long.”
“It isn’t that.”
“Logan what’s-his-face at the D.A.’s? He giving you a hard time?”
“Logan’s history. No, it doesn’t have anything to do with work or men. I decided I needed
more
than just a vacation. I want to take a leave of absence, Al.”
Al stared at her, nonplussed. “I beg your pardon?”
Rafaella tried to get her act together. What to say?
“Is this about your mother? You want to be with her?”
She started to lie; he’d given her such a fine opportunity. In the end, she just stared at her shoes and shook her head.
“Does it have anything to do with Porto Bianco?”
“So, you know.”
“Just about your research. Why the interest in the island? Or in arms dealing? Or is it Dominick Giovanni?”
Rafaella drew a deep breath. “Can you get me in at Porto Bianco? As a guest?”
It was Al’s turn to study Rafaella Holland. She could have asked her stepfather, Charles. He could have snapped his fingers and gotten her on the next flight to the Caribbean. But she’d asked him, Al. Slowly he nodded. “Yes, I can get you in. Senator Monroe’s a member, and he owes me. It’s important?”
Rafaella rose. “It’s the most important thing in my life.”
Rafaella stopped running. She was on a narrow, winding path, one of a dozen that led from the resort to the beach and back. She walked now to one of the main paths that led to her small villa. There were forty villas in addition to the lavish main facility, and Al had managed to get her one of them.
She was here, so close to him, and it was the beginning for her. She had a plan that she’d thought aboutand examined and thought about some more. It would work. She simply had to keep her focus, keep her edge, and not let anything distract her. She felt the familiar mingling of fear and anticipation, making her heart pound and her breathing shallow.
Six
Giovanni’s Island
March 2001
Rafaella ate another tart grapefruit slice. Her lips puckered and she quickly downed the remainder of her coffee.
She was seated for breakfast on one of the four outdoor patios, this one latticed overhead by bright red and purple bougainvillea to protect against the sun. She was facing one of the swimming pools shaped like Italy, down to the boot, which was the hot tub.
There were only a half-dozen or so guests breakfasting outside at eight-thirty in the morning. The weather, as usual, was in the low seventies at this hour, the sky perfectly clear, despite the fact that every morning about eleven o’clock there would be a heavy downpour that would last for some twenty-five minutes and then the sun would shine blindingly again and everything would continue as if nothing had happened.
She studied the guests as she ate slowly. The beautiful people did appear different from their mortal counterparts. They were, on the average, more slender, more fit, more evenly tanned, and what was astounding was that even those in their forties and fifties bore no sun wrinkles on their faces. Not a ripple of cellulite on any female thigh. However did they manage it?
The men looked wonderful in their white tennis shorts and knit shirts, and the women—their legs long and sleek—wore Lagerfeld hand-painted silk coverups, Armani trousers, Valentino organza madras, and Tantri sandals: at least those were the designers she recognized from her three-day crash course in the latest hot fashions.
They looked pampered and flawless. She overheard a conversation next to her between a man in his fifties and a young woman who couldn’t have been older than Rafaella. Initial impressions had told her father and daughter.
Boy, was she naive. They were lovers, and the young woman, very blatant about it, laid her hand in his lap, turned it downward, and molded his penis with her fingers. Rafaella stared.
“More coffee?”
Rafaella jumped. The waitress was standing beside her, an amused twinkle in her eyes. “Er, yes, thank you.”
“They look much sweeter than they
“It isn’t that.”
“Logan what’s-his-face at the D.A.’s? He giving you a hard time?”
“Logan’s history. No, it doesn’t have anything to do with work or men. I decided I needed
more
than just a vacation. I want to take a leave of absence, Al.”
Al stared at her, nonplussed. “I beg your pardon?”
Rafaella tried to get her act together. What to say?
“Is this about your mother? You want to be with her?”
She started to lie; he’d given her such a fine opportunity. In the end, she just stared at her shoes and shook her head.
“Does it have anything to do with Porto Bianco?”
“So, you know.”
“Just about your research. Why the interest in the island? Or in arms dealing? Or is it Dominick Giovanni?”
Rafaella drew a deep breath. “Can you get me in at Porto Bianco? As a guest?”
It was Al’s turn to study Rafaella Holland. She could have asked her stepfather, Charles. He could have snapped his fingers and gotten her on the next flight to the Caribbean. But she’d asked him, Al. Slowly he nodded. “Yes, I can get you in. Senator Monroe’s a member, and he owes me. It’s important?”
Rafaella rose. “It’s the most important thing in my life.”
Rafaella stopped running. She was on a narrow, winding path, one of a dozen that led from the resort to the beach and back. She walked now to one of the main paths that led to her small villa. There were forty villas in addition to the lavish main facility, and Al had managed to get her one of them.
She was here, so close to him, and it was the beginning for her. She had a plan that she’d thought aboutand examined and thought about some more. It would work. She simply had to keep her focus, keep her edge, and not let anything distract her. She felt the familiar mingling of fear and anticipation, making her heart pound and her breathing shallow.
Six
Giovanni’s Island
March 2001
Rafaella ate another tart grapefruit slice. Her lips puckered and she quickly downed the remainder of her coffee.
She was seated for breakfast on one of the four outdoor patios, this one latticed overhead by bright red and purple bougainvillea to protect against the sun. She was facing one of the swimming pools shaped like Italy, down to the boot, which was the hot tub.
There were only a half-dozen or so guests breakfasting outside at eight-thirty in the morning. The weather, as usual, was in the low seventies at this hour, the sky perfectly clear, despite the fact that every morning about eleven o’clock there would be a heavy downpour that would last for some twenty-five minutes and then the sun would shine blindingly again and everything would continue as if nothing had happened.
She studied the guests as she ate slowly. The beautiful people did appear different from their mortal counterparts. They were, on the average, more slender, more fit, more evenly tanned, and what was astounding was that even those in their forties and fifties bore no sun wrinkles on their faces. Not a ripple of cellulite on any female thigh. However did they manage it?
The men looked wonderful in their white tennis shorts and knit shirts, and the women—their legs long and sleek—wore Lagerfeld hand-painted silk coverups, Armani trousers, Valentino organza madras, and Tantri sandals: at least those were the designers she recognized from her three-day crash course in the latest hot fashions.
They looked pampered and flawless. She overheard a conversation next to her between a man in his fifties and a young woman who couldn’t have been older than Rafaella. Initial impressions had told her father and daughter.
Boy, was she naive. They were lovers, and the young woman, very blatant about it, laid her hand in his lap, turned it downward, and molded his penis with her fingers. Rafaella stared.
“More coffee?”
Rafaella jumped. The waitress was standing beside her, an amused twinkle in her eyes. “Er, yes, thank you.”
“They look much sweeter than they
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