be such a damned idiot.’
The cold voice was her own. The doors to those strange and exotic chambers in her mind slammed shut, one by one. She released her breasts and turned the cold tap on full. The stinging, icy needles brought her to her senses swiftly.
This wouldn’t do at all.
Oh, no.
It hadn’t happened. Not to her. That was some other woman out on that rock today. A siren lady who had nothing to do with her. Not Isobel Roche, the youngest PhD in the Berger Foundation, the Ice Princess of Archaeology.
Which reminded her that it was coming up for lunch-time in New York, and she was due to report back to her boss, Barbara Bristow, today. She gathered her notes of progress to report, information to impart and questions to ask, and, wrapped in a towel, made the call from her bedside phone.
Professor Barbara Bristow, a rather formidable woman in her seventies, had been one of the people chiefly responsible for Isobel’s prestigious appointment at the Berger. She was the foundation’s current Director. Her lifelong friendship with Isobel’s father, an authority on Roman architecture, had certainly helped, but Isobel also knew that Professor Bristow expected great things of her, and had already entrusted her with several important acquisitions and other missions for the foundation.
The first thing she had to report was the security problem.
‘I’m absolutely fine, Professor,’ she said, in answer to the immediate question. ‘He was scared off when the dive boat arrived. I don’t think he’ll be back—he seemed more of an opportunist, grabbing what he could find, rather than a systematic robber. There were dozens of coins in that pot and he only had one in his hand.’
‘The best one,’ Professor Bristow pointed out sharply. ‘He evidently knew what he was doing, Isobel. And these people can be very dangerous. Don’t tangle with him again. That’s an order!’
‘I understand.’
‘I don’t want to have to go to your father and explain how you’ve had your throat cut by a tomb robber. What did Antonio Zaccaria say?’
‘He’s spoken to the carabinieri and the Coastguard, and they’ve promised to keep an eye on the site. I’m also going to speak to the duke about it—apparently he’s arrived back in the palazzo and we’re going to have a formal supper with him.’
‘Excellent! Please give him my best wishes. It’s some years since we met. He is a wonderful source of information, Isobel. You can learn a lot from the old gentleman.’
‘I’ll be sure to pass on your good wishes, Professor. And I’ll email photos of the coins some time tomorrow.’
‘All right. Keep me posted. And buon appetito!’
Under the languorous eyes of the half-naked ladies in the rococo frames, Isobel dressed carefully for dinner. She wanted to look her best for the Duke of Mandalà. The old man’s health had been frail for years, but he was a major philanthropist, and an important figure to the Berger Foundation through his donations.
She looked at herself in the oval mirror. She had not come to Sicily equipped with a trunk of formal clothing, and this sleeveless amethyst silk top and black skirt were going to have to stand in place of a ruff and pearls. At least, she thought, tilting her head, the top showed off her creamy skin. She had piled her red-gold hair on the top of her head, emphasizing her long neck—Isobel was not a woman who felt obliged to disguise her height in order to pander to fragile male egos—and she was pleased that her bra flattered her breasts under the clingy top. She had never understood women who bought expensive clothes and cheap underwear.
The amethyst silk was shot through with crimson as the light caught it, bringing out the colour of her hair and eyes. She did not favour a lot of make-up—just some baby-pink gloss for her perfect, leaf-shaped mouth, and a touch of blusher on her high cheek-bones so she didn’t look too pale. The shimmering sound of the dinner-gong was rippling through the palazzo. She fastened black pearl drop earrings in her ears, kicked on black sandals and there she was—ready to rock and roll.
Up until now, they had eaten in the ‘small’ dining-room, which was actually a very grand room. None of them had been in the ‘big’ dining-room yet, and Isobel was interested to see just how big it was.
As she joined the others, staring around her, she could not help gasping. The big dining-room was not all that much bigger in sheer size; it was the scale of the furnishings that made it, in every sense, big.
Two enormous candelabra stood at the ends of the table, their dozens of flickering rose candles providing the only lighting. On each of the side walls, a huge Canaletto oil painting showed views of Venice. At the ends of the room were equally imposing studies of naked nymphs frolicking with ditto shepherds and gods that had to be by Rubens. Nobody else could paint women’s bottoms with such voluptuous delight.
There were just the four of them present—the old man had not as yet joined them—and Theo Makarios nudged her, looking upward as he fiddled with his tie. She followed his gaze. The baroque vaulted ceiling was painted with frescoes—naked angels and cherubim, this time, frolicking among clouds. Celestial bosoms and thighs winked naughtily from beneath feathery white wings.
‘I feel positively overdressed,’ she murmured.
The three men were all wearing jackets and ties, and looking very uncomfortable with it. Theo’s choice had been a red-spotted bow-tie, which he had badly mangled. Swiftly, she pulled it loose and tied it properly for him.
‘Thanks,’ he whispered.
David Franks picked up a fork and showed it to her. ‘Think it’s solid?’
It was gold, and looked to be eighteenth-century, like all the cutlery spread out on the snowy tablecloth. ‘No doubt about it,’ she replied. ‘The contents of this room are worth approximately thirty million dollars. Why would they compromise on cheap, gold-plated cutlery?’
Antonio Zaccaria smiled. Isobel stared around the room at the magnificent furniture, the marble statuary, the elaborate dining chairs. The wealth of the Dukes of Mandalà was legendary. So much beauty, so much great art, assembled to please one family. As someone who herself had been raised with money, she knew how the wealthy lived. But this—this was different.
The double doors at the other end of the room opened and the old butler, whom they had learned to call Turi, stepped in.
‘The Duke of Mandalà,’ he announced, in a cracked voice.
They all straightened up from whatever treasure they had been examining and faced the door expectantly.
The man who strolled in, however, was not the patrician figure with a white beard and horn-rimmed glasses, familiar to all of them from photographs.
Not even close.
This was a very tall, very well-built man who looked like a demigod in evening dress, and who could not have been more than thirty-five. His jet-black hair was immaculately cut and his face—surely the most beautiful male face Isobel had ever set eyes on—was clean-shaven and wore a tiger’s smile.
‘Please accept my apologies for my late arrival,’ he greeted them in a deep, husky voice, speaking
