Impulse

by Catherine Coulter

  She was doing leg lifts when she saw him again.

  It was the same man who’d stopped early this morning on the beach and been nice to her, a stupid weeping woman. He was speaking to Punk; then he laughed, worked his shoulder a bit, and sauntered off to the men’s dressing room.

  When he came out, he was wearing shorts, sneakers, and a white T-shirt. She could see an elastic bandage around his chest and over his shoulder beneath the soft white material. She hadn’t noticed the bandage earlier.

  He was built very well. In his early thirties, she guessed, hair black as sin, and eyes a deep blue. Yes, he was very well-built, with muscular thighs, just what she liked. A man to whom fitness was important and always would be. He had a strong face, a hard face, a face that promised both character and secrets. He was a man who would be noticed and remembered.

  He looked around and saw her. Rafaella nodded, then did another leg lift.

  Marcus strolled over to her. “Good morning,” he said, and stuck out his hand. “I didn’t introduce myself this morning. My name’s Marcus Devlin.”

  His smile was nice too. “My name’s Rafaella Holland.”

  “You just get here?”

  “Yes, yesterday afternoon. From Boston. I can’t tell you what it’s like to wear no clothes and still be warm. The weather back home is—”

  “Yes, I know. I was in Boston last month. Sure, and even my toenails were cold.”

  She grinned. “You’re Irish.”

  “As I tell folk, I’m half Irish and half South Chicagoan.”

  “I thought South Chicago was primarily black.”

  “It is. And I’m more Catholic than the pope.”

  “Then why in the name of the pope are you here?”

  “You don’t like it? The freedom to do about anything you please? It would seem to me that a lovely young woman could enjoy herself immensely here.”

  “If my mother knew I was here, she’d probably turn Catholic and pray every hour on the hour for my lost self and soul. Why, just this morning, you wouldn’t believe what I saw, and—”

  A black eyebrow went up. He looked amused, and was waiting for her to finish, but she didn’t.

  “Yes? You were saying?”

  “Nothing more than two people enjoying their freedom. What an interesting way to phrase it. It was just that one of them was old enough to be the other one’s father. Sorry, I must sound like a Victorian spinster, which I’m really not. Excuse me, I’ve got to do twenty more leg lifts.”

  Marcus recognized a dismissal when he heard it. It surprised him because he wasn’t used to being dismissed, particularly by women, particularly by young women who were very rich and used to getting what they wanted when they wanted it. He almost laughed at his sudden attack of ego, but contented himself by walking away from her with merely a nod to her over his shoulder.

  Rafaella wondered at her sudden collapse of restraint. She’d nearly talked the man’s ear off, and she didn’t have any idea who or what he was. It would be just her luck if he were one of the male playmates.

  “Who is that man?” she asked Punk when she came over to help Rafaella reset the weights on the Nautilus.

  “Who? Oh, Marcus. Isn’t he a hunk? Oh, drat the man, I told him not to overdo it, and there he goes again!”

  “You mean—I can see the bandage underneath his T-shirt. What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Dr. Haymes—he’s the resort doctor—he said something about Marcus getting hurt on some machinery over at the compound. But now Marcus is trying to get all his strength back in a week. Excuse me, I want to go chew on his ear.”

  “But who is he?” Rafaella said to herself, watching Punk walk to the man and pull on his arm.

  The compound. It had to be Dominick Giovanni’s compound.

  Was the man a crook? Was he one of her father’s men?

  “You need some more help?”

  Punk again, hovering, her words meant for Rafaella but her eye roving over the men who were grunting with varying degrees of pain through their routines.

  “Marcus seems like a nice man.”

  That got Punk’s attention, and she looked Rafaella over closely. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, honey, but you’re really not his type. It doesn’t matter how rich you are, either. He doesn’t play around much, and when he does, it’s with petite brunettes. I wonder if he had a wife who was black-haired and little, and—she left him or she died, or something—”

  “Dramatic?”

  Punk laughed and shrugged. “Yeah. You know, even I’ve tried, but he just isn’t interested. He says a guy should never dip his quill in company ink. He also says I’m too young for him. He says he sees me only as an uncle would. He works much too hard. Pity, I bet I could make him very happy. Look over there—that guy’s from Argentina and he’s got the yummiest accent, and from what I’ve heard, he knows just what to do in the sack. Callie—she’s Marcus’s secretary—well, she told me he has the nicest fingers and—” Punk shuddered.

