'I've been carrying this around with me for weeks,' he said. 'All the information Carmine needs is in here.'
She accepted the envelope and slipped it into her apron pocket.
'Don't throw it away,' he cautioned, only half jesting.
She wasn't amused. 'There's no need to be a smart aleck.'
'Who're you talking to?' He pretended to look to his left, then his right, and finally behind him. 'Me?' He pointed to himself.
'Yeah. You.'
He flashed her his best smile, but it went to waste; she was immune to his charms. As he left, she was in the process of striking a match. She held the flame to a corner of Carmine's printout. The paper burned for a moment, then flared, and quickly began to curl.
61
Lufthansa, Disney, ITT-Sheraton, TransAmerica, and Carnival Cruise Lines,' Arne Mankoff said. 'They're each willing to pay over a billion dollars.'
'It's still on the low side,' Dorothy-Anne said thoughtfully as she and Arne lunched at Le Cirque 2000, the new incarnation of New York's legendary restaurant. 'What terms are we talking? Cash or stock swaps?'
'Basically half and half. Except for the Mouse,' Arne said, referring to the Walt Disney Company. 'They've got cash coming out of Mickey's ears.'
Dorothy-Anne paused in the midst of cutting a bite-sized portion of salmon baked under a lemon-grass crust.
'I like cash,' she said. 'And as you're well aware, we need cash. Seven hundred and fifty million on or before the fifteenth of August. Preferably before, since I wouldn't put it past Pan Pacific to play real dirty and call in the loans early. Which, judging from the fifty-million-dollar interest payment, I fully expect them to do.'
Arne nodded. 'It pays to be ready.'
Dorothy-Anne put down her cutlery and leaned across the table. 'I want Pan Pacific out of my hair. ASAP.'
'Then I'll call Michael Eisner. With the new Disney Cruise Line, their new holiday island in the Caribbean, and the various Magic Kingdoms, FLASH will pay for itself in no time.'
Dorothy-Anne shrugged and picked up her fork and took a tiny bite of salmon.
'Are you sure you really want to do this?' Arne asked, looking worried. 'You know the way FLASH is set up. Whoever owns the reservations system gets their product shoved to the top of the list. And that's at every other travel agent's on earth. I don't need to tell you the Mouse is going to be Eden Isle's main competitor.
Dorothy-Anne smiled bitterly. 'I know all that, and I appreciate your concern, Arne. But we're talking survival here. Would you rather we sell FLASH, or do you want your paychecks coming from Pan Pacific?'
'Right,' he said. 'I'll get on it at once.'
'Good.' She nodded approvingly. 'The sooner this is concluded, the better.' She took a last bite of salmon, then put her fork and knife down.
The waiter asked if they wanted dessert. 'No,' Dorothy-Anne said, glancing at her watch. 'Nor coffee. We don't have time.' She smiled up at him. 'Check, please.'
On the way out, Sirio, the owner, came over to say hello.
'It was delicious, Sirio,' Dorothy-Anne enthused. 'As always.'
'How do you like our new place?' Sirio asked.
'Heavenly,' Dorothy-Anne said, pressing his hand. 'Must dash. See you soon.' Actually, she thought, though the food was fabulous, she wasn't certain she liked the ultramodern Milanese decor in the magnificent old Villard house. It was a little wacky.
At the curb, she turned to Arne. 'I'll be at home,' she said. 'I hope you have good news for me soon.'
'I'll try,' Arne said, confidence in his voice.
'Good.' Dorothy-Anne turned and slipped into her waiting black Infiniti.
She twisted around in her seat and looked back. Arne was climbing into a taxi. She turned back around.
This deal had better work out, she thought. And quick.
The traffic was bumper to bumper, and Dorothy-Anne wished she had walked. It was one of those rare, perfect, clear and sunny days in New York.
The car phone rang. She hoped whoever it was wouldn't take the shine off her day. 'Yes?' she answered.
'Boss, it's me,' said Cecilia Rosen, Dorothy-Anne's secretary.
'Don't tell me. Bad news?'
'Not bad, exactly. Just . . . potentially bad.'
Dorothy-Anne sighed. 'Okay. Hit me with it.'
