Whoever “Maria” is, she’s going to have to go.
Now that he was up close, Kat found herself tongue-tied for the first time in her life. She settled for smiling at him. God, he was handsome. No. That was the wrong word. He wasn’t ruggedly handsome. He was beautiful. No wonder this Maria was chasing him.
“You’ve hurt your hand!” he exclaimed.
There was indeed a thin trickle of blood running down her hand and onto her cuff. Kat looked at it and looked away. She really didn’t like blood. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said hastily.
“Here.” He held out a tentative hand. “Let me see to it. . . . Signorina. I’m hoping to be a doctor one day.”
“It’s fine. Really.”
He smiled. “I won’t hurt you. I promise.”
God in heaven, he could cut the hand right off if he wanted to. Well, if he wanted her as a practice patient she could have lots of injuries. Lots. If he wanted to lie her down on the duckboards—
Her mind shied away from that line of thought. She held out the hand.
He was gentle and surprisingly professional about it. “Just a scratch, I think. If you would just come over there to the light I could clean it and bandage it quickly.”
“Thank you,” she said, wishing he hadn’t let go of her hand. “And I think we’d better tie up because we’re drifting.”
Two minutes later, the hand was neatly and professionally bandaged; the ragged scratch cleaned out. “There. Good as new within two days.”
“And how do I find the doctor if it needs further attention?” She did her best to make the question sound casual.
“Oh. Well, I spend quite a lot of time over at Zianetti’s near the Accademia.”
So all this time hanging around Giaccomo’s and even venturing into Barducci’s had been vain endeavor! “Well . . . I’ll find you there.” If have to invent an injury. “What’s your name?”
“Marco. Ah, Felluci.” He bit his lip; then: “Well, I’d like to ask you to have a glass of wine with me, but I’ve got to wait for someone for Benito. Then we’ve got to go back to looking for Maria.”
That explained it. He worked with Benito! What could be more natural than the scamp would send his friend off to see what she wanted. And what a friend to choose! But if this “Maria” was a girlfriend, then she—Kat Montescue—was going to do her best to make sure she stayed lost. “And this ‘Benito,’ did he tell you who you were to wait for?” she asked, managing to keep a straight face.
Marco shook his head. “Someone called ‘Kat.’ He’s been avoiding her because she’s trouble, but with Maria gone missing . . .”
It was Kat’s turn to bite her lip. “Trouble,” was she? Well, there was some justification to that that description. She’d partly orchestrated it herself, and, well, she did have dangerous associates. The story Benito brought back couldn’t have enhanced a saint’s reputation, she’d bet.
Then the humor of it all got through to her.
* * *
She has the most delicious laughter in the whole world, thought Marco. I could listen to it forever, even though I don’t see what is so funny.
Finally she stopped laughing. “Sorry . . . I’m Kat.” And she started laughing again.
Marco found himself drowning both in her laughter and his own embarrassment. And yet, as bad as that embarrassment was, it was all right: He’d finally got to meet her. He’d kill Benito! Either Benito had known and had been keeping his brother from another entanglement—for which he couldn’t really be blamed, after the last time.
No. Benito must not have worked out that Marco’s “dream girl” and Benito’s “trouble” were one and the same. But at least he’d found her. Now if he could keep from putting his foot in his mouth while he talked to her. Maybe he could even find out where she lived. She was everything Angelina was not. While he’d worshipped the ground Angelina walked on, and dreamed one day of kissing her hand . . . this girl made him want to fold her in his arms and . . . well, better stop these thoughts dead right there . . .