Chris began opening the designer purses, grinning as she found a neatly folded scarf inside each one. All of the scarves were in the signorina's favorite colors of white, gold, yellow, and orange and complimented one another.
She shook out each one, studying the dimensions. The thirteen scarves she had found were all made of thin, almost transparent silk, but they were long and wide—almost twice as large as the ones Chris liked to wear.
Chris's mother had often let her play dress-up with all the scarves she had collected over the years. One scarf did not a dress make, but thirteen of them…
Slowly a smile stretched her mouth. "I think I just won immunity from the next challenge."
Chris gathered them together and went over to the full-length mirror. She knotted two of the white scarves together behind her neck, drew the ends over her shoulders, and crossed them over her breasts to fashion a halter top. She used eight more to wrap and tie in alternating layers around her hips, beginning with the darkest colors and ending with the lightest, most transparent scarf.
The two smallest scarves she wound around her feet, and crisscrossed and tied the ends around her ankles like toe-shoe ribbons. She studied the results in the bathroom mirror; the outfit looked young, daring, and distinctly designer.
The other purses also yielded a makeup kit, mini spray bottles of Italian perfume, some gold earrings, necklaces, and bracelets, and a nice pile of currency.
Chris put on enough makeup and jewelry to make her look as chic as her impromptu ensemble and then went to deal with the security system.
The signorina had a relatively uncomplicated alarm system with electromagnetic sensors, the sort that would be triggered by anyone opening the door or windows. This might have defeated Chris but for two bits of luck. Due to the age of the building, the technician who had installed it had gotten creative with the wiring, running it in nooks and crannies around the door and windows to avoid drilling into the apartment's old masonry and plasterwork. That gave her easy access to what ordinarily might not be exposed.
Chris also had the advantage of having spent years studying different techniques used by burglars and thieves to bypass the exact same type of security system, used extensively in Europe by churches and modest-size museums. Because brownouts were common in most cities, she knew the system had a thirty-second signal delay programmed into it to allow for temporary power disruption.
Half a minute was all she needed to bypass the circuit.
She retrieved a sharp paring knife from the kitchen, some metal hair clips from the bathroom, and went to work. It took her ten minutes to strip the wiring she needed from two lamp cords and jury-rig a bypass circuit for the door. She then found the signorina's breaker box and killed the power to the front rooms, running to hook up the circuit before running back and switching the breakers back on.
She tested the results. Her bypass allowed her to open the door and close it without tripping the alarm.
Chris went to retrieve one of the signorina's purses, put two sharp, thin fillet knives from the kitchen inside it, and walked out into the hall. On the stairs she had to pass two tenants as she made her way down, but other than a sniff from the older woman and a grinning lecherous stare from her husband, they didn't speak to her or try to stop her.
Chris didn't see any taxis, but she remembered several that had been parked in front of a busy hotel that she and Robin had passed on their drive through the city from the airport. She walked three blocks down to it, but had to stop halfway to remove the scarves wrapping her feet, as they began to fray and come apart. Barefoot now, she adjusted the folds of silk over her breasts, exposing a little more cleavage before she walked up to the hotel entrance.
The porters, busy unloading suitcases from three different taxis, ignored her. That allowed her to pick up a man's trench coat that had been tossed on top of the suitcases on one of the carts before she climbed into the back of an unoccupied cab.
"Do you speak English?" Chris asked the driver. When he nodded, she said, "Take me to the American embassy, please."
Chapter Fourteen
At a public mooring in Venice, Robin docked the boat he had appropriated a short distance from the home of Pietro and Lucia Mariana, and went below to put on the garments he had borrowed from the costume shop. The brown suede tunic and trousers were well made, although he chuckled at the design of the clothing.
Modern mortals had no idea how much they romanticized the dress from his human lifetime. If he had run about Sherwood in such fine clothing he would have been arrested on sight.
From the pier Robin walked to the manor and went around to the back, pausing only to conceal his face behind a half mask of black and brown feathers before mounting the steps to the delivery entrance. The kitchen, filled with caterers and waiters, was such a hive of frantic activity that no one gave him a second look.
The theme of the party was Carnivale, and the Marianas had invited every young, rich Venetian to celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary. A small orchestra played in a balcony above the ballroom, which was decorated in green, gold, and sapphire. Several hundred guests danced, drank, and wandered down the extensive buffet.
