From Barcelona, with Love (22 page)

“
Knew
her?”

“I knew Lorenza.”

Sunny took a deep breath, then said, “I'll bet she's beautiful.”

“I told you already, she looks a lot like you. Anyway, I thought I'd tell you that,” he added, a bit lamely, she thought.

“So. An old girlfriend,” she said thoughtfully.

“You could say that.”

“A widow.”

“She is that.”

“Beautiful.”

“That too.”

He didn't need to say more; Sunny had read between the lines. “You'd better come on home, Mac Reilly,” she said quietly.

“Soon as I can,” he said.

“What are you doing right now?”

“I just sent for room service.”

“I'll bet it's a burger and fries.”

“You know me too well.”

“Sometimes,” she said, twisting that strand of hair, “I don't think I know you as well as I thought I did.”

She checked the clock. Four forty-five. “I'll talk to you later,” she said. “I have to go.”

She ended the call and sat for a moment staring blankly at the wall. Something was up, she'd heard it in his voice. An old lover. And Mac was going to be alone with her at her romantic vineyard. “She's beautiful,” he'd said. “We knew each other. We were so young…” And now she was a young widow, not that much older than Sunny herself.

Sunny remembered Monte Carlo just last year, how tempted she had been by another man, and how much she would have lost—her life with Mac, their love—had she succumbed to that temptation.

She took her feet off the desk, sat up, and dialed the number of her best friend, Allie Ray, in France.

Allie Ray was a true Hollywood movie star and she looked the part. Long blond hair that hung straight as a die past her shoulders, wide-spaced turquoise blue eyes—truly turquoise and that's without contacts—a God-given perfect nose, and a wide, full smile of such sweetness, on-screen and off, it held men entranced. Not only was Allie beautiful, she was nice.

Mac Reilly had saved her life, not too long ago, when a demented stalker threatened her. In a way Mac had also saved her estranged husband Ron, and, then he and Sunny had gotten Ron and Allie back together. It was then that Allie had made her decision to give up her career and she and Ron ended up owning a tumble-down cottage in the Dordogne in western France not too far from Saint-Émilion, where they were now trying their hand at growing grapes and making their own wine. Only in a small way, of course, but you never knew with Ron, he was ambitious, and a man used to success.

But happiness, Allie had discovered, could be found in a country cottage light-years away from movie studios and red carpets, though she kept her hand in, occasionally accepting a role in a small French movie, for a couple of which she'd received great praise.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said now to Sunny. “I was just thinking about you. What are you up to?”

“It's not what
I'm
up to,” Sunny said with gloom in her voice. “It's Mac.”

“Uh-uh.” There was a pause while Allie digested the implications of what Sunny had just said. It was only last year that she and Ron had hurried to Monte Carlo to help when Sunny had threatened to go off the rails with another man.

“You can't mean what I think you mean. It's just not possible.”

“It might be. He's in Barcelona.”

“So why aren't you with him?”

“I had to be in Napa. My client's a vintner, it was a publicity thing. Oh my God, I just thought how strange this is … I was at a winery, you are at
your
winery, and now Mac's at the de Ravel winery.”

“De Ravel? Sherry? New wines?”

“The same. Remember Bibi Fortunata? The singer-songwriter-star-celebrity, and possible murderer?”

“Jesus. Of course I remember that story. Whatever happened to her?”

“That's what Mac's in Spain to find out. She's a de Ravel. We met her little girl on the beach at Malibu, Mac saved her from drowning. Bibi simply disappeared after the murders and the child, whose name is Paloma, went to live with a Ravel aunt. Now Paloma's stepfather is after her, he wants custody so he can get his hands on her money. So of course, it's Mac to the rescue once again.”

“He never can resist.”

“That's the trouble.”

Allie knew what she meant. Mac's work had been the cause of Sunny's postponed marriage last year.

“Anyhow it turns out the de Ravel family Matriarch is all of forty-one years old and gorgeous. She was also Mac's lover, in their long-lost youth, in Miami.”

