Without a Trace

by Catherine Anderson

  Still uneasy, she walked up the hall, stepping inside each bedroom to glance around. What she would do if she found someone, she didn't know. As she entered the last room, she went to the window and lifted the pink chiffon curtain to peer out at the street. No bogeyman. Passing a hand over her eyes, she sank onto the edge of the bed, wondering what on earth had gotten into her. She'd been living alone for years and never behaved like this.

  Perhaps she was having a delayed reaction from the ac­cident. She had received a nasty bump on the head, enough to knock her out. That could account for why she felt so jumpy. She sighed and smiled. Michael would be home to­morrow, When she told him about all this, he'd probably laugh. And if she had any sense, she'd laugh with him.

  Michael sat at his father's kitchen table sipping a freshly brewed cup of coffee, trying to think of a tactful way to bring up his trip to Chicago. Since his arrival last night, an opportune moment hadn't come up, and time was running out. No matter how he broached the subject, the older De Lorio would be upset.

  Robert leaned over his open oven door, checking a tray of cinnamon rolls. As he straightened, he kissed the tips of his fingers with a loud smacking of his lips, then threw the kiss into the air, grinning. "Perfetto, eh, Michael? That aroma. It is profumo." He rolled his eyes and sighed theatrically as he closed the stove door. "Sheer heaven, no? Your papa, he has not lost his touch. There is snow on the roof, but the fire still burns in the oven."

  Michael chuckled. "Papa, I think that expression was meant for the libido, not yeast rolls."

  "Oh, yes?" Robert's brown eyes twinkled. "At my age, yeast rolls are the only game in town." He brushed his palms on his bib apron as he strode back to the table. "A few more minutes and we shall have piping hot rolls to go with our coffee. You will stay for lunch?"

  "Sure. I can stay until three if you don't have other plans."

  "Other plans!" Robert's hands went into action as he spoke. "My only son comes to stay and he have other plans? I will cancel. You are more important, no? It is a rare treat that you come to see me."

  "It's not that seldom that I come. You make it sound as if I neglect you."

  "No, Michael. You are a good boy."

  The love shining in his dad's eyes made Michael's throat ache with guilt. There were thousands of people who would give anything to have a father like Robert De Lorio, but Michael couldn't be content with that. Instead he drove himself crazy trying to unlock the secrets of a past he wasn't even sure existed. Glancing around the cozy kitchen, he could almost see his mother bustling from cupboard to cupboard. He'd grown up with all the love and attention and warmth a kid could ask for, so why couldn't he just let it go at that?

  "Papa, I have something I must tell you."

  "Uh-oh, this sounds serious." Robert arched an eye­brow. "Mamma mia! You are getting married? It's finally happened. This dried-up old man will have grandchildren to spoil after all. Sifiguri!"

  "No, I'm not getting married. It's something more seri­ous than that."

  "More serious? More serious, he says?" Robert glanced toward the ceiling as if some unseen spectator floated above them, listening to the conversation. "Do you hear this, Mamma? Where did we go wrong raising this boy? Some­thing more serious than grandbabies? Hmmph."

  "Papa, I—" Michael shook his head. "You're impossi­ble."

  Pulling a straight face, Robert folded his hands and rested them on the tabletop. "Okay, you have my undivided at­tention. What is this serious thing you must tell me?"

  "I'm afraid you may feel angry."

  "You forewarn me so I can work up a temper? Spit it out, Michael. I can get plenty mad without your help, you know this well."

  "I, um, just got home yesterday from a visit to Chicago."

  The kitchen went so quiet Michael could hear the defros­ter inside the refrigerator dripping ice water into the pan. His father stared at him, his face so still it looked lifeless.

  "Papa, try to under—"

  "Chicago? Chicago you say?" Robert's voice lifted to a yell on the last syllable. He closed his eyes and with a swift motion of his hand, he crossed himself. "How dare you do something like this without speaking to me first? How dare you? I have given you all the love a man can give and this is how you repay me?"

  "Papa, I had a right to meet my real father and mother."

