Impulse

by Catherine Coulter

  Rafaella shook her head. “But it is of Nefertiti, isn’t it?”

  Dominick just smiled, saying no more, but the warmth was still there, his excitement over his collection. He didn’t look like a criminal.

  Marcus came in, a breath of fresh air, Rafaella was forced to admit. He wasn’t wearing a suit, just white slacks and a short-sleeved pullover of pale blue, like DeLorio. He looked fit and strong and full of good humor. He looked uncomplicated and clean-cut. She frowned at herself. He did have secrets—she felt it in her very reliable gut—but somehow she didn’t think Marcus’s secrets were evil or terrifying. He searched her out and winked broadly.

  “When does the party begin, Dominick? Has Ms. Holland told you how she slammed me in the shoulder with a karate kick, then landed squarely on top of my poor abused body when the first bullet went over?”

  “No, she’s very modest. I know only what you told me. He was that easily vanquished, Rafaella?” Dominick turned the full force of his charm on her and Rafaella felt herself leaning into him, wanting his vitality, his interest, wanting the excitement he’d shown her when speaking of his Egyptian collection.

  “I caught him by surprise,” she said, astonishing herself by her reflex to protect his fragile male ego, not, she thought, that he’d care.

  “Other things on his mind, no doubt,” DeLorio said, staring at Rafaella, and everyone in the room knew precisely what he meant.

  “That’s not the half of it,” Marcus said, grinned toward Rafaella, and gave her another wink. Then he immediately turned serious. “We’ve found out nothing about the sniper who took potshots at Ms. Holland and me last night. Not a blasted thing.”

  “I didn’t really think you would,” Dominick said with a frown.

  “Where’s Merkel?” Rafaella asked, changing the subject, suddenly afraid that Marcus would go on to tell them all in the blandest of voices how he’d stripped her naked—before she’d even gotten inside the front door of his villa—and caressed her and kissed her. He wouldn’t, would he? She hoped he’d just keep worrying about those shots. She was tired of worrying about him. She felt herself slipping again, and fought to clear her mind.

  “Merkel sometimes doesn’t eat with the family.”

  This from Paula, who was looking at Marcus. Rafaella thought of the old song “Hungry Eyes.”

  “He was very informative on our ride over.”

  “He’s a stupid servant,” Paula said. “We don’t eat with the help—at least we shouldn’t. I never did at home. My mother didn’t allow it.”

  “Paula, that’s enough. There’s no place for snobbery at my table. Ah, here’s Jiggs. Rafaella, may I escort you into the dining room?”

  The table was long enough for twelve people, a chandelier hanging over it, with high-backed brocade covered chairs. On the table there was a huge glass bowl filled with fresh fruit, several platters of broiled yellowtail snapper seasoned with lemon and butter, individual fresh green salads, and fresh baked rolls.

  Maria, the serving maid, poured a light chardonnay into everyone’s glass, then at a nod from Coco left the dining room, Jiggs beside her.

  “Now, everyone,” Dominick said, looking at each of them in turn, “what do you think about Miss Rafaella Holland writing my biography?”

  Nine

  Marcus leaned forward and said, “I wouldn’t let her near me with a pen or a computer.” He added to Rafaella, “No offense intended.”

  “I don’t want to get near you, Mr. Devlin, not with a pen, not with a computer. Perhaps with a muzzle or a leash.”

  “Would I be in the book, Miss Holland?” Paula asked.

  “Look, Dominick,” Marcus said, “it’s not a good idea, certainly not at the present time.” Surely Dominick couldn’t be that great an egomaniac; he couldn’t believe himself that invulnerable.

  “How do we know you’d treat my father fairly?”

