"He has a house in the hills, but I don't think he's there," the man said.

"He's not. I've already been there. I want you to give him a message from me."

"I don't know where he is."

"You'd better find him then," Evan said purposefully.

"Signore, please, I am not involved in anything."

"You copied the diamond. That means you're involved." Evan made a quick movement, taking the jeweler by surprise as he grabbed him by the neck and pushed him up against the wall. Georgio's eyes bulged in fear. "Tell Marcus if he wants to see his daughter alive, he should meet me tonight at St. Anne's, the bell tower. I'll be waiting."

Georgio gasped as Evan let go of his throat. "What if I can't find him?"

"Then I'll be back here to see you. The thing about people like you, Georgio, who work in the back alleys, who take money from thieves, is that no one cares when you disappear. No one cares if you end up dead."

Georgio swallowed hard. "I will try to locate him."

"You do that." Evan adjusted his coat and walked out of the door with a jaunty smile.

J.T. was eager to find Marcus's house. After leaving the Benedettis', they'd rented a car, picked up a map, and were on their way to the farmhouse where Marcus stayed when he was in town. Now that Christina had dealt with the issues involving her mother, J.T. hoped they could concentrate on finding her father. He had to admit he was proud of how she had handled herself with Vittorio. She had faced down that ruthless old man and not even flinched. Yesterday she had been knocked off her feet, but today she was on fire. He'd never known a woman who could roll with the punches the way Christina did. She had a core of steel underneath that beautiful softness.

Christina consulted the map as he drove out of the city. When they left the busy streets behind, he relaxed and pushed his foot down hard on the gas pedal. Despite his efforts, the car still labored through the foothills. "I think we could walk faster," he grumbled, casting a quick look at Christina.

She simply smiled. "We'll get there. I feel like we're on the right track now."

"It's just not the fast track."

"I know. You've been very patient, letting me come to terms with my mother and the relationship between my father and the Benedettis. I appreciate it more than I can say. At least we know more about the diamond and the curse."

"We just need to find your father, or figure out where he has taken the diamond." J.T. thought about everything they had learned. "According to Maria's story, you're the one who should have the diamond after your mother. Is your father just holding it for you? Stashing it somewhere until enough time has passed?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so. He told me he was worried about the curse affecting me. It's possible that he knows more about the stone now than Maria knew when she heard the story. I'm sure he's researched the diamond all the way back to Catherine de Medici, and perhaps before that. Many large diamonds were originally part of religious and historical pieces such as crosses, swords, and crowns..." She paused. "He must have had a sketch that allowed him to have the diamond copied. There could even be another story we haven't heard yet."

"Great, just what we need, another story," he said dryly.

"A little too much history for you?" she asked, flashing him a smile.

"I'm more interested in the people who are living now than those who have been dead for several hundred years."

"I think you're on the wrong case then."

"No, I'm on the right case," he said, glancing over at her, "because Evan wants the diamond. And I want Evan. That's all that matters to me."

He saw a shadow flit through her eyes and regretted his choice of words.

"I understand," she said.

"Christina-I didn't mean it that way."

"I know what you meant. I know that putting Evan away is the most important thing to you."

"It is important," he conceded, "but-"

"I think we should try to trace the painter and his descendants," she interrupted, changing the subject. "He might provide a clue. And I would like to find out if the fresco he painted with Catherine's picture in it still exists somewhere. Maybe the information will be at my father's house. He couldn't have everything on him. He had to leave his research somewhere, and it wasn't at his house in San Francisco."

"Christina-" J.T. began, still feeling that he needed to say something, but not sure exactly what.

"Let's concentrate on what we need to do next, J.T. Okay? I can't handle anything more personal right now."

He glanced over at her, but she had turned her gaze on the passing scenery and all he could see was her profile. He didn't know why he wasn't happy about the fact that she was giving him an out of what would be a complicated conversation. For some odd reason it disturbed him that she didn't want to talk about it, that he couldn't read what was going on in her head.

"This place is beautiful," Christina murmured, gesturing toward the rolling green hills. "It feels so far away from San Francisco and Barclay's. I wonder what Alexis and Jeremy think now? I wonder if there's a warrant out for my arrest, maybe extradition papers? I don't even know how that works."

"Don't worry about it," J.T. advised. "You didn't steal the diamond, and there's no proof that you did. At worst you could be considered an accomplice, but your father is the main suspect. Once we find him, we'll be able to clear your name."

