by Karin Tabke
“Because Father didn’t want you to turn it into the smut rag you want to make it.”
Frankie laughed. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you! What do you call your peep shows in the Tenderloin. Sunday school?”
“That’s different.”
“Different because it’s entertainment for men?”
He nodded.
“You’re a chauvinist.”
Anthony shrugged. “Sticks and stones, Frankie.” He smiled, the gesture smarmy. “Have you spoken with our uncle this morning?”
“No. What does Unk have to do with this?”
“Then you haven’t heard the news.”
Blood drained to her feet. His lack of concern for her well-being and his cocky demeanor didn’t bode well for her. “What news?”
“My mother found a codicil to Father’s old will.”
“You’re lying.”
Anthony smoothed his two-hundred-dollar silk tie. “Carmine knows Father wanted you out. No way was he going to be embarrassed by his daughter and the ‘new look’ you wanted for Skin. You should have remained the obedient daughter and taken the crumbs he threw at you.”
Anthony’s words stung.
“Father may have given me my first break here, but I worked my way up from interning to creative director on my own.”
Anthony’s eyes sparkled with mockery. “If you say so.”
She said so because it was so. She’d worked her ass off. Spending sixteen-hour days for years working on one assignment after another. No one put more blood, sweat, or tears into the magazine than she did.
“Give our ‘Unk’ a call. He’ll fill you in.” Anthony picked up the phone on his desk, and when she refused to take it, he punched in Unk’s number.
Fear ran icy fingers along her spine. What the hell happened since last night? And why did she have to find this out from her brother?
When Carmine answered, Anthony put him on speaker and hung up the handset. Her fingers twitched to slap off his smug smile.
“Unk? Is it true? Is there a codicil to Father’s old will?”
“Francesca, I was going to call you —”
“Is it true?!”
“I have the codicil here in my hands. Connie brought it to me last night.”
Why didn’t that surprise her? What was Connie up to now? Constance Angelina Donatello was as transparent as a window. Everyone knew she’d maneuvered Sonny into her bed and gotten pregnant deliberately. She made no secret of her conquest. Now she suddenly comes up with a codicil? How convenient. “Where is the original?”
“Somewhere I’m sure Santini felt was secure. But never fear. I will find it.”
Hope swelled. “Unk, is the copy notarized?”
“No.”
“Then it’s worthless. I’ll contest it. I don’t believe Father would cut me out.” Uncertainty tugged at her thoughts. Her father had disowned her the day before he died. But the only one who knew that was dead. “What’s the date on the document?”
“A year ago.”
Relief flooded her. If he had changed his will, cutting her out of Skin, it would have been after he disowned her, which would have been the day before or the morning of his death two weeks ago. This one was a fake.
“Cara —”
“Unk, please, for now would you tell Anthony to stop drooling all over this place like a goombah over a stripper? Give me some time to locate Father’s last will.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“No, but when Mr. Geppi surfaces, I’m sure he can produce the original.”
“Aldo was found dead in his office this morning,” Unk said.
Frankie gasped loudly and watched Anthony’s brow furrow. Her eyes locked with his. For a flash of a second she thought she read fear in his eyes. Not of her, but the person responsible for Aldo’s death.
Frankie didn’t ask if Aldo died of natural causes. It was too coincidental. Someone didn’t want Santini Donatello’s latest will to surface.
“I’ll call you later, Unk,” Frankie softly said, suddenly thinking of Maria and the kids. She’d go over later in the week. She hit the Speaker Off button and looked back at her brother.
“What’s happening, Anthony?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
At a loss for words, Frankie felt as if the walls of her life were slowly closing in on her. If she didn’t get out, the life would be squeezed out of her.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Figure it out.” He pointed to the clock. “And hurry, sister. Time is ticking away.”
The urge to argue with her imbecile brother drained from her. Instead, she picked up the clock and tossed it into his trash can. “You’re wasting time with your games, Anthony. I’m not playing.”
When Frankie entered her office she found Reese and Tawny engaged in a rather animated conversation. Reese clearly found Tawny’s Malibu Barbie looks appealing. And Tawny obviously reciprocated the admiration. Her blue eyes sparkled and her long lashes batted coyly every time she touched Reese’s arm. Or at that particular moment, despite the fact Frankie had just walked in, his thigh.
Frankie scowled. “Tawny, don’t you have something better to do than drool all over my model?”
Tawny grinned, taking the question in good humor. “Actually, I can’t think of anything better than this,” Tawny answered, looking up into Reese’s eyes like a lost puppy finding her master.
“Well, I can. Get out of here and make sure the studio is clear.” Frankie held open the door until Tawny walked haughtily by, as if she were the Queen of Sheba. Frankie slammed it behind her.
Throwing Reese a scowl, she dared him to comment. She walked to her desk. Pulling her camera out of her bag, she hooked it up to her computer. She wanted to see the pics before they headed down to the studio.
“You should have the cops dust that clock for prints,” Reese said.
Her head snapped up. She was about to tell him to butt out; instead, she shook her head, her attention on her monitor. “The only set of prints on that thing are mine and my brother’s. It was his lame attempt to scare me. It didn’t work.”