  “I’ve written one biography and it was about a man not all that different from your father. A very charismatic man with power and many enemies. He was ruthless, brave—yet he was also a man prone to human failings, who made mistakes that—”

  “He made an unforgivable error because of his vanity,” Dominick interrupted smoothly. “I’m speaking, DeLorio, Marcus, of Louis Rameau, a man who was de Gaulle’s right hand and one of the leaders in the French resistance during World War II. It was in 1943, I believe, that Rameau decided he had to kill a courier who was bringing special orders from Hitler himself to the SS headquarters in Paris. It wasn’t any big deal, Rameau had the courier tracked to Paris, knew exactly where he would be when, so he let a young resistance recruit come with him. To watch him, to observe the great Rameau do incredibly brave things. All in a night’s work for the great man. I suspect that he wanted her to admire him so much she’d go to bed with him. Sex was also one of his major appetites. In any case, it went wrong and she was killed. It was an error attributable to his overweening vanity.

  “And the moral to the story is that Rafaella is fair in her presentation. She shows us Rameau in all the richness of his character, but she doesn’t sacrifice the good things to the bad, or vice versa.”

  “You’ve read my book,” Rafaella said, charmed by him at that moment and hating herself for it. Vanity, that had been Rameau’s Achilles’ heel, his mortal weakness, and Dominick Giovanni had understood her book better than many esteemed reviewers and critics.

  Dominick smiled. “This afternoon, my dear. The copy you gave Coco. It’s a pity that his vanity cost the girl her life, a grave pity.”

  “Rameau forgot the incident, you know,” Rafaella said, and her voice was cold as she looked at her father. “He forgot about her because it simply hadn’t been important to him. I met a very old man in Paris when I was there doing my research. He remembered the incident and the girl. Her name was Violette and she was only eighteen years old when she was killed. Rameau grieved for her for twenty-four hours, according to the old man, but he didn’t feel any guilt for what had happened. Within a month he took another young recruit, and luckily, she didn’t die in his need to prove himself a great god living among mortals.” Just as you forgot my mother, forgot me. How soon after did you have another affair with another now forgotten woman?

  “In fact,” Rafaella continued, “he fathered a child with her. Her name was Marie Denière. She died right after the war, her daughter with her.” She shrugged. “Some men’s bastards live on, some don’t.”

  “A pity, of course. But as I said, Rafaella, I thought you were fair. That is what struck me. Your fairness.”

  “All this is fascinating,” Marcus said. “But fair? You, Ms. Holland? Fair to a man?”

  “Read the damned book!”

  “Marcus, really, my boy, she did save your life.”

  “For what reason I’ve yet to discover. I think maybe she saved me just to do away with me herself, in her own fashion.” But he smiled as he spoke, and Rafaella found herself shaking her head; then, against her better judgment, as if she really had no choice in the matter, she smiled back. She looked up to see Paula staring at her as if she were a snake trapped against a wall, and she, Paula, was a mongoose, ready to do her in on the spot.

  She took another bite of the yellowtail snapper. It didn’t taste quite as good as the previous bites.

  “It sounds to me like no one wanted to kill you,” DeLorio said. “Just scare you. How many bullets were there? Three, four? Surely the guy wasn’t that bad a shot. Maybe someone just wanted to bring you down to size.”

  Like you, shithead? Marcus’s smile didn’t slip.

  “But why?” Rafaella said. “And why do it when I was there? That’s what I don’t understand.”

  Coco said, “Maybe you were the one to be scared off the island, Rafaella, not Marcus.”

  “I don’t suppose our jackal realized that you were such a fighter,” Marcus said. “My own personal bodyguard. If I’d pointed you in the direction of the guy firing, would you have roared off and ripped the guy’s
head off?”

  “Like a good dog—a good bitch?” Paula said, and forked a slice of mango viciously, all the while smiling sweetly.

  Marcus didn’t say a word, he was just relieved that Paula was safely seated on the other side of the table from him, next to her husband. She couldn’t reach him from there. Instead she was amusing herself by going after Rafaella. She obviously saw her as a threat. Interesting.

  He sat back, wondering if Rafaella Holland would be able to control herself and her fury until the end of the evening. And he’d just begun to launch his strategy of sabotage against her and her confounded plans for Dominick. How could Dominick possibly consider for even one brief moment letting this woman—an investigative reporter—onto the compound to write a biography? He was a criminal, after all. Was his vanity so great, his opinion of himself so hallowed, that he didn’t see the threat? Surely even he couldn’t be that blind, that egocentric.

