Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli)

by Bellomo, Patricia

  Tara, who wasn’t quite sure how she felt about it, said, “It was an emotional moment. I don’t know how you stayed so calm. I was terrified Franco was going to shoot you.”

  “Lucky for me he lost his nerve.” He said glibly, his eyes with that tiny spark that made her knees go weak. “Baby, you were phenomenal today. You kept it together—you’re very good at your job. I have a feeling Franco took shameless advantage of you.”

  “It’s nice to be recognized.”

  He took a drink of water, studying her. “Some of the employees are worried about their jobs. You don’t have to be. I’m keeping you on as manager, but I’m told you’re Franco’s girl. I just want to make sure you have no divided loyalties.”

  Tara’s breath expelled so fast, she nearly choked. “I am not Franco’s girl.”

  His eyes glinted with amusement. “Baby, it’s none of my business, but Franco alluded to personal relations—”

  “He had no right to do that,” she said hotly. “We dated a bit, but it was nothing serious, and it has never affected my job performance.”

  “Then it won’t bother you that he’s been banned from the property?”

  “Not at all,” she lied.

  He gave her the lie, although his eyes showed mirth. He studied her without comment, taking another drink of mineral water. He said, “Victor and I are going to Joe’s Stone Crab for dinner. I’d like it very much if you would join us.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes, tonight. Victor’s making arrangements for my car. Joe’s has reopened for the season. You like stone crabs, don’t you?”

  “Gosh, I love them.” Tara glanced at the bartender. The smart-aleck was suppressing a smirk, and this decided her. She turned to Mr. Morelli and said, “I don’t think it would be appropriate.”

  “Nonsense. How can dinner be inappropriate? You have to eat, don’t you? Besides, you busted your ass all day and didn’t take a break. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

  Tara looked at the bartender. Mr. Morelli looked too, and he suddenly got busy mixing Mojitos. Tara said, “People might talk.”

  “Baby, after the way you looked at me this morning, they’re already talking. Why disappoint them?”

  * * *

  In the back of his Town Car—Victor riding shotgun beside the driver, an older guy named Sam—Mr. Morelli touched the back of Tara’s hand. “You know, there is another reason I wanted to take you to dinner.” She gazed at him like a wide-eyed schoolgirl. He said, “You saved my life today. If you hadn’t barged in when you did, Franco might have gotten up his nerve and shot me.” He smiled. “I owe you, baby.”

  Tara stared into his eyes. She had touched up her lip-gloss, highlighting the sensuous curve of her mouth. Still, she licked nervously at her lips. “Mr. Morelli, you confuse me.”

  “Baby, what’s with this Mr. Morelli crap? Call me Louie. And while we’re at it, I’m going to tell you: I’m damned glad you’re not Franco’s girl because I’m planning on making you my girl.”

  Chapter Ten

  An iconic Miami Beach legend, Joe’s Stone Crab was nearing its century mark when Tara walked in with her new boss and his assistant. Sitting at the end of Washington Avenue, the restaurant was ideally situated for Louie, with the marina just across the road. Faintly Spanish, the restaurant was a blend of old Florida and old south. Even on a Monday its cavernous dining room was overflowing, a crowd gathering at the bar. Overhearing the maitre d’ tell a patron there was a two-hour wait, Tara despaired. She had not eaten all day and was famished. She asked Victor if he had made reservations: He had not.

  “But don’t you worry, doll,” he said. “Lou never waits. Everyone knows it, even Joe’s people.”

  Sure enough, they were moved to the top of the list and taken to a corner table overlooking the Spanish courtyard. When the waiter came, it was Mr. Morelli this and Mr. Morelli that. Fellow diners turned to gawk, not at Victor or Tara, but at Louie. He had that type of magnetism, generating a tittering of excitement. Tara noticed some of the women really looked. They were all better dressed than she, and she felt frumpy in her Walker uniform.

  As soon as they sat, Louie ordered a Famous Grouse, with Victor requesting bourbon straight up. Tara asked for a Grey Goose martini. Without glancing at the menu, Victor gave the order for jumbo claws. But the food hadn’t even arrived when Tara began to fall further under the spell of her host, who tendered another apology about the unfortunate scene with Franco. Tara remarked on his bravery in facing down Franco’s gun. Louie acted like it was no big deal; regrettable because Tara had witnessed it, but otherwise trivial.

