Free Consumed by Fire by Anne Stuart Page B

she wanted to laugh. She’d panicked for nothing. He’d tease her when he got back, tell her she’d promised to trust him, and then he’d kiss her . . .
    She put the wallet down and picked up the passport. The picture was a good one—weren’t passport photos supposed to be terrible? His was gorgeous. Except, why was his passport here? They’d had to leave theirs with the front desk when they registered. Of course she’d been so besotted with her new wedding ring on her finger that she hadn’t been paying much attention, but surely she remembered being asked for hers.
    There was something else in the pocket, wrapped in cloth and tied with a black ribbon. She ripped it open and felt her blood freeze.
    More passports. Half a dozen of them, from the US, the UK, France—she didn’t know all the myriad colors, but they each represented another country. She knew what she would find when she opened them, and she went through then, staring dully. Photos of James Bishop in every one, each with a different name, a different identity. He wasn’t James Bishop at all. He was a liar and a thief.
    She looked around at the elegant bedroom. Her father had had her earrings valued for insurance, and they’d been estimated to be worth thirty thousand dollars; two nights in this palatial suite would wipe out any profits. Why would he spend more money than the earrings were worth just to steal them?
    She reached for the phone, then drew her hand back. She couldn’t do this. Not this way. She went into the bedroom and ripped off the fucking dress, dumping it on the floor, and pulled on her jeans and T-shirt once more. Shoving everything in her backpack, she paused by the wide row of windows overlooking the Grand Canal. Then she yanked off her wedding ring and threw it into the dark, murky waters before heading down to the lobby.
    It was early evening and the vast atrium of the ancient hotel was almost empty. She straightened her shoulders and headed for the desk.
    “May I help you, miss?” the starched concierge asked, barely lifting his gaze from his paperwork. He’d taken one look at her clothing and known she wasn’t worth his time.
    “I wanted to ask if you’d had any messages for me from Mr. Bishop.”
    One elegant eyebrow rose, and with a weary sigh he went over to a computer station and began typing into it. “Your name, miss?”
    “Morrissey. Evangeline Morrissey. We’ve been staying in the suite on the second floor.”
    That caught his attention, and he let his superior gaze run up and down her rumpled appearance. He was clearly not impressed, and suddenly Evangeline longed for Silvio’s cheerful presence. “The Emperor Suite. Yes, I see. You’re paid up till tomorrow. But there are no messages. And no Mr. Bishop is currently enjoying our hospitality.”
    “Then who have I been sharing a room with?” she snapped, her annoyance finally trumping her desperate anxiety.
    “The suite was registered to a Monsieur Pierre Boussan, but he retrieved his passport this morning and checked out. He left no messages and no forwarding address.”
    She just stared at him, his words not making sense.
    But they did. She’d been a complete and utter fool, prey to the oldest con in the world, and she didn’t grieve the loss of her great aunt’s famous diamonds nearly as much as she grieved the loss of her heart, her soul.
    “Miss Morrissey, may I do something for you?” The man suddenly sounded concerned. She must have looked like she was about to faint on his polished marble floor, she thought grimly.
    “Just give me my passport. I have to leave.”
    “But you’re paid up through tomorrow.”
    And who knew if the credit card was real? It almost certainly wasn’t, and she’d end up in jail until she could get through to her father to cover the bill. That was one conversation she wasn’t going to have. She summoned a calm smile. “And it’s been lovely, but I really must leave. There’s been a family