  Rafaella wanted to say something to that, but she kept her mouth shut. Punk was a veritable fount of information and should get past the sex soon.

  Unfortunately Rafaella couldn’t get Punk off the Argentinian’s sexual prowess, so she merely nodded at appropriate intervals. Finally another woman hailed Punk and she left.

  Rafaella’s workout came to an abrupt halt when an older woman—an incredibly beautiful woman with shoulder-length ash-blond hair—walked into the gym. She saw Marcus and quickened her pace over to him. She touched his shoulder and began speaking to him.

  He stopped and spoke to her. He put his hand on her arm as if he were reassuring her about something. Then he turned, spoke briefly to Punk, and disappeared into the men’s dressing room.

  The older woman—Rafaella mentally deleted the adjective—the woman was mid-thirties, exquisitely fashioned by a very kind set of genes, with high slashing cheekbones, giving her a nearly Tartar look, a wide mouth, and arched eyebrows over the greenest eyes in nature. Rafaella looked more closely. Her heart speeded up.

  The woman was Coco Vivrieux, Dominick Giovanni’s mistress. She was far more compelling than her photographs, which was odd, because models seemed to make it to the top because they weren’t necessarily gorgeous, just very photogenic. Rafaella couldn’t believe her luck. Slowly, her mind racing, she strolled over to where the woman was waiting, drumming very long fingernails on the back of an Air-Dyne bike.

  “Excuse me. I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but aren’t you Coco?”

  Coco nodded, distracted, wishing the sweating woman would leave her alone.

  “I’ve admired you forever, it seems. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  Coco decided on the spot that this sweating woman wasn’t to be dismissed so lightly. She seemed quite a good sort. “You’re very kind to say so, Miss—”

  “Holland. Rafaella Holland.” She stuck out her hand, and Coco, after looking at it for the barest instant, shook it.

  “I can’t believe how lucky I am to finally meet you. Are you a guest here at the resort, Coco?”

  “No, I live here, on the western side of the island. You’re a guest?”

  Rafaella made a decision and shook her head. “Yes and no. I really came here to—”

  “Who’s this, Coco?”

  It was Marcus Devlin. He didn’t sound very friendly now. He sounded suspicious.

  “This is Miss Holland, Marcus. She’s one of your guests.”

  Marcus looked her over slowly. He’d assumed she was a guest, and here she was bothering Coco. What the hell did she want with Coco? He said, “She and I met at dawn today, as a matter of fact, and again over leg lifts just a minute ago.”

  “I’m a runner, just like Mr. Devlin.” What did these two have to do with each other? Rafaella wondered. She decided to strike first at Devlin, because she’d heard the suspicion in his voice, seen the blatant distrust in his eyes when he’d looked at her again. She’d
learned that if you took a man down, he tended to show his true colors very quickly. And she wanted to know who he was now. “Are you the tennis pro? The golf pro? Or just a pro?”

  There was challenge and disdain in her voice, and Marcus realized she thought he was one of the resort studs, here to screw her eyes out for a goodly sum of money. In her case, not much money at all, if any. She could have all the men she wanted free of charge. Why the attack? He hadn’t really provoked it. He smiled, and, for the moment, said nothing.

  Coco, surprised, opened her mouth, but Marcus forestalled her then, saying easily, “I’m the pro, I guess you could say, Miss Holland. Or, in addition to going braless, do you also go by Ms.?”

  Now it was her turn to be on the receiving end of the contempt. He was better at it than she was, and to give herself time, she sent her chin up.

  She flicked a fleck of lint from her leotards. “It’s Ms., and braless is very comfortable.”

  “I thought as much. Now, if you would excuse us, Ms. Holland—”

  He was dismissing her. Just as if she didn’t exist, he was dismissing her. Rafaella supposed she deserved it, but she didn’t like it. Now she had to make her move with him listening. She said quickly, “It was wonderful meeting you, Coco. Could we have lunch perhaps? Tomorrow on the Hibiscus Lanai? I’d appreciate it ever so much, truly. And I do have something specific to speak with you about.”

