From Barcelona, with Love (15 page)

Anyhow, when she was alone in bed her feet were always cold and she missed Mac, so the bed socks came in handy. And the mask was soft against her tired eyes, though sleep was still elusive, which was why she was still awake when Mac called.

She ripped off the mask and sat up straight, though, when Mac said “Barcelona.”

“Tomorrow!” she exclaimed. “You cannot be serious.” She stared blankly at the moonlit tree. The wind had started to howl and the branches tapped against the window. Suddenly nervous, she wondered if there were any other guests at this charming inn, or whether, like Janet Leigh in
Psycho,
she was alone.

“Barcelona?” she said, feeling loneliness creep over her, plus the flush from several “tastings” of her client's latest vintage—a Cabernet, and really quite good, though she was more of a white wine person herself. Of course she would never tell her client that, only that his red was one of the best, and since it had just gained ninety-four points on Robert Parker's list it seemed it was true. And
she
was the one whose promotional ability had taken it from an unknown to a name. Well, the beginnings of a name, but then everyone had to start somewhere. And that wasn't Barcelona.

“What about Mauritius?” she asked.

“What about Rogue River?” he said.

“Monday, you'll be in Barcelona.”

“And you'll still be in Napa.”

“You forget, I return Monday.”

“And I return Wednesday.”

Hope glimmered, she could almost see that white sugar-sand beach and crystal Indian Ocean. “We could leave Thursday…”

“Pack the tent, baby.”

“Mac Reilly, I have never—
never
—slept in a tent. And I am not about to start now.”

“Why not?”

She could hear laughter in his voice. “Because my feet get cold and I refuse to allow you to see me in these ridiculous pink bed socks.”

“You could always take 'em off…”

There was a phony leer in his voice and despite herself, Sunny giggled. She missed him terribly, though he could not have liked what she had managed to do to the room. Her version of unpacking was simply to take everything out of the cases and drape it over chairs and tables where she could see it. The blue dress she had worn was on the floor where she had stepped wearily out of it an hour ago, and her lace panties and bra led in a trail to the shower. In a haze of perfumed oil, she had thrown herself into bed, missing Mac like crazy, head spinning from all that red wine. No, not simply
red
wine, she corrected herself. After all, she represented a vintner. It was a
Cabernet Sauvignon
.

“You failed to ask,” she said with a touch of frost, “since you are so caught up in your own affairs and your black eye and poor hurt jaw, but yes, thank you, the presentation of my client's new vintage did go well this evening. People seemed to like it a lot and I believe I've managed to gain him some valuable friends in the media.”

“I've noticed a good red will always gain friends,” Mac said. “Meanwhile, baby…”

“Meanwhile…” Sunny slipped farther down into the pillows, pressing the phone to her ear, wishing it could bring Mac closer.

“Meanwhile,” he said, “I'd better bring you up to date on the Ravel family. The Matriarch says Bibi has to be found and she believes I am the one to find her.”

“And are you?”

He hesitated. “Maybe not. But then I think of the kid's frightened eyes and that bastard Peretti who might get custody of her, so he can lay his hands on her inheritance. And so then again, I think maybe yes.”

“So you're giving the Matriarch a shot.”

Sunny could almost see Mac's shrug. She heard the loud honk of a truck's horn and his curse in response. “Bastards,” he muttered. “These truckers think they own the road, three abreast on the freeway, can you imagine?”

Sunny didn't want to. She said, “All I want is for you to say ‘I want to run away with you, Sunny Alvarez.' Anywhere but the Rogue River, hip deep in steelheads.”

His laugh was deep and affectionate. “I miss you, baby,” he murmured.

She closed her eyes listening as he told her how much he missed her, and yes he wanted to run away with her, and Mauritius was sounding better and better.…

“Though Spain might not be a bad vacation spot either,” he added, sounding thoughtful. “Should events take a new turn.”

Sunny got up and walked to the window. She closed the curtains, shutting out the nervously tapping tree branches and the moon and the night.

“Bastard,” she whispered, and heard him laugh as he said goodnight. And that he loved her.

 

Chapter 22

The nice woman at
first-class check-in at LAX gave Mac an amused grin. “Looks like maybe you didn't win this time, Mr. Reilly,” she said, handing him his boarding pass.

