"I never forgave Lorenzo for giving Florence to his own wretched son when he knew you would have been a better leader. The Medicis." His mother was still bitter after more than three hundred years. "Dynasty over the public good."

"I even joined the church. Venality, political machinations." He stopped. "I admit you were right about that."

"A miracle, your mother was right." She smiled up at him, her eyes soft. "So does nothing interest you? Not even women?"

He swallowed. "Not... not since I returned from Algiers." Her eyes narrowed and he turned away in order not to have to watch her speculate. She wouldn't stop until she knew the whole. So he might as well just tell her. "I can't believe I'm admitting this to my mother." He took a breath. "The man who made Casanova look constant can't... hold up his end of the bargain. Perhaps it's a sign that I'm ready for Mirso. I'm half an ascetic already."

"No, cara mia. Mirso is the absence of life, though the Elders won't admit it. The war was horrible. But these things pa.s.s. You have had no... stirrings at all?"

"Well, yes. Stirrings. Always stirrings. But that does not consummate the act." He happened to be standing in front of a heavy bench with an ornately carved back, dark with age. He collapsed onto it. "But I'd lost interest in life even before the war.

People, events, places, all took on a dreadful repet.i.tion. I think the war actually gave me purpose, for a while." He closed his eyes. "What a purpose. Killing innocents."

"Innocents! Hardly."

"Some of them. Deluded but not evil."

"Delusions have their own evil." Now it was her turn to rise and pace in front of him, her hands stuffed into her rust-colored wrapper's pockets. It swirled around her delicate form. "There is much in the world to do. What one does doesn't always last.

But the world inches along toward order and goodness. Sometimes it takes three steps back." She sighed. "All you can do is push the world forward as best you can."

Gian wondered what gave her the strength to find purpose. She had her fingers in a dozen pies. She financed building and improvements across Europe. She provided for artists exiled by the church, so their work could continue abroad. It was she who encouraged the treaties with Napoleon and suggested his brother Joseph as the king of Napoli. Now she was looking for a way to oust the Spanish. She was indefatigable.

"You didn't seem so defeated yesterday." She stood, tapping her finger on her chin.

"It was you who started me thinking about my future. Or lack of it."

"Was it I?" Now her foot was tapping too. They both felt the sun go down. Their kind always knew where the sun was. She went to the window, throwing open the shutters. "I think perhaps it was the fact that the girl is leaving."

"Nonsense." There was something else he wanted of her. "Could you escort Miss Sheridan to England in my stead? Elyta might think she still has the stone." His mother did not move. "And she thinks to start life over in an English village. You must convince her not to do it. She would never listen to me. She doesn't understand the provincial mind. She would be dreadfully unhappy there. The local boys would taunt her. People would look away..."

"You told her about the Companion." His mother's voice drifted back into the room.

He shrugged. "She is not unintelligent. She guessed I was vampire. I had to give her some explanation for the traits she observed."

His mother turned into the room. "She knows about the blood?"

"No. Nor about translocation or compulsion. That would only frighten her."

"It is good to have one person who knows. Perhaps you should tell her the whole."

"And have her despise me for a monster? I have considered it carefully."

"In fact, you are preoccupied with this girl." She stared at him without seeing him as she speculated. "I think it is because she does not fawn over you. Indeed, she doesn't seem to even want you. It must be hard for you, who are used to every woman wanting you."

At that he turned, disgusted. "She wants me. I smell her woman's musk." Heightened senses were another gift from the Companion. It was one of the things that had preoccupied him so today. Her wanting him should have made her like all the other women he'd known. It didn't.

"Hmmm." His mother was a silhouette. "Then it shows strength of character in her not to fawn. She will never have anyone make love to her. She knows that."

"Nonsense, Mother. One gets used to her scar. Why, I hardly even see it when I look at her. She's a diamond of the first water, except for that. A man will love her one day." That was good, wasn't it? She deserved love after the indifference she had known in her life.

"You accept her because you were enclosed with her in a carriage for three days and got used to her scar. I doubt that will happen again. Especially in some remote English village."

"You will talk her out of that silly scheme."

"I have no faith in my ability to do so. She seems extremely strong-willed." His mother tapped her finger against her chin. "I would merely like to point out that you do seem to have an interest in life. It is this girl. You should either pursue that interest, or determine she is unimportant so you can move on." She came to stand over him. Now he could see her eyes plainly. "You take the time to find out. I'll bring the stone to Mirso."

He was about to protest when she put her fingers to his lips. "I must away to feed my Companion. Think about it. I will do this for you gladly, cara mia."

In a rush of copper-colored silk, she was gone.

His mother was right. Kate might never have a man make love to her again. That was bad. She deserved a full life. He was certain she wasn't a virgin. In a life like hers, what woman could be? That was good. He found virgins boring. But... but it must have been a long time since she'd made love. She'd been scarred for what, eight years? And her experience might not have been a good one. To the men who took her, she was no doubt just an object to be used.

