated by her hopeless attraction to the guy. Gwen had never seen Avy so off balance. She’d finally met a man she couldn’t handle, and Gwen thought it was good for her.

  As they sat in the bar, Gwen drank her Pellegrino, Liam drank vodka, and Avy, who still seemed a bit wary, had bourbon.

  “What brings you to Venezia, Gwen?” Liam asked politely.

  She stayed as close to the truth as possible. “I’m here to speak to a jeweler about a collection of Byzantine items that’s gone missing.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s done some pieces for a new collection that are remarkably similar, and I want to question him face-to-face—if you know what I mean.”

  “I do.” Liam nodded. “I absolutely do. So you’re representing the insurance company?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which one?”

  Gwen uncrossed and recrossed her legs. “I can’t really disclose details of a case. Sorry.”

  “Oh, no worries. Discretion is of the utmost importance in these matters, isn’t it, Avy, my love? Insurers can be such sticks-in-the-mud.”

  Avy’s hand tightened around her glass and a muscle jumped in her jaw. “You can’t blame insurance companies for getting cranky about theft and fraud.” Her glance at Liam was carefully neutral, but Gwen would swear that behind that neutrality was anger . . . and uncertainty. As if she didn’t know what to do about something.

  “How’s your father?” Gwen asked, to change the subject.

  It didn’t seem to be a welcome change. “Fine,” said Avy.

  “Isn’t he delightful?” Liam said. “A veritable pistol of a man.”

  “True. He’d like to shoot Liam,” Avy murmured.

  Gwen laughed. “Nobody would be good enough for Everett’s little girl,” she said. “Don’t take it personally.”

  “Like anyone would get your father’s approval?” Avy shot back.

  Poor Quinn. He hadn’t had a chance in hell with her dad. “My father liked the mayonnaise prince.”

  “Mayonnaise prince?” Liam inquired, looking amused. “Was he a colorless sidekick?”

  “That about sums it up,” Avy said, nudging Gwen.

  “Curtis wasn’t that bad. And I really liked his dog.”

  “Now, there’s a reason to marry a chap,” Liam remarked.

  “Well, Curtis used to pass out early, and Pickles and I would watch Letterman.”

  “Pickles. You can’t be serious? The mayonnaise prince had a dog named Pickles?”

  “Swear to God,” said Avy.

  “Okay, this is war,” Gwen declared. “We’re going to talk about some of your past flames, Ave. How about the circus clown?”

  Liam choked on his vodka.

  “He was not a circus clown. He had a business that catered to kids’ birthday parties.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot that he was also the Cat in the Hat and the Easter Bunny . . . not to mention Zorba the Magician.”

  Liam bellowed with laughter. “Avy, my love! You’re upset about my past?”

  “And what about the medical student who took you on a hot date with a cadaver, Ave?”

  “Better than that stuffed shirt who came for the weekend with matching Polo luggage, shoe trees in his loafers, and starched, dry-cleaned boxer shorts.”

  “That was a blind date,” Gwen said. “It’s not like I chose that guy. . . .”

  “Ladies,” Liam interjected.

  “. . . and what about the pilot, Ave? Mile-high Sly?”

  “Shut up about the pilot, Gwennie, or I’ll have to bring up Dirk the Defiler.”

  “Ladies! While this is all very amusing, things seem to be getting heated.” Liam signaled to the waiter, who promptly popped over.

  “Sir?”

  “This lovely lady needs another Pellegrino, per favore—though if I were her, I’d choose something stronger, since she actually went on a date with a fellow named Dirk.”

  “Can I hit him?” Gwen asked Avy.

  “Be my guest.”

  “And we’ll have another Basil Hayden’s on the rocks for the other lady. Grey Goose straight up for me, signore.”

  They chatted for a few more minutes, finished their drinks, and then went to the grand dining room for the evening meal. After Liam had taken the “liberty” of ordering antipasti for them all, Avy excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. Gwen was tempted to go after her and have the necessary chat immediately, but couldn’t take the risk that there might be other women in there. She’d have to wait.

