Impulse

by Catherine Coulter

“There was nothing in the pool.”

  “Then why—?”

  “I just wanted you to come running, and you did.”

  Marcus wrapped her wet hair around his hand, pulling her forward, and kissed her. She felt him hard and pushing against her belly. The air went out of her and every wonderful feeling imaginable swirled about inside her, and when he pulled back only to push her floating dress up to her breasts, she just looked at his mouth, wanting him to kiss her again. His hand slid up her thigh and beneath her panties. He jerked them down to her knees. Then he cupped her, his fingers closing over her, resting there, and he sighed and kissed her again.

  “Very nice, Ms. Holland,” he said in her mouth, and she wondered if she’d lost her mind. She kissed him again, resolving to worry about it later. He had the sexiest mouth, and his tongue—

  His fingers moved, and she moved with his fingers. His middle finger eased inside her and she jerked against him, sucking in her breath in a loud whoosh.

  “Easy now,” he said, and nibbled her earlobe.

  He pushed his finger deeper, then stopped, resting again, seemingly content, and she looked at him. His eyes were dark with pleasure and lust.

  She said the obvious again because she couldn’t think of anything else: “You did all that just to get me in the water?”

  “It worked.” He moved his finger and stroked his thumb over her, teasing and pressing inward until he’d found her. And he just stopped his fingers again. “You’re such a little heroine, rushing headlong into the unknown, into dangers unimagined, straight into the pool, not caring what lurking terrors await you. Do you like this, Ms. Holland?” And his resting fingers stopped resting.

  She moaned.

  “You do. Very nice. Yes, I knew you’d come dashing to my rescue—that or to satisfy your curiosity about what was in the pool. A fleet of marines couldn’t have held you back. I like that about you. You don’t think, do you? You could have been Saint Georgia. You don’t worry about consequences.”

  “Evidently not. Just look at what I’m letting you do to me.”

  “There’s a difference this time, and you know it. This time I firmly intend to take the final plunge. How about right now? I thought about your words this morning—your final-plunge joke—and decided to carry through with it, replete with swimming pool and all the water you could want. I admit I would have felt the consummate fool, however, had you merely stood at the side of the pool and stared down at me. I would have had to drag you into the water. This way, you leapt to your fate with great willingness. Now, let’s see if everything is working.” He pulled back his hand and felt her lower body quiver when his fingers left her. He kissed her even as he unzipped his pants and freed his erect sex.

  “Now,” he said with deep satisfaction. “Now.”

  He lifted her off the ledge, keeping her pressed against the pool wall, his fingers parting her, and without warning he came fast and hard into her.

  Rafaella cried out at the shock of him, deep and thick, filling her, but then he was kissing her again, holding her tightly against him, pressing her against the side of the pool, making the water swirl around them. And then his fingers found her, and quickly, so very quickly, she was struggling with an orgasm that would overwhelm her, make her lose control, and she didn’t want that but she couldn’t stop it. She didn’t understand this unacceptable effect he had on her, and at the moment she simply didn’t care whether she did or not.

  She cried out and he quickly kissed her again and moaned into her mouth and pounded into her, and after she’d jerked and heaved and exploded wildly, he let himself go.

  He held her close, his cheek against her wet hair, still deep inside her.

  He said against her left ear, “You don’t have to be concerned about the demise of my credit standing, Ms. Holland. I took time to remove my wallet before I dived into the water. The only things ruined are my Italian loafers, and I must tell you that I consider this well worth it. Do you know where your panties went to? No? Still can’t talk, huh?”

  “I can’t believe I let you do that,” she said finally, her mouth against his neck, and she was kissing him. She made no effort to get away from him.

  “Why not? You wanted it. I’m an amiable man, a kind man. I hate to see a grown woman suffer.”

  “A grown woman is going to kill you. With a rock.”

  “Talk like that makes me shrivel. Ah, well. Would you like to stop kissing my neck? Come back to sanity? To good ole Paula? Who knows? Maybe she’s watching.” He pulled out of her, not wanting to, held to the edge of the pool with one hand, and zipped up his slacks with the other.