"But not his," she said, turning back to him. "I don't want to put my father in jail, J.T., and I feel that every step I'm taking is heading right to that end. I hope you'll give me a chance to convince him to give the diamond back to Vittorio."

"Even if he does give it back, he still stole it. That's a crime."

"Well, there has to be a way around it. You can help me think of a way, can't you?" she asked with a plea in her eyes. "You're a smart guy. You know the law."

"Let's find him first; then we'll worry about how to keep him out of jail."

"You're right. I do know down deep that at some point he has to pay for what he's done. I can't go on living as I was, pretending not to see him for who he is, worrying about when he'll show up next, what he's doing, what new trouble might be coming into my life. I'm tired of his secrets and his lies. I can't go back to that, no matter what happens." She paused. "I'm just afraid. It's hard to let go completely. He's all I have."

"It seems to me you're acquiring more family by the minute."

"I don't think I can tell Vittorio's sons," she added, giving him a questioning look. "Can I? Would it be fair to them?"

"I can't answer that, Christina."

"If they don't know about me, if they think their mother was loyal to their father throughout their marriage, what right do I have to take that away from them? It would just hurt them. There's nothing to gain."

"Half brothers; that's what you have to gain," he reminded her. "More family."

"The cost could be huge. They could hate me. They could hate their mother, my father. It could get even messier. I'll have to think about it." She glanced down at the map. "That's the turnoff."

J.T. turned right on to a narrow, roughly paved road that wound through an olive grove and a line of cypress trees, ending in front of an ill-kept two-story stone cottage. The grass needed weeding, and an empty fountain with crumbling masonry stood in the front yard.

Christina was out of the car the second he turned off the engine. He followed her up to the solid front door of the house, appreciating her eagerness, but also wary of what they might find.

"I rang the bell," she said. "It doesn't look like anyone is here. No cars around. I don't see a garage."

She was right. There weren't even any other houses close by. It was quiet on this hillside, save for the song of a few nearby birds. The city of Florence was off to the left. He could see the tops of some of the tallest churches and buildings. In the city there was a hectic, busy atmosphere, but here on this hill it was peaceful. He wondered how long it would last. They certainly hadn't had much quiet the last few days.

"Let's try some windows." He moved systematically around the house, finding one of the back windows unlocked. With a few jolts he managed to push it open. He helped Christina through the opening and then went back to the front of the house. She opened the door for him a moment later.

J.T. walked into the living room, noting the exposed wood beams in the ceiling, the terra-cotta floors, and the large rock fireplace. The furniture was old but appeared comfortable, with big pillows on the sofas and chairs. There were colorful throw rugs on the floor, newspapers on the coffee table, and even a used coffee mug. He picked it up and saw a trace of liquid still in the bottom. "Someone was here not long ago."

"Probably Dad." Christina paused in front of some photographs on top of the mantel. "These are my grandparents and my father when he was a child. They died before I was born, long before my dad met Isabella. And this must be my great-grandfather," she added, pointing to a photo of a dark-haired man with a pencil-thin mustache. "There's so much of my family history in this house. I guess I know now why my father never brought me here. It was too close to the Benedettis'."

"And he didn't want you to find this." J.T. picked up a framed photograph on a side table. He held it against his chest, not sure Christina was ready for it.

"It's them, isn't it?" she asked. "Together."

He nodded and slowly turned the picture around.

She stepped closer. Her hand shook as she took the picture from him. She stared down at the photo of her mother and father, arms around each other, smiling for the camera. She wondered who had taken the shot. It would mean that someone else had known about them-probably Maria. "They look happy," she murmured, blinking back tears.

J.T. smiled and shook his head. "The romantic in you is back. What happened to the girl who was all fired up about her mother being an adulteress and her father a liar and a cheat?"

"Every daughter wants to know her parents cared about each other. I can still see the big picture. I can," she added defensively.

"Good. Why don't you check the upstairs bedrooms? I'll look around down here. We need to pick up the pace. Time is passing."

"I got it. Back to work."

As Christina climbed the stairs, J.T moved down the hall, stepping into a downstairs bedroom. It was obviously a guest room, containing nothing but a bed, a dresser, and a side table with a lamp on it. A thin layer of dust covered the floor and the furniture. It didn't appear as if anyone had been there in a while. Next up was a bathroom, then a small kitchen that led into the backyard. He opened the cupboards and the refrigerator, not surprised to see some food items. Marcus had been living here, maybe as recently as this morning. They were getting close, but not close enough.

