Impulse (35 page)

“Boy, I didn’t realize I was so tired. How long did I sleep?”

“About an hour and a half. You were upset. I’m sorry for that, Rafaella.”

“You’re very kind. I really was out for that long? Goodness, you checked me in and dragged me onto the plane?”

“Yes.” He lifted his left hand and pushed her hair out of her face. He smiled. “Do you know that it’s dangerous to do any kind of martial arts on an airplane that’s thirty-three thousand feet in the air?”

“I guess so.”

“So you wouldn’t?”

“No. Unless there was a hijacker or something. That’s a crazy question. Why do you ask me that?”

“The bottom line is, Ms. Holland, I outfoxed you.”

“What?”

“That phone call was a fake. I’m sorry about scaring you like that, but I couldn’t think of anything else to make you move off that damned island.”

“My mother isn’t dying?”

“No. I talked Dr. Haymes, our resort physician, into scamming you. He wanted me to apologize to you for doing it. Your mother is fine. In fact, she woke up for a few seconds yesterday.”

Her mother wasn’t dying. She’d been so afraid, felt so guilty because she’d been off tilting at windmills when her mother was lying in that wretched bed in that wretched hospital and she hadn’t been there beside her, and now, to find out it had all been a lie. A rotten lie because Marcus had wanted her off the island. She no longer felt numb from sleep. She no longer felt numb from guilt. “What did you put in my coffee?”

“The proverbial mickey. You’re very responsive to
the stuff. Of course, since I’ve known you, you’ve always been responsive. Oh, by the way, we’re going to London, not New York.”

It was always better to keep one’s mouth shut until one understood the situation fully. That’s what Al Holbein had always preached to his reporters. Rafaella tried, she truly did, but it was harder than she imagined.

“Tell me why,” she managed, her mouth dry with relief that her mother was okay, drier with fury at what he’d done. “Tell me now or I’ll send you through that six-by-twelve-inch window.”

“I love it when you talk tough and mean.”

“Marcus—”

“All right. Are you feeling sharp enough, or do you want some untampered-with coffee?”

Before she could tell him what she really wanted, a flight attendant, a chirpy grandmotherly woman, sharp in her British Airways uniform, said, “You’re awake. Your husband said you’d had a hard night. One of your children was ill?”

“Yes,” Marcus said. “Little Jennifer. An earache.”

“Oh, earaches are the dickens, aren’t they? My two boys were plagued with them until they were nearly in the first grade. Your little girl’s all right now?”

Marcus said easily and quickly, “She’s just fine, and with her grandmother, as well as Rory and David, her brothers.”

“It sounds like you have a wonderful family. Would you like something to drink? Champagne? Juice?”

Rafaella ordered a huge glass of water for her dry mouth. She just waited, saying nothing to the man beside her until she had her water. It was tempting to throw it in his face, but she drank it instead.

“Your eyes look positively vicious.”

“Little Jennifer? Rory? David? For heaven’s sake, I’m only twenty-six. And just barely that!”

“You’re precocious. As was I, of course.”

“That six-by-twelve-inch window is looking like the best idea I’ve had in a very long time.”

“Good. You’re much better now. Are you ready to listen? Here’s what’s going to happen, Ms. Holland.”

“My name is Rafaella, and if you call me Ms. Holland in that snide, patronizing voice again, I’ll knee you until you’re singing soprano at St. Pat’s.”

“Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your—”

“Don’t finish that thought. Sex I can live without, and that’s all you are. A sexual diversion. I told you once, I don’t trust good-looking men. My gut was accurate as usual. All right, tell me what you’ve gotten me into.”

“But you keep interrupting.”

“Sometimes it’s difficult to get in a word edgewise with the noisy children. And of course Jennifer and David and Rory are little devils. One forgets when they’re not around. I won’t say another word.”

“I had to leave the island, but I didn’t want you to be there without me. It’s too dangerous—no, keep quiet, you promised. I decided I had to go
Bathsheba
hunting, no choice now. I wanted you gone, but I knew you wouldn’t leave because you’re obstinate, inflexible as hell, and you have this thing about writing Dominick’s biography that I don’t understand. I knew I couldn’t trust you not to get into more trouble if I left you on the island, so here you are.”

“Here I am,” she repeated slowly. “You took this all upon yourself—you decided to make all the decisions—”

“Okay. Serious, now.” And he was, all amusement gone from his face. “Yes, I’ve made these decisions. You’re coming with me. I figure this is dangerous, but not as dangerous as leaving you by yourself on the compound, at the mercy of an unidentified maniac.”

