Impulse (17 page)

“Miss Holland. Welcome to my home.” He offered her his narrow hand and she found herself staring for an instant at it before accepting his assistance. Then she looked directly into her father’s pale blue eyes, the exact color of hers. They were tilted upward at the corners, just like hers. But there was no recognition in his eyes. No leap of awareness, of feeling, toward her. She took his hand and stepped out of the helicopter cabin. To her surprise she discovered that in her three-inch white sandals, she was nearly as tall as he was. Somehow she’d thought he’d be taller. But his white linen suit made him look tall and distinguished, with its red handkerchief sticking up in a smart triangle from the breast pocket, the only spot of color on his
clothes. There was a thin gold watch on his left wrist and an emerald ring on his right hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Giovanni.” She waited again, silently, waited for some spark of recognition, but there wasn’t any. Nothing. She was a complete stranger to him, just as her mother had been in Madrid. He didn’t see a thing of himself in her, but Rafaella, with eyes tuned to her mother’s perceptions, saw herself in his eyes—her eyes—the pale, pale blue, tinged with a very cold gray when emotional, and the tilt of the chin, a sharp chin, one that shot up in anger.

She shook his hand, suddenly feeling more relief than disappointment at his obliviousness of his paternal tie to his daughter. This meant she could satisfy her curiosity without jeopardizing herself. She saw Coco behind him and waved.

“Ah, yes, my Coco is responsible for your being here. But I must confess, Miss Holland, it is sometimes lonely here, and new faces are appreciated.” He turned to Merkel. “You’re returning for Marcus?”

Rafaella tried not to show that this upset her. Certainly she had enough control not to make a scene if he said something baiting. That she’d lost control twice with him bothered her. It wasn’t like her, not the Rafaella Holland who was an investigative reporter for the Boston
Tribune.
She didn’t want to slip and lose control, she didn’t want to do and say things she hadn’t mentally cleared before speaking. She didn’t want to lose her bearings. She recognized that there had to be changes in her feelings, in her outlook, in her way of examining things, once she’d stepped foot on the island, her
father’s
island. Had she really expected to be immune to her new situation? She moved toward the house, watching the helicopter as it lifted off again, heading back to the eastern side of the island.

“You have a beautiful house, sir. I’m glad I could see it from the air.”

“Thank you. Why don’t you call me Dominick? And I’ll call you Rafaella.”

“That would be lovely.” Rafaella wasn’t all that common a name; if he’d bothered twenty-five years ago to ask once about his daughter, he’d have been told her name. But he hadn’t even cared enough to view her in the nursery. He hadn’t even cared enough to look at her birth certificate. If he had, he’d have seen that her mother’s name was Holland, not Pennington. He’d have seen that he hadn’t been named as the father. But he hadn’t cared enough to look. He’d dumped a check for five thousand dollars on her mother’s bed and walked away. And his daughter had grown up a complete stranger to him. And he to her. Until now. She felt a shock of pain so sharp that she stopped cold, not moving. She felt suddenly open and raw, and fought it with all her strength. She turned and smiled at her father.

The house was cool, airy, and spacious, all glass that gave onto breathtaking views of the Olympic swimming pool, impossibly colorful gardens, lush green arbors, and the spectacular mountain range that backed right up to the property. There were fresh cut flowers on every surface, bringing the sweet, heady scents indoors.

The furnishings were homey, a mélange of brightly painted southwestern chests, armoires, low tables, and white wicker love seats and chairs, nothing of great value except the collection of Egyptian jewelry in glass cases throughout the large living room.

Rafaella knew all about Dominick’s collection from her mother’s journal. There’d even been a photo taken in London, just outside Sotheby’s in 1991.
He’s collected—probably stolen—many beautiful pieces, all Eighteenth Dynasty. I’ve read that this period was overly ornate, in downright bad taste even, but some of the pictures I’ve seen of items show that they’re incredibly beautiful. I should love to hold that translucent
green glass goblet, the legitimate one he bought at Sotheby’s for a phenomenal sum. Perhaps I’ll see it, Rafaella. Perhaps…

Rafaella was offered a seat and a glass of white wine.

She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off her father. Her
father.

He realized she was staring at him and gave her a crooked smile. “Does something bother you, Rafaella? Perhaps you’d like a sweeter wine?”

