Deadly Embrace (41 page)

"We can all go out to dinner."

"I saw the show last night," he said, rapidly getting off the
subject of his wife. "You looked spectacular."

"Really? Tknow, lately I've been thinking of giving it up."

"What does
that
mean?"

"
It
means that the man I'm seeing wants me to spend time in
New York."

"Is he asking you to marry him?"

"Not yet, but he probably will."

"Dani," Dean said sternly, "take my advice—do
not
give up
anything
until he puts a ring on your finger. You have
a son, responsibilities."

"I know," she said, nodding. "I'm flying to New York next weekend.
I have a feeling we'll be discussing our future."

"Well," Dean said, "in that case I wish you the best of luck."

"I know you do, Dean," she said warmly. "You and I — we'll
always be friends, won't we?"

"Yes, Dani, we always will," he said, trying to hide his dismay
that Dani—
his
Dani—was involved with another man.
"So ... uh ... what's this mystery guy's name?"

"Michael."

"Michael who?"

"Why are you so full of questions?"

"I didn't know it was a secret."

"It's not. His name is Michael Castelli."

"Nice Italian name."

"He's a nice Italian boy," she said, smiling softly.

"Boy? How old is he?"

"Thirty."

"Uh-huh. What business is he in?"

"Investments. Dean, I know you're trying to be helpful; however, I
do not appreciate this third degree."

"Then I'll drop it."

"Good."

* * *

The moment he got back to his hotel room, Dean called his office in
Houston.

"Put a search out on this name," he said. "Michael Castelli. Find
out everything you can. It's a priority."

If Dani was thinking of marrying someone, he needed to know
everything about him.

* * *

Vincent was upset that his mother was going away without him, even
though he was very fond of Reggie, their housekeeper—a cheerful
Jamaican woman with children of her own.

"It's only for a week," Dani assured him. "You can manage without
me for a week."

"Can't," Vincent said stubbornly.

"Yes you can."

"Can't!"

"Can!"

"Can't!"

"You impossible little monkey," she said, wrestling him to the
ground.

He giggled and fought back.

She'd made up her mind that it wasn't fair keeping Vincent from
his true, biological father. When she got to New York, she'd decided
to tell Michael the truth.

"Can I come with you, Mommy?" Vincent pleaded.

"No, darling, I'm sorry you can't."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not a trip for little boys."

"I'm not a
little
boy, I'm a
big
boy," he said
indignantly.

"You're almost ten, that's not big enough."

"I wish Nando was here," he said mournfully.

"I know, sweetheart. As soon as I get back I'll call his
graijdfather in Colombia, see if we can arrange for him to come
visit."

"Nando's my friend. The other boys at school are stupid."

"Why are they stupid?" she asked patiently.

" 'Cause they call me names."

"Why would they call you names?"

" 'Cause of you."

"Me?"

"Mark Timson says you show your boobies on the stage."

Oh God, this is exactly what she hadn't wanted to hear.

"What did he say?" she asked.

"He told everyone his parents went to your show, an' they all saw
your boobies.
Do
you show them, Mommy?"

"It's not like that, darling. I wear a beautiful costume. It's
very glamorous and ... let me put it this way—what I do is
work. It's how I make money so that we can live in this nice
comfortable house and have Reggie to look after you."

"Can
I
come see your show, Mommy?"

"When you're older, of course."

"When?"

"I just told you, when you're older."

"Okey-dokey," he said, getting bored. "Can I go watch TV now?"

"No more than half an hour. Then it's homework time."

"Done it, Mommy."

Of course he had. Vincent was always ahead of everyone.

Now she had the new worry of him knowing that she appeared onstage
topless. She'd realized that she'd have to face up to it eventually,
she simply hadn't expected it to be so soon.

She decided to discuss it with Michael, see how he suggested she
handle it. Lately she'd been talking to him about everything. She'd
mentioned the magazine that had asked her to pose. He'd warned her
against doing it. "They'll use the photos out of context," he'd said.
"Don't start appearing in those kind of magazines, 'cause one of
these days you'll regret it." 