'There's a tropical storm brewing in the mid-Atlantic,' Cecilia said. 'They haven't upgraded it to hurricane status yet, but—'
'That's the third one already!' Dorothy-Anne exclaimed softly. 'And the hurricane season's barely begun.'
'That's right,' Cecilia said. 'If it develops into a full-blown hurricane, that is. Right now it's stalled at sea but picking up strength.'
Dorothy-Anne sighed and stared out at the traffic. 'Have all the Hale properties been notified?'
'You bet. We've already put them on alert in the Caribbean, Florida, and the Gulf Coast of Mexico.'
'Does it seem to be headed for Puerto Rico?' Dorothy-Anne asked.
Her special concern was for Eden Isle. The construction site and its equipment were particularly vulnerable to a hurricane.
'It's too early to say.'
'What about the Pacific?' Dorothy-Anne asked. 'Anything brewing there?'
'Not at the moment.'
'Keep me posted as the bulletins come in.'
'Will do. But it'll be three hours before another one's due—unless something really significant happens.'
Dorothy-Anne hit the End button and hung up.
It's the same every year, she thought as the car crept along.
Many Hale hotels and resorts lay in hurricane-prone areas, so she knew the drill by heart. First, evacuating the guests. Then, stocking up on emergency supplies—candles, batteries, canned goods, water, matches, and so on. Draining the pools. Hauling in the outdoor furniture. Securing the boats. And finally, if the storm got really serious, boarding up windows and doors and evacuating the staff—and hoping for the best.
Dorothy-Anne prayed that this time the storm would spend itself out at sea, or at least avoid the jewels of the Caribbean, and the gold coasts of the gulf and the Eastern Seaboard.
When Dorothy-Anne entered her town house, not a creature was stirring. Not yet. The children, she knew, should be home before too long. She decided to take advantage of the peace and quiet and call Hunt in California.
She went up to her bedroom, undressed, and threw on a comfortable silk bathrobe, then spread out on the bed. When she was settled, she dialed Hunt's number.
'Hi,' she said, when he picked up. 'It's me.'
'Hi, me.' he answered groggily.
'Were you asleep?' she asked, feeling a rush of emotion at the mere sound of his voice.
'Just dozing,' he said. 'We have a habit of waking each other, don't we?'
'Oh, Hunt, I'm sorry,' she apologized. 'I'll call back later. Just wanted to check up on you.'
'No, don't hang up,' he said anxiously. 'It's okay. I just wish you were here to wake me up all the time.' His voice was more awake now, with more than a hint of mischievousness. A very good sign, she thought.
'Down, boy, down,' she laughed. 'I guess you are feeling a little better.' She twirled a strand of hair around a finger. His playfulness warmed her heart.
'I really am, Dorothy-Anne,' he said. 'This physical therapy is miraculous. But it wears you out.'
'What do they say?' she asked. 'Are you being a good patient and making progress?'
'Dr. Dempsey is very pleased, if I say so myself,' Hunt said. 'But he should be. Those gals of his really give me a workout.'
'Are you doing the same exercises?' she asked. She got up from the bed and walked to her dressing table, the telephone cradled between her ear and shoulder. She picked up a monogrammed silver hairbrush and began stroking her hair as she walked back to the bed.
'Would you believe I'm up to forty-five minutes on the stationary bike? Pedaling to nowhere.' He sighed. 'The most boring bicycle ride in the world.'
'Isn't there one of th
ose stands on the bike, so you can read while you ride?' she asked. She stroked her hair languorously, enjoying the feel of the brush.
'The damn bike wobbles too much.' He laughed. 'After that it's all kinds of leg exercises with weights on my ankle. Then, get this. Walking with a giant rubber band around my ankles.'
Dorothy-Anne laughed. 'Sounds kinky!'
'I wish. But you know what?' he said. 'It's working. I've already thrown away my crutches, and I'm using a cane. Very debonair.'
'I wish I could see that,' Dorothy-Anne said, brushing in long, even strokes.
'You're going to,' he said. 'I'm flying in to New York in a couple of days.'