“We’re going to find the man or the organization behind the assassination attempt on Dominick?”

“Right. I’ve got to. Dominick can’t resume his
business activities until it’s all over and done with. He’s got to resume it, you know, and I can’t afford to wait any longer.”

“One way or the other.”

“Exactly.”

“That sounds suspiciously mysterious. What do you mean, ‘exactly’?”

“Nothing. Just—”

“I know. Be patient. Trust you. Trust the man who faked a call from my mother, scaring the wits out of me, trust the man who spiked my coffee and put me on a plane to London, of all places. Why London?”

“Good, the reporter’s back. London because that’s where Roddy Olivier is at present. Isn’t this a kick—his middle name is Masada. Anyway, he’s our only lead. Jack Bertrand was working for him at the time of his untimely demise in Marseilles. Olivier’s very civilized, he knows everything that’s going on in the international community, and he’s not just amoral like Dominick. He’s very dangerous, and he’s evil—flat-out evil. We have to be very careful.”

“I’ve been careful before, in tough situations.”

“I know. That’s the only reason I thought I could pull this off. But one thing, Rafaella. There can be only one boss here, and it’s me. Anything happens, anything comes up, and you do what I tell you to—immediately—none of your infernal questioning. You got that?”

“What makes you think I won’t take the first flight back to Miami from Heathrow?”

He’d considered that, she could tell by his expression—part worry, part weary resignation. “Don’t. You weren’t really worried about DeLorio and his clumsy attempts to get in your panties. Well, Rafaella, worry about Dominick. He saw you as nothing more than a bright girl who seemed like she could be put to good use. His vanity is enormous, and what more could he ask for than a lovely female wanting to write his
biography? Actually, writing what he tells her to write. But face and accept this as well: he wants you in his bed, no matter your other uses to him.”

The thought of her father attempting seduction—She’d considered it before—DeLorio had said it—but not all that seriously, and it was strange in the extreme to hear it from Marcus.

“You still don’t believe me. All right, I remember asking him, wasn’t he worried that you could be hurt—this was after that assassination attempt. He told me you were only a woman, after all, so who cared when it came right down to it? Women are expendable to him. I wish you’d believe me.”

“I believe you.”

“Just like that?” He looked as if he couldn’t take it in that she’d capitulated so quickly.

“Hardly ‘just like that.’ I believe you,” she said again. “All right. I’ll stay with you for a while.”

Marcus wondered what “for a while” meant.

“You said Dominick’s vanity is enormous; it’s also obvious that you don’t like him. In fact, I’d say you’re close to feeling like he’s scum and dirt. Why, then, are you risking everything to find the group who tried to kill him?
Still
trying to kill him, for that matter.”

“Good question.”

“You got an answer?”

Marcus’s agile brain failed him. He just looked at her. Her lipstick was long gone, her mascara had smeared beneath her eyes, her hair was hanging over her right eye, and he was so afraid she might not be safe with him that it made him mute.

“I know,” she said, poking him in the ribs. “Trust you. Have patience. Make love to you in the swimming pool, ankle-deep in the Caribbean, on your front lawn—”

“I wasn’t all involved that time, if you’ll recall.”

Rafaella looked out the small window. “Do you think we’ve reached our cruising altitude yet? Usually
it’s over forty thousand feet to Europe. It’s a long way down.”

“You know, you might consider quality rather than quantity. For example, just the other night you—”

She held up her hand. “You win. I’m retreating. And since I have no choice but to trust you, I’ll pretend that I do. The truth, you know, Marcus, might not be too bad.”

“Sometimes the truth is the very devil.”

When he was right, he was right, Rafaella thought. She fell asleep three minutes later, and the grandmotherly flight attendant just clucked as she viewed the beautiful rare sirloin steak that had to go back to the galley.

Giovanni’s Island
April 2001

Dominick let out a yell, and Merkel, terrified, dashed into the library, coming to a stunned halt. Dominick was seated behind his desk, and in his hand he was still holding the phone. It was buzzing loudly. He let out another whoop for Merkel’s benefit, then waved him to a chair. “I can’t bloody well believe it,” Dominick said, and Merkel wondered for a moment if the strain had been too much and Mr. Giovanni had gone berserk.

“No, it’s the best news I’ve had in more years than I can count.” He beamed at Merkel.