“Oh … my … God…” Allie realized now what was up. “She was probably his first true love, and you never forget those.”

“I'm willing to bet on it.”

Allie thought for a few seconds. “Of course you can trust Mac completely. He loves you, he'd never—”

Sunny interrupted, “I heard something in his voice, Allie. Besides, he'd told me he'd only ever really loved one other woman before he met me. It has to be her.”

Allie didn't have to think twice; women always knew what to do in these circumstances. “You'd better get your ass over there,” she said. “I'll tell you what, Ron's in New York. He's got the Citation out at Teterboro. I'll call him, tell him to pick you up and get you to Barcelona right away. Start packing now. And remember, take some good stuff, the competition might be a little tough.”

“Oh, Allie, are you sure it's the right thing to do? Shouldn't I just trust Mac?”

“You can't trust
her,
” Allie said. “I'll meet you in Barcelona. Where is Mac staying?”

“The Méridien.”

“Ron will make reservations.”

“I'm bringing the dogs,” Sunny said. She knew Mac would never give up on his love for Pirate, no matter how much temptation stared him in the face.

“Do
not
bring the dogs. Not this time,” Allie told her firmly. “You'll have your hands full dealing with the Matriarch. You just have time to get your nails done. And remember, action is always the best policy. Glamorous Spanish widows have nothing on us.”

Sunny hoped not.

Ron called a few minutes later.

“I'm in trouble with Mac,” she said.

“Allie told me.”

His voice, like the man, had a rough edge to it. Ron Perrin was of middle height, stocky, and always in a hurry. He walked with his head jutting forward as if to propel himself along even faster. He had wavy brown hair and deep-set molten brown eyes under bushy brows. He was not unattractive in a way that combined money and power, though there was always speculation as to why a gorgeous woman like Allie Ray, who could have had her pick of the most eligible men available, would even look twice at him.

Allie and Ron knew why though. Ron had not been there just to escort a famous movie actress and play the celebrity; Ron was the one who'd found her, a girl at her lowest ebb, taken her from nothing and given her the confidence to become the woman she was now. He'd taught her how to play the star. Ron had always loved her even though they seemed to have lost that love for a couple of years, but now it was stronger than ever.

“I'll never leave you again,” Ron had told her.

“And I will never leave you either,” Allie had vowed.

And that's the way things stood between them now, and forever and ever, amen. And that's why Allie had just told him she could not bear to see things go wrong again between Mac and Sunny. She knew what they had was special. They could not be allowed to lose it.

“I need to get to Barcelona right away,” Sunny said to Ron.

“I'm your man. I'm in the car, in the Lincoln Tunnel, on my way to Teterboro now. Let's see, door-to-door I can be with you in four hours. Meet me at Santa Monica airport.”

“You're a lifesaver,” she said.

“Hey, remember,” he said quietly. “So are you. That's what friends are for.”

Allie had been right. Sunny just had time to collect the dogs, repack her bag with the stuff she'd taken to Napa, plus a couple of more glamorous frocks and her favorite Jimmy Choos—her “goddess” shoes, the ones that fastened round the ankles with sexy satin straps—and get her nails done. She decided not to call Mac and tell him she was on her way. She would surprise him.

 

Chapter 34

Trujillo, Spain

It was eight o'clock on
Saturday night and Bibi was getting ready to go to Rodolfo's dinner. It was still light out and the evening was sultry. A thunderstorm threatened. She'd bet Rodolfo had planned on dining on the terrace and hoped bad weather wouldn't spoil his party.

Through the open window she could hear the goats, three of them, named Uno, Dos, Tres—One, Two, Three—munching steadily on the shaggy grass, easier and cheaper than cutting it using the ancient tractor-mower, and besides the goats were more fun. And, despite the fact that she had already locked up her chickens, a rooster still crowed. She thought he'd definitely got his timing wrong. But then maybe so had she. Should she
really
go to this dinner party for the singer? Wasn't it risky?