“Oh, no, the wine is perfect. It’s just that I’ve wanted to meet you for such a long time.”

“It’s like I told you, Dom,” Coco said. “Rafaella knows everything about you and me. She has so many press clippings and photos, even one taken by the paparazzi in St. Nicholas. Do you remember? I was telling her about visiting that Venetian fortress, Spinalonga, that became a leper colony—”

He interrupted her easily, without noticeable insult, his voice as smooth as the wine she sipped. “My Coco is a history buff. Just how long have I been of such interest to you?”

She met his eyes. “Not long, really. But once a subject catches my interest, I tend to go all-out. Just as I did with Louis Rameau.”

Why couldn’t he see the resemblance? Why couldn’t he see it, damn him? Was this what her mother felt? Disbelief? Deep, deep pain that she was a complete stranger, of no account at all to him? For a moment Rafaella couldn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend, that he, her father, didn’t recognize himself in her. If he knew her mother was lying near death in a coma, what would he say, what would he feel? Nothing, probably. He didn’t care, probably didn’t even remember, after twenty-five years.

“Ah, come here, DeLorio, I have a surprise for you.”

Rafaella looked about and saw a young man about
her own age come into the living room. He was dressed in pale green linen slacks and a white polo shirt with a thick gold chain around his neck. He looked like a mongrel, albeit a well-dressed mongrel. He looked like a work-muscled peasant to his father’s aristocrat. He didn’t look like his father’s son, didn’t look like her half-brother.

He was compact, athletic-looking—not a long-legged runner, but a wrestler, all muscle and thick neck and thicker thighs. Rafaella couldn’t believe she was looking at her half-brother.

“My son, Rafaella. DeLorio Giovanni. DeLorio, this is Rafaella Holland.”

“This is an unexpected surprise.” DeLorio smiled at her, and even his smile was unlike his father’s. It was predatory and sexual, as if every woman he met was weighed, a value placed on her body, and then assessed as to her compatibility in bed. It was the look of a predator sniffing at its next kill. He stared at her breasts, then at her crotch, finally looked into her face, but only briefly. Her chin went up automatically.

Rafaella didn’t rise, waiting for him to come to her, which he did. He shook her offered hand, holding it longer than necessary. She wished she could tell him to go shove it, that she was his half-sister, for heaven’s sake.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your name is interesting, DeLorio.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Dominick answered for his son. “It was my mother’s maiden name—her family was from Milano.”

“Where’s Paula?” Coco asked.

DeLorio shrugged. “Soon.”

Rafaella watched him walk to the bar and pour himself a Glenlivet, straight up.

“Hello, all,” said Paula, sweeping into the living room. It was a marvelous entrance and Rafaella smiled, wishing she could applaud. She knew a bit
about Paula Marsden Giovanni. She was twenty-four years old and hailed from old money. Marsden Iron and Steel of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She was spoiled, selfish, quite pretty, and man-mad, according to the most recent clippings in Rafaella’s mother’s journal. Paula had pale blond hair and hazel eyes, a very nice combination, distorted a bit by the sullen mouth. She had a nice body, a tan that made Rafaella want to tell her to be careful of the Caribbean sun, it would make her a wrinkled mess by the time she was forty.

“My dear. Come and meet Miss Rafaella Holland. Our guest for dinner—”

“And possibly Dom’s biographer, Paula,” Coco added, raising an eyebrow at Dominick.

Paula looked at Rafaella Holland and forced a smile. Then she looked at DeLorio and saw that he was staring fixedly at the woman. So she had nice hair and an okay face, so what? The so what, Paula knew, was that DeLorio would pursue anything female for the sheer pleasure of catching and subduing his prey. Violently, if need be and if it pleased him.

“Well, how very nice,” Paula said. “I trust Dukey is cooking something edible, for once, since we’re so very privileged to have Miss Holland here.”

“Dukey is my chef,” Dominick said mildly, sipping from his wineglass. “And an excellent cook.”

Another man appeared in the doorway. He was tall, wiry, with a thick mess of white hair—premature white hair, Rafaella quickly saw, given the youthfulness of his face. He wasn’t above forty and he was black. One of the few natives left on the island?

“Marcus is here, Mr. Giovanni.”

“Excellent. Please tell Dukey that we’ll eat in fifteen minutes. Thank you, Jiggs.”

