Her head snapped up and she stared at him, surprise in her eyes.
“I’m sorry to startle you. Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not,” she said, and he saw it was true. Her eyes were a pale blue with perhaps just a dollop of gray in the early-morning light.
“Excuse me for bothering you, but I saw you here. Are you all right? Is there something I can do?”
She was young—mid-twenties, he guessed. Her face was blotchy from the tears. She was amazingly lovely, even with her nose running, her eyes red and swollen from crying, and her hair sweat-soaked, her face clean of makeup.
“I’m quite all right, thank you. It’s very beautiful here. I thought no one in his or her right mind would be up and out here this early. You just never know, do you?”
“No, you certainly don’t. I was pretty surprised to see you too.”
She scooted back just a bit, then rose to her feet. She wasn’t all that tall, coming only to his chin.
“Forgive me for disturbing you,” he said, wondering what the devil was wrong with her. A man, probably. It usually was. There wasn’t a ring on her left hand. Yeah, man trouble, for sure.
He nodded and trotted away from her.
Margaret’s Journal
Boston, Massachusetts
March 1991
I’ve met a man who isn’t a crumb. Nor is he a liar. I’m sure of it this time. And you like him, my darling girl. His name is Charles Winston Rutledge III. How do you like that for a handle?
He’s very rich—older money than even my parents’—very kind, and something I simply can’t believe: he appears genuinely to love me.
He’s forty-six years old and he’s got two kids of his own, the girl married, and his son, Benjamin, at Harvard. He’s a widower. His wife evidently died of cancer four years ago, poor woman. He owns newspapers, I don’t know how many yet, and he hates the thought of the groups like Remington-Kaufer buying up papers, making them all the same. I tease him and ask him how his are any different. Doesn’t he influence policy? Doesn’t he tend to have his own political slants, and his papers reflect them? Ah, that gets him going. All this takes place after you’ve gone to bed, Rafaella.
Then we start kissing and he’s good, very good. I’m a thirty-six-year-old-woman, I tell him, and I’m in my prime. I’m concerned, I continue, that he’s over the hill and doesn’t have any interest anymore in physical things. Ah, Rafaella, it’s wonderful!
I met him on the beach at Montauk Point. I had simply driven out there because I’d heard it was interesting and it’s at the very end of Long Island. Remember that weekend? We were visiting the Straighers in Sudsberry. Anyway, he was running and he ran into me, literally. Knocked me flat. And when he stretched out his hand to pull me up, something came over me—something crazy. I giggled, took his hand, jerked him off balance, and pulled him down. He was so surprised he didn’t say anything for at least three minutes. And I just lay there giggling like a fool.
Then, of all things, he grinned at me, rolled over on top of me, and kissed me.
That was three weeks ago. He’s asked me to marry him and I told him I probably would because he barbecues a good steak, stays awake most nights to make love to me, and he doesn’t snore too much. I’ll talk about it this evening with you. I know you’ll be happy for me—this time.
Ah, let me stop a moment with all this true-love gushing. I got him, Rafaella, I finally got Gabe Tetweiler. I finally hired the right detective, a sleazeball named Clancy, and he turned up Gabe in Shreveport, Louisiana. He was still a land developer, of sorts, and he had money. Clancy discovered he’d come into it suddenly, and he figured he’d blackmailed some married woman when he’d been in New Orleans. In any case, Gabe was having a very good time with a local woman, but more particularly, with her eleven-year-old-daughter. Clancy plays no holds barred. He didn’t interfere; he just took lots of pictures of Gabe molesting the little girl. Then he went to the mother and the both of them went to the Shreveport police. Gabe’s in jail, trial pending.
It makes me feel very good, as if, finally, I’ve done something right in my life. I hope you’ve forgotten that experience. You’re so bright and happy, even with all those teenage hormones wreaking havoc in your body.
April 1991
I saw him today, in downtown Madrid, coming out of a boutique, a beautiful sloe-eyed, olive-complexioned woman on his arm. Here I am on my honeymoon and I have to see Dominick. It doesn’t seem fair.
