Passion: In Wilde Country: Book Two

by Sandra Marton

  Matteo took a quick step back, reached into his pocket for his iPhone.

  “Bellini! Matteo Bellini! Hey, over here!”

  It was Pastore, rising from a booth at the far end of the room, gesturing to him and grinning.

  Matteo hadn’t seen him in a couple of years, and he was startled at how he’d changed.

  Pastore was tall; he’d always been what people would describe as a big man. He’d reminded Matteo of the actor who’d played Tony Soprano years before in the hit HBO series. Now, he’d gone from big to corpulent. Only his brassy voice and ruddy face were the same.

  Trapped, Matteo thought, and he pasted a smile to his lips as he walked toward him, hand outstretched.

  “Tony,” he said, far too heartily. “What a surprise.”

  “Small world, huh? Haven’t seen you in forever! Sit down and join us.”

  “No,” Matteo said.

  Pastore’s eyes fixed on him like laser beams.

  “I said—”

  “I know what you said, but I, ah, I can’t stay. Call me Monday and we’ll talk then.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” Pastore said carefully. “My wife is with me. Surely, you can spare a few minutes to meet her.”

  Shit.

  Trapped again, but not for long. He’d smile, say hello, shake the lady’s hand. Matteo fixed that phony smile to his mouth again as he turned toward the other side of the booth.

  “Sure. Of course. How do you do, Mrs. Pastore? I’m—I’m—”

  His words stuttered to a halt.

  Pastore had said his wife was crazy.

  What he hadn’t said was that she was beautiful. More than beautiful.

  Ariel Pastore was stunning.

  Hair the color of wheat. Eyes the color of rich chocolate. An oval face, a generous mouth, cheekbones that could probably cut glass. Clichés, sure, but how else to describe a woman who looked like this?

  But there was no way at all to describe what he saw in her eyes as she looked up at him, except to say it was emptiness so deep and dark it sent a chill down his spine.

  “Ariel. This is an old friend. Matteo Bellini.”

  “Mrs. Pastore,” he said softly, and held out his hand.

  Ariel Pastore looked from his face to his hand, then to his face again.

  “Shake the man’s hand, Ariel. Say ‘hello, Mr. Bellini.’”

  Matteo shot him a look. “There’s no need to—”

  She grasped his hand. Her skin was cool, almost icy.

  “Hello, Mr. Bellini.”

  Her voice was a papery monotone. It sent a chill through Matteo’s blood.

  “That’s the way, baby. Mr. Bellini is an old friend. He’s going to have a drink with us.”

  “No,” Matteo said quickly. “Unfortunately, I—“

  “Please,” Ariel Pastore said. “Sit down.”

  Her hand was still in his, empty darkness still yawned in her eyes, but her tone had taken on something.

  Was it urgency?

  Cristo.

  Agreeing to meet the woman, to help Pastore, had absolutely been a mistake. His off-the-cuff thoughts had been valid. Whatever was wrong here was more likely a job for a shrink rather than an attorney.

  Logic told him to turn and walk away, but her eyes were still on him.

  “Please,” she said again.

  A muscle knotted in his jaw.

  “Just for a minute,” he said, and slipped into the booth beside her.

  Pastore took the seat across from them. “Excellent,” he said, and snapped his fingers at a nearby waiter. “What are you drinking, Bellini?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Of course you are. What do you like? Bourbon? Irish whiskey?”

  “Scotch,” Matteo said. “Straight up.”

  “Johnny Walker Blue for my friend.” Pastore flashed a grin. “Only the best for an old paesano, right?”

  I’m not your paesano, Matteo almost said, but what would be the point? Ten minutes, fifteen, and he’d be out of here.

  “Another Grey Goose, rocks, for me. And for the lady.”

  “No,” Ariel said quickly. Her husband looked at her. Matteo saw color rise in her pale face. “I mean, no, thank you, Anthony. I haven’t finished this one.”

  She was right. The glass before her was still filled with ice and a clear liquid.

  “Finish it, then,” Pastore said.

