Where the h.e.l.l is Amadeo, dammit? He's almost two hours late. He promised he'd come home early tonight. We're dining at the gargoyle's house.

Sant'Angelo? Bernardo knew her well.

Who else? Anyway where is he?

I don't know. I thought he was with you. The words escaped him too quickly as his brow furrowed into a frown.

What? Isn't he there? For the first time Isabella was frightened. Maybe something really had happened to him with the car.

But Bernardo was quick to answer, and there was nothing unusual in his even tone. He's probably here somewhere. I've been slaving over that d.a.m.n soap you don't like. I haven't been in his office since noon.

Well, go find him and tell him to call home. I want to know if I should meet him at the office or if he still wants to come here to dress. The old b.i.t.c.h will probably kill us. Now we'll never make it to dinner on time.

I'll go check.

Thanks. And, Bernardo? You don't think something's wrong?

Of course not. I'll find him for you in a minute. Without saying more, he hung up. Isabella stared uneasily down at the phone.

Her words rang in Bernardo's ears ' something wrong. Something wrong. That was precisely what he did think. He'd been trying to find Amadeo himself all afternoon to discuss a new possibility with that b.l.o.o.d.y soap. They would need more money for testing, quite a lot of it, and he had wanted Amadeo's okay. But Amadeo had been out. All day. Since lunchtime. Bernardo had consoled himself with the thought that Isabella and Amadeo had probably disappeared for an afternoon rendezvous. They did it often, as only he knew. But if Amadeo wasn't with her, then where was he? By himself? With someone else? With another woman? Bernardo cast aside that thought. Amadeo didn't cheat on Isabella. He never had. But where was he then? And where had he been since noon?

Bernardo began to comb the offices, prowling all four floors. All he could discover was a young, trembling secretary, still pounding away at the typewriter on her desk, who explained that two men had come to see Amadeo to explain that they had accidentally smashed up his car. Signore San Gregorio had left then, she explained. Bernardo felt himself turn gray as he hurried out to the street and slipped nervously into his car. As he shoved the Fiat into gear and pulled away he saw the Ferrari where he had seen it since that morning, in its parking s.p.a.ce at the curb. He slowed for a moment as he drove past it. There was no damage. It hadn't been touched. His heart began to race. He drove much too quickly toward Isabella and Amadeo's home.

True to his word, Bernardo had obviously found him. Isabella grinned to herself as she hurried across the living room to return to her boudoir to answer the phone. Idiot, he had probably forgotten the Principessa and her dinner, as well as the time. She'd give him h.e.l.l. But without much conviction. She was roughly as capable of giving Amadeo h.e.l.l as she was of forbidding Alessandro his chocolate cookies. The vision of his chubby, crumb-covered smile came to mind again as she picked up the phone.

Well, well, darling. A little bit late coming home tonight, aren't you? And what the h.e.l.l are we going to do about the principessa? She was already smiling, spoke before waiting for his first word. She knew it would be Amadeo.

But it wasn't. It was a strange man.

p.r.o.nto, signora. I don't know what you are going to do about the principessa. The question is what are we going to do about your husband?

What? Christ. A crank call. Just what she needed. And briefly she felt like an a.s.s. A secret admirer perhaps? Despite their unlisted phone number, now and then some stranger called. I'm sorry. I think you have the wrong number. She was about to hang up when she heard the voice again. This time it sounded more harsh.

Wait! Signora di San Gregorio, I believe your husband is missing. Isn't that right?

Of course not. Her heart was racing. Who was this man?

He's late. Is that right?

Who is this?

Never mind that. We have your husband. Here' . There was a sharp grunt, as though someone had been pushed or struck, and then Amadeo was on the line.

Darling, don't panic. But his voice sounded tired, weak.

What is this? Some kind of joke?

It's not a joke. Not at all.

Where are you? She could barely speak as panic gripped her. Bernardo had been right.

I don't know. It doesn't matter. Just keep your head. And know' . There was an endlessly painful pause. Isabella's whole body began to shake violently as she clutched the phone.' know that I love you.

They must have pulled the phone away from him then; the strange man's voice returned. Satisfied? We have him. Now do you want him back?

Who are you? Are you mad?