  Marcus couldn’t have cared less if it was Rafaella’s intention to nail Dominick. He just didn’t want her delving into anything that might interfere with his plans. His own cover could fall like a house of cards if given the right push. “Look, Dominick, we’ve had too much trouble lately. It simply isn’t safe for Ms. Holland to hang around talking about your life and taking your mind off business. Don’t do it. I vote no.”

  “I vote no too,” Coco said, “because what Marcus says is true.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Rafaella asked. “Something other than the shooting last night?”

  “Yeah,” said DeLorio. “Someone tried to take out my father—and very nearly succeeded.”

  “I was at the resort,” Paula said. “I missed it.”

  “They locked me in a cabana,” Coco said. Both women sounded disappointed.

  “We are not taking a vote,” Dominick said, “and, DeLorio, this is hardly the time or place to air sensitive family business.”

  “But you said you wanted to know what we thought,” DeLorio said, sullen.

  “Yes, and now all of you have been good enough to tell me.”

  DeLorio looked down at his plate, saying nothing more.

  Damn, Marcus thought, staring at Dominick. He was going to let her do it. She’d appealed to his vanity, and the damned fool actually fell for it. He had to stop it. She was the last person he wanted involved in this mess, the last person he wanted interfering and learning things she’d be far better off not knowing. He knew Ms. Holland would probably never forgive him for it, but he also knew his only chance was to launch an attack.

  “Did our Ms. Holland here tell you about her Pulitzer Prize, Dominick? She won it for specialized investigative reporting three years ago. She ferreted out a nasty little neo-Nazi group involved not only in the usual racist rhetoric but also in the local political scene. They were bribing local officials, intimidating the town council to pass resolutions they wanted, buying local cops. Those who refused to go along with them enjoyed pain. It was in a little town in Delaware. It took you nearly six months. Right, Ms. Holland?”

  “Yes.”

  “You got threats from these creeps, but you persevered, didn’t you? You hung in there, never budging, not once. You talked people into spilling their guts to you, despite the fact that one of them got his ribs broken, his foot smashed, and his face rearranged. I think, Dominick, that our little Ms. Holland, given her record, could be counted on to find out who tried to whack you and me. I can certainly see her digging deep, then deeper still, what with her little-bulldog instincts. Digging where she shouldn’t. Digging until folks got hurt or until she did.”

  “That simply proves that she’s good,” Dominick said, sitting forward. “Doesn’t it, Coco?” Coco shrugged.

  “Come now, my dear, wouldn’t you like to know who that woman was?” He was toying with her, but she didn’t respond. “I haven’t been able to find out who hired her. None of us knows a thing yet about this Bathsheba.”

  Good God, Marcus thought, did Rafaella simply have to be present for people to spill everything they knew to her? Just listen to Dominick. Marcus said quickly, before Dominick could go on, “Then there’s the fact that dear old stepdad just happens to be one Charles Winston Rutledge III, a man who owns several large newspapers and a number of radio stations, a man with considerable clout, and more power than any one man needs. Did he buy your Pulitzer for you? Did he talk to his good old buddy Robby Danforth, the owner of the Tribune, to give you the investigative reporter’s job?”

  Rafaella threw her sliced fresh fruit in his face. She stared at him and thought: I’ve lost control again. She couldn’t understand it.

  “Not again,” Marcus said.

  DeLorio shouted with laughter. Coco whispered to Dominick, “Marcus and Rafaella have been going at it all day. She threw her tea in his face at lunch.”

  Dominick nodded. “All right, enough, Marcus. That’s right, wipe the pineapple juice off your forehead and keep your mouth shut.” He sat back and tapped his knife handle against the edge of his bread plate. “I’m not stupid, my boy. I checked out Miss Holland. Discreetly, of course, my dear—no need for you to worry or be offended.”

  “Marcus is right,” Paula said. “She shouldn’t be here. She’s a reporter. She’ll ruin you, sir. And I agree with Marcus: her stepfather did everything for her.”

  “I wouldn’t mind her staying here at the compound one little bit,” DeLorio said, and gave Rafaella a smile that made her skin crawl. “Since I’m your only son, she’ll also need to find out all about me.”

