Your Scheming Heart

He was an easy mark—or so she thought.

Vincenzo, the sole scion of an ancient Italian family, believes it is his duty to return a stolen Renaissance painting, together with its allegedly magical properties, back to its proper spot in the village church. Only then will fertility be restored to his family and prosperity to his town. For his own mysterious reasons he's desperate to carry out this vow, and so hires a thief—a savvy female con woman—to help him find the painting and steal it back.

Sabrina has her own view of the situation. She thinks Vincenzo is nuts. Neither does she care for rich people, except as marks. And Vincenzo, trusting, naive, and loaded, is going to make a good one.

Or so she thinks...

YOUR SCHEMING HEART

by Alyssa Kress

Published by 4 Dolphins Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Alyssa Kress

Originally Copyright 1996 as Confidence Game

Cover Design Copyright 2013

by http://coversbykaren.com

Discover these and other titles by Alyssa Kress at her Smashwords Profile or at her webpage, http://www.alyssakress.com

Marriage by Mistake

The Heart Heist

The Indiscreet Ladies of Green Ivy Way

Asking For It

Love and the Millionairess

Working on a Full House

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, then please visit http://www.alyssakress.com to find licensed retailers from whom you can purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious, even those referring to actual or well-known entities. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Acknowledgements

The author would like to thank everyone who has given immense support and help in creating this and other stories: Julie Woolley, Kathy Bennett, Jenna Ives, Leigh Court, Cathy Yardley, Rose Murray, John Lovelady, and to Ruth Barges of blessed memory.

Many gracious thanks to Dafne Nesti for her help with the Italian language.

Author's Note on Chronology

The events in this story depend on a chronological relationship to World War II. Because of this, the story is set in 1996, when it was written. You will notice there is no Internet and no cell phones—and how these lacks make an enormous difference in how Sabrina and Vincenzo go after the Madonna della Montagna.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About the Author

Other Books by Alyssa Kress

Preview of I Gotta Feeling

CHAPTER ONE

Sabrina hoped the guy wasn't a cop.

The man in the long overcoat had been on her tail like a tick on a dog ever since she'd left the airport gift shop. From there she'd ambled through the cafeteria, taken a long powder in the ladies' room, and even visited the ticket lines.

He'd shadowed her every step.

Stopping outside the duty-free shop, she stared at the ivy leaves and fake snow painted on the glass store window, leftover relics of winter in Miami. The man was behind her, reflected green and red in the glass. He was pretending to leaf through postcards in the shop across the corridor. There was a furtive, embarrassed manner about the way he took one card at a time, studied it, and then replaced it on the rack.

He didn't look like a cop, Sabrina had to admit, taking her time to study him. For one thing, he was dressed far too well. That overcoat had to be worth a couple grand, and the suit beneath it, custom-tailored, maybe another. She doubted Miami PD officers dressed with that much money.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking because, God knew, she had enough on her plate as it was. Not only was she broke, but her most recent business partner probably wanted to kill her.

It had been a mistake to get involved with Lise Gunther. Sabrina should have realized the hustler queen wouldn't follow the rules Sabrina's mentor, Joe, had taught her all those years ago.

You never took a mark for more than he could afford.

Unfortunately, Sabrina had not perceived Lise's hard-hearted nature until after discovering the marginal circumstances of their intended victim. By then Sabrina had used up the front money Lise had given her, money on which Lise expected a hefty return. Since Sabrina hadn't swindled the victim, she couldn't produce the return. So now what she needed was time, and a safe place to think a way out of her present fix.

What she didn't need was to be dodging the law on top of everything else.

Besides, she hadn't done anything illegal...in this state...yet.

The man who'd been following her had now exhausted the small stand of postcards. He stood there, at apparent loose ends, rubbing his chin.

Sabrina narrowed her eyes. Policeman or not, he was making life very difficult. She'd come to the airport looking for fast, easy cash. Means to get out of town. Fat chance of picking up any dough, however, with an audience watching.