  He saw her face in the dim light and smiled. She looked dazed and sated. He liked that. Her eyes were lazy and unfocused and a very light blue, not a dollop of gray. He frowned. Light blue, very light—It was familiar to him. He’d seen—

  “You want your drawers? Or do we let Juan, the pool boy, find them in the morning? Yeah, let’s. It’ll give him a thrill. You don’t monogram them, do you? No, of course not. How could I forget so easily? I have a pair of your panties, the ones I pulled off you that memorable evening in my front yard.”

  “I wondered what happened to them. Do you keep women’s panties as trophies?”

  “Hmmm. I never thought about that. It would save the bedposts from all those notches, wouldn’t it? The ones from the other night are nice—all light blue with a sexy bit of cream-colored lace around the crotch. Maybe I can just drape them over the bedpost, maybe put your name under them on a little plaque so no one will get confused. What do you think?”

  Rafaella shivered. Not from cold, because both the air and the water were warm enough to bathe in. She pushed her hair away from her face. Her beautiful Scassi floral silk sundress, ruined—all eight hundred bucks’ worth. And she hadn’t cared. She’d done it without a thought, without a whimper. She’d enjoyed herself immensely, flamboyantly.

  “I think I should go find myself a rock, a nice big solid rock.”

  He leaned over her and kissed her again, then pulled himself out of the pool. He squished his feet.

  “My poor loafers. Well lost, I suppose, to the overpowering needs of love.”

  “Lust, you fool. Lust.”

  “You want a hand?” He held out his hand to her and she didn’t know whether to trust him or not.

  She decided she couldn’t get any wetter, and gave him her hand. Evidently he’d decided the same thing, because he jerked her right out of the water and into his arms.

  He released her after a quick hug. “I suggest you change. I imagine that Dominick will wonder what happened if you’re late for dinner.”

  “I didn’t bring any other clothes. You know that.”

  “Speak to Coco,” he said, smiled down at her as he flicked a fingertip over her cheek, and strolled away, whistling as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “I’ve got to be the biggest fool alive,” she said, and went off in search of Coco.

  To everyone she saw in the house, she said, “I fell in the pool,” and that was it.

  Coco, thankfully, didn’t say a word, just looked at her and gave her that I-know-what-you’ve-done smile. The borrowed skirt and blouse didn’t fit all that badly, bought for her, Coco told Rafaella, some eighteen months before when she’d been a size smaller.

  “You’re so tall and willowy, it’s not fair.”

  “You’re quite tall enough, Rafaella, just not as tall as a model. You aren’t intimate with Marcus, huh? Now you need to use my blow dryer. You want a curling iron? By that smile on your face I imagine he’s as good as his reputation. You’ve only got ten minutes until we’re to be downstairs. Of course by now I assume everyone knows you, er, fell in the swimming pool.”

  “That’s right,” Rafaella said, her voice as steady as the rock she intended to find and pound over Marcus’s head.

  There were quite a few people waiting in the living room. No one said a thing about the pool incident.

  Dominick int
roduced a man to her as his lieutenant, Frank Lacy. It made him sound like part of a police force. He was a gaunt man with a receding hairline and a smile that looked pained. He probably hadn’t smiled for real for at least twenty years. He had sad eyes. He didn’t say anything to Rafaella, merely nodded when Dominick introduced her. He looked like someone’s overworked father.

  “And Merkel you know, of course, my dear.”

  “Yes. Hello, Merkel.”

  “And Link. He keeps the compound running smoothly. He’s my majordomo, of sorts.”

  “Hello, Link.” Rafaella wondered if that was his first or last name. He had a clever face, thin and intelligent. She’d ask later.

  “I’ve invited these three gentlemen to dine with us because they’re part of my life and you may wish to speak to them later. Link, you’ll discover, is an expert on historical murders and murderers. His current investigations involve—Well, you tell her, Link.”

  The man was shy. It was a pained voice that said, “Helene Jegado, ma’am. She was a cook who loved to poison her employers. She enjoyed watching them suffer. She ended up as a cook in a convent, but so many of the sisters died that the authorities were called in. They discovered that she’d killed over sixty people.”

