Impulse (11 page)

She was here, so close to him, and it was the beginning for her. She had a plan that she’d thought about
and examined and thought about some more. It would work. She simply had to keep her focus, keep her edge, and not let anything distract her. She felt the familiar mingling of fear and anticipation, making her heart pound and her breathing shallow.

Giovanni’s Island
March 2001

Rafaella ate another tart grapefruit slice. Her lips puckered and she quickly downed the remainder of her coffee.

She was seated for breakfast on one of the four outdoor patios, this one latticed overhead by bright red and purple bougainvillea to protect against the sun. She was facing one of the swimming pools shaped like Italy, down to the boot, which was the hot tub.

There were only a half-dozen or so guests breakfasting outside at eight-thirty in the morning. The weather, as usual, was in the low seventies at this hour, the sky perfectly clear, despite the fact that every morning about eleven o’clock there would be a heavy downpour that would last for some twenty-five minutes and then the sun would shine blindingly again and everything would continue as if nothing had happened.

She studied the guests as she ate slowly. The beautiful people did appear different from their mortal counterparts. They were, on the average, more slender, more fit, more evenly tanned, and what was astounding was that even those in their forties and fifties bore no sun wrinkles on their faces. Not a ripple of cellulite on any female thigh. However did they manage it?

The men looked wonderful in their white tennis shorts and knit shirts, and the women—their legs long and sleek—wore Lagerfeld hand-painted silk coverups, Armani trousers, Valentino organza madras, and Tantri sandals: at least those were the designers she recognized from her three-day crash course in the latest hot fashions.

They looked pampered and flawless. She overheard a conversation next to her between a man in his fifties and a young woman who couldn’t have been older than Rafaella. Initial impressions had told her father and daughter.

Boy, was she naive. They were lovers, and the young woman, very blatant about it, laid her hand in his lap, turned it downward, and molded his penis with her fingers. Rafaella stared.

“More coffee?”

Rafaella jumped. The waitress was standing beside her, an amused twinkle in her eyes. “Er, yes, thank you.”

“They look much sweeter than they really are, don’t they?”

“What? Who?”

“Your grapefruit,” said the waitress.

“Oh, certainly. I feel very stupid.”

“I did too when I first got here. This is a playhouse. Don’t think it’s sexist, because it isn’t. You’ll see very mature ladies with hunks you wouldn’t believe. Well, I hope you enjoy yourself. You should, you know. This is a wonderful place.”

“I hope so too,” Rafaella said. The waitress was beautiful enough to be a model. Speaking of which, hopefully today she would finally make contact with Coco Vivrieux, Dominick Giovanni’s French mistress and former model.

Rafaella left the lanai and wandered through the lush colorful grounds. The place was almost more than the senses could take. So much color, and foliage and
flowers so abundant. She’d counted twenty-one different gardeners. They seemed to blend into the greenery and they worked very quietly. Acres and acres of beautiful gardens, none of them rigidly manicured like Charles Rutledge’s English gardens.

There were golf courses, tennis courts, three swimming pools, plus, of course, the beautiful Caribbean splashing up onto white-sand beaches. The island was shaped like the upper northwestern chunk of San Francisco and was only about three square miles. Antigua was to the east and some guests flew into St. John’s. The resort took up the east side, the Giovanni compound the west side. It was paradise, no doubt about that, and it was only for very, very rich people—and her father.

Rafaella supposed she fit in well enough. Her trust fund was substantial, her stepfather was one of the richest men on the east coast, and she did recognize a Givenchy dress when she saw one.

She returned to her villa, a miniature Mediterranean, all whitewashed walls, arched doorways, and red-tiled roof. It was surrounded by frangipani and hibiscus, all yellows and pinks. She had complete privacy. The interior furnishings were late baroque, heavily ornamented Louis XVI, the floors hardwood with Kashmir wool and silk carpets as throws.

Almost too much, Rafaella thought as she turned the gold-plated faucet of her washbowl, a hand-painted porcelain bowl from Spain.

She allowed herself another hour of decadent appreciation, then got herself into gear. She went for a workout in the gym.

