Never Too Late (11 page)

Inside was a
noisy, smoky room smelling of bodies and old cooking grease, and packed with
what were clearly islanders, though some looked disturbingly hard-faced. Andrea
felt completely out of place in her Armani outfit, and she wondered why
Alessandro hadn't told her to wear something less pretentious. Looking at him
with apprehension, she said, "I really feel out of place here. I think we
should leave."

"But you
look beautiful, and you are with me, Alessandro Cavallaro. No one will bother
you. Besides, you dressed for me, not for those in this room, right?"

"If you
put it that way, yes, I suppose," Andrea admitted. Yet, all around, she
felt eyes on her. Not friendly ones, she noted.

Alessandro
seated her at a small table off to one side of the large crowded room then
excused himself for a few minutes, leaving her sitting alone. Feeling edgy to
the point of being frightened, she placed her handbag on her lap, beneath the
tablecloth and out of sight.
Frommer's
Guide
warned of purse snatchers in the islands. And muggers. And drug
dealers trying to pedal their stuff. She was on the verge of panic, when she
spotted Alessandro coming toward her. He gave her his irresistible smile, and
said, "I'm sorry,
cara
mia
, but I planned to meet a friend
here. Someone you would enjoy knowing. But now we'll have drinks."

…a place for lovers...

Andrea looked
around for crisply-dressed waiters, or musicians playing violins, or one or two
couples peering across candlelit tables at each other, but all she saw were
hard-faced men and loose-looking women. "I'm not feeling very comfortable
here," she said. "It's not what I expected. Could we go to the feast
and fire dance instead?"

"As you
wish," Alessandro replied, without argument. "We'll take a taxi back
if that makes you feel more comfortable."

"Well, yes
it would," Andrea said, a sense of relief dispelling her earlier doubts.

"But
first, my little South Carolina bird," Alessandro said, in a soft,
soothing tone, "I'd like you to have their special drink, along with a
platter of authentic Bahamian conch fritters."

"One drink
and fritters, then I want to leave," Andrea insisted. It came to her
unexpectedly, that she wanted to be with Jerry. She had no idea why. Alessandro
was an attractive man with charm, and money, and everything a woman should
want. But... She wanted to be with Jerry...

Alessandro
reached across the table and took her hand. Peering into her eyes, he said,
"Andrea, trust me. You are safe here with me. I would not let anything
happen to you. Now relax, and I'll get our drinks and order the fritters."

Andrea didn't
like the idea of being left alone at the table again, but she knew she was
being silly. Alessandro was a formidable-looking man. Well over six feet tall,
solidly
built,
broad shoulders. And he had a demeanor
about him that not a man in the place would challenge. It was also clear, from
the looks of those around her, that they considered her his woman. Alessandro
Cavallaro's woman. A troubling thought. Somehow she felt he was known well
here, and feared...

A long time
ticked by before Alessandro returned to the table, followed by a man carrying a
tray with two tall drinks and a platter of conch fritters. Deciding to put
something in her stomach before having the drink, Andrea sank her teeth into a
conch fritter and was pleasantly surprised. Smiling at Alessandro, she said,
"I'm sorry for doubting you, but I was expecting a much different
place..."

"A place
for lovers?"

"Well,
yes."

Alessandro
reached across the table and took her hand again. Looking into her eyes, he
said, in a voice that sent a chill rushing through her, though not a chill of
pleasure, "A place for lovers is wherever two lovers can be
together." He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, holding it tight
enough that it would have been awkward to pull it away, yet wanting to do just
that. "I brought you here because it's away from tourists, away from our
fellow passengers, away from your husband," he said, eyeing her steadily. "I
want you all to myself,
cara
mia
. Now relax and enjoy your
drink." He nudged the glass toward her.

Andrea slipped
her hand from his and took a sip of her drink... sweet and citrusy and spiked
with rum. But it also had a strange bitterness that made her lips purse.

Alessandro
laughed. "It's the bitters you are tasting," he said. "They are
used to cut the sweetness of the grenadine and crème de cassis. But it will
help you relax. When you're finished, we'll go to the fire dance."