  Rafaella returned DeLorio’s look with one so limpid she thought she’d gag. But she didn’t want to alienate him yet. She could handle him.

  “I think she should do it, Dominick,” Coco said. “But not now. There’s too much going down. I’m sorry, Rafaella, but it’s just not a good idea.”

  Rafaella was disappointed. She had been counting on Coco’s support.

  Then suddenly Dominick raised his hand and cut DeLorio off mid-sentence. “That’s quite enough, I think. Are you through with your dinner, Rafaella?—Good, I’ll show you my Egyptian collection now. Some other time I’ll show you my art collection. It’s rather impressive. When we’ve finished, Marcus, dear boy, you can escort Rafaella back to the resort, if you please. Take the helicopter.”

  And that was that.

  It was nearly midnight when Rafaella and Marcus were escorted to the helicopter by Dominick, Merkel close behind him.

  “It’s awfully dark,” Rafaella said. “There’s only a quarter-moon.” She didn’t want to climb into a helicopter and place her life in Marcus’s hands. She didn’t want to place anything of hers in his hands. Not again.

  “I’ll speak to you tomorrow about my decision, Rafaella.” Dominick took her hands in his, leaned down, and kissed her cheek. Slowly, very slowly, she pulled away. “Thank you, sir. Thank you too for showing me your collection. I still think the head is Nefertiti. I look forward to seeing your art collection as well.”

  He chuckled and stepped back.

  Coco, DeLorio, Paula, and Merkel watched from the veranda as the helicopter lifted off, turning slowly, and headed to the mountains.

  “Come,” DeLorio said to Paula, his eyes on the ascending helicopter. “Now, to bed.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “Shut up.” He took her hand and pulled her back into the house and up the stairs.

  Dominick remained outside. The night was balmy, the air redolent with the scent of hibiscus and bougainvillea and roses. The smell of the sea blended with the scent of the flowers. Coco put her hand through his arm and smiled up at him. “Your son is horny tonight. He just dragged Paula away.”

  “I don’t know, Coco,” he said, disregarding her words.

  “About letting Rafaella write the book?”

  He looked at her closely for a long moment, then shrugged. “That and many other things. Would you like to ease me tonight, Coco?”

  She smiled at him and kissed his mouth.

  The helicopter lift
ed into the darkness.

  “I don’t like this,” Rafaella said.

  “Trust me. There’s plenty of light. Besides, if I screw up, it’s not just your hide, but also mine that’s on the line here.”

  “That’s supposed to reassure me?”

  The helicopter lifted higher, barely skimming the tops of the trees at the back edge of the compound, then climbing another two or three hundred feet.

  “I really don’t like this,” she said again. He merely smiled and dipped to the left, scaring her to her toes. Then he headed nearly straight up, higher still.

  “Stop whining.”

  “If I could pilot this thing, I’d kick your butt out right now. Would you just put a lid on it for ten minutes, until we get back home?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Marcus said, grinning at her set profile.

  He began whistling. He whistled for only about three minutes. They were nearly over the highest part of the range, nearly one thousand feet, the jungle its thickest at this point, dense and tangled, a maze of green branches and roots and brambles. Suddenly there was a loud popping noise and the helicopter began a wild spin.

  “Damn!” Marcus slammed down on the tail-rotor pedals. Nothing. He worked them. Still nothing. No more directional control. He auto rotated, finally bringing the wild spinning under control. He quickly looked below for one of the trails. He saw it, winding and narrow through the jungle. He cut the engine, causing it to sputter, then quickly brought it up just a bit. He headed down.

  “What was that? What’s wrong?”

  He shot a quick look at Rafaella, saw that her face was as white as a sheet, and started whistling again. Everything had happened in less than five seconds.

  “No problem,” he said.

  “Don’t lie to me, you fool. What was that banging noise? Why did we spin around like a damned dervish?”

  “All right, I’ve lost control of the tail rotor. That means that we’re going down because—Oh, shit!”

  The cabin was spinning again, lurching clockwise, and Marcus stabbed at a switch on the controls in front of him as he fought with the stick. He lost sight of the trail.