I haven’t told Charles a thing about Dominick. He believes that my first husband, Richard Dorsett, was an honorable man whose life was cut tragically short. He accepts the story that I changed my name and yours back to my maiden name—Holland.
And there was Dominick, laughing and taking a shopping bag from the woman, and then he looked up and straight at me. His eyes flickered over me, a man’s casual checkout; then he turned back to his companion, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. He didn’t recognize me. I was a complete stranger to him.
I stood there under the hot Spanish sun, staring after him, not moving, tears streaming down my face, and then Charles was beside me, and he was scared something had happened to me.
I’ve become the liar now, a very good one, as a matter of fact. I told Charles I had this sudden awful cramp in my left calf and it hurt so bad, and he picked me up in his arms, sat me down in a chair at a sidewalk cafe, and rubbed the calf until I told him it was gone.
What’s wrong with me? I hate the man, I swear it to you. I hate him, I fear, more than I love Charles. But not more than I love you, Rafaella.
I’ve got to stop this! Dammit, he’s been out of my life for years upon years. Yet he looked immensely wonderful. He must be at least Charles’s age, but the years hadn’t changed the basic man. He looked like an aristocrat, that long thin nose of his, his long slender body, those narrow hands with the exquisitely buffed nails, his immaculate dress, his hair as black as it was then, except there was white in the sideburns, and it just added to his magnetism. And his pale blue eyes. Your pale blue eyes, Rafaella, with just a touch of gray, maybe, if one looks very carefully.
He didn’t recognize me. He stared right through me.
Giovanni’s Island
March 2001
Rafaella watched the man run down the beach. Another guest up at dawn. Well, at least he’d been polite enough to leave her alone quickly enough. It had also been kind of him to stop when he realized she was crying.
She pulled her loose shirt free from her shorts and rubbed her eyes. Crying, of all the stupid things. Crying for her mother’s pain that had now become her pain. But mixed with that was the other—her father, the man whose blood was in her. Why did it hurt so much?
Her mother had protected her all these years. Her mother, who still lay in that hospital bed with all those obscene tubes in her body, was now helpless. Well, she—Rafaella—wasn’t helpless.
Rafaella jumped to her feet. She became aware of the beauty surrounding her. It was morning now, the sun brightening, the air soft as her face-powder brush, the breeze from the sea salty and light. She drew a deep breath, picked up the fourth volume of her mother’s journals, and began her run back to the resort.
The place was incredible. The airstrip couldn’t accommodate jets, so she’d flown to Antigua yesterday afternoon, then hired a private helicopter to fly her to Giovanni’s Island, otherwise known by its resort name, Porto Bianco. She’d found out in Antigua that most people bound for the island had their own private planes. As she ran steadily, she remembered when she’d dropped in to visit her travel agent to get reservations to the island. When she’d told Crissie she wanted to book into Porto Bianco, the agent had dropped her jaw.
“Porto Bianco? You want to go there? Do you know how much it costs? And there’s probably a waiting list a mile long—good grief, Rafaella, did you just inherit a fortune? Oops, I forgot about that trust fund of yours. Well, in any case, the club’s private, members only.”
And Crissie carried on and on abo
ut all the gold-plated faucets in the bathrooms and how even the Jacuzzis had gold-plated jets. And there were many security guards so that all the wealthy women could drip with their diamonds and rubies without fear they’d be stolen. And the casino was more elegant and understated than the casinos in Monaco. It was the most exclusive, most expensive resort in the Caribbean. Did Rafaella know it had been built back in the thirties by one of the Hollywood movie moguls? Crissie thought it was Louis B. Mayer, or maybe Sam Goldwyn, she wasn’t sure. But she’d heard he’d bought it from the estate of this American merchant who’d had this French aristocratic wife who’d left him for a fisherman on Antigua.
Rafaella had listened to her carry on; she hadn’t bothered to tell her that Dominick Giovanni had bought the resort, the entire island, back in 1997. She asked if there were any photos of the place, and was told that no, there weren’t. This wasn’t a place that wanted new business. Their business was mouth-to-mouth from old money to more old money. It was exclusive; it was private; it was members and their guests only.