No. Only greedy. There was a cacophony of laughter as Isabella desperately tried to steady her grip on the phone. We want ten million dollars. If you want him back.

You're crazy. We don't have that kind of money. n.o.body does.

Some people do. You do. Your business does. Get it. You have the whole weekend to figure it out while we baby-sit for your husband.

I can't' for G.o.d's sake' listen' please' . But he had already hung up, and Isabella stood wracked by sobs in her boudoir. Amadeo! They had Amadeo! Oh, G.o.d, they were mad!

She didn't even hear the doorbell ring, or the maid run to answer it, or Bernardo's rapid footsteps as he ran toward her sobs.

What is it? He looked at her in horror from the doorway as she stood convulsed by what she had just heard. Isabella, tell me, what? Was he hurt? Was he dead?

For a moment she couldn't speak and then, uncomprehending, she stared at him as tears poured down her face. Her voice was a pathetic croak when she spoke to Bernardo at last. He's been kidnapped.

Oh, my G.o.d.

Chapter THREE.

An hour later Isabella was still sitting in her boudoir, ashen and shaking, clutching Bernardo's hand when they got the second call.

By the way, we forgot to tell you, signora. Don't call the cops. If you do, we'll know. And we'll kill him. And if you don't come up with the money, we'll kill him too.

But you can't. There's no way Never mind that. Just stay away from the cops. They'll freeze your money as soon as the banks open, and then neither he nor you will be worth a d.a.m.n. They had hung up again, but this time Bernardo had listened too.

She was crying again after the call.

Isabella, we should have called the police an hour ago.

I told you not to, dammit. The man is right. The police will watch us all weekend and then on Monday they'll freeze everything we've got so we can't pay the ransom.

You can't anyway. It would take a year to free up that kind of money. And the only one who could do it anyway is Amadeo. You know that.

I don't give a d.a.m.n. We'll get it. We have to.

We can't. We have to call the police. There's no other way. If they do want that kind of money, you don't have it to give them, Isabella. You can't risk making them angry. You have to find them first. Bernardo looked almost as pale as Isabella as he ran a desperate hand through his hair.

But what if they find out? The man said They won't. We have to trust someone. For G.o.d's sake, we can't trust them.

But maybe they'll give us time to raise the money. People will help us. We could make some calls to the States.

Screw the States. We can't do that. You can't give them time. What about Amadeo while you try to come up with the money? What are they doing to him?

Oh, G.o.d, Bernardo! I can't think' . Her voice disappeared into a pale, childlike whine as Bernardo took her into his own trembling arms.

Please, let me call. It was only a whisper. And her answer was only a nod. But the police were there in fifteen minutes. At the back door, wearing old clothes, looking like friends of the servants, with old frayed peasants' hats in their hands. At least they had made the effort to conceal who they were, Isabella thought, as Bernardo ushered them inside. Maybe Bernardo was right after all.

Signora di San Gregorio? The policeman recognized her immediately. Isabella was looking frozen and regal as she sat glued to her chair still in the emeralds and the green satin gown.

Yes. It was barely audible. Tears once again drowned her dark eyes, and Bernardo took a tight grip on her hand.

We are sorry. We know you are in much pain. But we must know everything. How, when, who last saw him, have there been earlier threats, is there anyone in your business or your household whom you have reason to suspect? No one must be spared. No kindness, no courtesy, no loyalty to old friends. Your husband's life is at stake. You must help us. They looked suspiciously at Bernardo, who met their gaze evenly. It was Isabella who explained that Bernardo had insisted on calling the police.

But they said ' they said that if we called ' that ' She couldn't go on.

We know.

They made endless inquiries of Bernardo and sat patiently with Isabella during two hours of unbearably painful interrogation. By midnight it was over. They knew all that there was to be told. Bitter firings in the business, intrigues and rivalries, forgotten enemies and grudge-bearing friends.

And they've said nothing about when they want the money or where or how? Isabella shook her head miserably. It is my suspicion that they are amateurs. Lucky ones perhaps, but nonetheless, they are not professionals. Their second call, to remind you not to call the police, shows that. Professionals would have told you that immediately, the somber senior officer said.