  The words were a command. Matteo saw her throat constrict. She wrapped her hand around the glass and brought it to her lips.

  “C’mon, baby.” Pastore’s tone had turned wheedling. He chuckled. The sound reminded Matteo of the dying engine of an old car. “My wife’s such a lady! She likes to drink, but not so much in public. She’s afraid you’ll think she’s a lush if she puts away her usual amount. But Mr. Bellini’s not judgmental. Right, Matteo?”

  Matteo felt his jaw knot.

  “Not about most things,” he said quietly. “But if your wife says she’s had enough…”

  “Nah. She wants another. Am I right, baby? C’mon. Don’t be shy. Drink up.”

  Ariel Pastore stared at her husband, as if some secret communication were passing between them. Then she took a drink of vodka, a very small one, and put down her glass.

  “Good?”

  She nodded. A lock of hair, long and golden, tumbled over the side of her face. It looked like a strand of silk.

  Would it feel that way?

  “I know what’s best for you, Ariel,” Pastore said. “You know I do.”

  She stared down at the table. Pastore looked at Matteo and shook his head. “Sick,” he mouthed.

  Matteo looked away.

  The waiter brought their drinks. Ariel didn’t touch hers. Neither did Matteo. Pastore drank half of his in one gulp.

  “So, Bellini, what’s new with you?”

  Small talk? To hell with that.

  “Nothing much,” Matteo said tightly.

  “Mr. Bellini’s so modest. Ask him what he does, Ariel.”

  Ariel Pastore didn’t answer. Pastore downed the rest of his vodka.

  “He’s a lawyer. Shoves paper around all day. Not too exciting, right, Bellini?”

  Matteo looked at him. “No,” he said coldly, “not exciting at all.”

  “Yeah.” Pastore lifted his glass, tipped an iced cube into his mouth and crunched it between his teeth. “We can’t all do exciting things, I guess. For instance, what did you do today, Ariel?”

  Ariel Pastore raised her head. Her expression was blank.

  “What did I do today?”

  “Yup. Was it fun?”

  “I didn’t do anything today.”

  Pastore crunched another ice cube. “See how this goes, man? Wives don’t like to admit they were out spending loads of money.”

  “I didn’t spend anything today. How could I? I was in my room.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes,” she said quickly, but Matteo could see confusion clouding her eyes. “I didn’t do anything except—except watch television.”

  Pastore gave a heavy sigh. He reached across the table and took her hand from where it lay beside the glass of vodka. Was it Matteo’s imagination or did she flinch as her hand all but vanished within her husband’s meaty paw?

  “She went to Saks,” he told Matteo, though his eyes remained fixed on his wife’s face. “Bought herself half a dozen pairs of those shoes with the red bottoms and the spiked heels. My Ariel always treats herself good. Isn’t that right, baby?”

  “I—I don’t…”

  “You don’t what? You don’t remember, or you’re gonna lie about it?”

  She winced, and made a tiny, breathless sound. Her gaze flew to her hand, still trapped within Pastore’s hand.

  “Tony,” Matteo said in a low voice. “Hey, man…”

  “Yes,” she said quickly. “I went to Saks and bought—”

  “No,” Pastore said, his tone suddenly sharp and cold. He sat back, all but flinging her hand from his. “
You didn’t go anywhere. You stayed home. The nurse wanted to take you for a walk, but you refused. Why are you lying to me?”

  Ariel shifted her weight. Her thigh brushed Matteo’s. He could feel her trembling.

  “I’m not lying. I tried to tell you—”

  “How many pills did you take today?”

  “None. None at all. You said I didn’t have to take any today, and I didn’t.”

  “I said? I said?” Pastore threw up his hands. “The doctor said, is what you mean. And there’s another lie. You did take a bunch of pills. The nurse caught you, remember? But that’s fine. Blame your addiction on me. “

  She looked up, face white. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what? Trying to save you from yourself?”

  “You say—you say I do things when I know I didn’t.”

  Pastore rolled his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, his words heavy with sarcasm, “right.”

