Impulse

by Catherine Coulter

  Everything Merkel was telling her in his easy, soft voice, coming out of a football lineman’s throat, she already knew. She saw her mother’s writing, stark and clear in the beginning of the last volume, dated September three years ago. Her mother had chartered a plane in Pointe-à-Pitre and had the pilot fly her to Giovanni’s Island.

  I know you’ll think I’m unwise at the very least; perhaps you’ll believe I’m lost now to all reason and logic. Why am I doing this? I’m happily married—truly I am—to Charles, who’s wonderful and kind. Oh, I don’t know. But, Rafaella, I had to see his island. I had to see where he lived. The island itself is beautiful, a jewel, lush and tropical, with fine white-sand beaches, north to south, and a range of thick jungle mountains down the center.

  Even from the air you can see the luxury of Porto Bianco and the harbor with all its myriad sailboats and yachts. Dominick’s compound is on the western side. Perfect for its setting, all the whitewashed cottages, the big house with its red-tiled roof, the swimming pool, the two tennis courts, and the gardens. Ah, the gardens—unbelievably beautiful. When we flew over, I saw men, at least a half dozen, and some of them carried weapons.

  I asked the pilot to land on the resort side. I just wanted to have lunch at the resort—I knew Dominick wouldn’t be there—but he told me that the island was private, members only, and their guests. A very exclusive place indeed. Of course I could find a way to go there, but not with Charles. I dare not go with Charles. He’s not a stupid or imperceptive man. And what would I say if he asked me why I wanted to go there? Unfortunately, I’m a miserable liar, at least to him. Sometimes I think he believes there’s another man, perhaps not one with whom I’m having an affair, oh no, but a man somewhere in my past, a man I still think about, a man I still love. And when I see his doubts, the pain they give him, what can I say?

  Oh, but I would give anything to see him. Just once. Just for a few minutes. Not long. Just once.

  Merkel was still talking as they neared the helicopter pad on the northern perimeter of the resort grounds. “There are three paths that traverse the central jungle, and Mr. Giovanni keeps them clear of undergrowth. In normal circumstances, we use the helicopter, it’s only about ten minutes…Hey, miss, are you all right?”

  Rafaella realized her eyes were suspiciously damp. She sniffed. “Allergies,” she said. “Just allergies. A pain in the neck. Oh, yes, I would imagine that the middle ridge keeps curious resort visitors away from the western side.” Her mother’s pale face rose in her mind’s eye. Lifeless, so very still. Her condition was still the same. Charles had told her again that morning on the phone: there was nothing she could do. She shouldn’t come back. He promised to call her if it became necessary. He’d said nothing about her being in the Caribbean. She’d lied to him; it was a special story, she’d told him.

  “That’s right,” said Merkel, at his most laconic. “Actually, Mr. Giovanni calls the mountainous area stoámaco di diávolo—Satan’s gut. He said if you got caught in there, you’d be chewed up in no time, never seen again.

  “Look over there—we have a huge harbor for yachts and sailboats. Mr. Giovanni doesn’t allow cruise ships, of course. Porto Bianco is a private club, as you know.”

  Rafaella nodded, then climbed into the front of the helicopter. “You’re the pilot?”

  Merkel nodded, made certain Rafaella was duly strapped in, gave her earphones, then flipped at least a dozen switches.

  “It’ll take us only nine or ten minutes. It’s a small island—at least for planes and helicopters.”

  Merkel lifted off, and Rafaella forgot her mission for the moment, too interested in the scenery below. Odd how one really didn’t see things until one was a couple hundred feet above. The island was shaped something like a watermelon, and Antigua was due west. Dominick Giovanni, she’d read, was a personal friend of the prime minister of Antigua.

  When they reached the central point, the resort area was sprawled in beautiful detail from the north to the southern tip. All she had to do was turn her head and see Dominick Giovanni’s compound. It wasn’t as luxurious or as blatantly opulent as the resort, but it was extensive, the main house vivid white with the ubiquitous red-tiled roof, surrounded by small cottages, all in the same style. There was a huge swimming pool, and all the grounds were covered with fat hibiscus bushes, trellised bougainvillea, thick-branched frangipani, and clusters of purple, pink, and white orchids. The jungle looked to be hunkering at the very edge of the grounds, waiting to leap forward and consume the manicured gardens, a thick green maze that looked shapeless as a nightmare and so thick as to be impenetrable.

