The Secret of the Villa Mimosa (52 page)

He pushed Marie-Laure toward her. Then he put the gun to his head. His wild, mad eyes met Phyl’s for a split second. “You traitor, Rebecca,” he said viciously as he pulled the trigger.

Her own screams echoed in her ears as Brad’s handsome blond head exploded into a thousand bloody fragments and he spun over the edge into the abyss.

36

M
ahoney arrived at the Villa Mimosa early the next morning. They were sitting on the terrace, sipping lemonade, looking out over the sloping lawns, at the towering cedars and the needle cypresses pointing into the clear blue sky, out to the tranquil view of the Mediterranean whose color had once made Johnny Leconte redefine the word “azure.”

Scott and Julie had been found frightened but unharmed, locked in the trunk of Brad’s car, though Mahoney had no doubt he would have killed them, too. Brad would have wanted no witnesses.

Bea—or Marie-Laure, as they must now learn to call her—had her head wrapped once more in bandages, and she said wryly she was beginning to like the shaved-head look. She was badly cut and bruised, but it was nothing compared with the relief in her heart, now that she knew who she was and the fear was finally gone.

She was just glad she didn’t have the stiff white plastic collar that Poochie had to wear to stop him from scratching the row of stitches on the back of his own poor shaved head. He was lying happily at her
feet, sated with as much steak as a dog could eat. And Nick was holding her hand as she told them the story of what happened to her that day at Diamond Head and how Brad had caught up with her at the San Francisco airport.

“It’s all over now,” Phyl said comfortingly as they watched the children racing joyously across the lawn to the pool. “You have to learn to forget, to get on with your life.”

Marie-Laure smiled at her affectionately. “It’s thanks to all of you I’m still alive. And I intend to stay that way.” She glanced around at her home, at her children, her man, her friends. “After all,” she said, “I’ve got a lot to live for.”

Phyl leaned back against the cushions. Her eyes were still swollen from the tears she had shed, and she looked pale and exhausted.

“You could use a touch of that red lipstick,” Mahoney said with a grin, pulling a chair companionably next to her and pouring himself a glass of lemonade.

She glared at him, but he thought it was a weak glare, none of her usual flashing-blue-eyed stuff.

“The U.S. cavalry to the rescue,” she said sarcastically. “Just a bit too late.”

“Yeah. Even the Concorde wasn’t fast enough. And they haven’t yet found a way to beam us over, like Captain Kirk. But the FBI and Interpol have those magic computers that keep us all in touch. So the cavalry did get there in time after all.” He threw her a serious glance and added softly, “Thank God.”

“But how did you find out it was Brad?”

“Two and two. I should have caught it earlier, when I heard Hawaii mentioned. A private plane piloted by Brad Kane came in from Hawaii that night.” He shrugged. “I should have known.”

“No man is infallible,” Phyl said gently, not wanting him to feel guilty.

“And no woman,” he replied, meeting her eyes. “Maybe you should remember that.”

He held her eyes for a long moment. She knew he meant what had happened to her baby, to Marie-Laure, to Brad. She could not be all things to all people anymore. She was not perfect. She just had to be Phyl Forster, a woman doing the best job she could. And getting on with her own life.

Mahoney leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Guess what?”

She leaned back and looked at him. “What?”

“I’ve made a reservation tonight at the Moulin de Mougins. Remember, I promised one day I’d take you there—see if their chicken is as good as mine?”

She put her head back and laughed, and then she kissed him. It was a happy kiss. “Mr. Long Shot,” she said, remembering.

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he gave her that wide, mocking grin.

“That’s me,” he agreed, taking her hand and kissing her back.