“What if it wasn’t Anthony?”
She clicked the mouse, bringing up a file. “It was. He’s a crybaby.”
“Do you know who killed your father?”
Her head snapped up. “No.”
“Do you think you brother had a hand in it?”
“Do you have any idea what you’re insinuating?” she asked, not believing she was actually having this conversation with an outsider.
He came closer. Her skin flushed hot when he walked around the desk to look down at the computer screen, just as a shot of him holding on to his lathered rod in the shower that morning flashed up.
“You’re a bad, bad girl, Francesca Donatello.”
“You’re worse. You knew you had an audience.” He grinned and his warm gaze slid across her. She felt her color deepen. “You set me up.”
“Like a row of dominoes.”
“Paybacks are a bitch.”
He chuckled. “I can’t wait.”
Frankie broke eye contact and watched the rest of the pictures load. As one flashed across the screen, she gasped. Quickly she hit the Back button. There she was, in almost full naked color, sprawled across Reese’s bed, the covers twisted between her bare legs and a smile of satisfaction plastered across her face. For the second time that morning, heat rose to her cheeks. Taking matters into her own hands last night had been the only way she could fall asleep.
“It looks like I’m not the only sneaky one around here.” She managed to keep her voice level.
Reese’s eyes glowed in mischievous pleasure. “That wasn’t the only one I took.”
Frankie clicked the next button and her heat rose. The shirt of Reese’s she’d slept in hung off her shoulder, and her dark nipples, clearly aroused, dominated the picture. “It’s only fair I got to return the favor,” he said.
She clicke
d to the next shot, this one innocent enough. It showed her snuggled up to Reese’s pillow, her face still and soft in sleep. She looked peaceful, unlike how she felt at the moment.
Reese leaned over her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “That one is my favorite. I’ll take Frankie the kitten over Frankie the hellcat any day.”
“So you don’t like your woman with claws.”
“Only if they’re in my back.”
She turned and caught her breath; they were eye to eye, his warm breath caressing her face. She had planned to bare her claws and ask if he wanted a demonstration. Instead, she bit her bottom lip and closed her eyes, willing the heat that pooled between her thighs to chill and the sudden fullness of her breasts to evaporate. Her chest rose of its own volition toward him, her lips following. Santa Maria, this man was dangerous.
Reese backed away and stood straight. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”
“Frankie?” Tawny barged in as usual. “Oh, um, sorry.”
Frankie smoothed her hair back over her shoulders and straightened. “Sorry for what? Barging in — again?”
Tawny blushed. “Um, yeah, sorry, I need to work on that.”
“Start now,” Frankie snapped. Her tone surprised both her and Tawny. The little blonde skulked out of the office. Frankie felt bad; she didn’t normally chip off on her employees. Especially the loyal ones like Tawny. But for the love of God, didn’t the girl have any manners?
Frankie walked to the door Tawny left open and slammed it shut. She turned to a bemused-looking Reese. “What’s so funny?”
He shook his head. “You have more moods than a mood ring.”
“Get used to it. I have a lot on my mind.”
“Let me help you.”
“You’ll help me, all right. We start shooting today.” She laughed. “Hell, I started this morning.”
“Delete the ones you took of me in the shower.”
“Are you kidding me? Those shots are going to quadruple my subscriptions.”
“You’re not going to print those.”
“The hell I’m not! Those shots would heat up a corpse.”
Reese stood his ground, just as determined. “I decide what goes to print. You invaded my privacy this morning, you had no right to do that, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to have half the world seeing pictures of me jerking off.”
Frankie stepped close. “Don’t give me that, Reese. You wanted me in that bathroom, you made it so I had to break in. Don’t tell me you didn’t. Besides, I own your ass — you signed the contract last night. I took the pictures this morning.”
Reese’s eyes flashed bright blue; the color deepened beneath his dark skin. “You know as well as I do, that was for your eyes only. No one else’s.”
“They’re going to production as we speak.”
“I see how it is with you, Frankie. Just business, huh?”
“You learn quick.”
He nodded, his anger seething just below the surface. “I’ll remember that. And when I remind you when it comes back to bite you in that pretty little ass of yours, don’t come crying to me.”
“I’m glad you understand. Now, hopefully Tawny can keep her hands off of you long enough to take you downstairs to Stella to work out a color scheme.”
He cocked a dark brow.
“You’re a model, don’t tell me you don’t know about schemes.”
“I’m a summer.”
“The hell you are. Winter all the way. Now, I have a few things to do. I’ll meet you downstairs in fifteen.”
Reese didn’t cotton much to being dismissed, but he played the obedient model, grateful for such a big break. Besides, he had a call to make.
He exited the office, told Tawny he had to make a quick call and then he’d be back up. He hurried downstairs to the front lobby and the pay phone there. He glanced around. All clear. Not wanting to be conspicuous, Reese turned his back and dialed.
“Guido’s,” a voice answered.
“Yo, Guido, I have a bug. I need an exterminator.”
“We can kill whatever you got, mister.”
“Dust my ride with powder, then get me a new one.”
“You got it, man. I’ll call you with the info on your new buggy.”