  She was a little giddy by the time the stone claws arrived, devouring several of the delectable crabs and scraping her sweet potato to the skin. Louie watched her with a lazy little smile, eyes warm on her face. He talked to her about growing up in New Orleans. He’d married young, he told her, and had three kids by the time he was thirty. His children were grown; his eldest, Tony, worked for him and would be starting at the Walker next week. His youngest son was in college, studying to be “irresponsible”, he said facetiously. His middle child was a daughter, and his favorite. He’d named his boat after her.

  He did not mention a wife in the present context. He did mention an eleven year relationship with a woman in New Orleans, but this ended last year. He hadn’t been involved with anyone since. “So you see,” he said teasingly, “I’m all yours, baby.”

  Obviously, Louie had been married. He did not say the word “divorce”, but Tara assumed he was divorced. Why else would he be wining and dining her in full view of a busy restaurant, and under Victor’s watchful eye? Married men snuck around, or so she believed. Franco certainly had, never once taking her out in public, and she had a naïve image of discreet assignations in hotel rooms.

  Louie traveled frequently for business, “and pleasure”, he added, with a meaningful little smile. He asked about Michigan, and she talked a bit about her family. Tara declined a second martini, and Victor ordered coffee, enticing her to try the key lime pie. Afterward, she went to the ladies’ room, smoothing her hair and splashing on the Dolce & Gabbana. When she came out, Louie was waiting. He took her arm and leaned in close, sniffing. “Mmm, you smell nice,” he said, and this time when their eyes met, she didn’t blush or look away.

  * * *

  In the car Tara asked Sam to drop her at the Walker, but Louie would not hear of it. “We’ll take you home,” he said.

  “But your boat … it’s right here. If you have to drive me to Lauderdale and then come back—”

  “It’s not a problem. You’ve had a long day.”

  Louie sat beside her. As before, Victor was up front with Sam. Turning his head and gazing inquisitively at her, he said, “Doll, what’s the story with that ghost up in Room 312?”

  Tara explained the situation, adding that Francine was a “very active ghost.” Leaning forward to talk to Victor, she said, “Did you go into the room?”

  “Lou and I stepped in. I’ve got to admit it, the room is creepy. Gave me goose-bumps.”

  “It is,” agreed Tara. “I don’t like to go in there, but whenever I do, I feel as though she is watching me. I know it sounds crazy, but I do feel her presence.”

  Victor said, “Lou has a kid who sees ghosts.”

  Tara looked at Louie with surprise. He said, “It’s true. Ceci’s a first rate psychic. She takes after her mother, Mercedes—the woman I told you about. Mercedes was New Orleans’ premier voodoo queen.”

  “Your girlfriend?”

  “She was my girlfriend, but that ended and she married.”

  “You and Mercedes have a daughter?” He hadn’t mentioned Ceci when he was telling her about his children. Now, looking at Louie, Tara wondered why.

  “We do,” said Louie. “Ceci is ten years old. She’s a beautiful litt
le girl, but very unusual. She practices a form of witchcraft, learned from her mother.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Oh, but I am.”

  They were on the MacArthur Causeway, just coming up over Biscayne Bay. The Port of Miami loomed on the left; downtown Miami a glittering colossus on the mainland. Heavy traffic slowed them on the bridge, the city blazing against the night sky, gleaming gold towers with strips of blue and purple neon, silver lights reflecting on the water.

  Coming off the causeway, they entered the congested sprawl of Miami. Tara was never comfortable driving in the city. There was always traffic, and her destination had to be carefully mapped. One wrong turn could plunge her into an urban nightmare, where streets swarmed with Latin and Haitian gangs and immigrants who spoke no English.

  There was no question of Sam getting lost. He had them on the freeway in record time, heading north. Tara directed her attention to Louie. This revelation of a psychic daughter fascinated her. But she was even more curious about the girl’s mother, feeling just a twinge of jealousy.

  “Living in Florida, you must miss Ceci,” she said. “Do you see her often?”

