An Offer He Can't Refuse (2 page)

The reflection in her hand-mirror presented no jarring surprises. The sun leant an apricot cast to her olive skin. Tilted brown eyes, a slightly patrician nose, cheekbones and jawline now defined after years of counting calories instead of chowing down on cookies. Assured that her buttons were tight, her mascara unsmudged, and her hair still controlled in its long, dark sweep, she snapped the compact shut. Then, setting off in the direction of her car, she swapped mirror for cell phone and speed-dialed her interior design firm, Inner Life.

"She's still insisting on Him," she told her assistant when she answered. "Find out who can hand-paint a Rembrandt-styled Infant Jesus in the bottom of a porcelain sink."

Continuing her forward march, she checked her watch. "Any messages? I have lunch with my sisters up next."

"Nikki O'Neal phoned and mentioned a redo of her dining room," her assistant replied. "Something about a mural depicting the Ascension."

The Ascension?

Téa's steps faltered, slowed. "No," she groaned. "That means Mrs. D. has spilled her plans. Now we'll be hearing from every one of her group at Our Lady of Mink."

A segment of Téa's client list—members of the St. Brigit's Guild at the posh Our Lady of Mercy Catholic Church—cultivated their competitive spirits as well as their Holy Spirit during their weekly meetings. One woman would share a new idea for home decor, prompting the next to take the same theme to even greater—more ostentatious—heights.

Three years before it had been everything vineyard, then sea life turned all the rage, and now… good God.

'The
Ascension
?" Téa muttered. "These women must be out of their minds."

But could she really blame them? Palm Springs, Califor-nia, had a grand tradition of the grandiose, after all. Walt Disney had owned a home here. Elvis. Liberace.

It was just that when she'd opened her business, filled with high artistic aspirations and a zealous determination to make over the notorious Caruso name, she hadn't foreseen the pitfalls. Like how the ceaseless influx of rent and utility bills and the unsteady-trickle-and-occasional-torrent that was her cash flow meant she couldn't be picky when it came to choosing design jobs.

Like how
that
could result in gaining woeful renown as designer of all things overdone. She groaned again.

"Oh, and Téa…" Her assistant's voice rose in an expectant lilt. "His Huskiness called."

Her stomach lurched, pity party forgotten. "What?
Who
?"

"Johnny Magee."

Of course, Johnny Magee. Her assistant referred to the man they'd never met by an ever-expanding lexicon of nicknames that ranged from the overrated to the out-and-out ridiculous. To Téa, he was simply her One Chance, her Answered Prayers, her Belief in Miracles.

"Why didn't you forward it to my cell?" she demanded, her footsteps regaining speed. Between assistants and electronics, not once had she exchanged information with him voice-to-voice.

"And miss out on having the Love Machine rumble in my ear? No way. His 'hello' makes me horny. Besides, you don't like interruptions when meeting with a client."

Unless it was
him
! Sure, if she bagged Johnny Magee's project and their contact progressed beyond fax and e-mail, then the man would most likely prove a major disappointment. But from the instant she'd read "generous budget" and "complete redesign in mid-century modern" on his first communication, she'd decided theirs was the perfect relationship.

"I swear," her assistant continued with all the fervor of a former Catholic schoolgirl, "just the word 'bedroom' in that raspy voice of his makes me dream of dark nights, dark passion, and dark velvet stroking over my skin."

"Dark velvet," Téa echoed, as in her mind a more practical brand of fantasy burst to life. "Dark velvet and all other materials billed at forty percent over cost."

What a fantasy it was. Not only would winning this job mean a measure of financial relief, it meant so much beyond that. Respect in the industry. A more sophisticated portfolio to show prospective clients. All of which added up to a future free from marble-cherubed parlors, Venus de Milo verandahs, and Samson-and-Delilah-inspired dressing rooms.

But then—
beep
—Téa's wristwatch alarm snapped her back to reality. With her car now in sight, she doubled her pace. "I'm late. If he calls again, put him through."

"There's one more thing."

The reluctance in Rachele's voice caused Téa to slow again. "What is it?"

"Well, uh, an invitation came for you in the mail today. Engraved, heavy manila paper, it feels like the handmade stuff that—"

"An invitation to what?"

A hesitation. A hitch in her assistant's breath. "You believe in that whole 'don't shoot the messenger' thing, right?"

"Rachele—"

"Given your family's history, can you blame me for asking?"

"
Rachele
—-"

"Okay, fine." Words tumbled out. "An invitation to a birthday party, a really big one, I'm guessing, at the Desert Star resort at the end of the month. My father's been invited, I've been invited. And, of course, you. It's… it's… it's your grandfather's eightieth birthday party."

Téa's feet lost their purchase, making an ineffective scrabble against the ground's uneven surface. As she swung out an arm to steady herself against the roof of her car, her briefcase clubbed the side window with a heavy thunk.

I was kidding about this being the day to start paying
! was her first thought.

What kind of booby trap is this
? was the second.

She ended the call with clumsy fingers, then slid into the driver's seat to join the slow-moving parade of Hummers, Caddies, and golf carts that cruised the Coachella Valley floor.
An invitation
.

Navigating on autopilot, she traveled along Bob Hope Drive, to Frank Sinatra Drive, to Country Club Drive. Packed into the congested midday traffic, her car inched past luxurious homes in stark bone-white and lush gardens colored in vibrant bougainvillea pinks and show-me-the money greens.
An invitation to his birthday party
.

