From Barcelona, with Love (31 page)

She was playing Jacinto's CD with the volume turned up so high, it bounced off the walls: Jacinto's rocking growl and her own voice, a breathless sexy whisper underneath.
“I don't need you to take the ice from my eyes…”
Her words. But Jacinto had done exactly that. He'd taken the ice from her eyes and from her heart.

She flung herself back against the worn velvet cushions, legs slung over Amigo, who merely opened one eye to check, then snuggled back down. Their voices soared overhead and Bibi's world seemed to tremble all over again as she thought of her young lover, remembering his body on hers; in hers; the sweetness of his mouth, his energy and pleasure and their laughter.

If only, if only,
she thought, coming back to her senses. She understood there was no future there. She had made the record with him and she knew it would be a hit, Jacinto's records always were, but she was professional enough, expert enough to know it was special when the music spoke to you like this. Yet she could have no part of it. She was back in the castle, anonymous once again in her secret life as Vida Hernandez. A woman with a past and no daughter.

“Bibi?” A shout came as the door was swung open and Rodolfo poked his head around it. “My God, I can't even hear myself speak,” he yelled over the billowing music.

Bibi sat up and turned it off. “It's Jacinto's new CD.”

“So I guessed. Of course, that's you in there.”

He came and sat next to her, shunting the dog over as Bibi swung her legs down to make room for him.

“Did I do the right thing?”

“You mean, will you be recognized? It's possible, but who could prove it? Besides, Vida Hernandez's name will be on the record, as the writer. Jacinto told me you didn't want any credit for the voice. Am I wrong, Bibi, or did he understand why?”

“He guessed,” Bibi admitted. “I don't know how, but he did.”

“He knew it at my place the night you played your song. Your music has an identity. It could only be you.”

“Oh, God,” she said, worried. “What now?”

“There's something else,” he said. “An American detective called my office making inquiries about you. Of course my staff told him nothing. Everything there is confidential and he respected that. I myself did not speak with him, but what he wanted to know was whether I still handled your business affairs. He was informed only that confidentiality was the essence of our business.”

Rodolfo spread his hands wide and added with a shrug, “Remember, this detective has nothing to do with your recording with Jacinto. It's something that had to happen sooner or later, and of course Lorenza is behind it. She's looking for you.”

Bibi clutched the old black cashmere sweater round her neck, suddenly cold. The music had ended and the castle was silent but for Amigo's labored breathing. Automatically, she put out a hand to stroke him again.
Poor Amigo. Poor her. Poor Paloma.

“Lorenza always cared about Paloma,” she said. “After all, Paloma is Juan Pedro's granddaughter.”

“Paloma also stands to inherit your share of the de Ravel business and fortune. Peretti is still Paloma's legal stepfather and I heard he's after that inheritance and he'll do anything he can to get it. Including forcing Paloma to go back and live with him.”

“Jesus! No.”
She spoke so sharply the dog lifted its head to stare at her, unnerved. “He can't do that. Paloma
belongs
to the de Ravels.”

“Bibi, I've thought this over very carefully. I know Lorenza hired this detective to find you. Paloma needs
you
back in her life. You can fight Peretti, in court if necessary. You'll be fighting for Paloma, for your own child. You cannot allow him to take her. You'll have to face up to the past, after all you were never charged with the murders, only accused. You have to come forward, you have to claim your rights as a mother again.”

Rodolfo threw his arms wide, startling the old dog again. It gazed, wounded, at him, and he stroked its black and white fur comfortingly. “Do you have any choice, Bibi?”

“I didn't kill those poor people. Don't you think I've asked myself—you can't know how many hundreds of times—who could have done it and why? And still I have no answer.”

“Then I suggest you ask this detective. He's quite well known.”

She glanced inquiringly at him.

“His name's Mac Reilly.”

Bibi closed her eyes, recalling the TV show,
Mac Reilly's Malibu Mysteries.

“Of course,” she said. “He's good,
simpatico
 … I mean there's something
real
about him.”

“He's good at what he does. Lorenza chose well. So? Will you see him?”

