One of Those Malibu Nights (5 page)

She stopped at the top of the steps, watching as Pirate hobbled back up. “So now you understand why I envy you, Mr. Reilly.”

“I think it’s time you called me Mac.”

She smiled. “The simple life has so much more to offer, don’t you think, Mac?”

A car honked outside. Mac knew it was Roddy, waiting to take him to the airport, though even if they got lucky with the traffic he guessed he’d miss his flight and would have to reschedule.

At the door, Allie turned to hug him goodbye. “Please help me,” she said.

And of course Mac promised he would, even if he had to do it long-distance from Rome.

Allie drove slowly back along PCH lost in her thoughts. The congested highway offered glimpses of the ocean, glinting between low buildings whose doors opened directly onto the road, and which surprisingly were mostly extremely expensive homes.

Revisiting the past was not something Allie did frequently, in fact never, if she could help it, and then only in her dreams when she had no control over the memories that drifted into her mind.

She felt exhausted from the explosion of tears, again something she never did. Nobody ever saw anything but the public Allie, the one smiling for the cameras. She had let her guard down to Mac Reilly and now she was wishing she had not.

The past was the past and that was where she wanted to keep it, locked away in a safe place where nobody could find it. Except Ron, of course, because Ron knew everything there was to know about her. It was as though he’d known right from the beginning, without ever having to ask.

She shook her head, pushing the thought of him away, as she had done physically the night she told him to leave. “Get out of my life,” she’d yelled. “Or I’ll get out of yours.”

“Oh? And exactly how will the famous movie star, America’s ‘good girl,’ manage to do that?” he’d asked.

“Same as all the other women,” she’d snapped back, picking up a vase of roses, ready to hurl it at him if he so much as came near her.

He had laughed. “You don’t have to go that far,” he said. “I’m outta here.”

As he’d marched to the door she’d shouted after him, “Back to her, I suppose.”

He had turned to look at her. For a long moment their eyes had connected. Then he’d lifted a shoulder in that familiar dismissive gesture of his. “Have it your own way,” he’d said. And he’d walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.

After he’d gone Allie had slumped into a chair in the massive front hall with the double curving staircase and the antique chandelier that had sparkled like Christmas stars on their ugly fight. The chair was a designer
fauteuil
with plaid silk upholstery in soft shades of celadon green and walnut
armrests. Expensive of course, as everything in this house was. Still clutching the vase of pink roses, Allie had stared blankly at the door where her life, her future, her very reason for being, had just walked out. Ron Perrin no longer loved her and she did not know what to do about it.

Now, heading home along the coast road, she still didn’t know what to do, and what she had told Mac Reilly was the truth. Her very private truth. She liked Reilly. He had something that was rare in her circle. Integrity. She could tell that, even from their brief meeting.

Remembering suddenly why she had gone to see him, she glanced in the rearview mirror. Her heart jumped into her throat. It was there! The black Chrysler Sebring, the kind of inexpensive convertible tourists liked to rent so they could put the top down and enjoy California’s rays, soaking up the sun and a lungful of gasoline fumes along with the sea breeze. Except tourist cars didn’t have windows tinted so dark you couldn’t see the driver, and
this
Sebring driver never put the top down, never stopped to admire the view, and never overtook no matter how slowly she drove. He just sat on her tail a couple of cars back and waited to see what she would do next.

A shiver of fear trickled down Allie’s spine. She had experienced stalkers before. Usually they were more insistent, wanting to get next to her, to try to make conversation as she waited at Malibu’s Country Mart Starbucks for her double latte, two shots, skinny. Of course she didn’t go there anymore
because the paparazzi lurked around the place, cameras at the ready, waiting to snag celebrities in their lenses, hopefully doing something naughty. But this stalker was sending letters filled with threats of violence.

She drove faster, to the fringes of Santa Monica. When she got to Topanga Canyon, at the last second she made a quick turn left across the traffic into the parking lot of the Reel Inn, a beach café that served fish in many varieties and almost any form.

She turned to look back. As she had hoped the Sebring driver had been taken by surprise and forced by the traffic to drive on. There were no U-turns on PCH, and he could not come back until he reached Sunset and made a legal turn. She had given him the slip.