She'd taken his advice and turned the magazine down. They'd
retaliated by asking Penelope to pose.

"Guess
you
couldn't cut it," Penelope had jeered.

She'd ignored her.

She had no idea what to pack. Michael had told her it was raining
in New York, and the last thing she possessed was rainy-weather
clothes. She didn't even own a raincoat.

This was the first time she'd be getting on a plane, and she was
excited. Michael had offered to fly out and fetch her. "I'm a big
girl, I can do it all by myself," she'd assured him.

"Then I'll meet you at the airport," he'd said.

She was leaving the next morning. The company director had
generously allowed her a week off. Tonight she had one more show to
do before she left. Vegas was experiencing a boom, and lately she'd
been getting offers from other hotels. Even though she was being
tempted with more money, she was happy at the Magiriano. Who knew
what her future held anyway? She suspected that Michael might
possibly be planning on asking her to marry him. And if he did? Well,
she was prepared to say yes.

Dean had called earlier to ask if he could take her to dinner
again after the show. "I have to pack," she'd told him. "Anyway, we
had dinner two nights ago."

"I know," he'd said. "However, I have something important to tell
you."

She'd finally agreed, meeting him in the cozy, all-red barroom
restaurant at the hotel. It was one of her favorite places, where she
and Michael had enjoyed several meals together.

Dean seemed to be agitated. She wondered if something was going on
in his marriage. She hoped not, because she wasn't in the mood to
start handing out advice.

"I can't make this a late night, Dean," she warned as soon as she
sat down. "I'm leaving early tomorrow."

"That's why I had to talk to you tonight," he said, ordering a
bottle of wine.

"Concerning what?" she asked.

"Concerning your new friend."

"Do you mean Michael?"

"Yes."

She tapped her fingers on the table. "You don't
know
Michael."

"I know plenty about him."

"What's on your mind, Dean?" she asked, sighing.

"Dani," he said, trying to keep his voice in neutral, "how much do
you
know about his past?"

"I don't think that's any of your business," she said, beginning
to get angry.

"
You're
my business, Dani," he said earnestly. "We're best
friends, remember?"

She sighed again and attempted to remain calm. Dean was only
trying to do what he thought was best for her, which wasn't such a
bad thing, because at least he genuinely cared.

"If you're talking about the time he was in jail for hijacking a
truck, I know all about it," she said. "Michael told me
everything."

"I wasn't talking about that."

"Then what
are
you talking about?"

"He has a daughter, right?"

"Yes."

Dean cleared his throat. "Do you know what happened to the child's
mother?"

"She died."

"Are you aware of
how
she died?"

"No, actually I don't know, because Michael doesn't like to talk
about it. I assumed it was an illness."

"You
assumed
?"

Now she was getting really impatient. "What exactly are you trying
to tell me, Dean?"

"You're a smart woman, Dani," he said quickly. "However, as I've
told you many times before, you have to think about your son as well
as yourself. You cannot allow yourself to get caught in a situation
that puts you and Vincent in danger."

"Danger! Why would you say such a thing?"

"Don't hate me for telling you this, Dani, but there is a strong
possibility that Michael Castelli, or Castellino, as he was formerly
known, murdered his girlfriend."

"
What
?"

"Shot her in the back of the head."

The color drained from Dani's face. "Are you crazy?"

Dean picked up a large manila envelope. "It's all here in
black-and-white. Read it for yourself."

"I... I don't understand what you're talking about."

"You'll know when you read the newspaper clippings. Yes, he was
acquitted, but that was only because he had high-powered
lawyers—paid for by his powerful mob boss in New York." A beat.
"I'm sorry to say this, Dani. There's a strong possibility that he
did it."

"Oh ... my... God," she said, feeling faint.

"If this man has genuine feelings for you, he would have told you
everything when you first got together."

"I... I thought he did."

"How long have you been seeing him?"

"Three months."