  “And all these people hired her without references,” Merkel remarked.

  “Good grief,” Rafaella said. “That’s wonderful. I want to hear more stories, please, Link.”

  He agreed, and Dominick said, “He told you one of the least sensational and least gory. Now that you’ve asked, beware. Now, Merkel, the dear fellow, doesn’t cotton to murder. He’s into fashion. Any advice you need, he’ll consult his GQ.”

  Well, Al, she thought, you’re quite right. No one is really what he seems to be on the surface, except for Marcus—whom I recognized as many-leveled from the outset. He, the jerk, obviously had another wardrobe here at the compound. He looked utterly unmussed, very well-dressed in white slacks and an open-collar white shirt. With his tanned face and black hair and blue eyes, he looked like a bandit, a bandit who made love like no man she’d ever known in her life. She wanted her fill of kissing him, and she had no idea how long that could take.

  She’d never imagined letting a man orchestrate such play with her. What Marcus had done was beyond her experience. It should have been distasteful. He’d played with her, enjoying both himself and her, and she, she had to admit, had had the time of her life. Why couldn’t he at least have a roll of fat around his middle or a receding chin?

  Marcus strolled over about five minutes later and handed her another rum punch. “It’s not so sweet this time.”

  She sipped it and the rum content nearly knocked off her borrowed panty hose.

  “When’s your period due?”

  “Ah, so you’re suddenly concerned about being a daddy?”

  “I got so carried away with my daring scheme in the swimming pool that I didn’t use a condom. You’re on the pill, aren’t you? Didn’t I see some on the counter in your bathroom just this morning?”

  Let the jerk suffer. Rafaella closed her eyes for a moment and said, “That’s all I need. To be pregnant by a man who’s going to be murdered by me with a rock. The jury won’t believe I hate you because of my fat stomach.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have rushed the thing.”

  He sounded sincere, and she looked at him. There was no amusement in his eyes this time. She said, “My period’s due in a couple of days. And yes, I’m on the pill. No problem.”

  “You’re regular? You’ll tell me if you’re not okay, won’t you?”

  “How in heaven’s name couldn’t I be okay? And what would you do? Leave the island? Fly to Mongolia and become a monk?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll think about it.” His amused look returned in full measure and he turned away to talk to Coco.

  Dominick came on cat’s paws beside her and she prayed he hadn’t overheard anything. “Something bothers you, Rafaella? Marcus, perhaps?”

  “Oh, no. I was just thinking about my fall into your beautiful swimming pool. I’m usually not so clumsy.”

  “Indeed.”

  He knew something. Surely Marcus wouldn’t brag about it, would he? He wouldn’t have had to. Everybody probably had seen that he was as wet as she was.

  “You must tell me what your favorite foods are, Rafaella, and I’ll pass it along to Jiggs. Dukey’s really quite a fine cook. Marcus will bring your clothes over tomorrow. Coco’s clothes look fine on you, but I’d imagine that you’d be more comfortable in your own.”

  That’s my father speaking to me, she thought, and he hasn’t a clue. She realized he’d just given an order she had no intention of obeying. An order that would mean that Marcus would go through her things. And Marcus wouldn’t stop there. He’d search her villa. Her mother’s journals were hidden under the edge of the carpet that curved beneath her dressing table. It would take someone good to find them, but Marcus was good, no doubt about that. She hadn’t really worried about the journals until now. She probably should have, but she hadn’t. She was worried about them now. If Marcus found them, he’d give them to Dominick and it would be all over. Rafaella realized she’d been stupid to bring three of the journals, but she hadn’t wanted to leave them behind. She’d wanted to study them. She’d wanted to feel the rage flow through her when she read again and again what he’d done to her mother.

  And Marcus already wondered about her mother’s journals. What would Dominick do if the journals got into his hands? Kill her? Kiss her and say, “Hello, daughter?”

  “Actually, I hadn’t realized you expected me to stay here tonight, Dominick. I would prefer packing my own things and returning for the duration tomorrow.”