Andrea took
another sip, rolled it around in her mouth, and let it slip down her throat. It
wasn't so bitter now. After another few fritters, she finished the drink and
set the glass down. She started to eat one last fritter, but her stomach was
beginning to feel a little queasy...

...an Italian gigolo who'll drop you like a
hot potato...

It crossed her
mind that there could have been something bitter in the drink that had nothing
to do with cutting the sweetness. But Alessandro was not a gigolo, so it was
simply nerves brought on by the thought of going to the fire dance where Jerry
would be watching them. Dismissing her earlier doubts, she smiled at
Alessandro, whose face looked a little blurry, but handsome... He smiled back
and placed another kiss on her palm...

***

Through a haze
of smoke, while standing in a darkened corner of the Pirate's Cove, Jerry
watched Andrea and Alessandro Cavallaro, who were sitting at a small table,
heads bent toward each other, eyes locked. Cavallaro had Andrea's hand
sandwiched between his, and whatever he was telling her, she was sucking it up.
But she also looked a little... stoned—swaying in her chair, bracing her free
hand against the table. Andrea rarely drank, and whenever she did, she always
stopped when her nose felt tingly. He was glad he'd followed them, which wasn't
difficult. When the passengers began funneling off the ship, Andrea was so
caught up in hanging onto Cavallaro's arm while talking and flirting, she never
looked back.

He hadn't
intended on following them at all, but Andrea's comment about Cavallaro wearing
a thong, which was an oblique reference to having sex with the man, hit him
like an iron fist to the gut. He'd wanted to run his fist through something.
Anything. Cavallaro's face. Better yet, that thong-clad package of his that
Andrea seemed to covet. Though he shouldn't be surprised. There had been a time
when she'd been eager to warm
his
bed. More than eager. She'd been passionate about it. He'd never wanted for
lack of sexual adventure with her. And with Andrea, sex had been an adventure
because she had a way of luring him into yet unexplored sensual territory. The
thought that she was working her magic on Cavallaro made him want to throw the
man down one of those bottomless blue holes he'd read about, that dotted the
island...

He scanned the
crowd. Everyone appeared to be islanders. Not very reputable ones either. But
Andrea didn't seem to notice the people, or that the room was so smoky it was
hard to breathe, or that the din of voices was so loud you could barely think,
as she sat gazing at Cavallaro, who was smiling into her eyes.

But something
about Cavallaro wasn't right. He wasn't a gigolo. The man did own a villa in
Majorca and a sixty-four foot yacht, information confirmed with a call to a
contact in Italy. But there was no logical reason why a man with a luxury yacht
would spend time on a second-class cruise ship in the Bahamas when he could be
cruising on his own vessel in the Mediterranean. Or why a man with Cavallaro's
wealth and looks would go after a woman ten years older, who was attractive
enough, but no breathtaking beauty.

Jerry also
noticed something about Cavallaro he was certain Andrea was not aware of. The
man's gaze kept shifting beyond Andrea, as if he were looking for someone. And
he frequently glanced down at his watch. He was up to something, and Jerry
intended to find out what it was, or at least see that Andrea returned to the
ship safely. She'd been his wife for twenty-five years, she was the mother of
his children, and he owed her that much.

When he saw
Andrea put her hands to her temples, he edged his way closer. He noticed then
that her eyes were closed. Cavallaro leaned forward and studied her closely. Then
he stood, reached out and touched her arm so she opened her eyes, then looked
as if excusing himself—gesturing toward the door, then placing his hand over
his heart as if apologizing.

Andrea nodded
and watched him walk away.

After Cavallaro
left, Jerry waited, wondering if the man planned to return. Andrea was looking
decidedly ill. She kept glancing around, assumedly for Cavallaro, but there was
no sign of the man. Then abruptly, Andrea rushed from the table, pushed her way
through the crowd, and went into the ladies room.