  Robert opened his eyes and shot from his chair, leaning across the table to slam his fist down next to Michael's cof­fee mug. "Rights? Don't speak to me of your rights. Honor your father and mother! It is your duty. I am your father, not some stranger in Chicago. I raised you. I fed you. I—" His voice cracked and tears glistened in his eyes. "I am the one who loves you, yet you set out to destroy me."

  Spilled coffee dripped off the edge of the table onto Michael's legs. Scalding, searing drops. His eyes stung from staring but he couldn't blink, couldn't drag his gaze away from his father's. Splat, splat, splat, just like in his night­mare. The sound seemed to intensify, echoing inside his mind until he wanted to scream. Finally he did. "Destroy you? I'm the one going crazy, not you! Do you hear me, Papa? The dream is driving me insane! I've asked you who Gino was a thousand times! And you lied to me. You lied! I am Gino!"

  With a sweep of his arm, Michael sent the coffee mug skittering across the table and crashing into the wall. The sound of ceramic striking plaster froze both men, Michael with his arm still outstretched, Robert with his white- knuckled fist on the tabletop. Their faces were a scant inch apart. The coffee splattered the white paint and ran in riv­ulets toward the floor.

  "Who did you see there?" Robert asked in a soft voice.

  "Even now you won't admit it, will you?" Michael sighed and put a trembling hand over his eyes. "I called my mother and went to see my uncle, Marcus St. John." After Robert's violent reaction, Michael was afraid to tell him he'd also visited Giorgio Santini. He had to remember the old man's bad heart. "My real father is dead."

  "I am your real father."

  Michael felt nauseous. "Papa, I never meant to hurt you. Try to understand that."

  "I forbid you to make any further contact with those people. Do you hear me? I forbid it."

  It seemed to Michael that his every childhood memory crowded into his mind at that moment. He loved this old man. Nothing was worth hurting him like this. "Papa, please, I'm a grown-up, not a child."

  "Grown or no, I forbid it. I mean it. If you disobey me, you are no longer welcome in this house."

  Robert straightened, and as he did, Michael sat back in his chair, looking up at him. In that instant, as he studied his father's ashen face, Michael knew the game was up. He couldn't risk his dad's health. Robert was old; his years were numbered. There would be plenty of time after his father passed away for Michael to dig up the past. Some sacrifices were too great, and hurting his father like this, just to sat­isfy his own curiosity, was one of them.

  "All right, Papa. You win."

  Robert sank back onto his chair. "I am sorry, Michael. I didn't mean it. This is your home always."

  "I know that." Grabbing a towel off the counter, Michael got out of his chair and hunkered down to clean up the mess he had made. "You don't have to apologize to me, Papa."

  Leaning his head back, Robert closed his eyes. "You will go now, eh? This has exhausted me. I need to rest."

  The ache of guilt in Michael's throat swelled, spreading to his chest. "I could read or something while you take a nap. Then maybe we could go see Father O'Connell and take him out for pie and coffee."

  "Not today, Michael, not today." Opening his eyes, Robert flashed a weak smile. "You come another time, no? We will do it then."

  Michael rose to his feet, running a shaky hand over his hair as he tossed the towel on the table. "Okay, another day." Grasping his dad's shoulder, he said, "Papa, you know you can trust me, don't you? That I'll always love you, no matter what. If there's something troubling you, something about Chicago, you can tell me. It won't make a difference."

  Patting Michael's ha
nd, Robert nodded. "I know you love me, Michael. It isn't that. You go, eh? We will talk of this another time."

  Michael started to leave the kitchen. As he drew near the door, he looked back over his shoulder. ‘‘Are you going to be okay?"

  "Oh, yes. Go on with you. I am only very tired."

  Robert didn't move from his chair until Michael had re­trieved his things from the bedroom and shut the front door behind him on his way out. Then he jumped to his feet and sprang for the telephone on the counter, punching out a well-memorized number. A moment later, a woman an­swered.

  "I need to speak to Bronson. This is Robert De Lorio calling."

  "One moment, please."

  The phone clicked and rang three times. Then a deep voice cut in. "Bronson here."

  "Don, this is Robert De Lorio. I—I'm in serious trou­ble. There's been a security break."