  “As you wish,” he said, and his slight frown turned to a beguiling smile. “I suppose you’ve gathered that I want you to write my biography.”

  Coco had told her, but to hear him say it was quite another thing. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much. I’ll try to do justice to my subject.”

  “We’ll speak of approaches and ground rules tomorrow. Since I am to be your subject, I do insist upon having full approval over what you write. I’ll also be your editor. There will be certain areas that will warrant more emphasis than others, and of course I will be the one to select those areas. For example, you know from Coco that I fund several drug-rehab programs in the States. Not, of course, that I would want to dwell overly on those activities, but a mention would be appropriate. Other areas of my life simply aren’t relevant, and those won’t be mentioned. I don’t foresee any problems, Rafaella. You and I will work well together.”

  As long as I do exactly what I’m told, she thought, but nodded all the same. She understood very well what he wanted to do. He wanted to rearrange facts, make himself look like the benevolent philanthropist: he wanted to recreate himself and his life. He wanted to write everything but the actual words. She was to be his secretary, to record the great man’s life. Just let him think that. It was fine with her. Also unspoken but very well understood was the threat that she’d better do exactly as he dictated.

  After a wonderfully cool dinner of fresh shrimp, lightly buttered rolls, Caesar salad, and cheese and fruit, they adjourned again to the living room. Nothing of any particular import had been said during dinner. Rafaella realized that Paula was interested in both the man Link and in Marcus, but neither man appeared to return her interest. Coco hung on Dominick’s every word, yet managed at the same time to direct general conversation to each guest in turn. She was the perfect hostess, the perfect mistress, cool and gracious and beautiful. Paula was sulking by the time the Caesar salad arrived, no longer giving Marcus heated looks whenever she thought DeLorio wasn’t looking, and as for DeLorio, Rafaella’s half-brother stared at her breasts for two-minute stretches. Merkel and Lacy ate remarkable amounts of food and said little. Link looked faintly worried.

  Rafaella was ready to bolt when she saw Dominick in private conversation with Marcus. Dominick us
ed his hands when he spoke. He should have looked insignificant next to Marcus—after all, he was much slighter of build and shorter and older—but he didn’t. He looked powerful and strong and decisive. He was her father and she hated him more at that moment than she ever had before. He was very real, very solid, and she felt a shiver of fear.

  What were they talking about?

  She was determined to get back to the resort. She’d been a fool to leave the journals in her villa, no matter how well they were hidden. No way would she allow Marcus into her villa without her. What could she do with the journals? Not the resort safe—Marcus would be in there in a flash. And the journals told everything. And he’d already told her he didn’t trust her.

  She was a fool, a thousand times a fool. Becoming more of one every day, in fact every time she was with Marcus. She’d had a wonderful time making love with him—in the deep end of the swimming pool—just after giving Paula a woman-to-woman talk about self-esteem and self-reliance and sisterhood. Rafaella decided she’d been full of it. She was hourly learning things about herself that weren’t at all comforting.

  She was relieved when Dominick didn’t raise a fuss about her leaving that evening. Merkel accompanied them as pilot.

  “It ain’t as if Mr. Giovanni doesn’t trust you, Marcus, Merkel said, then smiled and shrugged.

  “Well, I don’t. I’m glad you’re here, Merkel,” Rafaella said, and indeed she was. His presence saved her from Marcus and his mockery and his teasing and his wonderful mouth and equally wonderful hands and fingers. She wondered if he would have made love to her in the helicopter, a thousand feet up.

  Unfortunately, it was Marcus who walked her back to her villa once they’d set down on the helicopter pad.

  “I’ll wait with you,” he said shortly. “Dominick’s decided he wants you to come back to the compound tonight.”

  “No,” Rafaella said with a perfectly pleasant and final voice. She was scared, very scared, but she couldn’t let Marcus see it.

  “No what?”

  “No, I’ll go back to the compound tomorrow, just as I told Dominick I would. I have no intention of going back tonight. I’m too tired. I don’t want to rush my packing, and no, I don’t want your help. Good night, Marcus.”