Merkel was dying to ask what had made Mr. Giovanni so happy, but he knew better. Mr. Giovanni never liked to be questioned. Merkel waited.

Dominick clapped his hands, threw back his head, and laughed deeply, showing a molar that needed to be capped. “Pour each of us some champagne, Merkel. Don’t stint. Get the best stuff we’ve got. We’ve got some celebrating to do. My dear father-in-law, that interfering old bastard, Carlo Carlucci, is dead. He’s finally dead.
Dead!
In his bed, of heart failure. I hope he rots in hell. You can’t imagine, Merkel, you can’t believe—I was beginning to think he’d live forever.”

Then Dominick laughed yet again, a deep, rich laugh that made Merkel smile even though his skin crawled at the same time.

“Dead! The old fool’s dead. Dead. Get the champagne.”

When Merkel returned to the library carrying a silver tray with champagne and fine crystal flutes, Dominick was standing by the wide French windows, looking out.

“Here, sir.”

Dominick turned slowly, and the look in his pale blue eyes was frightening as hell itself. “I’m free now, Merkel, or I soon will be,” he said very softly. “Free. After all these years, I’ll be free of my drunken, unfaithful wife.”

Merkel carefully poured the champagne and handed the flute to Dominick.

“Pour yourself a glass, Merkel. Quickly, man.”

After they’d drunk two glasses, Dominick said, “Send Lacy to me. Tell him I’ve got a wonderful job for him.”

That evening at dinner, Dominick announced that he and Lacy were flying to Chicago on Thursday to attend his father-in-law’s funeral. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Dominick said. “Besides, I think my wonderful wife just might be there as well. It’s been years. Years since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing her.”

“Mother would be at the funeral,” DeLorio said thoughtfully. “I think I’ll come as well, Father. I haven’t seen her for a long, long time.”

Dominick looked startled, then smiled, shaking his head. “No, my boy, you’re needed here on the compound. Both heads can’t leave the body, DeLorio. No, you stay here and I’ll attend to this unpleasant business.” He paused a moment and smiled toward Paula. “You keep Coco company, my dear girl. You understand?”

The threat hung implicit in the silence. Merkel knew the threat was very real, and he hoped that Paula realized it too. She did. She was alarmingly pale. DeLorio was frowning at his father, and Merkel didn’t like the look on his face, his very young face that didn’t look young at all at times.

“How long will you be gone?” DeLorio asked.

“Just three or four days.”

“You must be careful,” Coco said, leaning forward, her hand on his forearm. “It’s dangerous for you away from the island.”

“I know. Lacy will be with me, won’t you, Frank?

He’ll keep any bad guys at a goodly distance.” Dominick laughed again, and continued laughing even as he dipped some lobster in hot butter and chewed on it.

Late that night, just as the downstairs grandfather clock struck twelve times, Dominick was saying very slowly to his son, “No drugs, DeLorio. I’ve told you this more times than I care to count.
No drugs.
I won’t get involved with the Colombians or the Cubans or the trash from Miami. Never. I’d have to do more than burn your money if you tried it again. You got that, kid?”

“I don’t see the difference. Death by illegal weapons or death by drugs. The suckers are dead either way.”

“No drugs. Since when do I have to explain things to you? You’ll obey me and forget about this. Trust me, DeLorio.”

“The money—there’s so much money, and the damned DEA, they don’t have enough people to check even a tiny fraction of incoming boats and planes. It’s so easy, and I’ve already been contacted, in fact I’ve already—”

“No drugs. You try anything, you try going against me, kid, and I’ll cut your balls off.”

DeLorio stared at him, mute.

Dominick ruffled his son’s hair. “You’re a good boy, DeLorio. You’re not like your mother. Don’t blow it.”

Hicksville, New York
April 2001

Sylvia Carlucci Giovanni wasn’t drunk. She hadn’t had a drink since that awful night when her beautiful
young Tommy Ibsen had been high on cocaine and had struck that woman—that poor woman who was still in a coma in the hospital. She could still see Tommy’s white face as he told her what he’d done, how he’d been singing as he drove, and he’d been feeling so wild, so powerful, and then suddenly there was this BMW driving just down the road, and he’d hit it, straight into the driver’s side. He could still see the woman’s face—her surprise, her utter astonishment, her terror. And he’d thought somehow that she’d known him, but he didn’t recognize her at all. The woman had known she was going to be hit, hard. It was as if, as she’d stared at him, she’d somehow accepted the fact that she would die.