Fresh from her bath she inspected herself in the cheval mirror, another flea-market find that reflected only half of her so she could only see herself in two parts, either from the head to knees, or knees to feet. Naked, she still looked like the old Bibi, the girl onstage in the torn black fishnets and the silver corset and the six-inch platforms, which was one of the naughty roles she'd played. Or the other soft, slinky, sensual woman with the smoky eyes in the long mermaid-sequined pale green chiffon with her wild mane of flame red hair loose around her shoulders. Or the girl-next-door with a ponytail, barefoot in jeans and T-shirt. Which one was she really? Bibi wished she knew. She had always been able to be anyone she wanted, and she had ended up no one. She was not even a mother anymore.

There was a photograph of Paloma on her nightstand, the last one Bibi had taken of her before it all began. They were at the pool and Paloma had just emerged from the water, gap-toothed and smiling, her long wet hair stuck dark and gleaming like amber ale instead of its usual carrot. It was her eyes though, that got to Bibi, meeting the camera, and her mom behind it, with all the joy the world could offer a little girl on a California summer's day, when she was safe and loved and nothing could ever possibly go wrong.

If only, Bibi thought, I had not slept with Wally Carlyle. “The lover.” That's what the media had dubbed him, though he was never
in love
with her, nor she with him. She hadn't even really fancied him. Not like she had Bruno in the beginning.

People asked how could she have taken Wally for her lover, and they were right. He'd had a reputation with women and she should have known better.

But I was wounded, she thought. Bruno was unfaithful, a serial cheater, he humiliated me. He told his women he despised me, that I was cold, controlling, and sexless. “I married you for
what
you were, not
who
you are.” Bruno had
said
that, standing in their bedroom, adjusting his tie, putting on his jacket, ready for a night on the town, though not with her. And she'd known then he'd married her for her position, and her money.

“You're really nothing, Bibi,” he'd said, and she'd flinched at the contempt in his eyes. “And you
know
it.”

Despite all her success and acclaim, it had gotten to her on a deeply personal level. She'd almost believed him. So she left him at the Palm Springs house with his pit bull and his vodka and his women, and took Paloma home to the Hollywood Hills. She moved on.

From bad, she thought now with a rueful smile. To worse.

In fact she had almost laughed when she was suspected of murdering “the lover” and his “girlfriend.” She'd only just found out Wally was cheating on her with Brandi, and though she was furious, it really meant nothing. In the beginning Wally had flattered her into feeling good again, he'd made her feel attractive, sexy. “Look at you on stage, he'd said. “Every man wants you.

And she'd been so wrapped up in her own world, her bruised ego, her music, her recordings, her concert tours, surrounded by her entourage, insulated against reality, she hadn't even realized her girlfriend was betraying their friendship and was sleeping with her lover. She hadn't known Brandi that long but somehow she'd insinuated herself into Bibi's home, into her life, become “the friend,” always there to help, to offer sympathy and advice, let's have lunch, go shopping, girly stuff.

Life, Bibi decided, was full of traitors.

Anyway, if she had been a killer, it would not have been the lover and the girlfriend she would have murdered. It would have been Bruno. And Bruno, she always knew, was dangerous.

Suddenly longing to feel herself again, she dragged on her old jeans, artfully ripped at the knees. They still fit like a second skin, the way jeans should. She inspected her lower portion in the mirror. Her butt still looked good. She put on a white cotton peasant blouse, another street market find. It slid off one shoulder and was gathered at the waist and had long full sleeves edged with lace and had red flowers embroidered down the front. Kind of Hungarian-Gypsy-looking. She peered doubtfully at her top half in the cheval mirror. It looked okay. All that was missing, she thought, fighting back sudden tears, was a child standing next to her, dressed in something cute and girly, whose hand she would hold, and who she would introduce proudly to Rodolfo's guests. It was not to be, and anyhow Paloma would not have gone to a grown-up dinner party. It was simply another dream. A scene from another life.

She brushed out her bangs and skewered her long mousy hair on top with a Spanish mantilla comb, then wondered if she looked too contemporary, not enough the country girl, so she added the tinted glasses and a brown shawl she'd knitted herself.