Jerry waited
for a few minutes for Andrea to come out, at which time he intended to take her
back to the ship. But when several more minutes ticked by, and she still hadn't
come out, he sent a woman in after her. Moments later, he heard a scream, and
the woman came rushing out...

Andrea opened
her eyes and everything was stationary. She knew she was in a medical clinic
somewhere on the island—the hospital gown she wore had little pink and blue
starfish on it—but she remembered little after Alessandro left the table to
make a phone call. When the room started spinning and tilting she'd rushed into
the restroom, feeling like she was on the verge of getting rid of the contents
of her stomach,
then
she felt like she was falling
into a dark tunnel. After that, everything was jumbled... being moved around...
opening her eyes and everything spinning... Alessandro's face coming in and out
of focus... total darkness...

She raised her
hand and felt a tender spot on the side of her head...

"Don't
worry, Mrs. Porter," a woman's voice said. "You have a nasty bump on
your head, but you'll be fine."

Andrea looked
around and saw a woman dressed in a blue lab coat, standing just inside the
curtain-enclosed cubical,
a
disposable thermometer in
her hand. As the thermometer came toward her, Andrea opened her mouth and the
woman slipped it under her tongue. Andrea looked around the small area. Hanging
on a line-up of metal hooks was her crocodile-printed military jacket, black
silk leggings, and black bikini panties and half-bra. The crystal-encrusted
leather boots stood on the floor beneath. The word that came to mind was
hooker
.

The nurse
removed the thermometer. "No fever," she said, tossing the
thermometer away. "You had a touch of
tourista
.
We get a lot of that here, usually from the water. But it also could have been
the food. It said on your chart you were at the Pirate's Cove when you got
sick. It's not too clean there. But you're fine now. Just go easy on the food
today. The doctor will be in soon to talk to you about that."

"How long
have I been here?" Andrea asked. The sun was well up, but she had no idea
what time it was.

"About
twelve hours," the nurse replied. "You were brought in last night
around nine, but the doctor was delivering a baby at the clinic in Nicholl's
Town and didn't get here until after midnight."

"My
stomach feels sore," Andrea said.

"That's
because it was pumped," the nurse replied. "But you were doing a
pretty good job of getting rid of everything in it before then, which is
probably why it's sore. The doctor will talk to you about it when he stops in
to see you. And your husband said to tell you he went to find something to eat
and will be back later."

"My
husband?" Andrea said, confused. "Are you talking about a tall man
with an Italian accent?"

The woman
looked at her, puzzled. "Tall, black man, but no Italian accent. He insisted
he was your husband. He was talking to Dr. Soros about your condition,
demanding blood be drawn for a blood test. Dr. Soros saw no need, but your
husband got pretty... umm... insistent about it."

"Insistent?
In what way?" Andrea asked. Jerry could be formidable when he wanted
something, every bit as formidable as her father was when he wanted something.
She'd often wondered what would happen if both men wanted the same thing. Who’d
come out the victor. In fact, for twenty-five years she'd felt like she was
sitting on a keg of dynamite, just waiting for one of the men to light the
fuse...

"When Dr.
Soros assured your husband there was no need to draw blood, your husband
slapped a one-hundred-dollar bill on the table and told the doctor he could
either draw blood, or see his attorney in court. Dr. Soros refused the money,
but had the blood drawn." The nurse filled a cup with water and set it on
the tray beside the pitcher. "Your husband was very agitated. Worried, I
suppose. He seemed to think there was more to it than just a case of food
poisoning. But you can talk to him about it when he returns." The woman
drew the curtain closed as she left.

Andrea stared
at the black bikini panties and bra, wondering whatever possessed her to wear
the things. How humiliating to have
them
hanging in
plain view...

"So
where's your lover now?" Jerry asked, emerging from behind the curtain
that was still swaying from the nurse's exit.

"I don't
know," Andrea replied. "He's not my lover."

Jerry walked
over to where the underwear hung, and toyed with the lacy edging of the bra.
"Your Italian stud then," he said. "I forgot. You're more
interested in what's inside Cavallaro's thong than
what's
inside his head."