“Ah,” Crissie said, her voice lowered to wickedness, “I know what it is. You want yourself a handsome playmate, right?”
“I don’t think so. I just broke it off with Logan.”
“Forget Logan—he’s got hang-ups, right? You probably broke off with him because he acted like a jerk, right? I heard that Porto Bianco has gorgeous men and women there for the guests, if you know what I mean.”
That was a kicker. A giant pleasure palace, replete with male and female playmates.
“Do you know anything else about the place, like how I can get in?” How difficult it was to keep her voice light, uncaring.
But Crissie had just shaken her head. “Do you know any members? That’d be the only way. What I told you, I’ve just heard gossiped about by other travel agents. I don’t have the foggiest notion of how to get you there, Rafaella, without being a member, sorry. I remember now that it changed hands back in the eighties—it was all run-down then. Then somebody else bought it just a few years ago—a rich Arab or a rich Japanese, something like that, and he poured millions into it and got it back up to what it had been in the thirties. I’d give a year’s pay or my virginity to get in there, just for a week.”
“You’re not a virgin, Crissie.”
“You’ve been in the men’s room again, Rafaella.”
But it had been so simple, in the end.
Al Holbein wasn’t a dummy. He’d found out about Rafaella’s access of their information service and her search through the Trib’s library. And since all topics were either on private arms dealers, or Dominick Giovanni, or Porto Bianco, he didn’t have to strain to come up with some of the answer. He was toying with the idea of demanding what she was up to when she walked into his office.
“What is it, Rafe? You can’t handle the heat out there in the newsroom? You’ll get used to all the jealousies. Goodness, you’ll be jealous yourself before too long.”
“It isn’t that.”
“Logan what’s-his-face at the D.A.’s? He giving you a hard time?”
“Logan’s history. No, it doesn’t have anything to do with work or men. I decided I needed more than just a vacation. I want to take a leave of absence, Al.”
Al stared at her, nonplussed. “I beg your pardon?”
Rafaella tried to get her act together. What to say?
“Is this about your mother? You want to be with her?”
She started to lie; he’d given her such a fine opportunity. In the end, she just stared at her shoes and shook her head.
“Does it have anything to do with Porto Bianco?”
“So, you know.”
“Just about your research. Why the interest in the island? Or in arms dealing? Or is it Dominick Giovanni?”
Rafaella drew a deep breath. “Can you get me in at Porto Bianco? As a guest?”
It was Al’s turn to study Rafaella Holland. She could have asked her stepfather, Charles. He could have snapped his fingers and gotten her on the next flight to the Caribbean. But she’d asked him, Al. Slowly he nodded. “Yes, I can get you in. Senator Monroe’s a member, and he owes me. It’s important?”
Rafaella rose. “It’s the most important thing in my life.”
Rafaella stopped running. She was on a narrow, winding path, one of a dozen that led from the resort to the beach and back. She walked now to one of the main paths that led to her small villa. There were forty villas in addition to the lavish main facility, and Al had managed to get her one of them.
She was here, so close to him, and it was the beginning for her. She had a plan that she’d thought about and examined and thought about some more. It would work. She simply had to keep her focus, keep her edge, and not let anything distract her. She felt the familiar mingling of fear and anticipation, making her heart pound and her breathing shallow.
Six
Giovanni’s Island
March 2001
Rafaella ate another tart grapefruit slice. Her lips puckered and she quickly downed the remainder of her coffee.
She was seated for breakfast on one of the four outdoor patios, this one latticed overhead by bright red and purple bougainvillea to protect against the sun. She was facing one of the swimming pools shaped like Italy, down to the boot, which was the hot tub.
There were only a half-dozen or so guests breakfasting outside at eight-thirty in the morning. The weather, as usual, was in the low seventies at this hour, the sky perfectly clear, despite the fact that every morning about eleven o’clock there would be a heavy downpour that would last for some twenty-five minutes and then the sun would shine blindingly again and everything would continue as if nothing had happened.