She pressed the button to put up the top on her car, then made a left out of the parking lot and a right at the light. She was taking the same road as the Sebring knowing she would pass it coming back the other way in search of her. Then she would take Sunset Boulevard, the long road that led all the way from the beach to Bel Air and Beverly Hills, and to Hollywood and beyond. Meanwhile, she punched in Mac Reilly’s number.

“Hi, it’s me, Allie,” she said when he answered, liking the sound of his strong voice. This man knew who he was. She only wished she could learn from him.

Mac was in his car on his way to the airport. Pirate rode shotgun, head sticking out the window, ragged ears flapping,
while Mac’s assistant, Roddy Kruger, was in the backseat, negotiating a new flight to Rome and complaining about lack of legroom. Roddy would drive the car and the dog back to Malibu after dropping Mac off.

“So what’s up, Allie Ray?” Mac asked, noticing that Roddy fell suddenly silent at the mention of the famous name.

“He’s on my tail again. I just lost him at the Reel Inn. I’m on my way home now, via Sunset.”

“Okay, no need to panic.” Mac’s voice was calm. “Your new ‘tail’—your personal one hired by me, will be with you by the time you reach home. He will be driving a souped-up black Mustang and he’ll have a camera around his neck, looking like the rest of the paparazzi. He’s fortyish, bald as a coot, the usual aviator sunglasses, a Tommy Bahama flowered shirt, jeans, sneakers. Six one, in good shape—good enough to take on all comers. You can trust me on that. He’s a triple black belt in karate and trained with the Israeli Special Forces. He’s also organized round-the-clock surveillance. No need to be afraid, Allie, I promise you. He’ll soon find out who the follower is, whether it’s the stalker, or some PI hired by your husband to keep tabs on you and dig for any dirt. Not that I expect there is any,” he added casually.

“No,” Allie said shortly. “There is not.”

“Glad to hear it.” Mac was smiling. “It makes life easier all around, especially from a divorce lawyer’s point of view.”

Out of the corner of her eye Allie caught a glimpse of the Sebring with the darkened windows speeding in the opposite direction. Heaving a sigh of relief, she said, “What’s his name?”

“Your bodyguard? His name is Lev Orenstein. You can’t miss him, and trust me, he won’t miss you. You’re in good hands,” he added gently.

“Okay,” she said in a small voice. “See you when you get back from Rome then.”

“One week,” he said, “We’ll get together right away.”

“I leave for Cannes a few days after you return,” she said. “Please don’t forget to call.” She was almost begging him, wishing he wasn’t leaving, wanting him to stay near her, wanting his strength. It was not often you got a man who understood; a man who listened; a man who saw beyond the façade. A man like Ron had once been.

“Okay, don’t worry, I’ll call and we’ll set a date. You’re in my thoughts, Allie.”

“And you are in mine,” she whispered as he rang off.

Turning in to her street, Allie saw the black Mustang parked discreetly under a tree opposite the gates. She knew Reilly must have informed Security that Lev Orenstein was here for her protection, otherwise the patrol would have moved him on. A couple of other vehicles nosed slowly by, but there was no black Sebring convertible and she breathed a sigh of relief. Slowing opposite the Mustang, she rolled down her window and a tall guy, whippet thin with
shoulders like a halfback and, she guessed, probably a full six-pack of abs, got out and slouched over to her.

“Ma’am,” he said in a rich dark voice, “I’m Lev, here for your protection. Mr. Reilly probably told you about me.”

He leaned an arm lazily on the roof of her Mercedes. “Yes, he did,” she said, managing a smile. “I’m very glad to see you, Lev.”

“Don’t worry about a thing, ma’am. I’m here for you.” He stepped back, lifting his hand in farewell. “You need to let me know when you’re going out and where you’re going. You ever need me, up at the house, wherever, you call this number.” He passed a card through the window. “Put it on your cell,” he said. “Tuck it in your bra, drill it into your brain. It’s your lifesaver, ma’am. Your link to me.”

“I will,” she promised, shakily. Then she pressed the button that opened the electronic gates and sped down the straight-as-an-arrow driveway that led to the twenty-thousand-square-foot soulless mausoleum she called home.