On the other hand, if he wasn't a cop and was as rich as he looked, her follower might be the answer to her problem.

Making a sudden decision, Sabrina spun to face the man.

He froze, one hand still at his chin, his eyes fastened on her.

A poker face he had not. His stunned dismay gave her a glimmer of amusement as she started toward him.

He simply stood there, the edge of his palm against his chin. He was a couple inches better than six feet and dark—dark hair, dark eyes, and dark, finely shaped brows. He had the soft, romantic beauty of a poet, complete with long, sweeping dark eyelashes.

My word, Sabrina thought, coming to a halt before him. He's prettier than I am.

Excuse me, she said aloud. Do you have the time? The asinine question seemed to fit the circumstances.

He appeared to appreciate it, too, slowly lowering his hand from his face with an expression of undisguised relief. "Naturalmente. Speaking in a rich European accent, he turned his wrist to look at a fancy watch. It is ten minutes to eight o'clock in the evening."

Italian, Sabrina decided. From Milan, judging by the natty clothes. Now that she was closer she could see the suit was not merely custom-tailored, but custom-made. The tie was also custom-made, raw silk, and pierced with a solid gold pin. No diamond inset, however, in that gold pin. That would have been obtrusive and Money, Real Big Money, was never obtrusive. Sabrina's heart began to pound, happy and excited.

Real, big money didn't rouse her scruples. Real, big money could afford to donate his wallet so she could give Lise the slip.

His eyes sought hers over his wrist. Is that all right? he asked, probably referring to the time.

What? Oh yeah, it's great. I mean, I have plenty of time before my flight. Considering that that flight was completely imaginary, she had all the time in the world. Sabrina bit her lip and took a pensive look around. An awkward silence ensued.

Come on, you ninny, she silently urged. You've been following me for the past forty-five minutes. Now you've got an opening—take it!

Perhaps... Getting the words out seemed awfully difficult for him. If you are not in a hurry, he managed to stammer, I could buy you...something to eat. Or a drink?

Sabrina spared him a sidelong glance. A man this good-looking should have developed a better technique by his age—early thirties, she guessed. But then, maybe the good-looking ones didn't need much technique. Maybe women chased them.

Sure, a drink would be okay. Actually, a whole meal would have been wonderful. Since she'd taken her powder in Gainesville two days ago, she hadn't had the chance or the cash to eat right. But she didn't want to get too chummy with the guy. Just chummy enough to get close to his wallet...

There's a lounge, I believe, in that direction. He gazed down at Sabrina as though he could hardly fathom his good fortune. Oh, and my name is Vincenzo. Vincenzo Nicolazzi.

Raven, Sabrina said, which was the closest to a real name she had. Sabrina Raven. And then, because she knew he'd expect it, she held out her hand. She couldn't help tensing, though, before his flesh met hers. She hated to be touched.

But the Italian's handshake wasn't bad. It was brief, dry, and not particularly unpleasant.

She looked up, mildly surprised, and caught a similar surprise in his face. But before Sabrina could react to this strange phenomenon, the Italian did something far worse than the handshake. He smiled.

She wasn't prepared. In her experience, rich men didn't smile like angels. But this one did. His smile was innocent. It was pure. It brimmed over with generous warmth.

Sabrina actually had to take a step back. Whoa. He was good at that. A person might believe he truly was innocent and warm. But Sabrina knew better. No wealthy man was warm or innocent.

Shall we? the Italian asked, and indicated the direction.

What? Oh yeah, sure. Sucking in her lips, Sabrina led the way.

The bar was crowded. Under soft recessed lighting harried passengers-to-be clustered around a scattering of gray laminate tables. Heaps of carry-on luggage surrounded each group, making navigation tricky.

Nevertheless, her Italian companion managed to get them a table near the window looking out on the corridor. Sabrina would have preferred something closer to the wall, out of view, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

For the moment, she was a beggar. Man, she hadn't been this down in ten years, not since she was a runaway teenager, picking pockets outside Grand Central.

