That, however, didn’t prove that he was.
Fran returned to the balcony with two glasses. She handed him a crystal tumbler containing an inch of amber liquid he assumed was whiskey. Dale placed the liquor on the table without tasting it. He needed to stay sober after all.
She eyed him warily as she sipped from a glass of white wine.
“This doesn’t prove that I’m the father of your daughter.” He shook the papers at her. “My DNA would have to be tested to confirm that.”
“That is true,” Francesca agreed. “We can do that, but why would I fly all the way to the United States and lie to you about having your daughter?”
“Maybe because your daughter ran away to Miami, and you got the brilliant idea of getting my help to find her.”
Even as he said the words, he knew they didn’t ring true, but couldn’t stop. Maybe because he wanted to hurt her as much as she’d hurt him.
Fran’s lovely mouth, a mouth he had once been obsessed with kissing, dropped open. “You cannot believe I would do such a thing.”
“Why not? You kept her existence from me.”
“I have explained.”
“And I don’t know if I believe you. How did your daughter get a DNA sample from your husband without you or him knowing?”
Francesca took another swallow of wine. “I contacted the lab, and the director said the paternity test was done on a hair sample. She could have easily obtained a strand of his hair without his knowledge.”
“Why did she become suspicious? And don’t say you don’t know. You have to know something about your daughter.”
Fran winced, and Dale knew he’d struck a nerve. So trouble existed between mother and daughter.
“According to the note she left me,” Fran said, “Bella always thought there was something strange about my relationship with Paolo.”
“Paolo?”
“My husband.”
Of course. The husband.
“Did Paolo know he wasn’t the father?”
Fran looked away. “Yes, of course.”
“Did he know you were pregnant when you married?”
Fran nodded and stared at the lights spread out before them. “My parents arranged everything.”
Everyone knew about my daughter but me.
“What kind of man would agree to marry a woman pregnant with another man’s child?”
“A kind man, a political ally of my father. We married about a month before Bella was born when I couldn’t stand the isolation anymore.”
Dale pushed away from the railing, needing to get away from Francesca, out of this pricey hotel. He needed to calm down and think. He needed to figure out whether he believed her and what the hell he was going to do if he did.
“Can I keep this?” Dale shook the test at her.
“Yes, of course,” she said in that lilting accent that had always made him crazy. “That copy is for you.”
“Good.” He grabbed the whiskey and chugged it down, burning his throat. “I’ll be in touch.”
“What?” Her eyes widened. “Are you leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know.”
“I know you have been wronged, badly wronged, but please do not go.” She placed a hand on his arm as he moved past her on his way into the suite. “I have not told you nearly everything yet.”
He stepped away from her touch.
“Dale, please.”
He paused, hearing the desperation in her voice. Whether her kid was his or not, a woman he’d once loved more than life itself needed help. His help. But he needed to process this bombshell.
“I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“But—”
“I promise I’ll be back. There’s nothing we can do tonight, and I need time to think about how to proceed.”
* * *
DALE STARED AT the ceiling in his bedroom, wide awake, not remembering anything about how he’d gotten home. He glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. 2:58 a.m. Ten minutes later than the last time he’d looked.
He knew he’d stomped out of Francesca’s suite, retrieved his vehicle from the valet and driven home, but he didn’t recall a single minute of the journey. It was as if his brain had checked out, and his feeble gray matter couldn’t hold anything but the knowledge that Fran had reappeared in his life.
And claimed they had a child. A daughter. A daughter she’d named Isabella who was twelve years old and had run away to find him.
He rolled over, trying to remember what he’d done after he left the hotel.
He hadn’t visited any of the women he dated. He hadn’t stopped anywhere for a drink. For certain he hadn’t gone back to Moe’s and Joe’s. The last thing in the world he wanted was to answer his friends’ questions.
He should still be partying, enjoying his promotion. He’d worked hard to become a detective, closing more cases, receiving more commendations than any of his fellow rookies. He was damned proud of that record and in line for a position on a new joint terrorism task force his department had cooked up with the FBI. Stopping terrorism had been his goal since his time in Iraq.
There should be a woman in bed beside him helping him celebrate receipt of his gold shield. But no. He was alone.
Except for his memories of his time with Fran. They’d made love any chance they could manage. Usually with protection, but once...maybe twice they hadn’t been able to wait. He’d been a teenaged jerk completely besotted with a girl who’d claimed to adore him more than life itself.
Yeah, right. She’d promised to love him forever, to return to him as soon as possible, but he never heard from her again. Not even a card. Or an email. He’d thought she was dead.
But no. She’d been pregnant with his child.
He rolled onto his back again.
Or so she claimed.
He flung an arm over his head and closed his eyes. Yep, this was precisely what he’d been doing for the last who knew how many hours—he’d lost track—reeling from shock. Trying to figure out if he believed her. Wondering how something so stupid could have happened in this day of instant communication.