"Three months, and he hasn't found a moment to mention this. I
think that seems highly suspect, don't you?"

"You ... you don't know him. He's—"

"He's
what
, Dani? According to the newspapers, he's a hit
man for the mob, who shot his girlfriend in the back of the head
because he thought she was seeing someone else. This woman was the
mother of his child
. Is that the kind of man you're going to
throw your life away for?"

"Give me the clippings and let me out of here," she said, hardly
able to breathe.

"I'll drive you home."

"Don't bother," she said, getting up. "I'll take a cab."

"Dani, I only found this out for your own good."

"You think this is for my own good?" she said, tears filling her
eyes. "Can't you understand? I
love
him."

"You must do what you see fit," he said, following her from the
restaurant. "Only I beg you, think of your son. He should come before
anyone. Vincent is your priority, Dani. Do not put him or yourself in
peril."

"Where's your mom?" Jamie asked. She was a cute, flaxen-haired
eleven-year-old girl with a pronounced over-bite.

"Asleep," Madison replied. She was also eleven, tall and gangly,
with long dark hair and an inquisitive face. "She sleeps a lot."

"Why?"

"Dunno," Madison replied vaguely, not that interested.

"I'm starving!" Jamie announced.

"C'mon," Madison said. "Let's go in the kitchen. I think the
cook's made freshly baked brownies."

"Yum," Jamie said. "If I stay over, are we allowed to watch
Remington Steele
?"

"We can do whatever we want," Madison replied airily. "Dad's away,
and Mom doesn't care what I do."

"Lucky
you
" Jamie said enviously.

"Yes, lucky me," Madison agreed, although she often wished for a
mother who paid her more attention.

"
My
mom's all over me," Jamie said, following Madison into
the kitchen. "She hardly
ever
lets me watch TV."

"That sucks," Madison said.

"You bet," Jamie said. "My mom thinks I should still be playing
with Barbies. She doesn't understand that
boys
are
much
cooler."

" 'Cept the boys in our school," Madison remarked, pulling a face.
"They suck."

"When does your dad get home?" Jamie asked, helping herself to a
warm brownie.

"Soon, I hope," Madison said. "He always brings me a ton of
presents."

"I told you," Jamie said enviously. "You're the luckiest girl I
know."

"You think?" Madison said, munching on a brownie.

"Oh yes," Jamie said.

Later that afternoon, Michael surprised his daughter and arrived
home early. Just as she'd boasted to Jamie, he was loaded down with
presents.

"Hey, girls," he said, greeting Jamie too. "What are you up
to?"

"Waiting for you, Daddy," Madison said, her big green eyes staring
up at him, filled with love.

"Good. 'Cause I've bought you plenty of
stuff
."

"What have you got me this time, Daddy?"

"Well...," he said, teasing her. "I was gonna get you a lynx coat
or a Cadillac. Then I thought you might prefer this Sony video
recorder, and a Radio Shack color computer."

"Daddy! That's
so
cool! You are the best!" she said,
throwing her arms around him.

"There's a bunch of other things in my bag," he said. "Records an'
books. Take your pick."

"Oh Daddy, you always spoil me so much," she sighed, shooting a
glance at Stella, who had just emerged from her bedroom.

Stella stood in the doorway, surveyed the two girls, gave them a
weak smile, waved at Michael, and retreated back to the bedroom,
murmuring that she had a headache.

"Mommy's got another headache," Madison announced, in case he
hadn't heard.

"Yeah?" Michael said. "What else is new?"

Madison giggled. Michael grinned at his precious daughter. She was
smart. As smart as any boy. He loved everything about her.

"You girls had dinner?" he asked. "If you haven't, I'll take you
out to '21.'"

"I
don't
think!" Madison said, still giggling.

"Hey—one of these days I will. When you're old enough."

"I
wanna
go to '21,' Daddy," Madison pleaded. "I hear it's
the finest restaurant in town."

"Listen to you, madam," he said, laughing at her way of putting
things. How many other eleven-year-olds would come out with a
sentence like that?