The happy couple were holding court at one end of the room, but Robin was more interested in the lone wolves prowling the room.
When Salva had called and told him that Nottingham would be in Venice tonight to bring the manuscript to his buyer, Robin knew she lied, and that the two of them had set a trap for him. He didn't know why the contessa had sold him out to his old enemy, but he imagined it was to secure the manuscript. In one sense it was a relief; he could leave Chris safely in Rome while stealing the manuscript out from under Nottingham's nose. Once he had it, Robin knew the contessa would do whatever he wanted.
Robin picked up a trace of dark, hot licorice in the air, and began tracking it through the room. It led him out of the ball and to a cloakroom, where a dazed, smiling maid was hanging up a man's trench coat.
Nottingham's scent pooled here, indicating that he had recently used l'attrait in this spot for some purpose, but it was another, lighter, mortal fragrance clinging to the coat that made Robin's gut twist.
She couldn't have gotten out. She would have had to walk naked down the streets of Rome. She had no money or means to travel here.
"Did a young lady with red hair give you that coat?" he asked the maid.
"Ah, si, Salome." She nodded and smiled.
"Salome?"
"She wear beautiful dress made out of veils." The maid waved her hand up and down. "All veils."
Somehow Chris had found something to wear and had gotten out of the apartment, left Rome, and followed him to Venice—or someone had dressed her and taken her from it. Robin clenched his hand against the doorjamb, causing the wood to crack and splinter. "Was she with a man with black hair and eyes?"
"No, Signor, she came alone." The maid gave him a dreamy look, her pupils widely dilated. "The lady, she had no mask, but a man gave me a very pretty ruby mask to take to her." She frowned a little. "That man have black hair, black eyes."
Robin turned and ran back to the ballroom.
Chris blessed the fact that the FBI had offices around the world, and that as an undercover agent she needed only a security pass code to use the resources of the branch office at the American embassy. She had been tempted to relate the truth of her situation to the agent in charge and let him and his staff take over, but the end result would be that the contessa would have Hutch killed. Also, she didn't think anyone would believe her story. Instead she settled for identification, money, a pair of shoes, maps, and a car, and drove down to Venice.
Now that Chris had finally found the private home where Robin had been heading, and searched the faces around her, her frustration mounted. How could she find a thief at a party where everyone was wearing masks?
At least he wouldn't recognize her, not wearing a dress made of scarves, and the black stiletto heels she had borrowed from the embassy secretary were two sizes too large, but they made her three inches taller. The elaborate mask the cloakroom attendant had brought to her covered her entire face from chin to hairline, and sparkled with hundreds of tiny faux rubies and garnets. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of the mirrored wall panels and flinched a little. From a distance the mask made her look as if her head were on fire.
Cool fingers skimmed over her shoulder. "May I have this dance, Signorina?" a rasping male voice whispered near her ear.
She turned to face a tall jester dressed in black, white, and silver. For a split second she thought it was Robin, but the hot eyes looking at her through the alabaster mask were black, not amethyst.
"No, thank you." She smelled licorice-flavored liquor and hoped he hadn't drunk enough to become a pest. "I'm looking for a friend I'm supposed to meet here."
"Wait." He took her hand as she turned away. "We could amuse each other until this friend of yours arrives."
Chris knew she'd look out of place if she kept refusing to dance, so she forced a smile. "Maybe we'll run into him out on the dance floor."
"Of that I have no doubt." He put an arm around her waist and guided her out through the whirling couples to the center of the room.
Chris mainly concentrated on not tripping in the loose stilettos, but she became distracted by her partner a few times. He moved as if the music had been composed for him, but at the same time she got the distinct impression that he was no more involved in the dance than she was. He didn't try to grope her, even when their bodies brushed, which also seemed at odds with the way he stared down at her. Then there were his hands. Although he wore black leather gloves, everywhere he touched her Chris felt her skin tighten, and more than once the sensation made her shiver.
"Are you a friend or a relative of our hosts?" she asked him.
"An old acquaintance of the family." As a man nearby laughed, he turned his head toward the sound, pulling at the collar of his costume.
Chris saw a horizontal scar running across his throat and had to hide a wince. He must have had surgery on his throat; that would explain why his voice rasped the way it did.