  “Whenever I get to New Orleans.”

  “And Mercedes … do you see her too?”

  His expression turned tragic. “I should have clarified this,” he said soberly, “Although it is difficult …” He paused, drawing a quick breath and then plunging into it. “Mercedes is dead. She died last year. She was … murdered.”

  “Oh my God!” Tara clasped her hands to her chest. She stared at Louie in shock. “What happened? Can I ask?”

  “Of course you can ask.” Louie placed a reassuring hand on her arm. “After Mercedes and I broke up, she married a man named Robert—a nice young man. He had been engaged to another girl, breaking off with her to marry Mercedes.”

  “It was a tragedy, doll,” said Victor. “A crime of passion. The girl went nuts; she couldn’t take it, her heart being broke like that. She went to Mercedes’ place and shot her dead, in cold blood. It was all over the television; the big networks covered it. Mercedes was famous in her own right.”

  “My God.” Tara turned sympathetic eyes on Louie. “Your poor daughter! How awful for her to lose her mother at such a tender age. Is she … how is she handling it?”

  “It’s terrible,” Louie agreed. “For all of us. Mercedes and I … we were no longer intimate, but we were … close.” He closed his eyes, remembering, gave a sad shake of his head. “I miss her. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. And Ceci … well … she’s adjusting.”

  “But … Ceci …doesn’t she stay with you now?”

  “No, she lives with her stepfather. Mercedes’ husband adopted her.” He saw by her expression that she was uncomfortable with this. He said, “It’s a bit complicated. But Ceci’s life is in New Orleans—it’s where she belongs. I couldn’t take her away from it.”

  Tara thought she belonged with her father, but did not say so. Again, he read her thoughts, saying, “I wish she could be with me, but it’s not possible. My lifestyle …” his voice trailed off, and she heard the regret. “I chose what was best for my little girl.”

  The shrill ring of Louie’s cell-phone put an abrupt end to the conversation. It was a business call, something about acquisitions. As Louie talked, Tara reflected on what she had learned. Seeing two sides of him, she was conflicted. He’d spoken like a proud father of his three grown children while failing to mention an illegitimate child. Was he ashamed?

  Her heart ached for the little girl who had lost her mother. She wondered about this man. Was he the charming entrepreneur who had entertained her at dinner, or the steely tycoon who had bullied Franco? Even with a gun leveled at his head, Louie had not been afraid of Franco. This had more than impressed Tara; it had put her in awe of him.

  Louie jumped from one phone call to another. This went on for some miles, and Tara grew sleepy. She tried to stay alert, but when they hit one of I-95’s notorious backups and remained, unmoving for half an hour, Tara began yawning. Louie slipped an arm about her waist. “You’re tired, baby. Rest.”

  The big car was as smooth as a 747, lulling her. The Lincoln alternately slowed or accelerated, the men speaking around her. Distinguishing the tone and timbre of their voices, Tara missed the content of their conversation. After a while their voices faded completely.

  Louie gently shook her as they came off the freeway. Awakening, Tara discovered her fist curled on his thigh. She was leaning against him, with his arm around her shoulders. When she lifted her head, blinking, he tilted up her face with his forefinger and lightly brushed his lips to hers, sending a shivering excitement through her.

  Lips tingling, Tara told herself it was just a kiss. Louie had no intention of making love to her in the backseat of the Lincoln, not with Victor and Sam up front. Gently disengaging himself, he patted her knee. She leaned forward, pointing out the entrance to her complex. But she could see Louie didn’t care for her neighborhood, much less her apartment, even if he was too polite to say so.

  The suburban sprawl surrounding her apartment was definitely trending downward. Buildings in her complex were in need of repair, with loose gutters and crumbling walkways. The narrow sidewalk leading to Tara’s door was flanked by overgrown bushes. Victor sniffed as he surveyed the jungle of outsized plants partially concealing the windows on her first floor unit. He didn’t like the shabby carpet and dim bulbs in the entry hall, either.

  Inside, her beige wall-to-wall was a slight improvement, but her furniture was standard issue rental stuff. Louie did a quick perusal, Victor coming in, ostensibly to use the facilities, although Tara suspected he was scoping things for his boss because he poked his head into her bedroom before stepping into the bathroom.