His first inclination had been to drink every ounce of booze he could lay his hands on and get totally smashed. Oblivion seemed preferable to the cascade of conflicting emotions that rocked him. At least he’d had the sense to come home, but he hadn’t touched a drop.
He remained horrifyingly sober.
He just couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that Fran would bow to her parents and keep the existence of a daughter from him. When he’d known her, she’d been fearless, adventurous, willing to take on any challenge, including a solo trip to America to study.
More than eager to get naked with him.
She’d told him that her parents didn’t like Americans, that it hadn’t been easy to win their permission to enroll in the celebrated art program at his high school. Hell, he hadn’t known beans about art, hadn’t much liked paintings until he’d seen hers. He’d been amazed how she could capture the likeness of anybody with a few strokes of her pen.
He leaped out of bed, hurried to his closet and reached in the back corner for an old cardboard box that had once transported Fireball Whiskey. When he pulled the box toward him, he noted it remained sealed from when he’d moved into this apartment two years ago.
He carried the box into the kitchen, grabbed a knife to pierce the shipping tape and jerked open the flap. He dug through the contents until he found a frayed manila folder. Taking a deep breath, he flipped it open.
Staring up at him was a sketch Fran had created of him in his football uniform. He was wearing a huge smile because he was gazing at the girl he loved. She’d penciled in a vague rendering of the stadium lights behind him.
He sorted through the
twenty or so sketches she’d given to him. Most were of him. She’d claimed he was her favorite subject. But she’d left him a few renderings of their friends. He shuffled through images of kids he hadn’t thought of in years until he found what he was looking for.
One of her that he’d coaxed her into creating while looking in a mirror. They’d called it a hand-drawn selfie. She drew it on her seventeenth birthday.
He withdrew the likeness of her and stared at it. The drawing was creased where he’d folded it. He remembered hating to mar the paper, but had taken the drawing with him to Iraq. Yeah, sure, he had photographs, but he’d always preferred this “selfie” with its brash birthday smile.
He hadn’t looked at this drawing since returning stateside when he’d shoved memories of Fran into a box. He’d found another passion in the Mideast: police work. When he’d taken the training to join the military police, the power of a badge, the respect it demanded, helped him forget his lost love.
He looked at the drawing again. She’d been so beautiful back then. And she still was. Even more so today, but in a mature way that affected him more than he wanted to admit.
And his daughter was as lovely. He wished now he’d asked to keep the photograph.
Did that mean he believed Fran? Looking at the image of her kid had been a punch to his gut. Bella looked just like his youngest sister had at that age.
He carried the drawing to his living room and lay down on the sofa. What would have happened to them if he’d known about the baby? They’d planned on staying together forever, but had they ever talked about having a family? Kids had never been a big priority for him. He was the oldest of six siblings and knew how much responsibility children created, how expensive they were. He loved his sisters, but in high school he’d resented being in charge while his parents worked their butts off.
He’d been so nuts about Francesca, so crazy in love with her he’d have done anything she asked of him. If she’d wanted a baby and a wedding day, he’d have gone all in without even thinking about what that meant.
But he was sure as shit thinking about it now. What he was going to do with a kid?
Strange as Fran’s story was, as much as he didn’t want to believe her, his gut told him that she was telling the truth.
But he was an experienced police officer, a newly sworn detective even, and he needed to behave like one. He’d been fooled by fake stories from witnesses before, every cop had. People lied all the time. He needed proof of her claims.
As soon as the sun came up, he’d pay a visit to Dr. Wong in the forensics lab.
* * *
THE SOUND OF loud banging woke Francesca. She blinked at the unfamiliar surroundings as the crushing weight of her daughter’s disappearance washed over her. The pain made it hard to breathe.
Where are you, Bella? Why don’t you answer your phone?
And who was knocking on her hotel room at... She reached for her phone and groaned at the headache that pounded behind her eyes. She squinted at the time. Almost 7:00 a.m. She had actually managed to sleep a few hours.
She had stayed up after Dale had stormed away, drinking wine and plotting her next move. She had never considered the idea that he would not believe her, that he would turn down her plea for assistance. She had known he would be angry, but the boy she remembered would never let that stop him from doing the right thing.
The banging started again, louder this time.
She placed her feet on the floor and the room spun. She took a deep breath to steady herself.
“Just a minute,” she yelled. Moving slowly, she rose, grabbed the white terrycloth robe provided by the hotel, cinched it around her waist and moved toward the door. The spicy odor from the forgotten hors d’oeuvres delivered with the wine made her nauseated. With her stomach in rebellion, she pressed her eye to the peephole and jumped back with a squeak of surprise.
A uniformed police officer stood on the other side, his back to the door.
He must have heard her because he said, “Fran?”