What would you like? The Italian held out a chair for her. Wine, or perhaps a cocktail?

Any alcohol would go straight to her head. Even on a full stomach Sabrina couldn't handle the stuff. Actually, a hot cup of coffee would be great.

"Bene." Another smile, not quite as lethal as the last one, and he raised a hand for the waitress. Sabrina was not surprised when that personage made a beeline for her companion. Money learned at an early age how to command service. One of these days, Sabrina promised herself, she'd learn the knack.

Once the waitress had taken their order, the Italian turned back to Sabrina. He'd shed his overcoat and she could see the rich sienna colors and elegant design of his suit. With one knee crossed over the other and that pretty face, he should have looked effeminate. He didn't. He looked sheerly, beautifully male—something Sabrina was surprised she noticed. Not only was she presently preoccupied with staying alive, but she wasn't particularly man-crazy.

I'm afraid this is going to sound like a—how you say?—like a line, he said.

Ah, go ahead and try me. What's the line? She had a mild curiosity about why this good-looking man had picked her, of all people. Meanwhile, the conversation gave her time to try guessing the location of his wallet. Probably his inside jacket pocket. Someplace that wouldn't ruin the lines of his suit. Joe had taught her how to guess such things, back when she was underage and starving.

Her companion's gaze turned unfocused, as though he were looking at something far away. I can't believe how much you look...so very like her.

Sabrina's attention snapped back to the Italian's face. So. That was behind the dogged pursuit. She reminded him of someone else. You're right. That does sound like a line. But she softened the complaint with a smile. Hell, so long as she got what she was after, why complain? Friend of yours?

No. He paused, thinking. More like family.

Sabrina raised her brows. With her honey-blond hair and clear green eyes she doubted she resembled anybody in this Italian's family.

Perhaps I should be more clear, he worried. She is not a person. She is a painting.

A painting. Sardonic amusement crept into her smile. Sabrina was no beauty, but she did have some curves. In that case I'm surprised you could make the comparison—I mean, with my clothes still on.

It took him a moment to understand, and then his handsome face turned a dull red color. "Oh, no. The painting is not a nude. Certainly not. It is a painting of the madonna. La Madonna della Montagna."

The madonna! Sabrina couldn't help a guffaw. She put a hand to her mouth, trying in vain to smooth out a broad grin. I'm sorry, but that's—that's— completely ridiculous. —A new one.

He appeared nonplussed by her amusement. I assure you, the resemblance is quite striking. While Sabrina struggled not to chuckle, he sketched a hand in the air across her wide cheekbones, drawing down past the beauty mark over her mouth to the sharp, cunning chin. It's in your eyes, your expression...a certain aura.

A certain aura? Sabrina knew she had a kittenish, naturally mischievous face. Most of the time she had to bend over backwards to make it appear halfway respectable. Now she bit her tongue in order to keep her composure. I must admit, you are the first man who's ever compared me to the virgin Mary.

There is a likeness, he repeated, stubborn. He turned to nod acknowledgment toward the waitress, who'd come to set down their coffees.

All right, then. I'll take your word for it, Sabrina agreed, once the waitress had left. So. Tell me more about this painting. Despite her immediate problems, she felt a tug of curiosity. What did you say the name was?

"La Madonna della Montagna. He reached for the packets of sugar the waitress had left with their coffee. The Lady of the Mountain. She was commissioned by my family over five hundred years ago."

That's pretty old. Sixteenth century, Sabrina calculated. Wouldn't that make it from the Renaissance?

That is correct. For five centuries she hung in a revered spot in the village chapel. Her presence, her spirit, guarded the town. Many came to pray before her. You see— He broke off abruptly.

Sabrina, who'd been leaning toward his jacket, halted as well. Many came to pray before her? she prompted. There was a faraway, glazed quality to his eyes that she liked very well. Despite her curiosity, she hadn't forgotten his wallet.

