From Barcelona, with Love (2 page)

They had been apart too much these last few months but were now as passionate about each other as ever, though Sunny still maintained it was Mac's PI work—and his inability to ignore a ringing phone that they both knew usually meant “trouble”—that had caused the rift. As well as Mac's calling off the wedding, one more time, due to “work,” of course, and that's when Sunny had run off to Monte Carlo. But Mac wasn't about to bring that up now. They would simply drink their champagne and make a toast to “true love.”

Mac had been sorting out other people's lives for a lot of years now. He had a sixth sense for “trouble” and a double-six for bad guys, no matter how charming and plausible they might appear. In the past few years, as well as his PI “day job,” he had become TV's super-detective, with his own show,
Mac Reilly's Malibu Mysteries,
appearing on your screens Thursday nights in real-life docu-drama style, reinvestigating old Hollywood crimes, with Mac looking extra-cool in jeans and the black leather Dolce & Gabbana jacket Sunny had bought him and that had somehow become his trademark. It was typical of Mac that when Sunny told him the designers' names he had no idea what she meant. “Dolce” sounded like Italian ice cream to him. And after all, he was more usually to be found in shorts and T-shirt hiking up Malibu Road to the supermarket, or breakfasting in Coogie's, than decked out in black leather.

Anyhow, the show had brought him unexpected fame, though of course it was all relative, but the money was good, which had made a change.

So, there Mac and Pirate were, that glowing sunset evening, with Sunny in the kitchen fixing something to go with the celebratory champagne, when he saw the child again, walking along the otherwise empty beach. In fact it was Pirate who spotted her first. He was up on his feet—all three of them—in an instant, pointing like a hunt dog ready to retrieve.

The girl was maybe eight or nine years old, whippet-thin, wearing clumsy black granny boots, clomping along at the edge of the waves. It wasn't the first time Mac had seen her; she'd taken to walking by his place several times a day for the past week, always in the same gray hoodie, always with the hood partially covering her face, and always alone. And she always slowed down opposite his house, casting quick sideways glances his way before hurrying on.

Sunny had noticed her too. “She's probably just starstruck and wants your autograph,” she'd said.

But Mac didn't think so. There was just something about this child, something in the stoop of her thin shoulders, the sheer vulnerability of her sticklike legs and the huge shadowy eyes that spelled trouble. Watching her now, coming down the beach one more time, he wondered what was up.

Sunny caught sight of her too, from the open sliding doors leading from the kitchen onto the deck. Not that she was really thinking about the child, she just sort of took in her presence in a passing glance. The sun was going down and Sunny was already in her pajamas, cream satin boy-shorts and a cami with taupe lace over the appropriate bits, plus she had on her tall black sheepskin Ugg boots, her favorite softies. A girl needed to keep her feet warm on these cool Malibu nights.

It was only six thirty but Sunny had felt like an early start to love and life tonight, with a little grilled cheese sandwich because all she could find in Mac's fridge was an ancient lump of Monterey Jack. Still, along with the fizz and “just a little lovin'” as Dusty Springfield so wisely put it on the CD wafting from the tiny living room, it should be a wonderful night.

Looking at Sunny, you would never think she was a great cook—which she certainly was. Nor would you take her for a Wharton School of Business graduate and owner of her own PR company, which she also was, though you might have caught a glimpse of her former wild-child days if you ever saw her tearing down Pacific Coast Highway on her Harley, hair streaming from under her helmet, and her Chihuahua, Tesoro—the “fiend on four paws” Mac called her—tucked into the saddlebag.

Sunny was a golden-limbed Latina with a fall of long black hair Mac once told her, romantically he'd thought, was as glossy as a Labrador's coat emerging wet from the sea. She had amber eyes under brows that winged up at the sides, a longish slender nose, and a mouth that defied description. Sufficient to say it was generous and infinitely kissable, especially as she always wore a bright red lipstick only she could have gotten away with. And she smelled delightfully of her own warm skin and Guerlain's Mitsouko, a rich old-fashioned scent because, as she always said, at heart she was an old-fashioned girl.

The champagne was already cooling in an ice bucket out on the deck and Sunny grabbed a pair of flutes in one hand and the plate with the sandwich in the other and went to join Mac.

