Impulse (38 page)

Then he’d just stared at her, walking around her, viewing her from every angle, telling her to straighten her shoulders, and she could read the look in his eyes with ease. She looked him straight in the eye.

“You, Marcus Whatever-your-name-is, kidnap me, drug me, lie about my mother, and scare me half to death, and then you expect me to fall into bed with you.”

He sighed. “Yeah, it’s true. But not really
expect.
‘Hope’ is more accurate. Behold a hopeful man who’s never approached you properly in bed. And the fact is, Rafaella, now that I think about it, you’re the one who’s always been seducing me. Do you need help with that zipper?”

She’d laughed, she couldn’t help it, but she wanted him and she knew that he knew that she did, but in the end, sex in the very late afternoon with Marcus wasn’t to be, nor the possibility of talk between them—not banter, but real talk, about each other.

The phone rang. Marcus looked at it with both surprise and annoyance, but after a minute of silent debate he answered it. He said nothing, absolutely nothing, merely listened, his eyes narrowing a bit, no other sign on his face that the call was good news or
bad or neutral. It frustrated Rafaella to no end that he had such a poker face. Then he hung up and sighed deeply.

“I’ve got to go out for a while. No big deal. Be ready to leave for Olivier’s club when I get back.”

He gave her no time to say anything, just kissed her quick and hard, cupping her jersey-covered breasts and fondling them for just a moment, and he was gone.

Rafaella walked to the phone and asked for the hotel operator. “Excuse me, this is Room Nine-two-seven, and our caller forgot to leave his number. You do have a record, don’t you?”

Rafaella, who’d had no real hope, nearly whooped when the operator said, “Why, yes. Your caller is Mr. Anton Rosch in Room Ten-twenty. Shall I ring him for you?”

Rafaella quickly demurred. “I don’t believe it,” she said, then said it again, shaking her head in amazement. She quickly changed into jeans and a pale blue sweater and jogging shoes. Mr. Anton Rosch, huh? What was he to Marcus? What
was
Marcus, anyway? Some kind of foreign agent? What nationality was the name Rosch? It sounded Czech.

Rafaella took the stairs to the tenth floor. She’d wondered with every step how she was going to get the truth out of Marcus. Truth serum? Then she thought of her own motives, but not for long. Her motives were personal; they had nothing to do with anyone but Dominick Giovanni, her father. Whereas Marcus—Who was Marcus Devlin?

Room 1020 was just another brown door near the end of the brown-carpeted hallway, which was, thankfully, empty. She pressed her ear to the door. Nothing. She went down to her knees but could see only empty room through the keyhole. Marcus had evidently gone somewhere outside the hotel to meet this Rosch fellow.

She’d wandered into the small coffee shop just off the lobby, but Marcus wasn’t there. Then she’d returned to their room and brooded. To deal with Marcus, one needed finesse. She must have enough of that, somewhere.

His voice suddenly sounded through her thoughts. “Well, you’ve been staring off into space for quite long enough. What do you think of this place? Decadent enough for your rich trust-fund tastes?”

Rafaella jumped at the sound of his voice, then quickly brought herself back to The Occidental Club. She smiled up at Marcus, trying for a mysterious sort of smile that looked, in truth, more like Betty Boop playing vamp, but Marcus appreciated her efforts. She wished she could just spit it out and demand to know who the hell this Rosch was. But she knew better. Marcus was fast on his feet, nimble-tongued, and too slippery to be caught like that.

No, she needed finesse, and here in Olivier’s den wasn’t the place to try it.

“Yes, it’s plenty decadent enough,” she said finally. She looked around. “Shall I go lose my mistress allowance at the baccarat table?”

Marcus started to flip out a suitably lighthearted answer, when he saw their bald Vandyked escort wending his way through the guests toward them. “Well, here goes,” he said. “King Olivier will see us, evidently. Remember, Rafe, keep your mouth shut—be a good mistress, nothing more. Act sweet, stupid, and suitably deferential to the men, and—”

“I’ve got the picture, Marcus. How’s this?”

He grinned at the vacuous expression. “Quite fine, but a bit more sultriness in the eyes, I think.”

“Don’t push it, Devlin.”