She studied the guests as she ate slowly. The beautiful people did appear different from their mortal counterparts. They were, on the average, more slender, more fit, more evenly tanned, and what was astounding was that even those in their forties and fifties bore no sun wrinkles on their faces. Not a ripple of cellulite on any female thigh. However did they manage it?
The men looked wonderful in their white tennis shorts and knit shirts, and the women—their legs long and sleek—wore Lagerfeld hand-painted silk coverups, Armani trousers, Valentino organza madras, and Tantri sandals: at least those were the designers she recognized from her three-day crash course in the latest hot fashions.
They looked pampered and flawless. She overheard a conversation next to her between a man in his fifties and a young woman who couldn’t have been older than Rafaella. Initial impressions had told her father and daughter.
Boy, was she naive. They were lovers, and the young woman, very blatant about it, laid her hand in his lap, turned it downward, and molded his penis with her fingers. Rafaella stared.
“More coffee?”
Rafaella jumped. The waitress was standing beside her, an amused twinkle in her eyes. “Er, yes, thank you.”
“They look much sweeter than they really are, don’t they?”
“What? Who?”
“Your grapefruit,” said the waitress.
“Oh, certainly. I feel very stupid.”
“I did too when I first got here. This is a playhouse. Don’t think it’s sexist, because it isn’t. You’ll see very mature ladies with hunks you wouldn’t believe. Well, I hope you enjoy yourself. You should, you know. This is a wonderful place.”
“I hope so too,” Rafaella said. The waitress was beautiful enough to be a model. Speaking of which, hopefully today she would finally make contact with Coco Vivrieux, Dominick Giovanni’s French mistress and former model.
Rafaella left the lanai and wandered through the lush colorful grounds. The place was almost more than the senses could take. So much color, and foliage and flowers so abundant. She’d counted twenty-one different gardeners. They seemed to blend into the greenery and they worked very quietly. Acres and acres of beautiful gardens, none of them rigidly manicured like Charles Rutledge’s English gardens.
There were golf courses, tenni
s courts, three swimming pools, plus, of course, the beautiful Caribbean splashing up onto white-sand beaches. The island was shaped like the upper northwestern chunk of San Francisco and was only about three square miles. Antigua was to the east and some guests flew into St. John’s. The resort took up the east side, the Giovanni compound the west side. It was paradise, no doubt about that, and it was only for very, very rich people—and her father.
Rafaella supposed she fit in well enough. Her trust fund was substantial, her stepfather was one of the richest men on the east coast, and she did recognize a Givenchy dress when she saw one.
She returned to her villa, a miniature Mediterranean, all whitewashed walls, arched doorways, and red-tiled roof. It was surrounded by frangipani and hibiscus, all yellows and pinks. She had complete privacy. The interior furnishings were late baroque, heavily ornamented Louis XVI, the floors hardwood with Kashmir wool and silk carpets as throws.
Almost too much, Rafaella thought as she turned the gold-plated faucet of her washbowl, a hand-painted porcelain bowl from Spain.
She allowed herself another hour of decadent appreciation, then got herself into gear. She went for a workout in the gym.
What a gym, she thought, eyeing the newest of Nautilus equipment. She changed into the designer leotards a friendly young woman gave her, a woman who had pink hair with a wild yellow stripe and said, “Hey, call me Punk! I’ll show you everything. You don’t look like you need much help, though. You’re already there. But any questions, just holler.”
The leotard was pale blue with matching tights. Rafaella didn’t bother with the leg warmers, which she’d always considered an affectation, particularly if one were in the Caribbean. She’d wondered where the natives were, if indeed there were any on this private island, and finally saw three or four local black women who appeared to be in charge of the guests’ dressing rooms. They were handsome women, silent and discreet, and Rafaella wondered what they thought of this outrageous place.
She took herself to the soft-as-butter leather floor mat and began her workout. As she stretched, she checked out every person there—men and women. Most were friendly, particularly the men. She met a half-dozen within thirty minutes.
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