Читать книгу Wedded, Bedded, Betrayed - Мишель Смарт, Michelle Smart - Страница 8

CHAPTER ONE

THE SCREAM PIERCED through the silence of the Nutmeg Island chapel.

Gabriele Mantegna, having just climbed up the stairs from the basement, came to an abrupt halt.

Where the hell had that come from?

He switched off his torch, plunging the chapel into complete darkness, and listened hard.

Had that been a woman’s scream? Surely not? Tonight, only the armed security crew inhabited the island.

Closing the basement door carefully, he walked to the one small window of the chapel not made of stained glass. It was too dark to see anything but after a moment a faint light appeared in the distance. It came from the Ricci house where at that moment an armed gang were helping themselves to all the priceless works of art and antiquities.

The island’s security crew were blind to the gang, their monitors remotely tampered with and feeding them falsehoods.

Gabriele checked his watch and grimaced. He’d been on the island ten minutes longer than planned. Every extra minute increased his chances of getting caught. To reach the beach on the south side of the island, from where he would swim to safety, was a further ten-minute walk.

But he hadn’t imagined the scream. He couldn’t in good conscience make his escape without checking it out.

Swearing under his breath, Gabriele pushed open the heavy chapel door and stepped out into the warm Caribbean air. The next time Ignazio Ricci decided on a spot of peace and contemplation, he would find the code for the chapel alarm scrambled.

For a building designed for peaceable contemplation and worship, the Ricci chapel had been desecrated by Ignazio’s real purpose.

It had all been there, directly beneath the chapel altar, in a basement stuffed with files dating back decades. A secret trail of blood money, the underbelly of the Ricci empire, hidden from the outside world. In the short time Gabriele had been in the basement he’d uncovered enough evidence of illegal dealings to have Ignazio spend the rest of his life in prison. He, Gabriele Mantegna, would personally hand the copied incriminating documents to the FBI. He would be there every day of the trial, seating himself so that Ignazio, the man who’d killed his father, would not be able to avoid seeing him.

When the judge’s sentence was pronounced Ignazio would know that it was he who had sent him down.

But everything wasn’t sunshine yet. The most important evidence for Gabriele, the documents that would have cleared his own name and exonerated his father once and for all, had not been found.

The evidence existed. He would find it if it took him the rest of his life.

Putting the missing evidence from his mind, Gabriele set out into the thick canopy of trees and, crouching low, made his way to the Ricci house, a huge villa set over three levels.

Lights shone from a downstairs window. Any subterfuge by the gang had been abandoned.

Something had gone wrong.

The men in the house were led by a criminal mastermind who went by the moniker of Carter. Carter’s specialisation was in purloining high-end goods for order. Ming vases. Picassos. Caravaggios. Blue Diamonds. There wasn’t a security system in the world, so the legend went, that Carter couldn’t crack. He also had a knack of knowing where the shadier elements of high society kept their even shadier valuables, the type of valuables the owner most certainly would not report to the authorities. Carter took those items for himself.

The front door had been left ajar.

As he approached it, voices could be heard, muffled but undeniably angry.

Knowing he was taking a huge risk but unable to rid himself of the sound of the scream ringing in his ears, Gabriele pressed himself against the outside wall of the window nearest the front door, took a breath, and turned to look inside.

The main reception room was empty.

He pushed the door open a few more inches.

The muffled argument continued.

He crossed the threshold. The instant his neoprene dive slipper trod onto the hard lacquered wood flooring, a squeak rang out.

Swearing under his breath, Gabriele tried another step, placing his whole foot down in one tread. This time there was no squeak.

He took stock of his surroundings. The reception room had three doors. Only one, directly opposite him, was open.

He crossed cautiously, wishing there were at least a life-size statue to hide behind if needed. Reaching the door, he peered through it, taking in the wide cantilevered stairs to his right and craning his ears to the left in an attempt to determine what the men were arguing about. If it was a simple heist-gone-wrong scenario he would return to his plan and get the hell off this island.

But that scream...

It had definitely sounded feminine.

The arguing voices were all male. He still couldn’t decipher what they were arguing about. He needed to get closer.

Before he could take another step, heavy footsteps treaded down the stairs. A huge figure dressed entirely in black strode past the door Gabriele was hiding behind and joined the others. He must have opened the door widely because now everything they said echoed off the great walls.

‘The little cow bit me,’ he said in an English accent, sounding incredulous.

‘You didn’t hurt her?’ said another voice, this one American.

‘Not as much as I’m going to when we get her out of here.’

‘She’s not going anywhere. We’re leaving her here,’ said the other voice sharply.

‘She’s seen my face.’