Bibi closed her eyes. The castle was silent. The music was gone. Jacinto was gone. Her carefully structured new existence was in jeopardy. Her life was falling apart all over again.

“Rodolfo,” she said. “Do you think Mac Reilly could find who the killer is?”

“You'd have to ask him that question,” Rodolfo said.

 

Chapter 47

Barcelona

When they got
back to their suite at the hotel, the phone was ringing. Allie plonked herself onto the sofa next to Sunny and they sat, staring blankly at Ron as he picked it up to answer.

“If it's Mac, I can't even speak,” Sunny said, but Ron shook his head, listening. He held out the phone to her.

“It's Paloma.”

“Oh, God, I'd forgotten all about Paloma. That poor kid, how could I?”

Watching as Sunny took the phone, Allie thought of course Sunny could, under the circumstances, but she said nothing, listening.

“Paloma,” Sunny said. “I'm so sorry I left like that, without even telling you.”

“It's okay,” Paloma said hurriedly. “I
know
why you left but it's not the way you think. I saw it all. It wasn't Mac, it was all Lorenza, she thinks she's in love with him and she wants him to love her but he doesn't, he loves you, I know it, Sunny, I saw it
all.
”

She paused for breath and Sunny said, “What do you mean, it was Lorenza?” She sat up straight and looked, eyebrows raised, at Allie, listening while Paloma told her the whole story. She had no doubt Paloma was telling her the truth.

“I'll never forget you and Mac that day in Malibu,” Paloma said passionately. “You were so wonderful and I saw your ring and I saw the way Mac looked at you, and I know I'm only a kid but I can tell when somebody loves somebody. I've seen enough movies on TV,” she added, making Sunny laugh.

“When you left, I told Mac what happened. He ran after you as you drove away. I know he's coming to get you, to explain. Will you let him, Sunny?
Please.
I couldn't bear to lose you
too.
Besides, I
need
Mac.”

Sunny didn't know whether to laugh or cry, perhaps she was doing a bit of both. “Don't worry, sweetheart,” she said, “you won't.”

Paloma made her promise to call and Sunny rang off. She told Allie and Ron what had happened and Ron shook his head.

“I acted too hastily,” he said. “But you have to admit it looked bad.”

“
Tell
me about it,” Sunny said, her spirits back up again. “And just wait till I see that Mac Reilly, I'm gonna kill him.”

“Please don't. You need him.” Allie scooped up her bag, kissed Sunny on the cheek, took her husband's arm, and walked to the door. “And I'll bet he'll be here any minute.” She looked at Ron, the man she loved and who made it all possible for her. “We're out of here,” she said. “You lovers will need to be alone.”

*   *   *

Sitting there, alone,
in the big hotel suite in Barcelona, Sunny thought about what had happened in the last few weeks and how her life and Mac's had changed. The past had caught up with them, and when she thought about it, she remembered she had a past of her own. What woman her age didn't? Mac never asked her about the men she'd been involved with, only the one she had once contemplated running off with in Monte Carlo, and
that
had been a mistake. The trouble was Mac's past had come back to bite them. Somewhere along the line, they had almost lost each other. Trust was a deal breaker. Lose it and things would never be the same.

Mac didn't knock, he just strode into the room, hair wild from running his hands through it, battling the hellish Barcelona traffic, taking longer than he'd wanted.

“You're late,” Sunny said.

“You know I always get lost without you to navigate.”

“I know. I was lost too.”

She got up as he came toward her, put his arms round her, and her body sagged into his in relief.

“It was torture,” she said, not crying because she needed to be happy again in this moment; she wanted to remember it, to never put herself or Mac through this again.

“Oh God, I love you so much,” Mac said. “How could you even think I could be without you?”

Sunny couldn't help saying what she said next; after all she was a woman, and she was a jealous one. “She's beautiful,” she said.

“I don't care. I only want to see you.
You
are all that is beautiful, what we are
together
is beautiful.”

