by Wendy Tyson
Mia reached up and under his shirt. She felt the rise of his chest, the hardness of his back and stomach. Slowly, gingerly, she traced a nail down the length of his torso, stopping at his belt. She looked up at him and smiled.
He didn’t smile back.
Instead he picked her up, pushed her against the wall, wrapped her legs around his waist. She felt his hand on his buckle, the tug of his zipper, his mouth on her breast. The thrust of him inside her. His clothes remained on, fueling her hunger.
They finished like that, an animalistic need overriding any sentiment. Spent, exhausted, Mia relished the ache in her bones and the bite of his teeth marks on her bruised flesh. She reached down, stroked him, and pulled him toward the still-running shower for another round.
He obeyed, the hurt in his eyes replaced with desire.
Desire, Mia wanted.
But the hurt would not wait forever.
Thirty-Five
Dom’s house was a handsome but unassuming Cape Cod in a neighborhood of older, stately homes. Modest by Benini standards, the house sat upon a half acre of sloping lawn dominated by ivy and hundred-year-old trees. Stone exterior, white wooden shutters, a detached garage mini-version of the main house. The house to the right of Dom’s was a three-thousand-square-foot Colonial. The house to the left, a slightly smaller Dutch Colonial. All were well-maintained, ivy-covered and just old enough to be charming. Professors’ homes, if Allison had to guess.
Professors…and Dom Benini?
Allison climbed out of the rental car and glanced around, half expecting the white Honda, or some other tail. But the street was quiet, which, she supposed, was odd in and of itself. A hazy summer night, she would expect to see kids running about. Skateboarders, bikers, small tots on Big Wheels with parents scurrying behind. But other than the steady hum of air conditioners, the street was barren.
Allison saw Alex’s Audi parked next to the house. She made her way across the driveway, a bottle of good French Chardonnay under one arm, her purse and Gina Benini’s diary under the other. Allison rang the doorbell. It was only a moment before Alex answered. He smiled when he saw her, a smile that lit up those captivating blues.
“Allison, so nice to see you. Come in.”
Alex placed his hand on Allison’s back, between her shoulder blades, and led her through a narrow vestibule, past a steep set of steps, and then into a vaulted-ceilinged living space. She looked around, trying to ignore the heat of Alex’s hand through the thin material of her blouse.
If the outside of Dom’s house was conservative East Coast, the inside was contemporary New York City penthouse. Large, open spaces. Chrome and black leather. Modern art in bold colors. Sleek lines and absolutely no clutter. The only nod to the house’s past consisted of two-inch quarter sawn oak flooring, refinished to an un-scuffed shine.
Allison pointed to the high ceiling over the family room area. “It’s unusual to see two-story ceilings in a Cape, isn’t it? Custom work?”
Alex nodded. “My brother had the house gutted, modernized. The stairs lead to a bedroom and bath, which is where I stay when I’m here. The other half of the upstairs was sacrificed to create this space.”
Allison looked around the open family room/dining area/ kitchen in which they were standing. The kitchen ran the length of the outside wall. A three-foot-deep island ran parallel to the cooking space and served as a divider between the kitchen area and the family room. A small but expensive-looking dining room table, dark wood, sat off to one side, a sleek, modern chandelier dangling above it. The couches were black leather. They faced each other across a lacquered coffee table, its surface inlaid with an intricate marble design.
“It’s...impressive.”
Alex laughed. “It’s not everyone’s taste, but it suits Dom. A true bachelor. Hates clutter, in his home and his life. I guess a psychiatrist could have fun with that.”
Allison smiled. “And you? Do you hate clutter, too?”
“Maybe if I found the right...clutter.” Alex smiled. “But for now, I keep it simple.” He pointed at Gina’s diary, still tucked under Allison’s elbow. “As you probably gleaned from that book, I wasn’t what you’d call a wanted child.”
Allison gave him an empathetic smile. She handed him the wine.
“Chilled white. Lovely. I’ll get two glasses.”
“I wasn’t sure what to get a man whose family owns vineyards.”
“You can never go wrong with French.”
“Spoken like a man of the world.”
“Spoken like a true Italian. We appreciate fine anything, no matter where it comes from.” He gave Allison a long look. “Even the Philadelphia Main Line.”
Allison swallowed, and found somewhere other than Alex’s face to rest her gaze. “It smells heavenly in here.”
“And it’s going to get better.” He pulled out a bar stool for Allison before heading to the stove. “You sit. Relax. Would you like anything to drink besides the wine?”
“Ice water, please. Tap is fine.”
He poured them each wine, filled a tall crystal glass with ice and water from the refrigerator dispenser, and handed her a glass of each.
Allison sat back against the stool. She tucked her purse and the diary on the bar stool next to her and watched as Alex pulled a head of radicchio from the Sub-Zero. He chopped the vegetable like a pro, long, tapered, masculine fingers flying over a Global chef’s knife. Next up, a chiffonade of Swiss chard. He pushed the thin strands of chard to the side of a large, wooden cutting board and minced garlic, then onion.
“Mmm. What are you making?”