'You are!' Dorothy-Anne's eyes widened in surprise, and she dropped the brush now. The thrill of anticipation excited her. 'Are you sure it's not too soon to travel, Hunt?'
'Don't you want to see me?' he asked.
'You know I do,' she said softly. 'It's just that I don't want to see you injure yourself. What does the doctor say?'
'Who cares?' Hunt laughed.
'I do,' she replied.
'Actually,' he said, 'the doctor doesn't think it's a bad idea. As long as I do most of the exercises on my own.' He paused and his voice dropped to a soft and tender whisper. 'I can't wait to see you, Dorothy- Anne,' he said. 'I love you.'
'I can't wait to see you, either, Hunt,' she answered. Then she whispered, 'And I love you, too.'
After they had hung up, she picked up the brush, and began stroking her hair again, lost in though, remembering her trip to California to see him, a journey she would never forget.
Never. Not for as long as she lived . . .
Venetia had come to her with the news that Hunt had been shot.
The idea that she might lose this man who, despite her efforts to the contrary, she had fallen so deeply in love with was unbearable.
The flight out had been agony.
In San Francisco, she had rushed to the hospital, the very same hospital in Pacific Heights where she herself had been a patient not so long ago. She knew that Hunt's family might be there, but the urge, the need, to see him was so overwhelming that she felt she had no choice in the matter. If she had to confront the Winslows, so be it. She would try to appear to be a concerned friend who happened to be in town.
But as luck would have it, no one had been there. No one but the armed guards stationed at the door to his room.
She didn't think she would ever forget her first glimpse of him in that hospital room. Prone on the bed, his leg was encased in an enormous device that appeared to be attached with Velcro. He looked helpless as a child, but was trying so hard to be brave, to diminish the horror of what had happened to him.
She had approached the bed slowly, tentatively, full of trepidation at what she would find. Only then did she realize that she had been so fraught with worry she had come empty-handed. Without any sort of gift, only her own presence, to do what she could.
He had grinned up at her sheepishly, foggy from medication. 'Hey, beautiful,' he said.
'Hey, handsome,' she answered. She leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek.
'See the lengths I'll go to, just to get you to come see me?' he joked.
'Oh, Hunt,' she said. 'Shh. You need to rest.'
'Naw,' he said. 'That's all I've been doing. Sleeping.'
'Are you in any pain?' she asked. She pulled a chair over, to sit close to him. Its plastic cushions felt cool and somehow repulsive to her.
'Naw. I'm so full of painkillers I don't feel a thing.' He held out a button device on a cord. 'See this? I push the button and automatically get pain medication. Don't even have to call the nurse.'
'Good,' she replied. She remembered the same device from her own hospitalization.
He put the medication dispenser down and reached a hand out to her. She took it and held it in hers, gently stroking it, her heart filled with anxiety and, yes, love for this man.
For she now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was in love with Hunt Winslow, and before her jet landed in San Francisco, she had made up her mind to give herself up to that love. The possibility of losing him had forced her to reckon with her feelings, and all other considerations—any obstacles to their love—had become secondary to Dorothy- Anne.
She has lost one great love, and she was determined that it would not happen again. Certainly not because she herself would stand in the way. She and Hunt were in love with each other and, come what may, they would have each other.
They discussed the events of the day. How he had been lucky the bullet got him in the leg, just above the knee. He told her that all they knew so far was the identity of the man who had shot him.
'It's weird,' he said. 'All we know is that he's this drifter. He has a Greek name, Christos something. Lots of Zs. I don't remember.'
'Do you think it was political?' she asked.
'Don't know yet,' he answered, 'but what else could it be?'
'Could he be some kind of nut case?' she asked. 'Just some crazy?'
'That's possible, of course.' Hunt was silent for a moment, absorbed in his own thoughts. 'The sad thing is,' he finally said, 'we'll never be able to find out from him, will we?'
Dorothy-Anne stared at him. 'You certainly can't hold yourself responsible for that,' she said.
'I know,' he said. 'But still. I can't help but wonder about him. Who he was. Why he did it. What made him tick.'
How like Hunt, she thought, to be concerned about the man who tried to kill him.
He suddenly fell silent and looked into her eyes. 'Will you give me a hug?' he asked.
