The Fiancée Caper. Maureen ChildЧитать онлайн книгу.
father didn’t understand Gianni’s decision. But then, he told himself, it was hardly surprising. A legacy of thievery didn’t usually lend itself to suddenly becoming a law-abiding citizen. But Gianni had had an epiphany of sorts more than a year ago.
His sister, Teresa, thank the gods, understood, because she had chosen years ago to leave behind their family traditions. But Teresa was the only one to understand, because the changes he had made to his life had not only perplexed most of his family, but also, at times, himself.
“You have a job now, Gianni.” Paulo gave a dramatic shudder again as if the very thought of being employed shook him to his soul. “Corettis do not have jobs. We go on jobs. There is a difference.”
Across the room, a fire burned in a stone hearth, casting flickering shadows on the oak-paneled walls. Outside the casement windows, stately trees rattled their leaves in the near constant English wind. It was a perfectly pleasant room that normally he would have enjoyed. If he weren’t faced with talking to his hardheaded brother.
“And that difference could send my family to prison.”
“It hasn’t yet,” Paulo reminded him with a smug smile.
No, it hadn’t. But Dominick Coretti—Gianni’s father—was getting older. And even the best of men lost some of their skills with age. Not that Nick would ever admit to such a thing. So Gianni had arranged for his father’s safety because there was simply no chance his papa would survive a prison sentence.
Of course, that hadn’t been the only reason Gianni had, as his father continued to phrase it, “betrayed his very heritage.” While being a world-renowned thief had its perks, it also wasn’t without its downsides. For example, having to look over your shoulder your entire life.
Gianni wanted something else.
And if his father and brother kept screwing up, Gianni’s future was in jeopardy, too. In spite of the deal he’d made with certain agents of Interpol, if it was proven that the Coretti family was still making off with the jewels of Europe, he had no doubt that his deal would be broken and that his new “friends” would find a way to lump him in with his family.
“You worry too much, Gianni,” Paulo offered. “We are Corettis.”
“I know who we are, Paulo.”
“Do you?” Tipping his head to one side, the other man studied Gianni for a long moment before saying, “I think you’ve forgotten. And when you finally remember, you will leave this new life of yours behind—eagerly.”
Gianni finished his own drink, then stared at his brother. “I know exactly who I am. Who we all are. I gave my word in exchange for the immunity, Paulo.”
He snorted again. “To the police.”
As if that didn’t matter.
“It’s my word,” Gianni growled. “And the deal I struck with Interpol only includes past crimes. If you or Papa are caught now...”
“Again you worry.” Paulo shook his head. “We will not be caught. We are never caught. Besides, you know Papa. He could no more stop stealing than he could stop breathing.”
“I know.” Gianni wished he could order another scotch. But once Paulo was on the plane to Paris, he himself would be driving back to his home in Mayfair. And he really didn’t need a cop pulling him over for weaving along the streets.
His expression must have been easy to read since Paulo laughed again. “Papa is who he is, Gianni. Also, Lady Van Court was practically begging someone to take those stones.”
And the ease of the job would have been impossible for his father to resist. With a sigh, he said, “When you see him, tell Papa to lay low for a while at least until the reporters move on from covering the theft. In fact, if you have to, lock him in the closet at your place.”
Paulo laughed, finished his scotch and set the glass down again before standing. “I won’t even respond to that last idea, as we both know that it would take more than a simple lock to hold our father when he doesn’t wish to be held.”
“True enough,” Gianni mumbled. He stood up and followed his brother out the door and along the gravel drive to Gianni’s car. The airport was a short drive from the inn and all too soon, the brothers were standing on the tarmac with an icy British wind buffeting them.
“Watch your back out there in the world of respectability, brother,” Paulo said.
“Watch your own,” Gianni told him, pulling his brother in for a hard, brief hug. “And Papa’s as well.”
“Always,” Paulo assured him, then picked up his bag, turned and headed for the private jet waiting for him.
Gianni didn’t stay to watch the plane take off. Instead, he walked back to his car and drove home to his new life.
* * *
“So,” Marie O’Hara whispered into the darkened silence, “clearly, crime pays pretty well.”
She was in a position to know, since she was, at the moment, sneaking through the private lair of one of the world’s most notorious jewel thieves. Her stomach jumped with nerves and breathing wasn’t easy. All of her life, she’d followed the rules, obeyed the law, and tonight, she’d thrown all of that away for a chance at justice. Sadly, that thought didn’t help the nerves much. But she was here now and she was determined to search the place quickly and thoroughly.
After following Gianni Coretti for weeks, studying his habits, she was fairly sure the man would be gone for hours, but there was no sense in taking chances.
Marie didn’t turn on any lights; she didn’t want to risk it. Though the chances of neighbors spotting her slinking through his apartment were slim to none. Gianni Coretti’s luxury flat was a tenth-floor penthouse with a spectacular view of London. There was a glass wall of windows displaying that view and letting in enough moonlight that lamps weren’t really necessary anyway.
“It’s pretty but it’s more like a contemporary museum than a home,” Marie murmured as she walked across the gleaming, white marble floor. The whole place was white. It was like walking through a marshmallow, except it had too many sharp angles and harsh lines to be that soft and comfy. Shaking her head, she left the sterile, if beautiful, living room behind and continued on through a long hall. The marble ran throughout the flat and her heels made light, quick taps on its surface. She winced at every tiny sound as if it were a bullhorn announcing her presence.
Her short black skirt, sky-high heels and red silk shirt weren’t exactly designed for stealth. But she’d had to get past the security guard/doorman and she’d had to dress the part of one of Coretti’s many assignations. That was lowering, but it had gotten her past the thief’s first line of defense.
The kitchen was as austere and off-putting as the rest of the place. It looked as though it had never been used—restaurant-grade stove and sub-zero fridge notwithstanding. Just off that kitchen was a dining room with a—surprise—glass table, surrounded by six ghost chairs, so that it looked as though there was nothing there even though it took up quite a bit of room.
Shaking her head at the fact that the wrong people had all the money, Marie moved on, headed past two guest rooms and straight for the master bedroom. The closer she got, the faster nerves swam in the pit of her stomach. Marie really didn’t have the breaking-and-entering personality at all. Unlike the man who owned this palace of white, glass and chrome.
“Honestly, would it kill him to have a little warmth in here?” Her voice seemed to reverberate through the empty flat, making the whole place seem a little creepy.
Shaking her head at her own errant thoughts, she told herself to focus on the reason for this little enterprise. She was there to find something she could use against Gianni Coretti. Sure. No problem. Police around the world had been trying and failing to get evidence against the Coretti family for years. Yet, she reminded herself, she already had one very interesting piece she knew would get Gianni’s