  Coco didn’t know what to do. She shrugged, then smiled. “Tomorrow, then, Miss Holland. Have a good day—”

  “Yeah, with the pro of your choice. Given your age and your looks, it shouldn’t cost you all that much.”

  “You’re dead wrong,” Rafaella said. “It won’t cost me a dime.”

  That was true enough, Marcus thought again. He nodded to Ms. Holland, took Coco’s arm, and left the gym.

  “You were quite horrible to her, Marcus.”

  He didn’t want to talk about Ms. Holland, and said, his voice curt, “She’s nothing but a selfish rich—You know the sort, Coco. Both of us have met her type before.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, but still, she is a guest. I’ve just never seen you act so dismissive and so edgy with a female guest before. I wonder what she wants.”

  “I do too. I don’t like people singling you out like that. It was as if she were just waiting for you to show up.” He shrugged then. “Maybe she’s just a famous-person groupie.”

  “She doesn’t look it. Oh, Marcus, I’m scared out of my mind. You’ve got to do something!”

  “Keep it down, Coco. Let’s go to my office.”

  Callie was at her desk, and she quickly rose when Marcus came into the executive suite. “I’ve got a ton of messages, Marcus, and—”

  “In a couple of minutes, Callie,” he said, raising his hand. “Miss Vivrieux and I will be in my office. No interruptions. Hold all calls.”

  Callie didn’t like Coco, but she managed to keep her feelings to herself. She wondered if the model was going to seduce her boss on his desk. She wouldn’t put it past her. Callie, whose roots were Sioux City, Iowa, had nonetheless become a thorough sophisticate in a period of two years. Her last lover, a Señor Alvarez of Madrid, had told her of the island resort and, at her insistence, had gotten her a job here. She loved it. She watched now as Marcus quietly closed his office door.

  Marcus didn’t like antiques, at least not the three-century-old French sort that abounded in the villas. His office was starkly modern, all glass and chrome and pristine white carpeting and earth-tone leather furniture.

  “You want a drink, Coco?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t want anything. It’s Dominick. Something’s going on, you know that. After the Dutchmen poisoned themselves—I’m just not sure they did poison themselves. Are you?”

  He looked at her, saying nothing. He didn’t think so either, but it didn’t make sense. Had Dominick had them poisoned? Had he gotten the information he wanted, then ordered them killed? To look like suicide? To keep someone in the dark? Who? Him? Coco? Every damned one of them? It did make some sense, but it was the crookedest road Marcus had ever walked.

  “Why do you think that?” he said easily now, pouring himself a cup of rich black Jamaican coffee.

  “I heard him on the private blue phone—you know, the one that only he uses, the one locked in his desk drawer.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I—well, I heard him talking to someone about it. He said, ‘All right, you cretin, whoever you send to kill me, you’ll fail. Look what happened to the Dutchmen and that damned woman.’ That was it. Link was coming and I couldn’t let him think I was eavesdropping.”

  “So, it was a different set of Dutchmen who came to the island. Is the deal still on?”

  “What deal?”

  “Come on, Coco. The arms deal. The Dutchmen were supposed to be the middlemen, here to finalize things.”

  “Dominick doesn’t talk business to me, you know that, Marcus. Nor is he one for pillow talk. He goes to sleep.”

  “Then there’s someone out to kill him. It was planned, and it was just a first attempt. Well, I think—”

  A soft buzzing noise came from his top desk drawer. Quickly he said, “There’s my damned beeper. Let me mull it over, Coco.” He took her arm and led her toward the office door. “Try not to worry. I’ll speak to Dominick, and, yes, I’ll protect you. Don’t worry.”

  Once he’d closed the door again, Marcus locked it and quickly walked back to his desk. He unlocked the drawer and quickly pressed two buttons in rapid succession. He then picked up the phone receiver.

  “Devlin here.”

  “It’s me, Marcus. Savage. As if it could be anyone else. Thank God you’re there.”

  “What’s going on? I wasn’t expecting a call from you until the end of the week. Is Mom all right? Is—?”