“A mere flesh wound,” he said. “You should see the other guy.”

She leaned closer, elbows on the counter. “I'll bet he doesn't look as good as you.”

“Worse.” Mac waved a hand at her as he turned away. Then he turned back. “Actually, he got off scot-free. I never even touched him.”

“Never mind,” she said, laughing. “The best man always wins.”

“Let's hope so,” Mac said.

The guy at immigration gave him the once-over, though, staring at his passport photo then staring at him, then back again, checking info on his computer. “Thanks,” he said finally, handing the passport and boarding pass back. “Have a good trip.”

Shoes off, and his belt with the silver buckle—a mustang rearing its elegant head—his wallet and change, his old Timex steel watch, his loafers, and his small carry-on bag all placed in the plastic tray, Mac stepped through the metal security barrier, eyed warily by three uniformed men, who quickly signaled another couple of guys over.

Reinforcements, Mac thought, sighing as he held his arms up while one wanded him.

“How d'ya get the eye?”

The man's glance was remote and to his surprise Mac felt guilty. “A guy in a bar took a dislike to me,” he said.

“D'ya hit him back?”

“I did not.”

“Then you should have, Mr. Reilly.” There was a grin on the guy's face now, and Mac guessed he'd been set up.

“Next time I'll be sure to,” he said, high-fiving, then stopping to sign a few autographs for the small crowd that had gathered, before heading quickly for the lounge, where, over a beer—a Stella Artois, a European beer; he was getting into the mood—he called Sunny again and got her voicemail.

He said, “So I'm here, at the Tom Bradley Terminal, without you, and I just wanted to tell you I wish I was on my way to Mauritius.
With
you. Love you, Sunny Alvarez. And don't you ever dare leave me again. And don't tell me, well, I am the one leaving
you,
because I'll only be gone for two days. With the time differences maybe make that three, and then I'm taking you on that holiday.” He paused for a second then added, “Promise.”

Hours later, after a stopover in Atlanta, the first-class steward on the international leg of the Barcelona flight fixed Mac an eye pack and then a Jim Beam on the rocks. “A good combo,” Mac said wearily.

With the ice, the eye began to feel better, well at least numb, which he guessed was better. Sipping his bourbon, he chalked up another bad point to the ex-husband, which led him to wonder anyhow what the ex-wife was really like.

It was odd no one had ever talked about Bibi as a woman, only about her child, and about the murders, about the lover and the Italian husband, and that she'd been missing for over two years. All Mac knew about Bibi was her music. Of course he knew her face from a thousand photos; a calm, composed face, a woman in charge of herself, emotions under control, careful smile judged to the inch for the camera. Her pale greenish eyes looked back at him from those photos, half-lowered lids possibly veiling her true feelings.

Sipping his bourbon, ice pack clamped to the eye, Mac allowed himself to consider the fact that it was possible Bibi Fortunata was guilty of murder. After all, she was the classic woman scorned. A famous woman, publicly humiliated by her lover and her best friend. A situation like that, anything could happen. And might. Plus if Bibi Fortunata
was
guilty of the murders she was never charged with, she would have a very good reason to disappear, and reason also to give up her daughter. A woman—especially a famous one—could not simply disappear with a kid in tow. She might be able to change her own appearance but never the child's. And besides, kids talked. Anyhow, the murder case was still active, which meant there was always the chance the police might come up with new evidence linking Bibi to the crime.

Mac slugged back the bourbon, refused the meal, surrendered his empty glass, and reclined his seat. Ice pack propped on his eye, he reminded himself to ask Lev, when he got to Barcelona, if he knew via the gossip why Bibi had married Peretti. Lev worked with the kind of people who knew these things; he knew more stories about everyone than anyone else.

He ditched the ice pack and closed his eyes—painfully. It had been a long twenty-four hours from Palm Springs to somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. He was wondering about Barcelona and the Matriarch when he fell asleep.

At Barcelona's El Prat airport, the Immigration officer stared suspiciously at him. He was getting used to it. He waited patiently while his passport was checked, then his face and his purple eye. The passport was checked again; he was checked again.

“Your profession?” the officer demanded.