As she had been all her life. The "nefarious character" used her to steal. The nuns used her as a good deed in the eyes of G.o.d.

Matthew Sheridan used her talents. The people she duped used her as a conduit to their dreams. Had anyone ever valued her for herself? Probably not. And no one had ever cared for her comfort or her pleasure. She deserved more.

He wanted to give her more. And if he made love to her, he might just get her out of his system. His mother was no doubt right about that too. That Kate didn't fawn over him or treat him like an object to be acquired was what enthralled him. If he made love to her and she began to cling, well, then he'd know that she was just like all the other women. He'd be free of this strange obsession and be able to go on with life. He could ask the Elders at Mirso if they had any other tasks for him when he returned the stone. Maybe that wouldn't sound so pointless after he had freed himself of Kate Sheridan.

Could he complete the seduction? He couldn't compel her to have wonderful memories in order to erase his failure as he usually did. He swallowed. Courage, Gian. There were other ways of making love than with an erect c.o.c.k. He'd show her the pleasure of mouth and hands. He'd go gently so she wouldn't be frightened, since he was willing to bet no one had cared enough to pleasure her in that way. Perhaps she would forgive his other failure.

He sniffed the air around himself. If he was going to engage in a seduction, he needed fresh clothes and a bath.

Kate marched into the grand Palazzo Vecchio's carriageway, determined to confront Urbano with his crime of concealment.

What else had he concealed from her besides the fact that he had a very, very long life span? It was his fault entirely that her world was infested with visions, and stones that drove one mad, and people with red eyes who smelled of cinnamon and something else, something sweet.

Footmen pulled open the great, carved door.She had been a perfectly normal person who knew very well that cards didn't tell the future, and that people were out for what they could get, before she met him. And now it looked very like he was going to give her twenty thousand pounds instead of stealing the stone she had stolen, and nothing was normal at all.

She limped up the grand staircase, furious. First, she'd just get off these d.a.m.ned half-boots. A maid appeared at the door to her apartment, took one look at her countenance and went wide-eyed. It was Carina.

"Signorina?" Her voice held a tremor.

Kate felt ashamed. "Oh, please, Carina. Don't mind me. My feet hurt."

The girl looked much relieved. At least she wasn't crying. She seemed positively cheerful. "The pinched feet always make for the foul temper. Let me take them, signorina."

Kate collapsed on the dressing table chair and Carina knelt to unb.u.t.ton the boots. "Joseph! Joseph, a bath," Carina called. "I have the salve, signorina, that will soothe your feet." Taking the offending boots, she pulled open a tiny drawer in the dresser and retrieved a green gla.s.s jar. The bath was poured in no time. Did they keep hot water boiling constantly in the kitchens? Kate was soon soaking in nirvana. Her feet felt slightly less like burning logs the size of those in the fireplace in the grand hall, but she was still fuming inside. She heard Carina moving about in the outer room, brushing and hanging her clothing.

The door to her apartments opened. "Signore!" she heard Carina gasp.

"That will be all," the familiar voice rumbled. "You can go."

"Si, signore."

The outer door closed. Kate went still. She wanted this confrontation, but not when she was in a bath. He would never dare enter. Would he? She sighed in relief. She'd locked the door.

The k.n.o.b turned, stopped... and then clicked open with a snap. She gasped. Had she not locked it after all? She covered her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with her arms and sank into the water.

He strode into the dressing room and looked around at the shelves for shoes, and cupboards of mahogany imported from India to hold a lady's dresses as if he had never seen anything like them. She would wager he had, a thousand times.

All her planned remonstrations seemed to have dissolved in the steam from the bathwater. "Sir, what... what are you thinking?"

was all she could say.

His gaze stopped its fluttering progress about the small room. Lord, but he filled it. His energy flapped at her psyche. His eyes came to rest on her. She flushed. They went liquid, hot and swirling in that sea of green. She had the sense of... secrets, glimpsed and concealed, almost like the emerald. They fascinated and frightened in equal measure, just like the stone.

"I... I came to ask..." He cleared his throat. "Do you plan to leave tomorrow?"

"Yes, if the draft came through today and if the carriage can be arranged."

"I am not sure the draft came through."

"Oh. Perhaps it will come in the morning." She frowned. He was in his shirtsleeves. His cravat had been tied in haste. His hair was wet, and... and now that she noted it, his shirt clung damply to his body, as though he had not fully dried himself after a bath.

She imagined him bathing, naked, the muscles in his back moving, like the statue in the piazza, but living and warm.Oh, dear. She was naked in her own bath. Had she ever felt so vulnerable? "Sir, I beg you to retire. I will attend you in... in a room of your choice when I have dressed."

He seemed to come to himself, "Yes. Yes, of course." But his eyes never left her. And they had a look in them she was not used to seeing. It was the same look the young men who wanted private readings once had displayed-as if she was a chocolate torte. But that was before the scar. How could he look at her like that now? She turned her face full on him, so he could see her scar clearly. He didn't even flinch. The moment stretched. Finally he tore his gaze away and threw open one of the closets. He pulled out a wrapper and flung it over a stool.