They followed their escort out of the main salon, through a dark door marked
PRIVATE
, down a wide hallway. Rafaella was reeling from his calling her Rafe. Only Al Holbein, her Boston editor, had ever
called her that. It had come off Marcus’s tongue so easily. She felt his hand cupping her elbow. Ah, she liked the sound of “Rafe” when he said it.

“Do you think you could manage to swing your rear end just a bit?”

Rafaella calmly eased her arm out of his hold and reached down. She lightly stroked her fingertips over him. He sucked in his breath and she grinned evilly. She felt him springing to life and was well aware that several people, probably employees, coming toward them down the corridor saw what she was doing. She gave him the sexiest look she could dredge up, then walked a bit in front of him, swinging her rear end outrageously.

She heard him say behind her, “I’ll get you for that, Ms. Holland. You can count on it.”

She waited for him when their escort stopped in front of a double set of thick oak doors. The man knocked, then, after nodding to them, opened the doors and eased in, shutting the doors behind him.

“You calm again, Devlin?”

“You really like to live dangerously, don’t you, Fifi?”

“Fifi?”

“Yeah. I think that’s a good name for my mistress.” Roddy Olivier’s office was an opulent oak-paneled affair that reeked of turn-of-the century wealth and privilege. The man himself sat behind a dark and heavy Spanish desk. For a man of sixty or thereabouts, he was in remarkable shape. He looked much better than the couple of grainy newspaper photos Rafaella had seen of him. He had a full head of stark white hair, a very pale long face, a very clever face, and the coldest gray eyes Rafaella could imagine. He wasn’t smiling, he wasn’t doing anything, just reposing and taking in everything about them. Then, after nodding to Marcus, he turned those nearly colorless eyes on Rafaella. He looked her over slowly and thoroughly
and with complete indifference. So much for her sexy Halston.

Roddy Olivier lifted a very thin beringed hand. “Devlin,” he said in a low, soft voice. “Do sit down. The lady will sit over there. Bufford, do bring us drinks. Whiskey for Mr. Devlin and myself and ginger ale for the lady.”

“That will be fine,” Marcus said, even though Olivier hadn’t asked for their preferences.

Olivier said nothing more until they were both seated, Marcus in a soft leather chair opposite his desk, and Rafaella on a chaise against the far wall. Here sits the high-class tart, she thought, forced to hold herself very straight because there was no back to the chaise. She crossed her legs and tried to look like a high-priced tart.

Olivier wasn’t looking at her as he said to Marcus, waving a hand in her direction, “Very nice.”

“Yes.”

“Is she worth what you pay for her?”

“So far. I haven’t had her long.”

“If you tire of her, I would consider taking her over.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You took out Bertrand,” Olivier said then, softly, easily. He steepled his thin fingers together, tapping the tips.

“I had no choice in the matter. Did he come after me on your orders?”

“No. Unlike Bertrand, I wouldn’t have underestimated you, Mr. Devlin. And if I’d wanted you out, you’d not be here now. No, Jack had ambitions of his own, I fear. You saved Dominick’s life in that first attempt.”

“You have amazing sources.”

“Of course. Not many men could have managed that; not many men would have even wanted to try
to save Giovanni’s hide. I do wonder why you did it. You were shot; were you not?”

Marcus merely nodded.

“Why did you come to London? To find out if I’m the man behind
Bathsheba
?”

“That’s about it. You see, Bertrand spoke of
Bathsheba.
”

At that moment Bufford came back into the office, carrying a silver tray. He silently offered whiskey to Olivier, then Marcus, and last he walked to where Rafaella sat and handed her a glass of ginger ale. Olivier nodded to the man and he left again. “One should always pick one’s tools wisely,” he said. “One wonders if Giovanni has forgotten this simple truism.

“Bufford, for example, is faithful as a hound.” He raised his whiskey glass. “Mistresses should also be faithful, don’t you agree? Certainly you do. It’s odd, isn’t it, about mistresses? Well, to your quest for
Bathsheba
, Mr. Devlin.”

“Yes,” Marcus said, and sipped his whiskey. It was Glenfiddich and slid smoothly to his belly. What, he was wondering, had Olivier meant by those cryptic words?

Rafaella, who wouldn’t touch ginger ale unless she were thirsting to death, sipped at the rim of the glass but didn’t take the stuff into her mouth. She felt the power of Olivier, the absolute belief in himself and in his ability to accomplish whatever he pleased. She’d met other men who had the same aura about them, but they hadn’t also given this unmistakable impression of almost eager ruthlessness. He was a very scary man. All her movements were slow and discreet. She didn’t want his attention to shift to her again. What was Marcus thinking? She had never before in her life felt so distinctly out of her league. It was frightening.