  There was a moment of silence between Liam and Gwen, but he was far too skilled a conversationalist to let it grow. He eased back comfortably in his chair and tilted his head at her.

  “So, tell me what Avy was like as a college freshman,” he said.

  Gwen smiled, thinking back. “She looks just the same; she just dresses differently now. She arrived at Sweet Briar in army surplus pants and a T-shirt, with this industrial-size backpack that used to be her dad’s. There I was, with my matching, monogrammed Hartmann luggage, dressed in Calvin Klein. We weren’t sure what to think of each other at first. Avy was different from anyone I’d ever met. . . .”

  Liam asked more questions, his expression fond, and Gwen did her best to answer them.

  “And now you work together,” he said. “That’s lovely.”

  Gwen nodded. Lovely . . . as long as she didn’t single-handedly ruin Avy’s reputation and future. She swallowed hard. When could she get her alone?

  “Now, didn’t Avy tell me that your last recovery was of an old Venetian mask?”

  Gwen snapped to attention, her stomach rocketing to her throat. “Yes. Solid gold and studded with emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds. It was quite a piece.”

  “I know it,” Liam said. “Since we’re all discussing past, er, peccadilloes, I will confess that I used to date a strange woman who’s descended from the Borgias. She was quite obsessed with that mask.”

  Gwen sat stunned. “Really?” she managed. “How interesting. Confidentially, Liam, there’s been an odd development with that recovery—”

  Avy turned the corner from the hallway leading to the ladies’ room.

  “Please don’t say anything to her,” Gwen said. “She’s got enough to deal with on her own plate.”

  Liam raised an eyebrow but nodded. “All right.”

  Avy approached the table, slim and glamorous in a deep green cashmere sw
eater with cutouts that showed off her athletic shoulders. She’d reapplied her soft claret lipstick and seemed more relaxed after all the teasing and the two bourbons.

  “You know,” she said, “there’s nothing like an old friend with knowledge of your dark past to keep you humble.”

  “And a fiancé who makes you wear a puppet mask.” Liam’s lips curved.

  “Puppet mask?” Gwen asked.

  Avy looked daggers at Liam. “Lover boy here thought that we’d be the plague doctor and the puppet for Carnevale.”

  “For some reason,” Liam said with feigned surprise, “our Avy doesn’t wish me to pull her strings and make her dance.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Gwen said.

  “Don’t worry, darling. We’ll outfit you with something much more grand for tomorrow night.” He turned to Gwen. “Will you get a costume and enjoy the start of Carnevale with us while you’re here?”

  There were masks for sale in street stalls everywhere, and balls and fetes advertised. “I don’t know,” Gwen demurred. “I’m really here on business.”

  “I can assure you that I’ve found mixing business with pleasure most rewarding,” Liam said, brushing the backs of his fingers over Avy’s cheek. She actually blushed.

  Gwen was so astonished by the sight of Avy blushing that she didn’t respond. Then memories of her Brazilian Carnaval rushed her, and her own cheeks heated.

  Quinn in a tight black T-shirt with a quick smile and a slow hand up her skirt.

  A shirtless Quinn with rock-hard abs and his mouth on her breasts.

  A naked Quinn with his unshaven face between her legs.

  Gwen squirmed and wished she were anywhere but in the Gritti’s dining room with two lovebirds, on only the second course of five, but she supposed she’d have to sit through it.

  And she did . . . all the way to dessert. Liam and Avy continued their edgy flirting, while Gwen agonized over how she’d deliver the news she had, and wondered what exactly their reaction would be if she were to suddenly announce that she was pregnant. She moved her hand to her navel and rubbed her index finger over Quinn’s diamond.

  Just full of secrets, wasn’t she? Gwen had not the slightest idea how she’d tell him or what would happen between them or when he’d show up . . . but as the espresso and the check were delivered to the table, she found herself praying.