Sunny unwound her arms from round his neck and, taking his hand, led him to the bedroom. He kicked the door closed behind him as she took him to her bed, stripping off her crumpled chambray shirtdress as she went, lifting one foot then the other, out of her lilac lace boy-shorts panties, the kind Mac liked so she always wore them for him. He took off her bra and then stripped off his jeans and shirt and threw them onto the floor where they tangled in a pile with her underthings.

She hooked her hands through the band of his undershorts and pulled him to her, slipping her fingers inside to touch him. His hands were on her breasts, kissing them, then his fingers were enmeshed in her long dark hair. “Black as a wing,” he whispered, remembering. They were naked and loving each other, only now with an extra shot of passion because they had almost lost each other, and love like theirs should never be thrown away so carelessly, or simply handed away to another woman.

*   *   *

“Sunny,” Mac said,
much later. “Will you please marry me?”

He was lying next to her, flat on his back. Sunny opened her eyes. She stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment, then said, “You mean
now
? Right this minute?”

“Any time you say. I want to be your husband, your mate, your lover, and I want
you
to be my wife, my mate, my lover. And my assistant private investigator.”

Sunny giggled. She leaned on her elbow, looking admiringly at him. “Anyone ever tell you, you are a beautiful man?” she asked, then shrieked, realizing the implications of what she had said. “No, no, oh
please,
don't answer that.”

“No one ever did,” Mac lied valiantly, making her laugh. “Anyhow,” he said. “
Will
you marry me?”

“What if the phone rings?”

Their eyes met. “So what if it does?”

“So, will you answer it?”

“Never,” he said.

And so of course the phone rang.

 

Chapter 48

Turin, Italy

Lev Orenstein stared,
puzzled, at his iPhone. He'd never known Mac not to pick up his calls. He left a message. “Call me. It's urgent.” Then he went back to his sidewalk café.

His double espresso waited at the table along with Gus, his man in charge of movie star Carole Brightwater's protection detail. Right now, though, Lev wasn't so concerned about Carole Brightwater, who anyway was yesterday's news and needed so little “protection” even the paparazzi had given up on her. What was more interesting, and what he urgently needed to communicate to Mac, was that Bibi Fortunata's husband was sitting at the next table and he was giving Carole the come-on.

Lev didn't give a shit about the come-on, but he could not allow Carole to be picked up by Peretti, because Mac had him in his sights as prime suspect in the Hollywood double murder. Mac had no evidence but Lev had always found gut instinct a valid place to begin investigations.

He'd noticed Peretti watching Carole as she'd flaunted her way across the street to the café in her flouncy Dolce & Gabbana skirt and settled herself, amidst a flurry of shopping bags, at the table next to him.

Peretti was now ignoring Carole, a little too ostentatiously to be true, and had gone back to his phone call. Lev and Gus at the next table acted like they weren't with Carole, and in fact Lev was not. Gus was his man in charge and Lev had only come onto the scene after Carole had changed her plans, dumped the golf pro in Dublin and taken off for Italy. She'd ended up in Turin because she said she had friends in the Fiat family and wanted to visit. In Lev's opinion she'd be safer with Fiat than Peretti.

Carole's champagne arrived and she took a sip, then from her Hermès Birkin bag removed a tiny green alligator case with an oval mirror, took out the lipstick it contained, and carefully reapplied it. Lev knew she was looking at Peretti in the mirror, and he also saw Peretti knew who Carole was.

Peretti was good-looking, hard faced, pale eyes, self-assured, sexy, untrustworthy. Lev agreed with Mac. He wouldn't trust him even to pick up the check for Carole's drink. He'd already run a few lifestyle checks on Mr. Perettti and found a small-time Ponzi-schemer who'd gone through Bibi's money so fast no one could ever keep track of it. And now Mac believed Peretti wanted more.

Carole flipped her green alligator lipstick case shut, glanced at Peretti, caught his eyes. She put the lipstick back in her Birkin bag and looked back again. Peretti gave her a long knowing look out of the corner of his eye. Then he smiled, a kind of slightly jaw-dropped coming-on-to-her half smile. Still looking at her, he moved his tongue suggestively out the side of his mouth, licking his lips. Jesus, Lev thought. Was he just licking his lips? Or was he thinking about licking her! He thought the latter.