“I also need a 24/7 shadow on Princess Daisy.”
“Got it.”
When Reese hung up, he saw Anthony standing by the front doors of the building, staring straight at him. Reese ignored him and jogged up the three flights of stairs to the offices of Skin.
Chapter Ten
Frankie stood, arms crossed and looked out the window up at the sky. White puffy clouds floated like sailboats on the ocean across the powder-blue plane. She wondered if her father was up there, watching, laughing. She scowled, and looked down at the ugly gray concrete sidewalk. If Santini Donatello was anywhere it was beneath that hard cement, not up in the clouds. The thought neither upset her or warmed her. She never kidded herself about her father and what he did. In his profession there was only one way: Down. Returning to her desk, Frankie sat down, her elbows on the surface, and stared hard at a crack in the ceiling.
As much as she wanted to locate her father’s will, she resented the intrusion. If anyone had the latest will or at the very least a notarized copy, it was Mr. Geppi. First he was missing, now he was dead. She shook her head and groaned. When had life become so complicated?
None of this made sense.
Was her father playing with them all from the grave?
It wasn’t like him to be so negligent. Or was it? The codicil dated last year was BS. She knew it in her bones. It made no sense. Not only was Anthony nowhere near ready to take over any of the family’s business, he had shown no interest in Skin until last month. There would be no reason for her father to leave control of it to her brother. He promised it to her.
Santini knew how much the magazine meant to her, and despite their differences, he, along with Unk, had given her more and more responsibility. Besides, her father held no interest in the rag. It was Unk who acquired it for the family, her father not caring as long as he received his cut of the action. Had Father’s sense of old-world honor driven him to take it from her? No — while Father hadn’t wanted her to turn Skin into a skin rag in the truest sense of the term, she knew there had to be more to it than that. There was no fiscal reason to leave the magazine to Anthony. He knew nothing about publishing. He’d drive it into the ground.
A worm of a thought niggled inside her brain. What if Father didn’t want Carmine, Aldo, or Anthony to know in advance of his death what was in the will? Maybe Aldo didn’t have the will after all. But who would he entrust the document to? And why not his trusted attorney or brother?
The only reason he would do that was because…Her brain immediately rejected the thought. Reality pushed right back. Her skin chilled at the implication. Didn’t he trust them with the content? The only feasible reason anyone would keep the contents secret was because there was something the main players would object to. What on earth could Anthony, Carmine, and Connie object so vehemently to?
“No,” she said, “none of this makes sense.” Not all of it anyway.
Okay, she could understand not trusting Anthony to handle the bulk of the family business at this stage, and maybe Papa wised up to Connie. They had seemed rather distant from each other this past year. Didn’t matter. Papa doted on Anthony. And despite her brother’s immaturity, Papa’s eyes lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree when his only son walked into the room.
And Unk? He was not only her father’s right-hand man, but his older brother and the one who always covered Santini’s messy tracks. There was no one wiser or more trustworthy than Carmine. So, what about Aldo? The Geppis had been the Donatellos’ personal attorneys since both families came to the States in the late nineteenth century. Hell, the families shared great-great-grandchildren. It didn’t make sense for her father not to entrust his will to the older man.
Maybe Father did see
Anthony for the lame-ass he was and because of that kept his will a secret. She dismissed that thought. Without a will, the business would fall apart. He would never leave the family in such turmoil.
She sat back in her chair and contemplated other possible reasons why the will hadn’t turned up.
Obviously the contents. Anthony felt he was going to get their father’s personal property and Uncle Carmine would be named interim don until Anthony proved himself. Or, she shivered, what if Unk, not feeling Anthony was ready, refused to step aside? Did Anthony suspect? Was it Anthony who took a shot at him? No. She couldn’t see Unk preventing Anthony from stepping up. Well, as long as he proved himself. And he had a lot of proving to do.
Tears stung her eyes. She refused to believe her father had disinherited her! Sniffing hard, she looked up toward the door, relieved that for once Tawny respected her privacy. It hurt deeper than she cared to admit that her father gave so little of himself over the years to his eldest child. And her mother? Frankie’s mood softened despite her mother leaving her to Connie and her father. Lucia had put up with Papa’s women for years. Even when he had the audacity to bring them home to his table, Lucia endured. Frankie remembered watching her mother drop a plate of steaming spaghetti in her father’s lap while his “friend” shrieked next to him at the dinner table. “I hope your balls fry,” she’d said, and that was the last time Father brought a “friend” home.
It was when Connie the showgirl/stripper came into Father’s life that Lucia realized she might lose what she had a tenuous grip on. Her husband, her daughter, her standing in the community, and her beloved home in Carmel.
In the years after the “annulment” her mother fought for her. Father refused to allow her mother in the house when Connie was present. And Connie had the uncanny ability to show up when it was Lucia’s turn to visit. Finally, Sonny told his ex-wife she was disrupting his household and that she was no longer welcome. It wasn’t until years later that Frankie understood you did not go up against Sonny Donatello, not if you wanted to live, and that included ex-wives who wanted to see their daughters. Lucia Donatello dried up and blew out of Frankie’s life like an autumn leaf on a breezy day.