  Not more than one hundred yards from the compound, through the jungle, was the western side of the island, its beaches covered with white sand, smooth and inviting as sin itself, and aqua and pale green water, incredible and almost impossible to describe. Her mother had described it, but it couldn’t truly be imagined from just words, no matter how poetic the attempt.

  Merkel didn’t say anything. He was used to this reaction from people on their first trip over to the compound. It was why he gave his tour-guide talk before getting to the helicopter. If he waited, no one heard a word he said. He expertly set the helicopter down on its pad, then motioned for Rafaella to look to her left.

  “Mr. Giovanni,” Merkel said, nodding toward a man coming toward the helicopter. He watched her and found himself wondering just who the hell she was. She was staring fixedly at Mr. Giovanni. Something wasn’t quite right about her, but he didn’t understand what it was. She was a pretty young woman. And she wanted to write a biography of Mr. Giovanni. Merkel couldn’t imagine Mr. Giovanni allowing such a thing. Men of Mr. Giovanni’s questionable international stature just didn’t give free information to writers. But Mr. Giovanni wasn’t like any other man he’d ever known. Mr. Giovanni made his own rules, and he obliged others to live by them. He knew how to control; he knew how to ensure obedience. Mr. Giovanni, in sum, did whatever he wished to do.

  Rafaella stared at her father. The trip over had temporarily tamped down on her fear, her excitement, her gut-churning anger at this man for his betrayal of her and her mother.

  She knew what to expect. She’d seen more pictures of him than anyone would want to. She was afraid for him to come closer; she was afraid of what she’d feel, of how she’d react.

  Where, Rafaella wondered, would her father be a year from now? Maybe in a prison with Gabe Tetweiler? In Attica? She suddenly thought of Charles in that moment, sitting beside her mother’s bed, her limp hand held so gently in his warm one. Please don’t let her die, she prayed, a litany now. And what would become of Charles Rutledge if her mother died? He loved her so very much. It was frightening.

  Her hands grew suddenly damp. She didn’t want to wipe them on her new white linen Lagerfeld slacks. Her side-tie red silk blouse got the sweat, even though the outfit was equal to a week’s salary. She felt an instant of consternation because she felt her control slipping, her focus blurring. She watched him.

  Mr. Giovanni himself walked to the helicopter and opened the pale blue cabin door.

  “Miss Holland. Welcome to my home.” He offered her his narrow hand and she found herself staring for an instant at it before accepting his assistance. Then she looked directly into her father’s pale blue eyes, the exact color of hers. They were tilted upward at the corners, just like hers. But there was no recognition in his eyes. No leap of awareness, of feeling, toward her. She took his hand and stepped out of the helicopter cabin. To her surprise she discovered that in her three-inch white sandals, she was nearly as tall as he was. Somehow she’d thought he’d be taller. But his white linen suit made him look tall and distinguished, with its red handkerchief sticking up in a smart triangle from the breast pocket, the only spot of color on his clothes. There was a thin gold watch on his left wrist and an emerald ring on his right hand.

  “Thank you, Mr. Giovanni.” She waited again, silently, waited for some spark of recognition, but there wasn’t an
y. Nothing. She was a complete stranger to him, just as her mother had been in Madrid. He didn’t see a thing of himself in her, but Rafaella, with eyes tuned to her mother’s perceptions, saw herself in his eyes—her eyes—the pale, pale blue, tinged with a very cold gray when emotional, and the tilt of the chin, a sharp chin, one that shot up in anger.

  She shook his hand, suddenly feeling more relief than disappointment at his obliviousness of his paternal tie to his daughter. This meant she could satisfy her curiosity without jeopardizing herself. She saw Coco behind him and waved.

  “Ah, yes, my Coco is responsible for your being here. But I must confess, Miss Holland, it is sometimes lonely here, and new faces are appreciated.” He turned to Merkel. “You’re returning for Marcus?”