Much swearing ensued before the first man cut through the noise. ‘I would still take her even if she couldn’t identify me—whoever she is, she’s got to be worth something and I want a slice of it.’

All the men started speaking at once, making it impossible to distinguish their words but the gist of it was clear enough. Upstairs was a woman, probably bound, and these men were arguing over what to do with her.

Suddenly the original man came storming back out, yelling over his shoulder, ‘You pansies can debate it all you want. That bitch is mine and she’s coming with us.’

The door was slammed shut behind him and the man hurried back up the stairs, taking a right turn at the top.

This was Gabriele’s chance.

Not pausing to consider his options, he strode to the stairs then climbed them three at a time.

Half a dozen doors lined the hallway he found himself in but only one of them was open.

He peered cautiously inside.

The man stood in the middle of a pale blue bedroom, his back to him. Before him, her hands tied at the wrists to a headboard, her mouth gagged, her knees raised tightly to her chest, was a woman with terror-filled eyes.

Not giving the man time to respond, Gabriele stepped behind him and struck him in the neck, aiming for the spot that would bring instant unconsciousness. He aimed correctly. The man collapsed immediately, Gabriele only just catching him at the waist before he could fall in a thump to the floor and alert the men waiting below.

Laying him down carefully, he checked his pulse.

Satisfied he hadn’t killed him, he unzipped the waterproof pouch and pulled out his penknife.

The woman’s eyes widened further and she pulled her legs even closer to her chest, whimpers coming from behind the gag.

He crouched beside her.

‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said quietly, speaking in English. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’

She whimpered some more but managed to nod.

There was something familiar about her...

‘I need you to trust me. I am not with those men,’ he said. ‘If they hear you scream they will come up here and probably kill us both. I’m going to untie you and remove your gag and we’re going to escape but I need your word you won’t scream. Do I have your word?’

Another nod. The whimpering had stopped, the terror in her clear green eyes lessening a fraction. Now her eyes searched his, the familiarity he felt clearly reciprocated.

‘We’re going to escape,’ he repeated. He sat on the side of the bed and lifted her head, enabling him to untie the cloth that had been wrapped around her mouth. As soon as it was freed, he placed a finger to her lips. ‘We don’t have much time,’ he warned. ‘We’re going to have to escape through a window unless you know a way out that doesn’t involve going downstairs?’

She jerked her head to an interconnecting door behind her. ‘The dressing room is above a roof. We can slip out through the window in there.’ Her husky voice was croaky. He guessed the scream she’d given had damaged her vocal cords. He could only hope she hadn’t suffered damage of any other kind.

He admired the fact that through the abject terror she’d just experienced, she’d still had the foresight to plan an escape route in her head.

He thought of Paul, the captain of his yacht, who would soon be on the lookout for his return.

‘Give me one moment,’ he said, pulling his phone out of his pouch and pressing the emergency button that would connect him.

‘Paul, I need the jet ski to be brought to the north harbour immediately.’ It was one of the many contingency plans they had spent two days running through. Gabriele attempting one of these contingency plans with a woman in tow hadn’t been in any of the blueprints.

His call done with, he sliced his penknife through the ropes binding the woman and quickly pulled the lengths away from her. Dark red welts encircled her wrists where the man had cruelly tied the rope so it bit into her tender flesh.

A groan came from the floor.

Gabriele ignored the urge to throw himself on the prostrate man and kick him in the ribs. Avenging this woman might give fleeting satisfaction but they could not afford to waste a single moment.

‘Can you walk?’ he asked, wrapping an arm around her waist and helping her sit up.

The woman was tiny. With white-blonde hair tied in a messy ponytail and those large green eyes, she reminded him of a porcelain doll. Breakable.

She nodded, but allowed him to help her to her feet. He wrinkled his nose. She smelt like a...bonfire? Studying her in more depth, he revised his porcelain doll opinion and altered it to grubby urchin.

Suddenly it came to him why she looked so familiar.

He recalled a small, doll-like girl from his youth, who had dressed like a boy and been able to climb a tree faster than anyone and then shimmy back down it as if a twenty-foot drop was nothing to worry about.

This was Ignazio’s only daughter, Elena.

He was putting his life at risk for his enemy’s daughter?

This woman was his enemy every bit as much as her father was. When Gabriele brought Ignazio’s downfall he had every intention of bringing his entire family down with him.

The man on the floor’s groans were becoming louder. Elena was eying him with a look that suggested she very much wanted to kick him in the ribs too.

‘We need to leave now.’ Gabriele grabbed her hand, having the presence of mind to avoid her wrists, and tugged her away and through to the dressing room she’d spoken of.