  Bronson's voice sharpened. "You're sure? When?"

  "This past couple of days. Michael flew to Chicago and saw his biological uncle and spoke with his mother on the phone."

  "Why in hell didn't you stop him?"

  "I didn't know he was going. And how could I stop him without telling him the truth?"

  Bronson sighed. "You don't want to do that. You tell one person and pretty soon it's the best kept secret in town."

  Robert breathed in short, wheezy little gasps, pressing a hand to his chest as he stretched the phone cord to reach his bottle of nitroglycerin tablets on the kitchen windowsill. "I—I'm scared."

  "Listen, Robert, this may not be as serious as it sounds."

  "Not as serious—" Robert's hand was shaking as he placed a pill under his tongue, struggling for air. "You know La Grande's never stopped looking for me. Remember a few years back when he sent someone to ask questions at the Chicago offices? He's just biding his time, waiting for me to make a slip, and you know it."

  "Biological families seldom know adoptive relatives. I doubt there was any contact made with the Santinis, and unless there was, you're safe."

  "You think so?"

  "I'll have men standing by. We're just a phone call away if anything else develops. There's no point in panic."

  Robert skimmed his face with the palm of his hand, wip­ing away beads of sweat. "I think I should tell Michael the truth."

  "Let me make the decision on that."

  "Yes, but this changes things, doesn't it? He could talk to the wrong people, leave a trail back to me. We could both end up dead."

  Chapter Seven

  The restaurant at the Valley River Inn was crowded as usual, but the candlelight and strategically placed foliage around the circular booths lent an illusion of intimacy. Sarah chewed a bite of halibut smothered in sour cream and lemon, watching Michael's face. He looked wonderful, dark and breathtakingly attractive in a white jacket over a light blue shirt and navy slacks. But ever since he had picked her up two hours earlier, Sarah had sensed a brittle tension in him. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there before his trip to Chicago.

  She hoped the news she had just imparted hadn't added to his stress. Though she had warned him to expect the worst, it still must have been a shock to learn that the real Robert De Lorio had died at three months of age and Maria Ames De Lorio before her twelfth birthday. It looked as if Michael's adoptive parents, Angelo and Marcia Santini, had taken the names of dead children whose years of birth matched their own.

  She lifted her goblet, taking a sip of Chablis. "Well, I've briefed you on my progress. Your turn. How did your trip go?"

  He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "It went all right."

  Turning her glass, she watched the wine shimmer in the flickering light. "Something's wrong, Michael. Won't you tell me about it? You surprised me by arriving at my place early. It isn't something that happened during your visit with your dad?"

  "Am I that transparent?"

  "Like a window."

  He chuckled and shook his head. "I'm sorry. I planned for this dinner to be a special thank-you. Now here I am pulling a grim face and ruining the atmosphere."

  She glanced out at the city lights reflecting off the river. "It is a beautiful view."

  "Yes, it certainly is."

  Something in his tone told her he wasn't talking about the water. She turned to find his gaze lingering on her. A self- conscious flush crept up her neck, and she turned her at­tention back to her plate, disconcerted by the inexplicable wave of pleasure that ran through her. She had worn a cream-colored blouson dress of fluid georgette with a shim­mering lace peplum over the pleated skirt. With gold heels, it was elegant enough to go anywhere but not so dressy that she would have looked overdone if he had taken her to a less prestigious restaurant. Her only other evening dress was black, which was definitely out of the question, consider­ing Michael's dislike of the color.

  "Did you see your mother? I'm dying to hear."

  He reached for his wineglass with a sigh. "There's no way to get around it, is there? Business first." He gave her a quick rundown on his trip to Chicago and the later visit with his father. "It was a pretty nasty scene with Papa," he con­cluded. "He was so upset, I didn't dare tell him I'd seen Giorgio Santini. After all your hard work, I hate to tell you this, but I've decided to drop the whole issue. No more in­vestigation, at least not while Papa's alive. I owe him that."

  She reached across the table to touch his hand. The white around his mouth told her just how taxing the confronta­tion with his father had been. "Oh, Michael, I am sorry. I know what this investigation meant to you."

