Gate Bridge stretched in the distance. But he
couldn’t really enjoy it. His plans were not coming together as quickly as he’d
hoped and loose ends always made him nervous.
He knew Handel would be a problem.
The man hated him. That’s why finding an opportunity to speak with Margaret
alone had been his first move. And he’d done a fabulous job of showing his
vulnerable side. He stopped at the mirror and adjusted the collar of his shirt,
brushed a speck of lint from his trousers. He smiled at his reflection. She was
still not immune to his charm.
At first, she appeared
impenetrable, hardened from past experience. But he knew American women and
what made them tick. He’d said, please ,
and her reserve crumbled like damaged, pocked concrete. He could see it in her
eyes, those blue depths that always gave away her feelings no matter how hard
she tried to hide them.
He glanced at his watch. It had
been two days. Why hadn’t she called? Had Handel convinced her otherwise? His
sources had informed him that Handel Parker was a formidable attorney in the
courtroom, that he could probably convince a jury that Charles Manson was
innocent if he tried. But he was Margaret’s brother, not her attorney, and from
what he remembered, she didn’t like to be told what to do—especially by
men.
His only option was to return to
the Napa Valley and see this through personally. If she wouldn’t initiate a
meeting between him and his son, then he would just have to manage one himself.
He picked up the phone and dialed the hotel desk.
“This is Agosto Salvatore. Please
have my car brought round and have someone come and collect my bag in ten
minutes.”
He opened the closet and found his
suitcase, threw it on the rumpled bed and began filling it with clothes from
the armoire. He heard the water shut off in the shower and a minute later the
door opened, releasing a cloud of steam and a tall, thin woman wearing one of
the hotel’s plush oversized robes. Strands of damp hair framed a face worthy of
the ten-o’clock news. “Agosto,” she said, her smooth brow wrinkling
unattractively, “what are you doing?”
“Checking out.” He turned to survey
the closet, chose two pair of shoes and a suit, zipped them into a suit bag. He
looked up and she was still staring at him as though he’d lost his mind.
“You said we were going to the
track and then tonight you’d take me out for dinner,” she said, tugging the
belt of the robe tighter. “What’s going on?”
“Get dressed and go home. I don’t
need you anymore.” He snapped the suitcase latches closed and moved around her
to get his things from the bathroom vanity.
She grabbed his arm. “Why are you
doing this? I thought we had something…” her voice trailed off as she met his
eyes, hard with impatience.
“We did. Now it’s over.” He pulled
away and gathered his toiletries.
A knock at the door came sooner
than he’d expected. He went to open it and saw that his reporter lady had
already managed to throw her clothes on and yank the door open for the skinny
bellboy. She slung her purse over her shoulder and moved quickly past him out
into the hall. Agosto gestured toward the bags waiting on the bed. While the
bellboy positioned them on his trolley, he followed her into the hallway.
“Thank you, Jane Goodall. I had a
lovely time. Perhaps when I’m in town again…”
She flipped him her middle finger
and stepped into the elevator.
He laughed softly and shook his
head. American women.
The bellboy trailed him into the
hall and stood attentively.
“I’ll be downstairs in a minute.
You can put those in the trunk of my car.”
“Yes sir.”
Inside the room, he dialed his
assistant, explained where he was going and demanded everything would be ready
when he got there. Handel might think he could control things for Margaret,
protect her from the big bad wolf, but he’d just made the wolf very hungry.
*****
“We need goats?” Billie
couldn’t really enjoy it. His plans were not coming together as quickly as he’d
hoped and loose ends always made him nervous.
He knew Handel would be a problem.
The man hated him. That’s why finding an opportunity to speak with Margaret
alone had been his first move. And he’d done a fabulous job of showing his
vulnerable side. He stopped at the mirror and adjusted the collar of his shirt,
brushed a speck of lint from his trousers. He smiled at his reflection. She was
still not immune to his charm.
At first, she appeared
impenetrable, hardened from past experience. But he knew American women and
what made them tick. He’d said, please ,
and her reserve crumbled like damaged, pocked concrete. He could see it in her
eyes, those blue depths that always gave away her feelings no matter how hard
she tried to hide them.
He glanced at his watch. It had
been two days. Why hadn’t she called? Had Handel convinced her otherwise? His
sources had informed him that Handel Parker was a formidable attorney in the
courtroom, that he could probably convince a jury that Charles Manson was
innocent if he tried. But he was Margaret’s brother, not her attorney, and from
what he remembered, she didn’t like to be told what to do—especially by
men.
His only option was to return to
the Napa Valley and see this through personally. If she wouldn’t initiate a
meeting between him and his son, then he would just have to manage one himself.
He picked up the phone and dialed the hotel desk.
“This is Agosto Salvatore. Please
have my car brought round and have someone come and collect my bag in ten
minutes.”
He opened the closet and found his
suitcase, threw it on the rumpled bed and began filling it with clothes from
the armoire. He heard the water shut off in the shower and a minute later the
door opened, releasing a cloud of steam and a tall, thin woman wearing one of
the hotel’s plush oversized robes. Strands of damp hair framed a face worthy of
the ten-o’clock news. “Agosto,” she said, her smooth brow wrinkling
unattractively, “what are you doing?”
“Checking out.” He turned to survey
the closet, chose two pair of shoes and a suit, zipped them into a suit bag. He
looked up and she was still staring at him as though he’d lost his mind.
“You said we were going to the
track and then tonight you’d take me out for dinner,” she said, tugging the
belt of the robe tighter. “What’s going on?”
“Get dressed and go home. I don’t
need you anymore.” He snapped the suitcase latches closed and moved around her
to get his things from the bathroom vanity.
She grabbed his arm. “Why are you
doing this? I thought we had something…” her voice trailed off as she met his
eyes, hard with impatience.
“We did. Now it’s over.” He pulled
away and gathered his toiletries.
A knock at the door came sooner
than he’d expected. He went to open it and saw that his reporter lady had
already managed to throw her clothes on and yank the door open for the skinny
bellboy. She slung her purse over her shoulder and moved quickly past him out
into the hall. Agosto gestured toward the bags waiting on the bed. While the
bellboy positioned them on his trolley, he followed her into the hallway.
“Thank you, Jane Goodall. I had a
lovely time. Perhaps when I’m in town again…”
She flipped him her middle finger
and stepped into the elevator.
He laughed softly and shook his
head. American women.
The bellboy trailed him into the
hall and stood attentively.
“I’ll be downstairs in a minute.
You can put those in the trunk of my car.”
“Yes sir.”
Inside the room, he dialed his
assistant, explained where he was going and demanded everything would be ready
when he got there. Handel might think he could control things for Margaret,
protect her from the big bad wolf, but he’d just made the wolf very hungry.
*****
“We need goats?” Billie
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