“Bertrand knew about
Bathsheba.
At least he spoke as if he did. I assumed you would be able to tell me
something about it or them or him, or whatever it is. If you wished to, of course.”

“I would be a fool to tell you anything. Whoever it is, wants Giovanni dead. I wouldn’t mind seeing him nailed. He’s arrogant, a thorn in my flesh. He thinks he’s all-powerful, a proper little god. He’s also effectively out of business for as long as this
Bathsheba
threat exists.

“But just to add some sport, I will tell you this much, Mr. Devlin. You know about the Dutchmen and the woman, Tulp, of course. Tulp shot you. She was tops in her profession until she took this job. She went to New York. So whoever or whatever it is you’re looking for is likely there, in New York. I’ll bet you also wondered, Mr. Devlin, why the Dutchmen killed themselves. Where did they get the poison? And did they take it themselves? But that’s another question for you to answer, and it’s not to this point. The name
Bathsheba
is odd, isn’t it? What do you think its genesis is?”

“
Bathsheba
from the Bible? David’s consort?”

“Yes, that’s a good guess. It could make sense symbolically, with some men. But there’s something more immediate, more of our time, at least closer than biblical days. Are you an art lover, Mr. Devlin? No, I can see by your blank look that you’re not. Well, sir, become one and I think things might get clearer. Now, you may leave. I expect you to be shortly gone from London. I imagine you will be traveling south. Will you leave your lady here?”

“No, she goes with me.”

“A pity.” Olivier didn’t rise; he merely nodded to Marcus. “If you decide to leave Giovanni, I could use you in my organization. Good night, Mr. Devlin. I won’t be seeing you again.”

Neither Rafaella nor Marcus said a word until they were in a taxi bound for the Bennington Hotel.

Rafaella had never felt so very cold in her life.

Los Angeles, California
April 2001

Sylvia checked into a small hotel off Wilshire Boulevard. It was cheap and looked reasonably clean. Her head ached like the devil, her mouth felt dry, and her stomach wasn’t happy. She had a hangover and she hated herself. She’d seen the looks the first-class-cabin flight attendants had given her—pity, disgust. Never, ever again. Never would she touch booze again.

She had no luggage, but she still had a credit card with an exquisitely high limit on it. She drank three glasses of water, all the while looking at herself in the small bathroom mirror, and decided she needed to treat herself. She needed to feel good about herself; she didn’t want to feel like a drunken sot. No, certainly not. She ordered a taxi and had it drop her at the line of boutiques on Rodeo Drive. This was what she needed. A pick-me-up. Some pretty clothes. But no more booze. She thought of Tommy Ibsen, but with no regrets.

It was hot, nearly ninety degrees, and she hurried into the first boutique, a dress shop. Sylvia immediately felt right at home. The salespeople knew it too; they were at her side within moments, offering her champagne, offering to have their models show her whatever dresses she chose to see. Sylvia felt the balm of their goodwill flow over her.

Because her stomach was still rebelling from her indulgences on the airplane, she did drink one champagne. She selected four dresses, three pairs of slacks, tops and silk blouses and blazers, nodding at the deferential saleswomen, pleased when they offered to go next door and select shoes to go with the various outfits. Sachs, Adolfo, Blass, Perris, Chanel, Ricci—all lovely names she knew well. Yes, oh, yes, that Saint Laurent cashmere coat would look wonderful on her, the woman was perfectly right. White was her color,
and the very long coat, more cream than the stark white of the slacks and blouse, was electric. That was the exact word she was thinking. And the matching hat, delicious.

Sylvia was very happy at that moment. This was where she belonged. She wouldn’t think about her situation just now. Not when all these exquisite clothes belonged to her. Not when she could dress up in that beautiful de la Renta satin-faced red organza and visit the “in” place for lunch—was it still the Polo Lounge? Men would ask her out; women would want her secrets. Oh, yes, life would be grand.

Sylvia handed the woman her beautiful gold credit card. She smiled at the models and watched the assistants lovingly fold her new clothes or hang them on the elegant padded hangers, and they were asking her if she wished them delivered to her home.