  Did she know? Michael doubted it. He looked into her shimmering eyes, searching for any indication that she understood just how much this would affect his relation­ship with her. He had told her about his nightmare, how he had hoped to stop having it by discovering its cause. But he'd never mentioned how frequently the dreams plagued him.

  "At least you know for certain your dad used to be Angelo Santini. You spoke to Marcus St. John and he's re­ceptive to considering proof. And you found your mother. That's better than nothing."

  "I guess I did accomplish quite a lot. I was surprised St. John was fairly open with me after he was so testy to you."

  "After he had a chance to think it over, he must have re­alized there was no point in being difficult." With a shrug of one shoulder, Sarah gave his hand another quick squeeze, hoping to comfort him. "As for your dad's reaction, Michael, I'm sorry. But he's obviously left something un­pleasant behind him and doesn't want it dug up. One can't condemn him for that. I know it's a big sacrifice, but there's some comfort in knowing you're making the right choice."

  "You really think so?" He speared a piece of prime rib, dipped it in horseradish, then eyed it as if it were shoe leather. With a clink of silver against china, he dropped his fork and leaned back in his seat, gazing at her over the can­dle flame. "I suppose I'll learn to accept it. Someday, when Papa won't be hurt by it, perhaps I'll pursue it again."

  Shadows shifted in his dark eyes. Watching him, she wished there were some way that she could make him for­get his nightmare and erase the tormenting questions from his mind. With a slight toss of her head, she brushed an an­noying lock of hair from her cheek, then reached for her fork.

  "Sarah... what happened?" He reached across the table to grasp her chin, tipping her face to the light. Too late, she remembered why she'd worn her hair brushed forward. Now he had seen the nasty bruise along the curve of her cheek from her biking accident. "You've been hurt."

  "I had a biking accident, Michael. Nothing serious."

  His grip relaxed. "It sure looks serious."

  She smiled. "Well, actually, it felt a little more serious when it happened. From the feel of things, I'm still not sure if I hit my head first or my other end."

  He touched the contour of her jaw with a gentle finger­tip. "Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine." Taking a deep breath, she took refuge be­hind a dazzling smile. "I just crammed a year's bad luck info twenty-four hours, that's all. You know, if
anything could go wrong, it did?"

  He looked unconvinced. "Such as?"

  "Such as getting hit by a drunk driver when I was riding home on my ten-speed? Losing all the files on my comput­er's hard disk because of an operator error? I even had a Peeping Tom. It's been one crazy week."

  "Are you serious? You were hit by a car?"

  "Amazing, isn't it?"

  "Sarah, are you sure you're not seriously hurt?"

  "My dignity was destroyed, but other than that, it's just bruises. The police think the man driving was intoxicated. I can only hope he had a hangover the next day. He left the scene of the accident."

  "Hit-and-run? No wonder you sounded strange on the phone."

  "Strange? Yes, I suppose you could say that. If you told me the sky was about to fall, I'd dive under the table."

  He laughed. "Who could blame you? Rest assured, I'm an excellent driver. You'll get home in one piece and feel much better after a good night's sleep."

  She dropped her napkin on her plate to hide the large portion of food she'd left uneaten. "Ah, yes, a full eight hours sounds heavenly."

  The night air was cool as they exited the inn twenty min­utes later. Michael led Sarah to the right, circling behind the building to reach the cement footpath along the river. "A meal here isn't complete without a stroll in the moonlight afterward."

  They walked downstream beyond view of the restaurant. Releasing her arm, he leaned his elbows on the top rung of the safety railing, bending one knee. Lifting his face to the breeze, he took a deep breath. She joined him with a sigh of pleasure. Glancing sideways, she wasn't surprised to find he was watching her. His gaze was intent, thoughtful, his smile mysterious and perhaps a little sad. It was as if... Her breath caught. He looked at her as if he were trying to memorize her face.

  Turning toward her, he placed his hands on her shoul­ders, drawing her to him. Her heartbeat accelerated. She placed her palms against his chest, raising her gaze to meet his. A muscle ticked along his jaw as he studied her. With a gentle hand, he gently traced the bruise again.