What a gym, she thought, eyeing the newest of Nautilus equipment. She changed into the designer leotards a friendly young woman gave her, a woman who had pink hair with a wild yellow stripe and said, “Hey, call me Punk! I’ll show you everything. You don’t
look like you need much help, though. You’re already there. But any questions, just holler.”

The leotard was pale blue with matching tights. Rafaella didn’t bother with the leg warmers, which she’d always considered an affectation, particularly if one were in the Caribbean. She’d wondered where the natives were, if indeed there were any on this private island, and finally saw three or four local black women who appeared to be in charge of the guests’ dressing rooms. They were handsome women, silent and discreet, and Rafaella wondered what they thought of this outrageous place.

She took herself to the soft-as-butter leather floor mat and began her workout. As she stretched, she checked out every person there—men and women. Most were friendly, particularly the men. She met a half-dozen within thirty minutes.

She was doing leg lifts when she saw him again.

It was the same man who’d stopped early this morning on the beach and been nice to her, a stupid weeping woman. He was speaking to Punk; then he laughed, worked his shoulder a bit, and sauntered off to the men’s dressing room.

When he came out, he was wearing shorts, sneakers, and a white T-shirt. She could see an elastic bandage around his chest and over his shoulder beneath the soft white material. She hadn’t noticed the bandage earlier.

He was built very well. In his early thirties, she guessed, hair black as sin, and eyes a deep blue. Yes, he was very well-built, with muscular thighs, just what she liked. A man to whom fitness was important and always would be. He had a strong face, a hard face, a face that promised both character and secrets. He was a man who would be noticed and remembered.

He looked around and saw her. Rafaella nodded, then did another leg lift.

Marcus strolled over to her. “Good morning,” he
said, and stuck out his hand. “I didn’t introduce myself this morning. My name’s Marcus Devlin.”

His smile was nice too. “My name’s Rafaella Holland.”

“You just get here?”

“Yes, yesterday afternoon. From Boston. I can’t tell you what it’s like to wear no clothes and still be warm. The weather back home is—”

“Yes, I know. I was in Boston last month. Sure, and even my toenails were cold.”

She grinned. “You’re Irish.”

“As I tell folk, I’m half Irish and half South Chicagoan.”

“I thought South Chicago was primarily black.”

“It is. And I’m more Catholic than the pope.”

“Then why in the name of the pope are you here?”

“You don’t like it? The freedom to do about anything you please? It would seem to me that a lovely young woman could enjoy herself immensely here.”

“If my mother knew I was here, she’d probably turn Catholic and pray every hour on the hour for my lost self and soul. Why, just this morning, you wouldn’t believe what I saw, and—”

A black eyebrow went up. He looked amused, and was waiting for her to finish, but she didn’t.

“Yes? You were saying?”

“Nothing more than two people enjoying their freedom. What an interesting way to phrase it. It was just that one of them was old enough to be the other one’s father. Sorry, I must sound like a Victorian spinster, which I’m really not. Excuse me, I’ve got to do twenty more leg lifts.”

Marcus recognized a dismissal when he heard it. It surprised him because he wasn’t used to being dismissed, particularly by women, particularly by young women who were very rich and used to getting what they wanted when they wanted it. He almost laughed at his sudden attack of ego, but contented himself by
walking away from her with merely a nod to her over his shoulder.

Rafaella wondered at her sudden collapse of restraint. She’d nearly talked the man’s ear off, and she didn’t have any idea who or what he was. It would be just her luck if he were one of the male playmates.

“Who is that man?” she asked Punk when she came over to help Rafaella reset the weights on the Nautilus.

“Who? Oh, Marcus. Isn’t he a hunk? Oh, drat the man, I told him not to overdo it, and there he goes again!”

“You mean—I can see the bandage underneath his T-shirt. What happened to him?”

“I don’t know exactly. Dr. Haymes—he’s the resort doctor—he said something about Marcus getting hurt on some machinery over at the compound. But now Marcus is trying to get all his strength back in a week. Excuse me, I want to go chew on his ear.”

“But who is he?” Rafaella said to herself, watching Punk walk to the man and pull on his arm.

The compound. It had to be Dominick Giovanni’s compound.

Was the man a crook? Was he one of her father’s men?

“You need some more help?”

Punk again, hovering, her words meant for Rafaella but her eye roving over the men who were grunting with varying degrees of pain through their routines.