In summer, the sun bore down with such ruthless intensity that structures, sky, and landscape paled from the heat, and even the edges of the well-watered golf courses curled up like dry sponges. The wealthy fled. But now it was autumn in Palm Springs, meaning the surroundings were stunning, the temperature was in the pleasant low-eighties, and if the cars around her were any judge, all the Hollywood hotties and megacorp magnates who had run away in May were back in full force, believing themselves safe from the ugly side of the desert.

The ugly, dangerous side her grandfather knew so well.

An invitation to his birthday party
, she thought once again, nerves fluttering in her belly.
Why would Cosimo set a snare for her now
?

Finally, she reached the Cafe Azul. Avoiding the eye of the hovering valet, she parked her Volvo wagon in what she termed the "self-help" section of the lot and took the time to swipe a brush through her hair, a wet pinkie along each eyebrow arch, and clear gloss over her long-lasting lipcolor. Then, finger-ironing the seatbelt wrinkles from her dress, she hurried toward the cafe's entrance.

Still mulling over the unexpected invitation, she was halfway across the parking lot when her heel caught in a crack and she found herself stumbling again. Without a car to catch her this time, she landed hard on the opposite leg. Maybe it was the jolt to her knee, maybe it was her quick gasp of air, but suddenly her common sense kicked in.

An invitation to his birthday party. So what? Big whoop. It wasn't a royal decree or a legal summons. As a matter of fact, it was probably a mistake.

Hadn't she successfully avoided her grandfather and all those who surrounded him for years?

There was no reason to think that would change now.

Even the shivery sixty-seven degrees of the restaurant's foyer couldn't cool her more upbeat mood, nor did having to wait to speak to the harried hostess. "The rest of my party hasn't arrived," she said, when it was her turn. "But we have a reservation for Caruso."

"Caruso!" a voice echoed from behind her.

Startled, Téa glanced over her shoulder, but didn't recognize the forty-something brunette in a shantung silk suit the color of lemon sherbet.

"I'm sorry," the woman continued loudly. "But did you say your last name was
Caruso
?"

Téa tightened her grip on the strap of her purse. Usually, strangers never dared more than whisper about her family behind her back. She managed a stiff turn anyway. "Excuse me?"

The woman smiled. "My maiden name is Caputo. Caruso, so similar, leaped right out at me."

Téa's clenching hand relaxed.

"You're right," she replied. Noting again the woman's expensive outfit, she considered her current tower of bills and her ever-present need to drum up business. The smile she tacked on was full of warm good will. "The names
are
very much alike."

"Not only that." Apparently encouraged, the woman stepped closer. "But ever since we moved to Palm Springs I've been hearing story after story about the infamous Carusos."

Téa's smile dropped away. Heat washed across her skin. "I'm not—I don't… "
We're an ordinary family
! All her life she'd wanted to say that.

Since she was twelve years old and her father had gone missing, presumed dead, she'd been unable to believe it.

The woman waved her hand. "Oh, no need explaining to me! I understand perfectly. People think if your last name ends in a vowel, then you're automatically in the Mafia. Ridiculous, right?"

Ridiculous, right. Women were supposed to be kept well clear of the illegal activities, and could never be members of
La Cosa Nostra
. The secret she kept hidden, the things she'd done, weren't that usual, even for a mob boss's daughter.

The stranger warmed to her subject. "The idea that an organization of brutish Italian thugs has power in this city, let alone the state, why that's television, not…" Her voice petered out as her attention strayed somewhere over Téa's shoulder.

The entire restaurant went quiet too, voices stilling, silverware and ice cubes ceasing to rattle. Through the glass entry doors in front of her, Téa saw a gleaming black limousine slither up to the front entrance.

Hadn't she successfully avoided her grandfather and all those who surrounded him for years?

The question mocked her now as instinct commanded she sidle closer to the foyer wall. The action provided no real protection. As they approached from behind her—presumably from the restaurant's private room in the rear—their scent reached her on a rustle of the air. The faint yet distinct scent of expensive colognes. The citrus tang of shaving soap bladed away with a straightedged razor.

When they drew nearer, she swore she could even smell the silk of their subtly patterned ties and the tropical-weight cashmere of their suits—never black, never gray, but putty or khaki or even celery, as if the lighter colors could disguise their dark reputation. The soles of their shoes—Italian leather, of course—murmured like rumors against the parquet floor.

Her father's memory came to her, unbidden, unwelcome. Unresolved.

Passing Téa, her grandfather and his cadre pretended not to see her, though she knew very well they did, realized they would have been told of her presence the instant her sling-back pump stepped through the restaurant's doors. But they followed her wishes, and she followed the six of them with her gaze as they exited.

"Who was that?" The other woman found her voice just as the limo crept away.

The men of my family. My ordinary family
. As if anyone, upon seeing them, would believe that.

Though they weren't your stereotypical organization of brutish Italian thugs, either. As head of a successful gourmet food company, the legitimate part of the world had crowned her grandfather the Sun-Dried Tomato King. To its underbelly he was known as the Cudgel. But to Téa's mind, he and the others were much more like stilettos. Elegant, sharp, lethal.

They were the ones she'd been successfully avoiding for years. The ones who, until this moment, she'd believed she could continue successfully avoiding for years to come.

They were the Carusos… a.k.a. the California Mafia.