The girl had stopped opposite the house and was skimming pebbles across the waves, which had picked up speed and height and were slamming onto the shore and covering her in spray. She didn't seem to care—or perhaps she didn't notice. She looked small and somehow so alone on that long empty beach, that Sunny was puzzled. Children her age usually ran around in groups, laughing, yelling, pushing each other, there was always movement, noise, laughter, life.

It all happened in a moment. Pirate gave a sudden warning high-pitched whine then hurled himself down the wooden beach stairs, just as the giant wave licked over its own top, unfurled in a green glaze, and came crashing down on the child.

Mac was down those steps in a flash, wading into the swirl, aware of the fierce pull of the sudden riptide, reaching out for the girl with one hand and the struggling dog—her would-be savior—with the other. Kicking powerfully, parallel to the undertow, he dragged them both back to shore, emerging several yards down the beach where he flung himself, spent, onto the sand beyond the next wave's reach.

Sunny was already running to them. She dropped to her knees and began thumping the girl's back, getting her to retch up what seemed like half the Pacific Ocean, while Pirate shook himself all over her cream satin pajamas.

“I'm calling the paramedics,” she said.

“No.” The girl lifted her head, panicked. “No, please don't. My aunt wouldn't like it.”

It crossed Sunny's mind briefly to wonder what kind of aunt would not want to call the paramedics to make sure her niece was not half drowned, but then the girl insisted she really was okay.

On his feet now, Mac stared worriedly down at her. The child's voice was rough from all that choking. The gray hoodie had been ripped off by the wave and she lay exhausted, on her back, arms and legs splayed, looking like a stranded starfish. Her huge chestnut brown eyes were anxious, her pale face was dotted with freckles, and her terrible cropped thatch of carroty-red hair looked as though it had been shredded by a runaway electric razor.

“Thank you.” She spoke at last. “I'm Paloma Ravel,” she added in a small voice, as though, Sunny thought, she was embarrassed to tell them her name. Then Pirate came up and sniffed her, looking anxious too, and Paloma sat up and put her arms round him.

“I love him,” she said, burying her face in his sodden fur. Wet, Pirate resembled the proverbial drowned rat, skinny as the girl, and Sunny wondered if that wasn't one of the reasons Paloma loved him. They looked alike.

“He tried to save me,” Paloma said, kissing Pirate's wet inquiring nose. “I will always love him. You're so lucky … you know, to have a dog like that,” she said, looking up at Mac.

“I know,” he said. “And I know he barked to try to warn you. You're a lucky girl, Paloma Ravel. But, since there seems no need to call for help, you'd better come into the house and let Sunny dry you off before I take you home.” He hauled her to her feet. “I'm Mac Reilly,” he said, looking down at her.

“I know,” Paloma said, blushing as Mac took her hand and walked with her back to the house she had been casing for the past week. It was as if her dream had come true. “Thank you, Mr. Reilly,” she added, remembering her manners and that she was glad to be alive.

 

Chapter 2

Paloma felt strange
actually being
inside
Mac Reilly's house. She had viewed it so often the past few days from the beach and now she was surprised to find it so small. The Malibu house her aunt Jassy rented, a mere half mile away, was enormous compared with this, and even then Jassy had complained, saying beachfront property was always skimpy because of the location and the cost. But looking at Mac's low-slung living room that also acted as dining room and front hall, with the dog-hairy blanket covering the comfy sofa meant for lounging in front of the old-fashioned white brick fireplace, it did occur to Paloma, who'd been brought up rich in whichever of her many lives so far, to wonder if Mac was as successful a detective as she had previously thought.

A small tan-color Chihuahua bared its teeth in a snarl and threw itself across the floor at her, skidding to a stop only inches from her black granny boots, that squelched, waterlogged, as she jumped, about two feet in the air.

“Tesoro!” the beautiful woman who seemed to be Mac Reilly's girlfriend yelled.