“Marcus seems like a nice man.”

That got Punk’s attention, and she looked Rafaella over closely. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, honey, but you’re really not his type. It doesn’t matter how rich you are, either. He doesn’t play around much, and when he does, it’s with petite brunettes. I wonder if he had a wife who was black-haired and little, and—she left him or she died, or something—”

“Dramatic?”

Punk laughed and shrugged. “Yeah. You know, even I’ve tried, but he just isn’t interested. He says a guy should never dip his quill in company ink. He also says I’m too young for him. He says he sees me only as an uncle would. He works much too hard. Pity, I bet I could make him very happy. Look over there—that guy’s from Argentina and he’s got the yummiest accent, and from what I’ve heard, he knows just what to do in the sack. Callie—she’s Marcus’s secretary—well, she told me he has the nicest fingers and—” Punk shuddered.

Rafaella wanted to say something to that, but she kept her mouth shut. Punk was a veritable fount of information and should get past the sex soon.

Unfortunately Rafaella couldn’t get Punk off the Argentinian’s sexual prowess, so she merely nodded at appropriate intervals. Finally another woman hailed Punk and she left.

Rafaella’s workout came to an abrupt halt when an older woman—an incredibly beautiful woman with shoulder-length ash-blond hair—walked into the gym. She saw Marcus and quickened her pace over to him. She touched his shoulder and began speaking to him.

He stopped and spoke to her. He put his hand on her arm as if he were reassuring her about something. Then he turned, spoke briefly to Punk, and disappeared into the men’s dressing room.

The older woman—Rafaella mentally deleted the adjective—the woman was mid-thirties, exquisitely fashioned by a very kind set of genes, with high slashing cheekbones, giving her a nearly Tartar look, a wide mouth, and arched eyebrows over the greenest eyes in nature. Rafaella looked more closely. Her heart speeded up.

The woman was Coco Vivrieux, Dominick Giovanni’s mistress. She was far more compelling than her photographs, which was odd, because models seemed to make it to the top because they weren’t
necessarily gorgeous, just very photogenic. Rafaella couldn’t believe her luck. Slowly, her mind racing, she strolled over to where the woman was waiting, drumming very long fingernails on the back of an Air-Dyne bike.

“Excuse me. I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but aren’t you Coco?”

Coco nodded, distracted, wishing the sweating woman would leave her alone.

“I’ve admired you forever, it seems. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Coco decided on the spot that this sweating woman wasn’t to be dismissed so lightly. She seemed quite a good sort. “You’re very kind to say so, Miss—”

“Holland. Rafaella Holland.” She stuck out her hand, and Coco, after looking at it for the barest instant, shook it.

“I can’t believe how lucky I am to finally meet you. Are you a guest here at the resort, Coco?”

“No, I live here, on the western side of the island. You’re a guest?”

Rafaella made a decision and shook her head. “Yes and no. I really came here to—”

“Who’s this, Coco?”

It was Marcus Devlin. He didn’t sound very friendly now. He sounded suspicious.

“This is Miss Holland, Marcus. She’s one of your guests.”

Marcus looked her over slowly. He’d assumed she was a guest, and here she was bothering Coco. What the hell did she want with Coco? He said, “She and I met at dawn today, as a matter of fact, and again over leg lifts just a minute ago.”

“I’m a runner, just like Mr. Devlin.” What did these two have to do with each other? Rafaella wondered. She decided to strike first at Devlin, because she’d heard the suspicion in his voice, seen the blatant distrust in his eyes when he’d looked at her again. She’d
learned that if you took a man down, he tended to show his true colors very quickly. And she wanted to know who he was now. “Are you the tennis pro? The golf pro? Or just a pro?”

There was challenge and disdain in her voice, and Marcus realized she thought he was one of the resort studs, here to screw her eyes out for a goodly sum of money. In her case, not much money at all, if any. She could have all the men she wanted free of charge. Why the attack? He hadn’t really provoked it. He smiled, and, for the moment, said nothing.

Coco, surprised, opened her mouth, but Marcus forestalled her then, saying easily, “I’m
the
pro, I guess you could say, Miss Holland. Or, in addition to going braless, do you also go by Ms.?”