“I'm in TV.” He wasn't about to go into the private investigator stuff here. His head was throbbing and he was thinking he should not have drunk the bourbon on the plane.

The passport was stamped, he was waved on, only to be stopped again walking through the green light at customs. A black eye would do it every time, he realized. He surrendered his small Tumi duffel; all he needed for a couple of days was in there. Then Security arrived with a dog who sniffed in a desultory fashion at his legs and the bag, before he was waved reluctantly on.

Welcome to Barcelona, Mac thought, wondering wearily if his journey was really necessary.

A small dark-haired man in a blue pinstripe business suit, jacket buttoned, dark glasses over his eyes, was holding up a card with Mac's name on it. He seemed to recognize Mac immediately and hurried toward him.

“Mr. Reilly,” he said, in his carefully accented English. “Felix Montrin, the de Ravel family attorney. We spoke on the phone.”

“Of course.” Mac shook his hand. “Good of you to meet me.”

“The Marquesa de Ravel asked me particularly to greet you and bring you safely to your hotel.”

“Safely? Is there any danger I should know about?”

“No. Oh, no, nothing like that. It's just that the Matriarch was concerned that you did not have to wait for a taxi, and Barcelona's traffic is notorious, unless you know your way around it. She was simply concerned for your comfort.”

“That's very kind of her.” Mac found himself being as courtly and formal as the lawyer, who pointed out various monuments and buildings as they surged impetuously through the thick traffic with seeming disregard for their own safety. Mac was beginning to think he would have had more chance of getting to the hotel alive in a taxi than with Señor Montrin driving. The man just seemed to expect everyone else to get out of his way, and somehow they did. Maybe he could learn something from Señor Montrin, Mac thought as they weaved their way to the Ramblas area and pulled up in front of the Méridien hotel.

Señor Montrin told him the Matriarch would expect him at six that evening. A car would pick him up at exactly five fifty. “You have much to discuss,” he added, getting out of the car and shaking Mac's hand.

“Then you will not be joining us?” Mac was surprised, he'd thought the attorney would want to be in on any discussion, even if only to make sure the Matriarch, as the man so pompously referred to her, didn't overstep the bounds and offer him a few million to find Bibi.

“The Matriarch insisted on seeing you alone.”

It was clear the attorney was not pleased about the situation. Mac didn't blame him. The Matriarch was obviously a strong-willed woman used to getting her own way.

His suite was spacious with windows overlooking the noisy Ramblas, though, thank God, it was soundproofed. A bottle of his favorite bourbon, and also a bottle of dark rum, awaited.
Compliments of the Marquesa de Ravel,
the card said. There was a bowl of fresh fruit and a plate of just-made churros, scented with cinnamon sugar.

Mac got out his iPhone and e-mailed Lev, asking him for all the info he had on the Bibi/Peretti relationship. As an afterthought he asked if Lev knew, anyway, why Bibi had taken a lover? After all, she'd only been married for a year.

Then, feeling guilty about leaving Sunny, he gave up on his idea of the tent, the Rogue River, and the steelheads. Instead he e-mailed Roddy, and asked him to find out about flights to Mauritius. And where the fuck was Mauritius anyway?

He flung off his clothes, stepped into the shower, and let the journey wash away. After five minutes he got out and took stock of himself in the mirror, patted his flat belly, combed back his hair with his hands, and groaned at his purple eye. Sunglasses were probably not appropriate to meet a Matriarch but he had no choice.

Wrapping a towel round his loins and eyeing the big fluffy white bed, he wished Sunny were here. He sank into the sofa, bit into a churro, and checked his iPhone. There was an e-mail from Lev. “Apparently Bibi was lonely,” was his reply to Mac's query.

Seems Peretti came along just at the right low moment. Why do women always go for the bad boys when things get tough? Word was he didn't want her sexually. Don't ask me why, probably was into something else. Just hoping it wasn't little girls. Word also was “the lover,” Waldorf Carlyle, was good at “his job.” Hey, make a woman feel like a woman and she's happy. With all that talent, all that fame, all that money, you'd think she wouldn't need to grab on to a cheap fucker like that. But he was right there, he was available and hot for her—and that's all I know. I'll keep you posted.