And Dorothy-Anne had stood up and leaned over him, lying there prostrate on the bed, and she had held him in her arms, and they had kissed and kissed. . . .
Now the telephone's persistent chirrups jarred her from her reverie. She looked at it sitting there on the bedside table, and considered whether or not to answer.
What's if it's Hunt? He could be calling back for some reason.
She lunged for the phone and picked up. 'Hello?'
'Mrs. Dorothy-Anne Cantwell?'
'Yes?' she said again. 'Who is this?'
'Mrs. Cantwell, this is Harold J. Laughton,' he said. 'I'm with the National Transportation Safety Board.'
Dorothy-Anne sucked in her breath. This was a telephone call that she had someday expected, but had relegated to a dark corner at the back of her mind.
'Yes, Mr. Laughton,' she finally said. 'What can I do for you?'
'I'm calling about our investigation into your husband's plane crash,' he said. 'As you know, we've recovered the aircraft and have been assembling it in a hangar in Denver.'
Dorothy-Anne couldn't control the sudden quickening of her pulse, nor the tremor that abruptly gripped her voice. 'Y-yes . . . ?'
'I hate to have to tell you this,' he said, 'but the lab reports are conclusive. C-4 explosives crippled the hydraulics and the backup systems. Is there anyone you know of who would have wanted to harm your husband?'
Harm my husband? What was he talking about? The room started to spin dizzily.
Dorothy-Anne finally found her voice. 'Could you repeat what you just said, Mr. Laughton?' she asked.
Harold J. Laughton carefully repeated everything he had just told her.
Explosion?
Dorothy-Anne's mind reeled, and she felt a cold chill run up her spine. 'An explosion,' she finally said.
'Yes, ma'am,' he said. 'A C-4 explosion, to be precise.'
C-4? What the hell is C-4? she wondered.
Harold J. Laughton kept talking, but she didn't hear anything he was saying. Slowly she replaced the receiver in the cradle.
My God, she thought, suddenly in the clutches of a terror she had never known existed. Who would have tried to murder Freddie? What for? And what will they do now?
62
'I've got some dignity left, you know,' Gloria Winslow snapped.
Who does this old lizard think he is? she asked herself. Trying to get me to sig
n the divorce settlement?
She got up from the couch, threw her shoulders back, and with the exaggerated caution of a drunk, made her way over to the kitchenette. It was still well stocked with bar supplies, she noted with a grim satisfaction. She'd made certain of that herself after taking this apartment at the Huntington Hotel on Nob Hill. She splashed some more vodka into her glass, added ice, and for the old lawyer's benefit, poured in some tonic water.
'You're sure you won't have anything, Mr. Mankiewicz?' she asked, making a big production of stirring her drink, then taking a tiny sip. Like most alcoholics, Gloria had begun to try to fool herself and everybody else about how much she really drank.
'No, thank you, Mrs. Winslow,' the stringy old lawyer replied. He looked over his black-framed Ben Franklins at Gloria. He'd dealt with a lot of women like her in his day. Young, beautiful, rich, spoiled, bored, and more often than not, on booze or pills or both. Sometimes with a man or two on the side to service them. Not a good mix in the best of circumstances, he surmised. But add mad as hell, and you had a potentially lethal combination.
Gloria Winslow was no exception, he thought. What she ought to do, in his opinion, was take the money and run. Get on with her life. Which was what he was trying to tell her now.
Gloria returned to the couch and sat down, sipping her drink. She looked over at Raoul Mankiewicz. The wily old lawyer was immaculately groomed as always, in a pinstriped bespoke suit and custom-made shoes. His liver-spotted bald pate and eyeglasses shone in the light.
Why, she asked herself, did the old reptile have to fly up from Los Angeles with these damn papers today? I'm not ready for this shit, she thought. I just can't handle it right now.
Raoul Mankiewicz cleared his throat. 'I strongly suggest you sign the settlement, Mrs. Winslow,' he said. 'I think it would be in your best interest.'
'I don't get it,' Gloria said petulantly. 'All that money and they expect me—you expect me—to take a measly ten million fucking bucks.'
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