  When Victor came out, Louie said, “Victor, you and Sam go get a coffee. Come back in ten.”

  Victor winked at Tara. “See you in the morning, doll.”

  Then he was gone, slipping out into the hallway. Shutting the door after him, Louie turned to Tara. He wore an expression of relief, as if to say: It’s about time. His gave her a long, searching look, and then his lips curled into a heart-stopping smile. She leaned flat against the door, Louie bracing his hands on either side of her. Smiling into her eyes, he said, “I think we’ve got something here, baby.”

  Tara’s heart thumped. She could feel that something, a definite something. I know we do, she thought. But she said nothing, staring into his eyes as he leaned in and kissed her. His lips grazed hers, sending a delicious tingle into her belly. She made a small sound in her throat, and he drew back. Slipping his hands beneath her jacket, he rested one on the curve of her hip, the other flat on her back, pressing her against him. “Baby, you’re killing me,” he said. “You’ve got a body on you like I’ve never seen.”

  “You haven’t seen that much of me.”

  “Are you kidding me? Jesus, I’ve seen enough. You’ve been driving me nuts all day … I just don’t get it.” His hands left her hips, slid over her ass. He groaned. “Christ, you’re so fucking beautiful. Where are the men, baby? How come you don’t have boyfriends beating down your door?”

  “Franco’s the only guy I’ve gone out with since I’ve been in Florida,” she admitted. “No, wait … I did have one date, but it was a total disaster. He wanted to skip dinner and take me directly to bed.”

  “I can’t say that I blame him.”

  “I turned him down, of course. I don’t go for that. I like to get to know somebody. It’s important—”

  Louie gave her a look that made her knees go weak, stabbed a hot dart into her belly. “Tomorrow night we’re going to have our first date, sweetheart. I’m telling you right now, I plan on making love to you. Does this mean you’re going to shoot me down?”

  “No,” she murmured breathlessly. “It’s different with you. I alread
y know I like you.”

  “You do, huh?”

  She gazed at him from beneath lowered lashes. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “What’s obvious is this.” His hands came off her ass. Both arms went around her waist. He said, “I’m going to kiss you good night now.”

  Chapter Eleven

  After saying goodnight to Tara, Louie told Sam to take him home. Traffic going north was scant, and within forty minutes Sam activated the electronic gates at the Morelli house and turned onto the winding drive. Louie’s Mediterranean villa was set back on the lot, so that the curious on A1A merely glimpsed the creamy façade and red barrel-tiled roof. Bougainvillea grew in a riotous mass over the bricked walls enclosing his property.

  People who lived in Delray Beach tended to be Jewish or Italian. It was the abundance of surnames ending in vowels that induced Louie to build here. Of course, there were other reasons: he had headquartered his company in nearby Boca Raton, he was making money in Palm Beach County, and his wife fell in love with the pristine beach and charming village.

  The culture change from New Orleans was refreshing. Louie was totally anonymous, just another entrepreneur who happened to be Italian. In South Florida everybody got to be somebody else, even Louie, born a prince to an underworld king.

  Lit with medieval chandeliers, Louie’s vaulted entry was paved with limestone flooring, his heels tapping as he stepped in. The grand corridor led Louie past the wide staircase and into the kitchen where his mother-in-law, Maria, a small, diminutive woman in a lavender housedress of the type his wife referred to as a “duster” was preparing a late-night snack for Louie’s youngest son.

  Michael sat on a high-backed stool at the peninsula, elbows resting on the honey-toned granite counter, pendant lights shining on his black, curly hair, his eyes bright and glassy from what Louie assumed was a combination of alcohol and marijuana. Michael looked exactly as Louie had looked thirty years ago, although he was taller than his father, clad tonight in designer jeans and a blue silk T-shirt. Louie and Angie were having issues with Michael, most of it related to his party-boy sense of entitlement. Louie was toying with the idea of sending Michael to New Orleans to work in the coffee company he co-owned with his cousin. It would be the harshest penalty Louie had yet to impose on him. Like many Italians, he indulged his offspring, providing them with untold luxuries. He asked only that they become responsible adults.