Another door was located on the other side of the refrigerator. Opening it, he saw stairs leading down into a dark basement, where he could make out the shadow of a washer and dryer. There could be papers down there, but the room felt cold and damp. Still, he should check it out. Who knew where Marcus would hide information?

He had one foot on the top stair when he heard Christina come into the kitchen. "Did you find anything?" he asked, searching for a light switch.

"You," a man said.

J.T. whirled around just as Evan swung a shovel at his head. He fended off the first blow with his hand, smashing his fist into Evan's face. He felt a jolt of satisfaction when he saw the blood gush from Evan's nose. But his satisfaction was short-lived as Evan brought the shovel back around and, with a grunt of anger, nailed J.T. on the side of the head.

Stars spun before his eyes. He felt his legs crumple as a searing pain shot from his temple to the back of his skull. He had to stay on his feet. He had to protect Christina. He tried to grab the stair railing, but missed and tumbled down the stairs, feeling the force of each painful step. He tried to call out, to warn Christina, but the blinding pain in his head sent him screaming toward a tunnel of darkness.

Christina was on her own. God help her.

One large bedroom connected to a bath on the second floor. The queen-sized bed was unmade, the blankets tangled. Had her father spent the night here? Christina wondered, her senses overcome by the faint lingering scent of the spicy cologne she always associated with her dad. She moved into the adjacent bathroom. A wet towel hung on the rack. Soap, shaving lotion, a razor, and the cologne were on the countertop, more evidence that her father had been here. Where was he now? And was he coming back soon? She wondered if they should wait here for him to return. But what if he didn't? What if he had moved on again?

Back in the bedroom, she moved over to a desk next to the window. Papers, as well as several books, were spread across the top. Her heart quickened as she read the title on the first old text, A Portrait of Catherine de Medici. Her father had been reading about Catherine! His research must have something to do with the diamond.

Several pages in the book had been folded over. Christina flipped through them until she got to the ones that had been marked. She skimmed through the text on the first page, which discussed Catherine's dowry. There was no mention of the yellow. On the next page she found more information about Catherine's obsession with astrology, Nostradamus, fortune-telling, and poisons. She read with morbid fascination about how Catherine was believed to have had two hundred cabinets filled with poisons and those cabinets had, in fact, been buried with her.

Catherine obviously had a dark side. And Christina had the same blood running through her veins. That was an eerie thought. Had the loss of the diamond changed Catherine, turned her from a passionate, romantic young girl into a hard-edged, bitter, and ambitious queen who cursed those who betrayed her? Her husband had certainly shamed her by continuing his blatant affair with Diane de Poitiers.

As much as Christina wanted to linger on the history books, she moved on. There were loose papers on the desk, including several bills. It appeared from the dates that her father had been living here off and on for the past few months, maybe years. Or, at least, he had made this house his home base. She found receipts for dry cleaning and groceries, clothing and books.

Christina sat down in the chair and opened the top center drawer. She leafed through more papers, her gaze catching on a large art book in which she could see a yellowed piece of very thin paper stuck in the middle. She pulled out the parchment. It was a sketch of a painting. Her eye moved from the paper to the page of the book that was now open. The sketch was the same painting as the one in the book, but in color and finished.

Her heart skidded to a stop as she recognized a woman's face among the angels in the picture. It was Catherine-Catherine de Medici.

This had to be the painting that Catherine's love had done for her. Her gaze dropped to the caption. The fresco by Pietro Marcello was painted in the small chapel at St. Anne's Convent. Her pulse began to race as her eye picked out other details in the painting: the yellow diamond hanging around Catherine's neck, the heavy pendant nestled between her breasts. Pietro hadn't just painted Catherine; he'd painted the diamond. And her father had the picture.

The answer was suddenly so clear: The fresco was the key. Catherine had asked Pietro to help her protect the diamond. And the painting was a huge clue. Now they knew where the fresco was painted. They just had to find St. Anne's Convent.

Christina got to her feet as she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. J.T. was going to be so happy that they finally had a solid lead. She ran to the door to tell him. But the man standing in the hall was not J.T. This man had blond hair, blue eyes, a bloody nose, and the most evil smile she had ever seen.

Evan! It had to be Evan. And the blood on his face made her fear for J.T.

She opened her mouth to scream, but he covered her lips with a cloth, pressing it against her nose and mouth. It smelled vile. She gagged and coughed, struggling to get air. She hit, kicked, trying to get away, but her limbs were growing heavy, her brain fuzzy. She was suffocating. She pleaded with her eyes for him to let her go.

"Don't worry, Christina," she heard him say as her brain began to shut down. "You're not going to die-yet."

