Charade. Kate Donovan
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From: [email protected]
To: Re: fashion designer, Sasha Bracciali
Christine,
That Teal Arnett is in the custody of Kestonia’s new dictator is devastating news. Of course I am willing to help you! Athena Academy, and all that it stands for, means so much to me. For your next rescue mission, I’ve brought in reinforcements. I’ve contacted Allison Gracelyn.
It seems the Kestonian is hosting a gala for the international who’s who, including Mafia contacts from the U.S. Thanks to his mob dealings, Sasha Bracciali’s father may be able to get her in. No worries about her ability to go undercover. Yes, she’s a fashion designer, but she moonlights as an FBI asset. And she’s an Athena alumna. That says it all.
This time, Teal is ours.
D.
Dear Reader,
I recently took my first trip to Europe, mostly to research a time-travel story that takes place in Renaissance Italy, but we also spent five days in Rome as background for future books and because it has always fascinated me. I’ll never forget my first glimpse of the Coliseum. Wow! I still get shivers. It was truly the high point of an amazing two weeks.
And so, when Silhouette Books asked me to write about an Italian-American heroine, my initial response was, Can she go to the Coliseum? Luckily, the answer was yes.
I hope you enjoy the visit as much as Sasha and I did.
Ciao!
Kate
Charade
Kate Donovan
KATE DONOVAN
has been dreaming up romantic adventure stories since childhood. Charade is the seventeenth of those to find its way into print, ranging from spy stories to time travel. In her real-life adventures, she’s a wife, a mom, an attorney and a winner of a Romantic Times BOOK reviews Achievement Award for Series Romantic Adventure.
This book is dedicated to the city of Rome
for being such an amazing inspiration
and for helping me get into Sasha B’s point of view.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Champagne in hand, Sasha Bracciali wandered through a late-afternoon crowd of wedding guests, enjoying the rays of simulated sunshine pouring down from the skylight in the domed ceiling of the Martino family’s ballroom. This magnificent venue had been inspired by the ancient Pantheon, complete with marble floor and ornate columns. And like its predecessor, the room’s circular walls were studded with alcoves that housed huge statues of Roman deities and Italian saints.
Sasha had played here often as a child, especially during wintertime, when don Antonio Martino had allowed his children and their guests to skate and ride bicycles and to in-line skate here, warm and secure, no matter how fiercely the Chicago blizzards raged outdoors. The place still gave her a sense of complete security, even though she now knew all about the dirty business that supported it.
She also knew what don Martino would do to her if he found out she was working as a confidential informant for the feds, so she was careful, as she moved among the beautifully dressed revelers, not to appear too detached or too observant.
Just let the bra-cam do all the work, she reminded herself, strolling over to the wedding cake so that the tiny lens embedded in the lacy bodice of her navy-blue waltz gown could get a clear shot of some nearby musclemen. Clad in black suits, these thugs weren’t making any pretense of enjoying themselves. For them, this was business: protecting the bride, the family and the expensive wedding presents.
“Any sign of him, Camper?” asked a voice from the microreceiver in her ear.
Sasha raised her glass to her lips to hide her reply. “Lots of familiar faces, but so far, no zio Vincenzo.”
“You’re doing great,” the voice assured her. “Even if the Butcher doesn’t show up, we’ve got some valuable footage, thanks to you.”
She bit back a smile, wondering how Special Agent Jeff Crossman always managed to sound so reassuring and appreciative when she was wired, especially since he was so suspicious and critical of her at all other times. As her handler, code name Summit, he had helped her through every one of her official ops so far, while tirelessly working in the background to get her fired.
If he ever used that sweet, sexy voice on you in person, you’d have a vaginal meltdown, she teased herself. Luckily, there’s not much danger of that happening.
She began swaying to the music, acknowledging that the love ballads filling the air were beginning to get to her. Nearby, a father was dancing with his toddler daughter, allowing her to stand on his feet to follow his steps. It stirred vague memories of Sasha’s own father, and she imagined him—the powerful Franco “Big Frankie” Bracciali—behaving in the same indulgent way at weddings past.
It brought to mind one of Big Frankie’s favorite stories, about the first time he took Sasha to Rome. She had been five years old, and when they had walked into the middle of the Pantheon, she had looked around, then announced cheerfully, “The Romans stole this idea from zio Antonio!”
Refocusing on the little girl dancing nearby, Sasha warned her silently, Your dad’s a hero to you now. I envy you that. But I’m also afraid for you, because if he works for don Martino, or any of these other Mafiosos, you’re in for some serious heartache.
“Heads up, Camper. A limo just pulled into the private driveway at the side of the house. Keep an eye out.”
“Copy that, Summit.” Grateful for the interruption, Sasha turned toward the entry hall that led to Antonio Martino’s study just in time to see the bride—Gianna Martino-Barrett—dash through the columned doorways. The poor girl was probably sneaking out for a bathroom break, or even more likely, a quick drag on a cigarette. But there was always the possibility that her exiled uncle—Vincenzo “the Butcher” Martino—had shown up to kiss the bride, despite the multiple outstanding arrest warrants that bore his name.
“Summit? I’m going to check out the rest of the house.”
“Negative, Camper. The party’s in the ballroom. It’ll look suspicious.”
Sasha continued walking toward the hallway, murmuring, “Vincenzo won’t show himself in here. Not with a crowd like this. They’ll meet in Antonio’s study for a quick hug and some tears, then he’ll be gone. This may be our only chance, and I’m taking it.”
There was a moment of silence, and Sasha was sure Jeff had muted the speaker so that he could fire off a couple of expletives about the “spoiled Mafia princess” he was being forced to