  “Molly’s just fine. Now, slow down a bit. First of all, Molly sends her love and wonders when you’ll get back to Chicago to visit her. Second, the company’s fine and we’ve got no unsolvable problems at present. Now, what happened is this. Hurley called me last night. He was worried, thought you might even be dead. Rumor has it that there was an attempted hit on Giovanni.”

  “Yes, there was. Dominick was shot in the arm but he’s fine. I was shot in the back but I’m all right now. Stop worrying. Yes, there was a hit, but who’s behind it, I don’t know yet. Dominick still doesn’t trust me enough to tell me everything. I was trying to discover something before I called you to report to Hurley. This whole arms deal—Tell Hurley that the Dutchmen were decoys, the woman leading them, an assassin. Her name, supposedly, was Tulp. A big woman, large-boned, mid-thirties, dark brown hair and big breasts, quite at home with a nine-millimeter automatic. A professional all the way. Maybe Hurley can I.D. her. As for the Dutchmen, they were the same ones I’d already told you about. When the real deal goes down, I’ll get to you, Savage, then you’ll call Hurley. Now I’ve got work to do and a puzzle to solve here. Anything else?”

  There was a deep sigh. “No, nothing else. You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you, buddy? We survived that last year in Afghanistan—hell, we even survived college and getting our munitions business off the ground.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “We’re honest and we don’t charge the feds sixteen thousand dollars for a screwdriver. And here you are trying to pin a dishonest arms dealer. Oh, shit. Don’t blow it now, O’Sullivan, you’ve got too much going for you. Oh, yeah, Molly’s found a nice little Irish gal for you. I’ll call you on Friday, hopefully with an I.D. on the woman.” Savage rang off.

  Marcus gently replaced the receiver, closed and locked the desk drawer.

  There was a knock on his office door. “Marcus? I’ve got a Mr. Lindale on line three. There’s a problem with a shipment of beluga caviar, and—”

  “I’ll be right there, Callie.”

  Rafaella didn’t want to gamble, but that seemed to be the pastime of choice among the guests in the evenings—that and sex—so she at least had to pr
etend a passion for blackjack and roulette. She’d gone shopping in Boston, wishing she could call her mother and ask her to help select clothes she would need, but her mother was in a coma in Pine Hill Hospital. She’d ended up at a small exclusive boutique near Louisburg Square. Eight thousand dollars later, she looked dressed to kill, at least she hoped so. The evening gown she was wearing was sleek, black, sleeveless, and was held together at the waist by a single button, decorated with a large red silk hibiscus covering the button. With it she wore high strap black sandals and under it only a pair of black bikini panties. The dress folded softly and demurely nearly to the waist, showing the curve of her breasts quite clearly. “This Carolyne Roehm is wonderful advertising,” the woman had told her. “Men go nuts wanting to slip their hands inside, don’t you agree?” Rafaella had indeed agreed. “It’s so modest and yet so provocative.” Her only jewelry was a pair of large gold hoops. “Nothing more,” the woman had told her. “The style is severe and romantic and must be left alone.”

  Rafaella felt somewhat strange in her new plumage. But the first man she saw gave her such a stunned, lustful look that she immediately felt better. She could carry it off.

  She’d managed to get her hair to cooperate, and it was piled high on top of her head with tendrils floating about her face. Did she look sophisticated? Look like she belonged? She sure as hell hoped so.

  She spotted Marcus Devlin almost immediately. Talk about beautiful, he could rival the women, in his stark black evening clothes. He was busy charming the socks off two older women, who were hanging on his every word. She’d found out, finally, that he managed Porto Bianco. Of course he knew Dominick Giovanni. But was he a criminal too? Did he work with her father? She’d find out. He and Coco were her best leads.

  Marcus looked up at that moment and saw Rafaella Holland, looking good enough to eat and good enough to make love to until the point of exhaustion. His reaction surprised him. That gown was a knockout—at least on her it was. His initial encounters with the woman hadn’t given him any sort of sexual punch. He could see her sitting on that rock, her knees drawn up to her chest, her shirt and headband sweated through, her face clean of makeup, crying her eyes out. Hard to reconcile that woman with this one. This one was the woman in the gym, the smart-mouthed woman who’d put the moves on Coco, a woman not to be toyed with or dismissed lightly. He wondered just who she was. He would check her out first thing in the morning. She was probably just some rich groupie.