Rafaella wondered how many men Dominick had in his employ. She’d have to find out. Her mother mentioned in her journal seeing half a dozen. But Rafaella could hardly count on that being accurate. Surprisingly,
she hadn’t spotted any armed men when the helicopter had come down.

“I beat DeLorio at tennis,” Paula said. “Two out of three sets.”

DeLorio grunted and poured himself another Glenlivet.

“You must be a fine player,” Rafaella said.

Paula laughed. “Not really. DeLorio’s attention was wandering again. But it—his attention—always comes back to me.”

DeLorio smiled at his wife’s remark, and his eyes, so cold moments before, were now filled with warmth. Dark eyes, unlike hers, unlike her father’s. Dominick said to Rafaella, “Would you like to see my collection after dinner?”

“Yes, certainly I would, particularly the carved alabaster head of Nefertiti I’ve heard you have.”

He suddenly looked sympathetic and approachable, his entire face softening. He looked human, very human, as he sat forward, smiling. “Nefertiti, huh? That’s what you’ve heard? It could be any of the princesses, my dear. For example, Sumenkhkare. Have you heard of her?”

Rafaella shook her head. “But it is of Nefertiti, isn’t it?”

Dominick just smiled, saying no more, but the warmth was still there, his excitement over his collection. He didn’t look like a criminal.

Marcus came in, a breath of fresh air, Rafaella was forced to admit. He wasn’t wearing a suit, just white slacks and a short-sleeved pullover of pale blue, like DeLorio. He looked fit and strong and full of good humor. He looked uncomplicated and clean-cut. She frowned at herself. He
did
have secrets—she felt it in her very reliable gut—but somehow she didn’t think Marcus’s secrets were evil or terrifying. He searched her out and winked broadly.

“When does the party begin, Dominick? Has Ms. Holland told you how she slammed me in the shoulder with a karate kick, then landed squarely on top of my poor abused body when the first bullet went over?”

“No, she’s very modest. I know only what you told me. He was that easily vanquished, Rafaella?” Dominick turned the full force of his charm on her and Rafaella felt herself leaning into him, wanting his vitality, his interest, wanting the excitement he’d shown her when speaking of his Egyptian collection.

“I caught him by surprise,” she said, astonishing herself by her reflex to protect his fragile male ego, not, she thought, that he’d care.

“Other things on his mind, no doubt,” DeLorio said, staring at Rafaella, and everyone in the room knew precisely what he meant.

“That’s not the half of it,” Marcus said, grinned toward Rafaella, and gave her another wink. Then he immediately turned serious. “We’ve found out nothing about the sniper who took potshots at Ms. Holland and me last night. Not a blasted thing.”

“I didn’t really think you would,” Dominick said with a frown.

“Where’s Merkel?” Rafaella asked, changing the subject, suddenly afraid that Marcus would go on to tell them all in the blandest of voices how he’d stripped her naked—before she’d even gotten inside the front door of his villa—and caressed her and kissed her. He wouldn’t, would he? She hoped he’d just keep worrying about those shots. She was tired of worrying about him. She felt herself slipping again, and fought to clear her mind.

“Merkel sometimes doesn’t eat with the family.”

This from Paula, who was looking at Marcus. Rafaella thought of the old song “Hungry Eyes.”

“He was very informative on our ride over.”

“He’s a stupid servant,” Paula said. “We don’t eat
with the help—at least we shouldn’t. I never did at home. My mother didn’t allow it.”

“Paula, that’s enough. There’s no place for snobbery at my table. Ah, here’s Jiggs. Rafaella, may I escort you into the dining room?”

The table was long enough for twelve people, a chandelier hanging over it, with high-backed brocade covered chairs. On the table there was a huge glass bowl filled with fresh fruit, several platters of broiled yellowtail snapper seasoned with lemon and butter, individual fresh green salads, and fresh baked rolls.

Maria, the serving maid, poured a light chardonnay into everyone’s glass, then at a nod from Coco left the dining room, Jiggs beside her.

“Now, everyone,” Dominick said, looking at each of them in turn, “what do you think about Miss Rafaella Holland writing my biography?”

Marcus leaned forward and said, “I wouldn’t let her near me with a pen or a computer.” He added to Rafaella, “No offense intended.”

“I don’t want to get near you, Mr. Devlin, not with a pen, not with a computer. Perhaps with a muzzle or a leash.”