I knew it myself. That was why I didn't let Signore Franco call you.

You were wise to change your mind. The officer in charge spoke again, soothingly and with great compa.s.sion. He was the kidnap specialist on the Roman force. And regrettably, he had had a great deal too much experience in recent years.

Will it help us if they're amateurs? Isabella gazed at him hopefully, praying that he would quickly say yes.

Perhaps. These matters are very delicate. And we will handle it accordingly. Trust us, signora. I promise you. And then he remembered something he himself had forgotten. You were going somewhere this evening? He glanced again at the jewels and the dress.

She nodded dumbly. We were going to a a dinner ' a party' . Oh, what does it matter now?

Everything matters. Whose party?

For a moment Isabella almost smiled. The Principessa di Sant'Angelo. Will you make inquiries of her too? Oh, G.o.d, the poor gargoyle.

Only if it becomes necessary. The inspector knew that name. The most formidable dowager in Rome. But for the moment it will be wisest if you tell no one yourself. Do not go out, do not tell friends. Tell people that you are ill. But answer the phone yourself. The kidnappers may not be willing to speak to anyone else. We want to know the rest of their demands as quickly as possible. You have a little boy? She nodded mutely. He stays at home too. And the entire house will be ringed by guards. Discreetly, but definitely.

Do I keep the servants at home too?

No. He gave a firm shake of the head. Tell them nothing. And perhaps one of them will give himself away. Let them out as usual. We will follow all of them.

You think it may be one of them? Isabella looked ashen but hopeful. She didn't care who it was, just so they found Amadeo in time, before those lunatics did something to him, before they ' she couldn't think of the words. She didn't want to. It couldn't happen. Not to Amadeo. Not to them. Tears began to fill her eyes again, and the inspector turned away.

We will just have to see. And for you, I regret, it will be a very difficult time.

What about money? But as soon as she had said it, she regretted the words. The inspector's face went suddenly hard. What about it?

Do we ' shall we All of your accounts and those of your business will be frozen on Monday morning. We will notify your bank just before they open.

Oh, my G.o.d. For a moment she looked at Bernardo in terror, and then in fury at him and the cop. How do you expect us to run our business?

On credit. For a while. His face looked frozen as well. I'm sure that the House of San Gregorio will not have trouble doing that.

Then what you are sure of, Inspector, and what I am sure of are two different things. She stood up quickly, her eyes ablaze with their own angry light. She didn't give a d.a.m.n about money for the business. She wanted to know that she could get her hands on it if she had to, for Amadeo, if the cops' ideas turned out not to work. d.a.m.n them, d.a.m.n Bernardo, d.a.m.n. '

We'll let you get some sleep. For the first time in her life, she wanted to shout out loud at him f.u.c.k you but she didn't. She only clenched her teeth and her hands, and in a moment they were gone and she was alone with Bernardo in the room.

You see, d.a.m.n you! You see! I told you they'd do that. Now what the h.e.l.l are we going to do?

Wait. Let them do their job. Pray.

Don't you understand? They have Amadeo. If we don't come up with ten million dollars, they'll kill him! Haven't you gotten that into your head? For a fraction of an instant she thought she was going to slap him, but the look on his face said that she already had.

She raged, she stormed, she cried. And he slept in the guest room that night. But there was nothing either of them could do. Not on a weekend, and not with the accounts frozen, and probably not without.

She never went to bed that night. She sat, she waited, she cried, she dreamed. She wanted to break everything in the villa, wanted to wrap it all up and offer it as gifts ' anything ' anything ' just send him home ' please' .

They had to wait another twenty-four hours for the next call. And it was more of the same. Ten million dollars. By Tuesday, and it was now Sat.u.r.day night. She tried to reason with them, that it was the weekend, that it was impossible to get money together when the banks and offices and even their business was closed. They didn't give a d.a.m.n. Tuesday. They figured that gave her plenty of time. They would tell her the location later. And this time they didn't let Amadeo come to the phone.

How do I know he's still alive?

You don't. But he is. And he will be until you screw up. As long as you don't call the cops and you come up with the money, he'll be fine. We'll call you. Ciao, signora. Oh, Jesus ' what now?