Of course Sunny was not waiting for Mac at Rome’s Fiumicino airport, as he had hoped, but he took it in his stride. That’s women for you, he thought, smiling. Perverse as all get-out. Plus of course, due to his unexpected chat with Allie Ray, he’d missed his original flight and had been forced to make a couple of connections via D.C. and New York to get to Rome. He was late, tired and jet-lagged, but happy.

He took a cab into town which after a lengthy drive deposited him at the venerable Hotel d’Inghilterra, with its charming tearoom, and the wood-paneled bar where Ernest Hemingway used to hang out, and where the driver now relieved him of which seemed to Mac to be a great many euros for his trouble. The bellman took his bag and the desk
clerk informed him that the Signorina Coto de Alvarez was taking coffee at Tre Scalini in the Piazza Navona, a short walk away.

He pointed him in the right direction and Mac sauntered happily along the narrow crowded streets. The sun bounced off the ruins in a golden glow, the air smelled of fresh coffee and the chic Roman women, always intent on presenting a
bella figura
, looked like Armani models. Not a bad day in Italy, he thought, pleased. Still, when he stepped from the side street into the vast expanse of the Piazza Navona, it took his breath away.

He stopped to look at the ancient buildings in faded shades of ocher and rose surrounding the arena that, centuries ago, had started life as a stadium, and that now lay buried deep beneath the cobblestones. The many cafés with their striped awnings were crowded, and Bernini’s glorious Fountain of the Four Rivers pulsed sparkling jets of water into the air. Tourists milled around taking photographs, while Borromini’s Sant’Agnese church, domed and turreted, pedimented and columned, ruled over all.

Mac sauntered past several cafés until he came to Tre Scalini, near the big fountain with a grand view of the church and an even better view of his Sunny, wearing a pale green dress with a neckline that he immediately decided was too low-cut for Rome.

Now Mac knew he might not be your typical detective
from the crime-novel genre, but Sunny was another matter. She was your Raymond Chandler woman all right. Long silky black curls brushed smooth from a heart-shaped face, smoky eyes, amber-brown under winging brows; straight-on perfect nose; and the pouty red mouth all Chandler’s heroines and villainesses had. Add to that a delicious cleavage and golden legs that went on forever, and Sunny was some kind of woman.

She was sitting in the shade of the café awning, leafing through a copy of Italian
Vogue
and sipping a cappuccino.

“What, no sticky buns?” he asked, depositing a kiss on her sleek dark head.

“You’re late,” she complained.

Mac sighed as he sank into the chair opposite. “Nice greeting for a guy who’s just spent sixteen hours on several planes in an effort to be with the love of his life.”

But then she gave him the smile that lit up her face with a thousand candle-watt-power. “I’m glad you came,” she said simply and she leaned forward and kissed him. Everything was right in their world again. Temporarily, of course, because that’s the way their relationship went.

“I’m sorry,” Sunny said, “but I have to go to the studios. It’s a longish cab drive out of the city, it’s better if you get some rest and I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Don’t worry,” Mac said, pushing jet lag away as a memory. “I’m getting my second wind. I’ll come with you.”

In the car taking them to the studios he slid his arm around Sunny’s shoulders. He dropped a kiss on her hair, reaching with his other hand to smooth it from her neck, snuffling her familiar scent.

“I missed you,” he murmured. “Do we really have to go to the studios? Can’t we just turn around and go back to the hotel, where I can get you alone?”

Sunny was staring nervously ahead at the tangle of traffic that their driver was negotiating with loud honks of the horn and swift sideways maneuvers that seemed typical of Roman driving.

“You seem to forget I’m here on business,” she reminded him.

Mac studied her delicious profile. “You’re right,” he admitted. “Somehow I thought I was here with my lover, enjoying the beauty of Rome, tasting the good red wine and wonderful food, exploring the ancient ruins …”

She turned her head a fraction to look at him. A smile lifted the corners of her pretty mouth. “Is that
really
why you’re here?”

He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Why else, baby?” he said, as she slid into his arms and began to kiss him. Properly this time. None of that cold shoulder stuff. Just real kissing, like two people in love.

Fifteen minutes later as they drove through the gates at Cinecittà, Sunny quickly reapplied her lipstick and combed her hair. “Do I look okay?” she asked.