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Zusatztext Praise for Iris Johansen’s novels “Iris Johansen keeps the reader intrigued with complex characters and plenty of plot twists. . . . Moves so fast! you’ll be reading the epilogue before you notice.” — People “Johansen’s thrillers ooze enough testosterone to suggest she also descends from the house of Robert Ludlum. Johansen pushes the gender boundary in popular fiction! offering up that rarity: a woman’s novel for men.” — Publishers Weekly Informationen zum Autor Iris Johansen is the New York Times bestselling author of many novels, including Killer Dreams, On the Run, Countdown, Firestorm, Fatal Tide, Dead Aim, and No One to Trust. She lives near Atlanta, Georgia. Klappentext A hidden killer...a conspiracy of treachery...and two people caught in the most desperate game of all... In Renaissance Italy! intrigue is as intricate as carved cathedral doors! but none is so captivating as that surrounding the prized Wind Dancer! the lost treasure of a family--and of the man who will stop at nothing to reclaim it. Lionello Andreas is bound by his vow to guard the exquisite statue. But to recover what is rightfully his! he will need the help of a thief--one he can control body and soul. He finds his answer on the treacherous backstreets of Florence! in a sharp-witted young woman whose poverty leaves her no choice. But in the end! the allure of the Wind Dancer! and the ruthlessness of those who would possess her! will catapult them both into a terrifying realm where death may be the most merciful escape. Leseprobe One March 3, 1503 Florence, Italy Stop, thief! Stop her! I've been robbed!" Sanchia tore across the Mercato Vecchio, raced past the church and on down the street, jumping over an emaciated brown-and-white mongrel that devoured garbage scattered over the flagstones. She ducked under the outstretched arm of a leather-aproned cobbler, but his large hand caught the coarse woolen shawl covering her head. She jerked it from his grasp and kept running. The merchant chasing her was plump, but still he was closing the distance between them, and Sanchia's heart slammed against her ribcage in a delirium of panic. She was going to be caught. Her hands would be chopped off at the wrists. She would be thrown in the Stinche to be eaten by the rats. Hot, agonizing pain shot through her left side. A stitch. She had to keep running. What would Piero do? she wondered wildly. The others were older; they would find a way to survive. But Piero was only six. So many things could happen to so young a child. . . . "Grab her, you fools. The slut stole my purse!" Dio , Sanchia thought, he sounded close. How could he run so fast with all those rolls of fat hanging around his middle? She dodged around a wheelbarrow filled with fish, turned the corner of the Canto di Vacchereccia, then bolted down an alley yawning between a goldsmith's shop and an apothecary. Darkness. Twilight lay over the city but full darkness reined in the alley. Bright eyes glittered in the deep shadows at the base of the small buildings. Rats. Dozens of them! She stopped short, involuntarily recoiling. The stones beneath the thin soles of her shoes were greasy from the garbage thrown out there by shopkeepers. She need have no fear of the rats, though, while they were feasting on the garbage. The smell of rotting food in the closeness of the alley was overpowering. She swallowed, trying to fight down the nausea caused as much from terror as the stench. "Which way did she go?" The merchant's voice was wheezing and sounded a little farther away. Had she lost him when she darted into the alley? She shrank back into the densely clotted shadows of the goldsmith's shop, her palms pr...