  Rafaella tried not to show that this upset her. Certainly she had enough control not to make a scene if he said something baiting. That she’d lost control twice with him bothered her. It wasn’t like her, not the Rafaella Holland who was an investigative reporter for the Boston Tribune. She didn’t want to slip and lose control, she didn’t want to do and say things she hadn’t mentally cleared before speaking. She didn’t want to lose her bearings. She recognized that there had to be changes in her feelings, in her outlook, in her way of examining things, once she’d stepped foot on the island, her father’s island. Had she really expected to be immune to her new situation? She moved toward the house, watching the helicopter as it lifted off again, heading back to the eastern side of the island.

  “You have a beautiful house, sir. I’m glad I could see it from the air.”

  “Thank you. Why don’t you call me Dominick? And I’ll call you Rafaella.”

  “That would be lovely.” Rafaella wasn’t all that common a name; if he’d bothered twenty-five years ago to ask once about his daughter, he’d have been told her name. But he hadn’t even cared enough to view her in the nursery. He hadn’t even cared enough to look at her birth certificate. If he had, he’d have seen that her mother’s name was Holland, not Pennington. He’d have seen that he hadn’t been named as the father. But he hadn’t cared enough to look. He’d dumped a check for five thousand dollars on her mother’s bed and walked away. And his daughter had grown up a complete stranger to him. And he to her. Until now. She felt a shock of pain so sharp that she stopped cold, not moving. She felt suddenly open and raw, and fought it with all her strength. She turned and smiled at her father.

  The house was cool, airy, and spacious, all glass that gave onto breathtaking views of the Olympic swimming pool, impossibly colorful gardens, lush green arbors, and the spectacular mountain range that backed right up to the property. There were fresh cut flowers on every surface, bringing the sweet, heady scents indoors.

  The furnishings were homey, a mélange of brightly painted southwestern chests, armoires, low tables, and white wicker love seats and chairs, nothing of great value except the collection of Egyptian jewelry in glass cases throughout the large living room.

  Rafaella knew all about Dominick’s collection from her mother’s journal. There’d even been a photo taken in London, just outside Sotheby’s in 1991. He’s collected—probably stolen—many beautiful pieces, all Eighteenth Dynasty. I’ve read that this period was overly ornate, in downright bad taste even, but some of the pictures I’ve seen of items show that they’re incredibly beautiful. I should love to hold that translucent green glass goblet, the legitimate one he bought at Sotheby’s for a phenomenal sum. Perhaps I’ll see it, Rafaella. Perhaps…

  Rafaella was offered a seat and a glass of white wine.

  She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off her father. Her father.

  He realized she was staring at him and gave her a crooked smile. “Does something bother you, Rafaella? Perhaps you’d like a sweeter wine?”

  “Oh, no, the wine is perfect. It’s just that I’ve wanted to meet you for such a long time.”

  “It’s like I told you, Dom,” Coco said. “Rafaella knows everything about you and me. She has so many press clippings and photos, even one taken by the paparazzi in St. Nicholas. Do you remember? I was telling her about visiting that Venetian fortress, Spinalonga, that became a leper colony—”

  He interrupted her easily, without noticeable insult, his voice as smooth as the wine she sipped. “My Coco is a history buff. Just how long have I been of such interest to you?”

  She met his eyes. “Not long, really. But once a subject catches my interest, I tend to go all-out. Just as I did with Louis Rameau.”

  Why couldn’t he see the resemblance? Why couldn’t he see it, damn him? Was this what her mother felt? Disbelief? Deep, deep pain that she was a complete stranger, of no account at all to him? For a moment Rafaella couldn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend, that he, her father, didn’t recognize himself in her. If he knew her mother was lying near death in a coma, what would he say, what would he feel? Nothing, probably. He didn’t care, probably didn’t even remember, after twenty-five years.

  “Ah, come here, DeLorio, I have a surprise for you.”

  Rafaella looked about and saw a young man about her own age come into the living room. He was dressed in pale green linen slacks and a white polo shirt with a thick gold chain around his neck. He looked like a mongrel, albeit a well-dressed mongrel. He looked like a work-muscled peasant to his father’s aristocrat. He didn’t look like his father’s son, didn’t look like her half-brother.