“Pan-seared trout. With a sauté of radicchio and Swiss chard. So white wine was a perfect choice.”
Allison sniffed, savoring the aroma of chocolate. “I smell something sweet, too. Cake?”
“You have a good nose. Chocolate soufflé. For dessert. With Italian coffee.”
“Do you always cook like this?”
Alex looked up from the lemon he was slicing. “Only when I like the company.”
Allison flashed him a caustic smile. She wasn’t that easy. “Where’s Dom?”
Alex looked down, sliced lemon with swift, smooth strokes. “I don’t know. He just said he’d be out.”
“I’m so sorry about your sister, Alex. I—”
“Don’t, Allison. It’s okay. Really. We are all a little crazed, with Francesca, my father, now Maria. Dom, he doesn’t react well to things generally. He’s like a grizzly bear, just waiting for a reason to attack.” He frowned. “The truth is, there is only so much one family can endure.”
“Have there been any new developments in Maria’s death?”
He glanced down at the knife in his hand, twisted his wrist. “They seem convinced it’s an accident.”
“You still don’t believe that?”
“I don’t know what to believe. What would you think?”
“That someone wanted Maria dead.”
Alex bit his lip, nodded. The gesture held little boy echoes and Allison pictured the boy in the family photo, on the outside, alone. Was it possible that Alex had no part in any of this? That he was simply a victim, caught up in his family’s issues through no fault of his own?
Or maybe you just want him to be innocent, Allison thought. Get a grip. Tall, handsome, dark and mysterious played well in romance novels. In real life, such men spelled trouble.
Problem was, Alex was distracting. And she couldn’t afford to be distracted right now.
“Tell me,” Allison said, pulling the diary onto the island’s marble surface, “what do you remember about your mother? You were so young when she passed.”
“You mean when she killed herself.”
“Alex, I—”
“It’s okay, Allison. I’ve had a lot of years to come to terms with what happened.”
Do you
ever come to terms with something like that, Allison wondered, thinking of her own parents.
She watched as he walked to the end of the counter and pulled a glass dome off a cheese dish. He wore khaki pants and a dark gray Polo shirt that hugged the muscular width of his back and the slim line of his waist. His hair was combed back, away from his face. Those blue eyes shone bright with intelligence, and he focused them on her now, drinking her in, as he placed the cheese and olives in front of her, along with a freshly sliced baguette.
“You look like you could use some refreshment, Allison. Eat, drink.” He poured himself a fresh glass of wine. “Let’s sit outside. The sun is going down, and Dom has a deck he built specifically to capture the sunset. Come. I’ll answer all your questions.”
Alex picked up the cheese plate and his wine and Allison followed. Off the back of the house, behind the kitchen, a wall of windows and a set of modern French doors looked out onto a three-tiered deck. The decks fanned an amoeba-shaped in-ground pool, outlined with stone. A spa graced one end, a fountain the other.
Each tier of the deck had its own elaborate seating area, and Alex chose the highest platform, resting against a chocolate-cushioned chair, and placed the food and his drink on the small glass coffee table. Allison sat on the chair next to him.
“This spot has the best view of the horizon. I sit out here often when I need to think. Or be alone.”
“Why do you stay at the estate if you enjoy it here so much?”
He let his head fall to the side. With a half-smile, he said, “The estate is my home,” as though she’d asked a silly question.
“But not Dom’s?”
“Dom is a complicated man.”
“And you’re not?”
He laughed. “Not as complicated as my brother.”
“In what way?”
“Did you come here to talk about Dom?” A bristle of jealousy crept into his voice.
“I came here to understand your family.”
“Why, Allison? Why the insistence on getting involved?”
“Your aunt is missing. She’s my client.”
“This has nothing to do with you.”
Allison tilted her head, tried to gauge his honesty. “Let’s see. Francesca disappeared while with Vaughn. Maria called me just hours before she died. Vaughn has been questioned by the police multiple times. I’ve been followed, and someone broke into my house. Isn’t that enough?”
“Sounds like someone’s trying to warn you away. Maybe you should listen.”
“Someone as in you and your brother?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Allison shook her head. “Who has more to gain than you and Dom? With Francesca gone, Dom can run the business. He doesn’t have to share the power.” She gave him a pointed look. “Except with you.”
But Alex didn’t take the bait. “Allison, you have a very active imagination.” He cut into a piece of Gruyere, placed it on a slice of baguette, and ate it with a cured Kalamata olive. “Have some food.”
“Why do you think Francesca and your mother were at such odds?”
“You picked up on that.”
“Gina was pretty clear in the diary. She disliked Francesca.”
“And she resented me.” No hint of self-pity, just the same matter-of-fact tone one would use to describe the weather.
Allison looked at the man across from her. So handsome, yet so…unknowable. Was he a bad guy, or simply a guy who’d learned to deal with dysfunction by limiting his emotional reaction?
Or was she seeing what she wanted to see? Was this just a show? Allison reminded herself that he was a musician, an entertainer. He was paid to make people want more of him. In fact, perhaps of all the Beninis, he was the one who required the most caution.