She looked like a ghost by Sunday morning, her eyes darkly ringed, her face deathly pale. Bernardo came and went, attempting to keep up a semblance of normalcy, and making references to hearing from Amadeo on his trip. It was easy to believe the story that she was sick. She looked it. But none of the servants gave anything away. No one seemed to know the truth. And the police had found out nothing. By Sunday night Isabella felt sure she would go mad.

I can't, Bernardo, I can't anymore. They're not doing anything. There has to be another way.

How? Apparently even my personal account will be frozen. I'm going to have to borrow a hundred dollars from my mother tomorrow. The police tell me I can't even cash a check at my bank.

They're going to freeze you too? He nodded silently. d.a.m.n.

But there was one thing they wouldn't have frozen by Monday. One thing they couldn't touch. She lay awake in her bedroom all Sunday night, counting, figuring, guessing, and in the morning she went to the safe. Not ten million but maybe one. Or even two. She took the long green velvet boxes in which she kept her jewelry to her room, locked the door, and spread everything out on her bed. The emeralds, the new ten-carat ring from Amadeo, a ruby necklace she detested for its garishness, her pearls, the sapphire engagement ring Amadeo had given her ten and a half years before, her mother's diamond bracelet, her grandmother's pearls. She made a careful inventory and quietly folded the list. Then she emptied the contents of all the boxes into one large Gucci scarf and stuffed the heavy bundle into a big old brown leather bag. It would almost pull her shoulder off when she wore it, but she didn't give a d.a.m.n. To h.e.l.l with the police and their eternal watching and checking and waiting to see. The one man she knew she could trust was Alfredo Paccioli. Her family and Amadeo's had done business with him for years. He bought and sold jewelry for princes and kings, statesmen and widows, and all the great and near-great of Rome. He had always been her friend.

Isabella dressed silently, pulling on brown slacks and an old cashmere sweater; she reached for her mink jacket but then cast it aside. She put on an old suede one, and on her head she wore a scarf. She barely looked like Isabella di San Gregorio. She sat quietly for a moment, thinking, wondering how to get there in spite of the guards. And then she realized that it didn't matter. She didn't have to hide from them. All she had to get was the money. And it was important that no one recognize her once she was inside. She buzzed Enzo in his apartment over the garage and told him that she wanted him at the back door in ten minutes. She wanted to take a little ride.

He was waiting with the car in ten minutes as she had requested, and stealthily she crept from the house. She didn't want Alessandro to see her, didn't want to answer the questions in his eyes. She had told him for the past four days that she was sick and didn't want to give him her germs so he had to keep busy and play with Mamma Teresa, his nurse, in his room or outside. Papa was on a trip; the school had called, and everyone was having a vacation. Thank G.o.d, he was only five. But she succeeded in avoiding him once again on her way out and was suddenly grateful for Maria Teresa's busy routine for the child. She couldn't have dealt with him just then, couldn't have faced him without holding him too tight and bursting out in a fierce, frightened cry.

Va meglio, signora? Enzo gazed at her thoughtfully in the rearview mirror as they pulled away, and she only nodded tersely as her unmarked police escort discreetly pulled away from the curb.

Si. She gave him the address of the shop next to Paccioli's, not very far from her own house of couture, and decided that she didn't give a d.a.m.n if Enzo knew why she was going there. If he was one of the conspirators, then let him know that she was doing her best. The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. There was no one left she could trust. Not now. And not ever again. And Bernardo, d.a.m.n him, how could he have been so right? She fought back tears again as they drove to the address. The ride took less than fifteen minutes, and she made a quick business of stopping briefly in two boutiques and then disappearing quickly inside Paccioli's. Like the House of San Gregorio, it was a discreet facade, in this case marked only by the address. She stepped into the silent beige womb and spoke to a young woman at a large Louis XV desk.

I want to see Signore Paccioli. Even in a scarf and no makeup, it was difficult to divest herself of her tone of command. But the young woman was unimpressed.

I'm terribly sorry, but Mister Paccioli is in a meeting. Clients are here from New York. She looked up as though expecting Isabella to understand. But she had missed her mark. And the anonymous brown leather bag on Isabella's shoulder was cutting into her skin.

I don't care. Tell him it's ' Isabella.