hadn’t finished their meal, so that took Denny by surprise. But she supposed Giovanni had a good reason for not wanting to accept the invitation from this Signor Tomasi, whoever he was.
“Are you certain, Count?” the rough-looking stranger asked. “The signore will be very disappointed.”
“This is the way it must be,” Giovanni answered.
The man’s broad shoulders rose and fell. “I will convey your regrets to the signore.”
“Grazie.”
The man looked at Denny for a second, and she saw the coldness in his gaze. He definitely made her feel uneasy, and that feeling remained even after he had walked off.
“My apologies for that unpleasantness, cara mia,” Giovanni said as he reached across the table and clasped one of her hands in both of his. “I did not expect such an intrusion to take place tonight.”
“Who was that man?” she asked. “Who’s Signor Tomasi?”
As usual, Giovanni waved away a question he didn’t want to answer. “No one important. A business associate.”
That was puzzling. Giovanni had never mentioned business, and he hadn’t shown any signs of working. Since he was a member of the nobility, Denny had assumed he was wealthy and didn’t need a job. From the way he talked, his family owned a great deal of property and was important in Sicily.
“If you need to talk to him, I don’t mind . . .”
A sharp shake of his head caused her voice to trail off. “Please, put the matter out of your mind. I already have.”
“Of course,” Denny said. She smiled.
But she was still puzzled, and she suddenly wondered if this Tomasi might have something to do with the men who had attacked them on the Bridge of Roses. It could be his men who had been following them . . .
Keeping those suspicions to herself for the time being, she took her napkin from her lap and placed it on the table. “You told that man we were about to leave,” she reminded Giovanni. “That’s fine with me.”
“I just said that to get rid of him. We don’t have to cut our meal short—”
“No, really, I don’t mind.”
Giovanni squeezed her hand. “I, too, am anxious to return to my apartment,” he said. “But we should at least finish the wine in our glasses.”
There wasn’t much wine left in the glasses. A couple of swallows took care of it. Then Giovanni held her chair for her and draped her shawl around her shoulders as he helped her up. They left the restaurant and turned toward the nearest canal where they could find a cruising gondola, walking arm in arm with Denny on Giovanni’s left.
They reached some steps leading down to a landing where a couple of torches burned in holders. They walked down the steps, then Giovanni raised his right arm to signal to a passing gondola with a lantern hanging from its high-arching stern. The gondolier moved his pole to the other side of the boat and angled it in their direction.
The gondola hadn’t reached the landing when the gondolier abruptly reversed course. As the boat’s prow swung away, Giovanni called to the man in Italian and sounded angry. The gondolier shook his head and poled the boat farther away.
Denny had gotten a good enough look at the man’s face to know that he had been scared off by something he had seen. That was enough of a warning to make her turn her head and look back over her shoulder.
“Giovanni,” she said quietly as she saw four men standing at the top of the steps.
He cursed under his breath and seemed a little frantic as he glanced around. With the men blocking the steps, there was nowhere for them to go unless they wanted to jump into the canal and swim for it.
“I am sorry, cara mia,” he told her. “I had no wish for you to become involved in my troubles.”
“If they’re your troubles, they’re mine as well,” Denny told him without hesitation. She was a little afraid—under the circumstances, it would have been foolish not to be—but she was more than a little angry as well. She was certain these men intended to harm Giovanni and maybe her as well, but they would learn that Jensens always fought back, no matter what the odds. Some of them might be well aware of that already, if they had been part of the bunch that had jumped them on the Bridge of Roses.
“Count Malatesta,” one of them called as he swaggered down a couple of steps. “Signor Tomasi would like to know if you have reconsidered. It’s not too late to do so.”
Denny recognized the voice of the man who had come to their table in the restaurant. As he came slowly down the steps toward the landing, she saw his face in the torchlight. He had lost his mask of politeness and looked more like an outlaw than ever. The other three men trailed him down the steps. They were more roughly dressed and had the same brutal look about them.
In a tight, angry voice, Giovanni said, “Tell Tomasi that I will deal with him later. Tonight, if he wishes. But first I must escort the young lady back to her hotel.”
“No, the signorina stays. Signor Tomasi has run out of patience. You must settle your accounts with him now.” The man put his hands in his trouser pockets and smirked as he came to a stop on the bottom step, just above the landing. “Perhaps the signore would consider the signorina as part of your arrangement with him.”
Fear welled up even stronger inside Denny at the vile implication of those words, but more anger rapidly replaced it. How dare the man even suggest such a thing? If her father had been here, Smoke Jensen wouldn’t take kindly to his daughter being threatened.
Smoke might not be here, but another Jensen was. Denny’s right hand slipped into the small, stylish bag she had brought with her tonight.
“What will it be, Count?” the man said. “The decision is up to you.”
“Denny, get behind me,” Giovanni said from the corner of his mouth. “I will not allow them to harm you.”
The leader of the Italian hard cases slowly shook his head. “You have no say in this any longer, Malatesta. The signore’s orders are clear. But we will be merciful. We will take the signorina with us, to hold as . . . security, shall we say . . . until you pay what you owe.” The man shrugged. “Of course, you will be in no shape to worry about that for a while. But not to worry. We will keep the signorina occupied.”
He jerked his head, and the other three men stepped around him, obviously ready to rush Giovanni and give him a beating before they carried Denny off to whatever sordid fate they had in mind for her.
Denny pulled the short-barreled, .32 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver from her bag and leveled it at the leader.
“If those men take one more step,” she said, “I’ll put a bullet in your brain.”
She had never shot a man before, had never even pointed a gun at anything except a target or some predator she had helped her father hunt down on the ranch. But no one would ever guess that from the calm, cool, flint-edged voice in which she spoke. This fellow had a lot in common with a wolf or a mountain lion, Denny told herself, and she believed she could pull