“Why would your mother resent you, Alex? She tried for so long to have a child. Then she had two. Two sons in an Italian family. Surely that was cause for celebration.”
Alex picked at a piece of bread, but didn’t eat it. “Ever since I could remember, she was like that. Moody. Distant. She adored Dom. He was the golden child, could do no wrong. Me, on the other hand,” he gave Allison a bittersweet smile, “with me, she had a short fuse. Personally, I think she resented having a second baby. She never wanted me because it was another anchor, weighing her down and tying her to the Benini family.”
What a sad thing for a man to believe about his own birth, Allison thought. She considered the diary, Gina’s reaction to Francesca. “You were right. In your mother’s diary, it was almost as though she felt Francesca was competing for your father’s attention. Jealous of any time Paolo spent with his sister.”
Alex took a sip of wine, examining Allison over the rim of his glass. “Want the truth?”
Oh, if only, Allison thought. “Please.”
“I think Francesca had her own issues. One of which was an unhealthy infatuation with my father.”
“You think she had inappropriate feelings for her own brother?”
“I’m not saying they were sexual in nature. I’m simply saying they were unhealthy.” He put his glass down on the table between them and leaned forward. “Think about it. My aunt moved here when she was only a teenager. Paolo was older, a man. Suddenly she knows no one, has only my parents for company.”
“And Dom. And you.”
“Ah, but I wasn’t born yet. I arrived months after she did.”
“Didn’t your grandparents visit?”
“Not that I can recall.”
“How about your great-grandmother? Francesca told Vaughn that she was quite a...pip.”
“If by pip you mean bitch, I’ve heard the same stories. No one from my father’s family visited. It was just the triangle—my mother, my father, and Francesca. In Italy, Francesca had been the apple of my grandfather’s eye. She didn’t have that here. It was...disruptive.”
“So you’re saying she transferred those feelings to your father?”
“Dom has memories of a happy, loving mother. I have memories of a doting, if erratic aunt and a sullen, resentful mother. What else could have caused that change? I think Aunt Francesca and my father were inordinately close, causing a rift between my parents.”
Alex stood, walked to the banister and looked out at the pool and the setting sun. A cacophony of color—red and orange and violet—spread like lava across the horizon. When Alex turned, that same heat was reflected in his eyes.
He said, “Too bad you didn’t bring a suit. We could swim.”
His narrowed, laughing eyes said he had more than swimming on his mind. Allison held his gaze, her mind imagining, just for the briefest moment, what it would be like to kiss him in that beautiful pool, wait until dark, and make love by the water. Pushing the thought away, she said firmly, “You were telling me about your mother and your aunt. Were you and Francesca close?”
“You are an amazingly focused woman. I can understand why Francesca chose you.” He walked back to the sitting area and folded himself on the edge of a chair. After slicing a piece of cheddar, he said, “Francesca and I were quite close. The odd thing is, after my mother committed suicide, Aunt Francesca changed. She no longer doted. She’d never gone out much, but now she stayed in all of the time. She moved downstairs, physically separating herself from the rest of us. She seemed depressed. It was as though she’d swapped places with my mother.” He popped the cheese into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “I was no longer the favored child.”
Maybe Francesca felt guilty, Allison thought. She pictured the “Gina” written in that bathroom in the hunting cabin. Thought of Maria’s accusations the night Allison had stayed for dinner. Had Francesca had more to do with Gina’s death than anyone suspected?
Allison said, “Maybe your aunt was simply mourning your mother.”
“But they despised one another!”
“But you said yourself, Paolo and Gina were all she had.”
“But then she had my father to herself.”
“That didn’t last long. He married Simone soon after, didn’t he?”
“Oddly enough, my father’s marriage to Simone seemed to bring my aunt some peace. Not that they got along. Frankly, Simone is not very bright, and Francesca treated her like the hustling money-grubber I suppose she is. But Francesca liked Maria. She’d spend hours watching my sister, playing with her, in a way she never seemed to do with Dom.”
“And still she never left the house?”
“Never.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must have some educated guesses about your aunt’s behavior?”
“Agoraphobic? That’s the easy answer, but it’s wrong. She never seemed particularly anxious. Never had panic attacks.”
“But if the source of her anxiety is open spaces, people, then she wouldn’t necessarily demonstrate anxiety in her own home.”
“She wasn’t agoraphobic, Allison. I know my aunt. She chose to stay there. Why, I don’t know. As a kid, it embarrassed me. Now, I feel sorry for her. What would keep a woman willingly locked in a virtual prison for forty years?”
Allison shook her head. She had no idea.
Thirty-Six
Dinner was delicious. The fish perfectly moist and flaky, the vegetables tender, and the second bottle of wine, a vintage from the Benini family’s Italian vineyard, superb. Alex refused her help with the clean-up and she sat again at the island, watching him put away the last of the dishes.
“Where did you learn to cook like that?”
“From watching Francesca in the kitchen.”
Surprised, Allison said, “Francesca cooks?”
“Really well. I think she was rather disappointed when my father hired Jackie. But they became fast friends, and Francesca’s cooking got even better.” He smiled. “What else would she do with all that time?”