  “You’re trying to make me think there’s something wrong with me. And there isn’t.” Her voice took on strength; her eyes blazed. “There isn’t! It’s you, Anthony, you, doing these things to me!”

  “Me? I’m doing these things to you? The nurse, too, and the doctor?”

  “There is no doctor! You keep saying there’s one, but there isn’t.”

  “Right. Uh huh. We’re all in a big conspiracy against you, Ariel, every one of us.”

  Ariel Pastore stared at her husband. Then, as suddenly as it had flamed to life, the fire in her eyes blinked out.

  “I don’t—I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Something’s happening to me.”

  “Yeah,” Pastore said. “You’re going crazy.”

  “Goddammit,” Matteo said, “Tony…”

  “Mr. Bellini.” Ariel Pastore put her hand on Matteo’s arm. “Please. Help me.”

  Dear God, Matteo thought. He had never felt so useless in his life. He wanted to gather Ariel Pastore in his arms, stroke her hair, tell her everything would be okay.

  Except, it wouldn’t.

  Pastore was a piece of crap, but he was right about one thing. His wife was sick. She needed help, and to hell with his idea of a quick, quiet divorce.

  Matteo looked at Pastore.

  “She’s right,” he said flatly. “She needs help.”

  “What’d I tell you, Bellini? Now you see what I’m up against.”

  Matteo rose to his feet. So did Pastore. The men turned their backs to the booth.

  “You don’t need a divorce lawyer, Tony,” Matteo said, taking out his wallet. “You need a good psychiatrist.”

  “She does, you mean.”

  “Yes. She does.”

  Pastore moved in closer. Vodka wasn’t supposed to have a smell, but there was the scent of something evil on his breath.

  “Right,” he said softly. “That’s why I wanted you to see I was telling you the truth when I said she needs to be committed.”

  “That’s a decision for a physician.”

  “It’s a decision for a lawyer. For you.”

  Matteo stepped back. “Forget it.”

  “You just said—”

  “I said she needs psychiatric help. You don’t just put somebody away because it’s more convenient for you.”

  “You think you can tell me what to do?”

  Matteo could feel the adrenaline starting to pump through him. It was a warning, one he knew enough to heed.

  He knew what the world saw when it looked at him. He was a man of incredible wealth. Custom-tailored suits. A condo in the sky. A collection of fast, expensive sports cars, but underneath those trappings, the real Matteo Bellini still lived and flourished.

  He had been born with the fierce Sicilian temperament of his mother’s ancestors and the warrior savagery of his father’s. Add survival skills acquired in boarding schools that still obeyed the dictums of the nineteenth century and you had a man with a don’t-fuck-with-me attitude right under his civilized veneer.

  Pastore stepped closer. “I asked you a question, counselor. Who do you think you are to fuck with me?”

  Matteo grasped Pastore’s wrist. He pressed down hard against sinew, bone and muscle.

  “Get out of my way,” he said in a soft, dangerous voice.

  Pastore’s face went red with fury.

  “You’re making a big mistake, Bellini. I don’t forget insults.”

  “Yeah.” Matteo’s smile was as thin as the blade of a knife. “That really worries me.”

  He dropped his hand from Pastore’s. Pastore stared into his eyes. Then he took a step back.

  “This isn’t over.”

  “I find out you’re trying to railroad your wife into an institution,” Matteo said, “it damn well won’t be.”

  He pulled a hundred dollar bill from his wallet and dropped it on the table. Then he turned toward Ariel. She looked completely defenseless, but there was nothing he could for her.

  “Mrs. Pastore,” he said gently. “Ariel. I’m sorry for this.”

  She nodded. Her lips moved. Did they form his name? No. Of course not. It was only his imagination, but it wasn’t his imagination she’d begged him to help her.

  His back was to Pastore.

  What the hell, he thought, and he slid one of his business cards from his wallet and slipped it into her hand as he brought that hand to his lips.

  “I’m glad to have met you, Ariel,” he said softly. “And I hope you feel better, soon.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, Mister—Mister—” She blinked. “I can’t remember your name.”