Whatever his personal feelings towards her and her family, and his plan to destroy them all, his destruction did not include allowing a vulnerable woman to be at the mercy of four armed men, one of whom he’d heard with his own ears wanted to hurt her.

He might hate Elena’s family but he still wouldn’t abandon her to such a fate.

He pulled the sash window up and looked out. As she’d said, a sloping roof ran under it.

Gabriele heaved himself out, dropping a couple of feet onto the roof.

‘Come,’ he said, righting himself when he was certain the roof was stable enough to hold his weight without crumbling beneath him.

Elena was already hoisting herself over the ledge. He put his hands to her tiny waist and helped her out, holding her tightly until he was sure she was secure on the roof. Apart from her bare feet, she was dressed in the perfect attire for escape, in long black shorts and a baggy khaki T-shirt.

Without exchanging a word, they both shimmied down to the edge of the roof.

‘Rescue is coming from the north beach,’ he said as he tried to get his bearings as to where they were, exactly, in conjunction with said beach. ‘We need to run to the right.’

She nodded, grim determination on her face, and then expertly swung over the edge so she was holding onto the rim of the roof with her fingers.

Being much larger, it took Gabriele a little longer to drop down. Before he could let go, she’d released her hold and fallen onto the wraparound veranda. Immediately she was back on her feet and jumping over the wooden rail and running to safety...except she was running to the left of the beach and not the right as they’d agreed.

He let go. He landed heavily but ignored the pain that shot up his leg and set off after her, calling as loudly as he dared, ‘You’re going the wrong way.’

She didn’t look back. The band holding her hair back had come out, her long, straight white-blonde hair billowing behind her.

* * *

Run, Elena, run.

In her mind’s eye she pictured the tree house her father’s staff had built for her and her brothers when they’d been children. If she could only reach it undetected, she would be safe.

But no matter how quickly she ran along the beach, she could hear him gaining on her.

Gabriele Mantegna. A man she vaguely remembered from her childhood. A man who scared her as much as the armed men in her family’s holiday home.

This was the man who had spent two years in an American federal prison and tried to implicate her father in his criminality.

In the distance ahead was the pathway that led into the forest and to her sanctuary.

She pushed on even harder but still he gained ground. His breaths were heavy behind her.

She wasn’t going to make it.

A burst of fury rent through her, overriding her fear. She would not allow herself to be captured by this man.

Coming to an abrupt halt, she turned on the spot and charged, propelling her entire body at him. It was like charging at a brick wall.

But her ruse worked. Taken by surprise, Gabriele stumbled back onto the sand. Unfortunately he wasn’t so off guard that he didn’t immediately hook his foot around her ankle, sending her tumbling on top of him. Within seconds he had gained the upper hand, twisting her onto her back and pinioning her beneath him.

‘Are you trying to get yourself killed?’ he demanded, his angry breath hot on her face.

Bucking beneath him, she tried everything she could to throw him off but she was too tightly caught.

Gabriele swore and, panther-like, sprang back to his feet. There was no way for her to escape again for he unceremoniously pulled her up, hooked an arm around her waist, and slung her over his shoulder.

No sooner had he started running than shouts echoed from the house.

Terror as she had never experienced, not even when she’d unexpectedly stumbled upon the gang, careered through her.

Yet, even with the indignity of being carried like a naughty child and the pain in her stomach as it jostled against his shoulder, when the first gun shots rang out she squeezed her eyes shut and thanked God for Gabriele’s strength, and prayed for the shots to fire wide.

She had no idea how long he ran with her thrown over his shoulder. It could have been one minute, it could have been an hour. All she knew was that the men were chasing and firing at them.

And then he was no longer running with her on the sand but wading through the sea. An engine ran close by. She hardly had time to register that a jet ski had appeared from nowhere before Gabriele had climbed onto it and shouted, ‘Go!’

Whoever was driving didn’t need telling twice. The jet ski shot off over the still waters.

Somehow Gabriele manipulated her body so she was no longer draped over his shoulder but secured on his lap, sandwiched between him and the man riding the jet ski.

Within minutes they approached an enormous yacht. To Elena’s amazement, they steered straight into an opened hatch on the side and parked, exactly as if they were parking a car in a garage.

Gabriele and the man who’d ridden the jet ski helped her off.

‘Are you all right?’ Gabriele asked, looking at her closely.

She opened her mouth to retort defiantly that of course she was all right when the magnitude of everything she’d gone through that evening and the exhaustion that had brought her to Nutmeg Island hit her.

A hot fog formed in her brain, perspiration breaking out all over, her hands suddenly clammy.

And then it all went black.