"Don't stay to dress. This will suffice. We have important matters to discuss."

He was gone, the door slamming behind him. Important matters? She pushed herself out of the bath and was surprised to find herself shaking as she dripped. Well, she could hardly be blamed. It was not every day one saw a statue of male perfection come to life and enter one's dressing room while one was bathing.

Chapter Ten.

He was still there. Kate peered out from the cracked door of her dressing room. She heard his restless pacing, and felt the energy humming along her spine at a rate even more unnerving than usual. He heard her too and turned, confronting her as though he was a Christian in the Coliseum and she an entire pack of lions. She took a breath. She had taken as long as she could to dry herself and put on the cerulean blue silk wrapper he'd chosen. But one couldn't stay locked in one's dressing room all day.

All her anger at him had disappeared. She should try to find it somehow. It might help the way she felt. And how was that?

Unnerved by his presence. And why? She managed to hold her head up as she emerged. Because she wanted him. just like every other woman in the world. And she hated that. "You make very free with a lady's boudoir." No doubt he had experience with boudoirs.

He looked her up and down. She might be consumed by that gaze. Could she be mistaking what it meant? She must be. She turned her head, just slightly, to conceal her scar but still observe him. She didn't want to let him out of her sight for several reasons.

His gaze rested on her feet. She hadn't been able to bring herself to put on slippers.

"I... I walked too far today." An admission as lame as she was at the moment.

He glanced around and began to roll up his sleeves. "Sit on the bed," he ordered. His voice was hoa.r.s.e and he cleared his throat. He took the green jar from her dressing table.

She should protest. She never took orders. But she didn't. Perhaps she was distracted by his forearms. They were strong- looking, with a light sprinkling of dark hair. She limped over to the huge bedstead and hoisted herself up on it. "You wanted to...

to discuss my plans?"

"Yes. Yes, of course." As though he had forgotten.

"You can have the stone the instant I get my draft."

He was unstoppering the jar and... kneeling in front of her. She blinked, taken aback.

"That... that will be fine." He looked up at her, registered her shock, and... smiled at her. No man should have a smile like that.

Was he laughing at her reaction to him? That would match his arrogance. But the smile didn't say that. She wasn't quite sure what it said, she who was normally so good at reading people. Maybe... rea.s.surance? Hardly. Maybe. But mixed with... she didn't know. Wonder?

Without another word he took up a glob of cream and rubbed his hands with it.

And then he began to rub her foot with both hands. She shut her eyes against the tremor of feeling that went directly from her foot to her loins. He ma.s.saged the cooling cream deeply, daubing extra on the blisters that were forming on the ball of her foot and her heel.

"Better?" That rumble was quintessentially masculine. Her core turned liquid.

She opened her eyes. The muscles moved in his shoulders under his shirt and his forearms. The kneeling position made his thighs bulge. "Uh... Yes," she murmured.

He turned his attention to her other foot.

What was she doing here? She was allowing a man in her boudoir to rub her naked feet with his bare hands. And the man was Gian Vincenzo Urbano. The man who had whatever woman he wanted. The man who knew exactly what effect he had on them.

And he was having that effect on her. He couldn't want her. He must just want to use her because there was no one else to hand.

She shouldn't allow that.

The feel of his strong hands ma.s.saging her feet was making it difficult to think.

Then out of the muddle came a clear voice in her head. Why not? Two can play that game. If you want him, you can have him, right here, right now. He's made that clear. So take what he offers, no matter why he offers it. You'll not get another chance to be bedded by a statue come to life. Or any man at all for that matter.

He'll discard me after he's had his way.

What of it? You'll have at least one night you would never have had otherwise.

She'd had a dozen men before the last acted as if he might offer her carte blanche and an escape into another life. That had induced Matthew to make certain it could never happen and resulted in her scar. Dalliance with them had been mildly pleasurable. The act itself was merely a moment of grunting and sweating. She had never looked forward to it. But now she thought she might want to feel Gian Urbano grunting and sweating between her thighs. Even the thought of it made her shudder.

He looked up at her again. She turned her head slightly, lest the sight of her scar spoil everything. He rose and took her face between his hands and turned her head. He rubbed his hand over the white spiderweb that laced her cheek.

"Nothing I haven't seen before, Kate. It's been a long time since I even noticed it."

She felt the blood rush to her face. He looked so sincere. Oh, he was a devil, this one, a master in the art of making a woman feel she was the only one in the world, cherished, treasured.

It didn't matter. She wanted to bed him, devil or no. For the next hour, she would pretend he meant what he said. She'd manage her heart tomorrow.

The way she turned her head away nearly broke Gian's heart. She had been so hurt. No wonder she put on the carapace and pretended that she didn't care about anyone or anything.

Conflicting emotions churned inside his belly and made his head spin. If she did cling to him after he made love to her, demanding, had he the heart to spurn her? If she didn't, if she didn't care for him at all, and just wanted the use of his body like every other woman he had known, could he bear it?