Unfortunately, his focus changed. Once again it sharpened, directing straight on her face. He leaned closer, his voice hushed. You see, she had special powers.

Special powers, she repeated, staring at him.

It is true, he said. Magical powers.

Magic? Sabrina met the quiet insistence in his eyes and realized something elemental. Nuts. The guy was completely nuts.

I see, she murmured, then silently cursed as he leaned back in his seat and his wallet moved out of range. Um, what kind of powers? Keep him talking, Sabrina figured. Crazy or not, given time, he'd lean close again.

He shook his third packet of sugar. She was said to grant prosperity. Carefully he ripped the packet open, tilted it, and then watched the granules fall into his coffee. A muscle in his jaw tightened. "And...fertilita."

Sabrina's eyes narrowed. First virgins and now fertility? You don't say.

I do. He appeared oblivious to her sarcasm, picking up a spoon. Women travelled from all over the region to light a candle before her in prayer. It is said that no prayers were left unanswered. He hesitated, then added with a shrug. Men, too.

Sabrina studied him carefully. What do you mean—men?

Those who'd...felt their vigor die. They petitioned the Lady, too. He ran the spoon through the sugar-laden coffee, avoiding her eyes. The Lady of the Mountain answered them, as well.

I'll just bet, Sabrina thought, watching him. But he didn't appear to mean any of this as a joke—or a come-on. On the contrary, he appeared to be absolutely serious, even about drinking that over-sweetened coffee, lifting the cup toward his mouth.

Funny, isn't it, she remarked, how magic only seemed to happen back in the good old days. You never hear about it working in the modern world.

Oh no. The cup stopped halfway to her mark's mouth. Over it his eyes were deeply horrified. It still happens. Magic. The Lady still retains her powers.

Sabrina arched an eyebrow. But you spoke in the past tense.

He lowered his cup of coffee. The Lady is as potent as ever, but she no longer hangs in the village church.

Sabrina had always had the hunter instinct. Joe had often marvelled over the way she could sniff out a good con. Right now, with the Italian looking at her with that steady, lunatic gaze, her instincts started screaming. There was something here, something very big.

She no longer hangs in the village church, Sabrina repeated slowly. Why not?

His expression hardened. Because she was stolen.

Sabrina didn't know how this fit in. But she was sure that, somehow, there was an angle here. She was as certain of it as she was of her own left foot.

Stolen, she repeated. That's terrible.

"Atroce, he agreed. It was during the Second World War. For fifty years the town has been without his Lady."

Nazis? Sabrina theorized.

I thought so, at first. The Italian opened yet another packet of sugar. In horror, Sabrina watched him pour it into his coffee. But after four years I have narrowed the search down to one or two Americans.

Her attention went back to his face. You sound as though you've been actively searching for the painting.

I have. Lifting his cup, the Italian actually took a sip. Sabrina was amazed when he didn't flinch at the taste. Instead his expression turned set and determined. I have devoted myself to finding the Lady. You see, I took a vow.

The guy was certifiable. A vow?

The Italian set down his cup with a solid clink. The line of his mouth drew back unhappily. I'll be breaking that vow tonight, if I fly back to Milan.

Sabrina's instincts were screaming again. Opportunity, they shouted. Big opportunity. But not for her. She had to scram. The trail she'd left since Gainesville wasn't sufficiently covered for her to pick up a game here.

Which was really too bad. She could practically smell the money involved in this story—and she wouldn't scruple to bilk this man.

Breaking a vow is a serious thing, she proclaimed anyway, as if she'd be able to stick around long enough to reap the benefits of this provocation.

He looked up sharply. Yes, I said so to Sylvio. But he would not listen. He said that four years is long enough.

He'd been looking for four years? This painting had to be worth a bundle. Aloud, Sabrina said, A vow is a vow.

He stared at her intently. Yes, he agreed. A vow is a vow.

She'd been toying with him, half distressed she couldn't follow this game, and half determined to distract him enough to extract his