J.T. struggled to wake up. The pain in his head was relentless, as if someone were hammering against the front of his skull. He tried to move, and finally his hands touched something cold and hard. Cement, he realized. He was on a floor. Where? He couldn't think. He blinked and took a breath. Slowly his head began to clear. He opened his eyes all the way, squinting in the darkness. He could make out the shadow of stairs off to his left. A water heater was right next to him, a sink, a washer and a dryer. The basement. He was in the basement of the farmhouse.

For a moment he just lay there, trying to remember what had happened. He'd been in the kitchen, checking out the cupboards, thinking that Christina's father had been there recently-Christina! Where the hell was Christina?

He sat up, and crawled to his knees. He had to grab onto the bottom stair as a wave of dizziness almost sent him crashing down to the ground. He fought back-hard. He had to get up. He had to get to Christina before Evan did. He climbed up the first stair, then the second. Each movement was agony. It wasn't just his head that was hurting but his left wrist, his back, his knees. He'd hit everything hard on his way down the stairs. He was probably lucky he hadn't broken his neck.

Pausing on the third step, he put his hand to his scalp, feeling a huge bump. When he pulled his fingers away he could see blood. The reality of the situation sent him up the rest of the stairs. When he reached the top, he grabbed the doorknob with his right hand. It was locked. Dammit!

Turning around, he saw a pile of gardening equipment, shovels, picks, axes in one corner of the basement. He made his way back down the stairs as quickly as he could and grabbed an ax. When he returned to the top, he swung the ax at the door several times until the wood splintered. Finally he was able to reach inside, unlock the door, and let himself out.

He stumbled into the kitchen. The silence in the house was alarming. He ran down the hall and up the stairs, calling out Christina's name.

When he got to the bedroom, he saw immediately that it was empty. She was gone. Evan had Christina. He knew the truth deep down in his gut. And as further evidence, Christina's purse was still on the desk.

He grabbed her bag and looked out the window. He could see the road leading up to the house. His rental car was parked below. There were no other cars in sight, but he could see a lingering haze of dust in the air.

The rush of fear and anger that ran through his body was overwhelming and paralyzing. He had to find Christina. Think, he told himself. Where would Evan take her?

He glanced down at the desk. The open book called out to him. He stared at the page. At first it looked like any other art book, but then a dazzling splash of yellow took his eye to a diamond pendant worn by a young girl. Catherine. The fresco. His gaze moved down the page. St. Anne's Convent.

Marcus must have taken the diamond to the church. That must be where he thought the diamond belonged. Had Christina seen this page? Had Evan?

What did it matter? It was the only clue he had. He had to follow it. It shouldn't be too difficult to find the convent. Locating Evan would be another matter.

Jogging back down the stairs, J.T. ran out to the rental car, praying it wouldn't be too late. It wasn't just a diamond on the line now; it was Christina's life. He couldn't let anything happen to her. He'd already lost his father to Evan; he couldn't lose another person he loved.

He loved Christina. What a hell of a time to figure that out.

He hoped to God he would have a chance to tell her.

Christina felt sick. Her stomach was heaving, and some nauseating taste on her tongue made her want to throw up. She tried to move, then realized that her hands were tied behind her back. Her memory slowly returned. She'd been in the bedroom at the farmhouse. She'd found the book, the sketches. She'd heard J.T. coming up the stairs and she'd run to the door. But it hadn't been J.T.; it had been Evan. And he'd put something over her nose and mouth so she couldn't breathe.

Her eyes flew open and she blinked rapidly, trying to focus. Where was she? What was happening?

It took a moment for her brain to catch up. She was lying on her side on a cold cement floor. Her feet were tied at the ankles, her hands roped behind her back. Painfully sticky tape was wound around her mouth to the back of her head. She couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but try to figure out where she was.

A cold wind blew through four open floor-to-ceiling arches, one on each wall. She was in a tower. A bell tower. Several iron bells were suspended above her head along with pulleys and ropes. About ten feet away was a door leading somewhere, probably down to the church below. Was she in a church in Florence? There was no writing on the walls and no people in the room. She didn't know how long she'd been unconscious; nor could she catch a glimpse of her wristwatch. Judging by the lengthening shadows and the darkening sky, she suspected it was almost dusk.

Why had Evan brought her here? And where was J.T.? What had Evan done with him?

Terror gripped her heart as she realized that Evan must have taken J.T. out. Otherwise he never would have been able to get up the stairs to kidnap her from the farmhouse.