Paloma observed the pink heart-shaped diamond ring and decided she must be his fiancée. Lucky her, she thought enviously, though she had never yet, in all her nine years, even thought about having a crush on a boy. But Mac Reilly was different, and besides, he had rescued her from a watery grave and she had gone rapidly from “crush” to “idolizing.” She had read somewhere about watery graves and they did not sound too appetizing; you got all green and puffed up and didn't even look like yourself. If she had really drowned her aunt Jassy probably would not even have recognized her and that would have been annoying.

“Tesoro!” Sunny yelled again, and the dog, who'd been sniffing Paloma's boots suspiciously, retreated backward, keeping a warning growl just behind its teeth. “That's my Chihuahua,” Sunny told the shivering child.

“The fiend on four paws,” Mac explained. “But you don't have to worry, he only bites me.”

Eyes still fastened nervously on the dog, Paloma wondered about that. But then the fiancée, who told her her name was Sunny Alvarez, said it was true and the Chihuahua was only defending its territory because it had a thing about Pirate and the two were always at war.

Paloma noticed Pirate, still lurking outside on the deck, and said anxiously, “Oh, poor, brave Pirate.” Then she looked more closely at the dog and said, astonished, “But why does he have only one eye? And what happened to his other leg?”

“It's a long story,” Mac said. “But don't worry, the Chihuahua didn't do it.”

Paloma silently thanked God for that; but then Tesoro bounced toward her, jumping up and down, gazing adoringly all the while into her eyes.

“How sweet she is.” Paloma bent to pick up the tiny dog but Tesoro didn't like her cold, wet embrace and quickly wiggled away.

“Come on, Paloma Ravel,” Sunny said, putting an arm round her thin shoulders, regardless of the sopping T-shirt. “We've got to get you out of these wet things.”

She showed her to the bathroom, handed her a large towel, then told her to take off her wet clothes and put them in the plastic bag she gave her. She told Paloma to take a hot shower, then dry herself thoroughly,
really
scrubbing with the towel, to get her circulation going again.

“You're looking a bit blue,” she said, still worried, watching as Paloma took off the boots, and handed them to her.

Sunny tipped them upside down over the sink and little rivers of water poured out.

“Will you look at that,” she marveled. “I thought you'd swallowed half the Pacific and now here's the other half.”

She pulled out the sodden gym socks Paloma had stuffed into the toes, and added, surprised, “These boots are
way
too big, you even had to stuff the toes. So, why are you wearing them? Most kids wear flip-flops on the beach,” she added. “In fact, I do myself.”

Paloma felt herself blush again. She turned her face away, wishing she didn't do that. It always revealed her true feelings, which were usually that she was nervous or embarrassed, like now.

“It's … well … the boots are my mother's,” she said. Which was sort of true. They had belonged to her mother once, but Paloma could not bring herself to say they “
were
my mother's.” She hated to speak of her mother in the past tense, and still thought of them as belonging to her mom. She was only keeping them for her until she could return them.

“Oh my God.” She clutched at her wrist, drooping with relief when she found the gold bracelet with its seven jiggly charms still there. “I thought I'd lost it in the sea.
Ohh!
” She'd just remembered her iPhone was in the pocket of her lost hoodie. “My iPhone's gone,” she said, stunned. “My aunt bought it for me.”

“I'll bet your aunt will be so pleased you are still alive she'll buy you another,” Sunny said. “The bedroom's right across the hall. Meet me there when you're ready.”

Paloma stood looking around at the famous detective's bathroom. It was very masculine with white oblong-shaped tiles like the ones she'd seen in city subways in New York and Paris, all the way to the ceiling, which was painted a very dark blue. Blue like midnight, Paloma thought, impressed.

There was an oversized claw-foot tub, a white pedestal sink with a mirrored cupboard over it that Paloma, who knew about such things because of her sophisticated aunt Jassy, thought must be Art Deco, and a walk-in shower with an unframed clear-glass door that, if you were not aware, you might easily walk into and smack your nose. The shower had lots of jets at various heights as well as an overhead rain shower, and Paloma threw off her wet T-shirt and shorts and her sodden underwear, opened the heavy glass door cautiously, turned on the faucet that she hoped was only the overhead one because otherwise she'd get drowned all over again. She waited till she saw she had guessed correctly and the water was coming down just hard and hot enough to bear, before she stepped under it.