  “It’s Matteo. Matteo Bellini.”

  Her mouth curved in something that was close to a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Bellini.”

  Pastore was waiting for him in the street.

  “You’re making a mistake, Bellini.”

  “You already said that.” It had turned bitterly cold, and Matteo zipped up his leather jacket. “My P.A. will forward your files to your office first thing Monday morning.”

  “What happened, huh?” Pastore’s mouth twisted in an ugly sneer. “You saw what she still looks like, a classy piece of ass, and your blood went from your brains to your balls?”

  Matteo moved fast, grabbed Pastore by the lapels and shoved him back against the building.

  “You better be sure I never see you again, Tony. And you’d better be sure you get her to a doctor who can help her. You got that?”

  Color rose in Pastore’s face. He wrenched free of Matteo’s hands.

  “I won’t forget this,” he hissed.

  Matteo’s smile was thin and cold. “A threat?”

  “La vendetta es una minestra che se mangia fredda,” the other man replied.

  Revenge is a dish best served cold. It was an old Mafiosi curse.

  “Si,” Matteo said, even more softly. “I agree. And I suggest you keep that in mind.”

  Matteo walked away, moving fast, eager to put the evening as far behind him as possible.

  It had started snowing.

  The flakes were big and lacy, like the ones that had fallen on El Sueño that morning. It was the kind of snowfall that made everything look better than it really was. And that was a damn good thing, he thought as he stepped to the curb to hail a taxi.

  No. No taxi.

  He was a mess. His gut was a tangle of knots. His breathing was rapid. Even his teeth hurt from the way he’d been grinding them together.

  He was blocks from his penthouse. It would take him a long time to walk home, though not long enough for Ariel Pastore’s sad, lovely face to stop haunting him.

  Yeah, but it was a start.

  Matteo dug his hands into his pockets and set off on the journey.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  In Matteo’s experience as an attorney, the start of a new year was often chaotic.

  The holiday season was not all happiness and good cheer, especially when it came to relationships between the members of small, family-controlled corporations.

  Sons fought with fathers, hus
bands argued with wives, and second and third generations were eager to take over the reins of businesses even when the parents and grandparents who’d founded them were not yet ready to be put out to pasture.

  On top of that, Matteo had been away from his legal practice for that long weekend in Texas.

  What it all meant was that Monday morning, he was swamped.

  The phones rang nonstop, Fed-Ex deliveries piled up in the reception area, his desk was a sea of documents and letters his P.A. said needed his immediate attention.

  Still, he took the time to instruct her to purge her computer and the file cabinets of everything that dealt with Anthony Pastore, and to have it all couriered to Pastore’s main office across the river, in Newark.

  Janet’s face was a perfect blank.

  “Mr. Pastore is no longer our client,” Matteo said.

  A little smile touched her mouth. Or maybe not. It vanished in a heartbeat.

  “I understand, sir.”

  “And do it this morning, please. I know we’re buried in work, but this takes priority.”

  It had to, he thought as he strode into his office and settled in behind his desk.

  He wanted Pastore gone from his life and his head. Getting rid of all the data that connected them would surely accomplish that, and then he could banish Ariel from his thoughts. She’d been on his mind all day Sunday. He kept seeing her face, hearing her paper-thin voice. He remembered the touch of her hand on his. The press of her thigh. The darkness in her eyes.

  Most of all, he remembered how she’d begged him to help her.

  He’d spent yesterday telling himself he shouldn’t have left her in the hands of a man who only wanted to get rid of her.

  Then he’d told himself how ridiculous that thought was. What could he have done? Called the cops? Told them to charge Pastore with speaking unpleasantly to his wife? Told them Pastore wanted him to draw up fraudulent papers so he could have her committed to a mental institution? He’d never actually said that. In fact, nothing he’d said had been unlawful, plus he’d been Matteo’s client at the time of the discussion, and client-attorney privilege was sacred.

  Matteo stood up and went to the wall of windows that overlooked Madison Avenue.

  He stared down at the jam of vehicles forty stories below.