She clutched her stomach and looked through the peephole again to confirm she’d recognized the voice. She unlocked the door and flung it open.
Dale stared at her for a long, awkward moment. His gaze traveled her body, and she tightened the robe, wondering what he saw.
“Dale,” she managed.
“Did I wake you?” he asked.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“Good for you. I got no sleep at all.”
She nodded. “Come in.”
He entered the suite, and her gaze zeroed in on the holstered gun in the belt around his waist. She had known he was an officer of the law, but guns made her uncomfortable.
He strode to the table in the center of the living area, lifted the wine bottle, and turned it upside down. Nothing dribbled out. Francesca sighed. That explained why she felt like crap this morning. No wonder she had managed to sleep.
Dale dropped the bottle in the waste can. “Did you have a party after I left?”
“A pity party,” she said.
“Sounds like fun.”
She turned away from the judgment in Dale’s eyes. “I need coffee.”
“I could use another cup, too,” he said, his tone only slightly more friendly.
“Certainly.”
She moved into the kitchenette and followed the instructions to make a pot of drip coffee. American coffee was not really coffee, but it would have to do. She could go down to the cafe later for a Cuban cafecito, which was the next best thing to Italian expresso.
“Why are you here?” she asked when the machine began to gurgle. “And why so early?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“So you said.” She opened a cabinet, removed two mugs for the coffee, and slammed the door shut, making the dishes inside rattle.
“Look, I’m sorry I left so abruptly last night. I was in shock, needed time to think.”
“So what have you decided?”
“I’d like to help you, but I don’t have the resources or the jurisdiction. To locate an international runaway, you need to contact the feds.”
“You do not think that I have done that?” Fran pounded fists on the granite counter. “Bella disappeared a week ago yesterday and I have spoken to every stupid bureaucrat in my country and yours that could have any remote connection to missing children. No one has given me help or hope. They take the information, make a report and say they’ll do their best, perhaps she will contact me or perhaps will locate you.” Out of breath and nauseated, she inhaled deeply.
“You’ve spoken to the FBI?”
“Yes, of course, multiple times, and your state department. The Italian state department requested cooperation, which helped, but everyone says they are working on it, that things take time. They also recommended I contact you.”
“You said you hired a private detective. Did they have any luck?”
“The FBI warned me not to use a private agency to find Bella, that it could complicate matters.” Fran came around the counter toward him. “Are you quite certain you have not heard from her?”
“I think I’d remember if a girl claiming to be my daughter showed up.”
“Has any young woman contacted you, perhaps about a case? Maybe she tried being subtle, to approach you a different way.” Although that did not sound like Bella’s way of doing things.
“Nothing like that has happened in the last week,” Dale said, shaking his head. “How does she know my name?”
“I’m not certain she does. Gina told the police Bella snooped around my room, found the name of our high school and was going to start there.”
Francesca poured two cups of coffee. “Do you want sugar?” she asked.
“Black is fine.”
She handed him his mug and took a sip of her own. So weak. Like drinking colored water. S
hrugging, she moved into the living area of the suite and collapsed onto the plush sofa. Dale followed and sat in a chair across from her.
“Tell me about your—our daughter’s disappearance,” he said, leaning forward with the mug in both hands between his knees. “Why you believe she came to Miami to find me.”
Francesca nodded. Finally he was asking for details. “She boarded a plane in Rome bound for Miami with a connection in New York City. The FBI confirmed she landed at JFK airport because she checked in through customs.”
“Did she board the flight to Miami?”
“The airline says yes, but that is where the trail ends. The plane landed safely, and surely she got off, but there is no further sign of her. She didn’t have to go through customs in Miami since it was a domestic flight.”
Dale took a swallow of his coffee and grimaced. She had to agree the brew was foul.
“Is there any record of checked baggage?” he asked.
“No, but the only luggage missing from her room was a carry-on. She would not want to alert me to her plans by packing a large suitcase.”
“But she was an unaccompanied minor,” Dale protested. “Airlines keep track of young people. They must have handed her off to someone.”
Francesca closed her eyes. Now the real story began. “She was not alone. She was accompanied by a man.”
“What man?” Dale asked sharply.
“I don’t know him. All of my information came from her best friend, the only person who knew of her plans.”
“Who was this man?” Dale repeated.
“Bella and her friends met him at an American-style coffee shop that has become their latest hangout since they adore all things American. The man befriended them, heard Bella say she wanted to come to Miami to find her father, and said he could help.”
“How old was this man?”
“Based on images from the surveillance cameras in the coffee shop, I’d say early thirties.”
Dale cursed. “Sounds like a pedophile. Do you have a name?”
“Gina said—”
“Gina is the best friend?”
Francesca nodded. “He gave them the name Arthur Finnegan, but the Italian Department of State is certain that is not his real name.”
Her One and Only Hero Page 4