  He was compact, athletic-looking—not a long-legged runner, but a wrestler, all muscle and thick neck and thicker thighs. Rafaella couldn’t believe she was looking at her half-brother.

  “My son, Rafaella. DeLorio Giovanni. DeLorio, this is Rafaella Holland.”

  “This is an unexpected surprise.” DeLorio smiled at her, and even his smile was unlike his father’s. It was predatory and sexual, as if every woman he met was weighed, a value placed on her body, and then assessed as to her compatibility in bed. It was the look of a predator sniffing at its next kill. He stared at her breasts, then at her crotch, finally looked into her face, but only briefly. Her chin went up automatically.

  Rafaella didn’t rise, waiting for him to come to her, which he did. He shook her offered hand, holding it longer than necessary. She wished she could tell him to go shove it, that she was his half-sister, for heaven’s sake.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your name is interesting, DeLorio.”

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Dominick answered for his son. “It was my mother’s maiden name—her family was from Milano.”

  “Where’s Paula?” Coco asked.

  DeLorio shrugged. “Soon.”

  Rafaella watched him walk to the bar and pour himself a Glenlivet, straight up.

  “Hello, all,” said Paula, sweeping into the living room. It was a marvelous entrance and Rafaella smiled, wishing she could applaud. She knew a bit about Paula Marsden Giovanni. She was twenty-four years old and hailed from old money. Marsden Iron and Steel of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She was spoiled, selfish, quite pretty, and man-mad, according to the most recent clippings in Rafaella’s mother’s journal. Paula had pale blond hair and hazel eyes, a very nice combination, distorted a bit by the sullen mouth. She had a nice body, a tan that made Rafaella want to tell her to be careful of the Caribbean sun, it would make her a wrinkled mess by the time she was forty.

  “My dear. Come and meet Miss Rafaella Holland. Our guest for dinner—”

  “And possibly Dom’s biographer, Paula,” Coco added, raising an eyebrow at Dominick.

  Paula looked at Rafaella Holland and forced a smile. Then she looked at DeLorio and saw that he was staring fixedly at the woman. So she had nice hair and an okay face, so what? The so what, Paula knew, was that DeLorio would pursue anything female for the sheer pleasure of catching and subduing his prey. Violently, if need be and if it pleased him.

  “Well, how very nice,” Paula said. “I trust Dukey is cooking something edible, for once, since we’re so very privileged to have Miss Holland here.”

  “D
ukey is my chef,” Dominick said mildly, sipping from his wineglass. “And an excellent cook.”

  Another man appeared in the doorway. He was tall, wiry, with a thick mess of white hair—premature white hair, Rafaella quickly saw, given the youthfulness of his face. He wasn’t above forty and he was black. One of the few natives left on the island?

  “Marcus is here, Mr. Giovanni.”

  “Excellent. Please tell Dukey that we’ll eat in fifteen minutes. Thank you, Jiggs.”

  Rafaella wondered how many men Dominick had in his employ. She’d have to find out. Her mother mentioned in her journal seeing half a dozen. But Rafaella could hardly count on that being accurate. Surprisingly, she hadn’t spotted any armed men when the helicopter had come down.

  “I beat DeLorio at tennis,” Paula said. “Two out of three sets.”

  DeLorio grunted and poured himself another Glenlivet.

  “You must be a fine player,” Rafaella said.

  Paula laughed. “Not really. DeLorio’s attention was wandering again. But it—his attention—always comes back to me.”

  DeLorio smiled at his wife’s remark, and his eyes, so cold moments before, were now filled with warmth. Dark eyes, unlike hers, unlike her father’s. Dominick said to Rafaella, “Would you like to see my collection after dinner?”

  “Yes, certainly I would, particularly the carved alabaster head of Nefertiti I’ve heard you have.”

  He suddenly looked sympathetic and approachable, his entire face softening. He looked human, very human, as he sat forward, smiling. “Nefertiti, huh? That’s what you’ve heard? It could be any of the princesses, my dear. For example, Sumenkhkare. Have you heard of her?”