One of Those Malibu Nights (7 page)

“Oh, how are you?” she said, in the high, breathy voice Mac remembered calling “sorry” after she’d shot at him.

“Good, thanks. I’ve gotten over those bruises I acquired tripping over your deck the other night.”

“Oh, that wasn’t
my
deck.” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

“I believe I have something of yours,” Mac said, still with the smile. “You left it in my car.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said too quickly. “I’m not missing anything.”

The rotund one gave a discreet cough and she turned her frightened green eyes from Mac to him. “Oh, Renato,” she said, “this is Mac Reilly. And this is Renato Manzini. My producer,” she added in case Mac might have other thoughts on their relationship.

The two men shook hands. The portly one put a possessive arm around the redhead’s waist. “Our table is ready,
carina,”
he said, already edging her away.

She glanced apologetically back at Mac. “Good to see you again,” she called as he watched them go.

Sunny was goggle-eyed when he returned. “It was
her
, wasn’t it?” she said.

“It was.” He took a sip of wine then attacked a plate of antipasto that would have served four.

Sunny stared down at her own little forest of grilled baby artichokes, nonplussed. “How can you just sit there and eat when the woman who tried to kill you is three tables away?”

“I told you she apologized that night. Said it was her mistake.” He crunched down the creamy eggplant tart as though he had nothing else on his mind.

“Better watch your waistline,” Sunny said.

He glanced up at her, brows raised. “You’re the one eating the sugar buns. Two at a time you told me.” He winced as her black suede stiletto, Christian Louboutin and
molto
expensivo, caught him on the shin.

“So,” she said impatiently. “What’s her story?”

“She’s with Renato Manzini, her ‘producer.’ And also, I believe you mentioned, your client Eddie’s producer. I still don’t know her name.”

“That’s easy,” Sunny said, taking out her cell phone. “I’ll call Eddie and find out.”

She walked outside to make the call and Mac watched her, smiling at the perfect little twitch of her butt. It was unself-conscious and totally natural and beautiful.

She was back in a flash. “Her name is Marisa Mayne,” she said, settling into her chair. “Eddie’s seen her around in Hollywood. She’s kind of ‘a girl around town,’ always at the clubs, always on the lookout. He told me she has a walk-on role in the sci-fi movie and that she looks sensational, all bare brown legs and a silver breastplate, with a lacquered silver mask complete with Spock pointed ears.

“Also, apparently at Renato Manzini’s insistence, she’s been given a couple of lines. Eddie doesn’t know where she’s staying but assumes, since they appear to be so close, it’s with Manzini. His opinion is she’s just a girl using her assets to try to improve her status in the movie world. And,” Sunny added thoughtfully, “judging by that whopping yellow diamond on her engagement finger, I think she may be succeeding.”

Mac took a sip of his wine. “Thanks, babe,” he said. “What would I do without you?”

“You’d survive,” she said.

He met her cool amber gaze. “No, I don’t think I would,” he said, leaving Sunny breathless, but just then the waiter arrived to serve the lobster fettuccini, interrupting their moment.

Dinner was delicious and the wine got even richer as the night wore on. They were on to dessert—the
dolce
the waiter called it, making them giggle—and a glass of
vin santo
, when Marisa Mayne made her exit. She stopped by their table en route.

“So good to see you again, Mac,” she said, offering her hand as though they were old friends. He shook it, waving nonchalantly at Renato Manzini who glowered from the door, waiting for her.

“We have to talk,” Marisa whispered urgently. “Call me.
Please
, it’s important.” Then with a quick apologetic smile at Sunny she was gone.

Mac waited until the couple had finally left. Then he opened his hand and took out the scrap of paper Marisa had palmed him. On it was written her phone number.

She’s not joking,” he said thoughtfully. “And this time, I think she might be in real trouble.”

The next morning at the hotel, breakfast was a leisurely affair of endless coffee, sweet rolls, and crumbs in the bed, over which Sunny and Mac made love. Marisa Mayne was temporarily forgotten and they were still rolled in each other’s arms at noon when Mac said, “Hey, there’s all of Rome outside this window. So why are we just lying here?”

“Because this is more fun.” Sunny tossed back her long wild hair and snuggled into his armpit.

“Wait a minute.” He tilted her chin, rubbing his nose against hers, the silly way lovers do. “We have work to do.”

“The Naughty Angel,” she sighed.

“Right.” Mac unwrapped her from him and reached for the piece of paper with Marisa’s number. Grabbing the phone he punched it in.

She answered right away. “Oh, thank God it’s you,” she said, sounding tense.

“So what can I do for you, Miss Mayne?” Mac asked.

“We need to talk. Please can you meet me, somewhere … anywhere
anonymous
. You know what I mean.”

“You mean a place nobody will recognize you and see you talking to me?”

This time Marisa sighed. “You’re so understanding. But I don’t know Rome at all, so tell me, where should we meet?”

Mac looked at Sunny, mouthing “Where?”

“The Tazza d’Oro,” she said. “A bar in the Piazza della Rotunda.”

Mac told Marisa and arranged to meet her there in an hour.

“Better get up, Miss Coto de Alvarez,” he said, grabbing her feet and pulling her the length of the bed. He took her by the shoulders and lifted her up and she wrapped her long legs round his waist.

“Shower?” he suggested.

“Of course,” she said.

The umbrella-shaded terrace of the Tazza d’Oro was busy with Romans tossing down espresso so dense that Sunny knew it must hurtle straight to their veins, revving them up to face the rest of the day. It was easy to pick out the
tourists because they were drinking cappuccino, something Italians only ever drank at breakfast. She had tied her hair back in a glossy ponytail and wore a cool white shirt and a short white skirt, with her trademark red lipstick. She had two favorite lipsticks: the daytime one was a pure red and the nighttime one had a touch of blue, making it richer. The sun was shining, the air felt warm on her skin and Mac’s hand was cool in hers. The glorious dome of the Pantheon seemed to float toward the blue cloud-spotted sky, and weary visitors took their ease on the imposing flight of marble steps leading up to its massive columned portico.

“The Pantheon was built by the Emperor Hadrian in a.d. 118 to 125,” she told Mac as they settled at a shady table.

“That’s
old
.“ He signaled a waiter over.

“And it’s erected over another, even more ancient temple, built by Marcus Agrippa. Italian kings are buried in there,” she added, having done her homework. “As well as Raphael’s tomb.”

“I want to see it all,” Mac said. “But business and a cold Peroni beer come first. What’ll you have, sweetheart?”

She gave an exaggerated sigh at his crass dismissal of one of Rome’s most important historic monuments.

“Lemonade,” she said.

Mac gave the waiter their order, glancing around for Marisa, but as yet there was no sign of her.

“Wait a minute, though.” Sunny took off her sunglasses
and leaned forward, peering through the crowded square. “There’s only one woman here with a body like that.”

Mac took another look at the woman with the floppy straw hat pulled over her hair. She wore large dark glasses, jeans, cowboy boots and a loose red linen shirt that barely disguised her assets. It was Marisa all right. He got to his feet and waved her over.

“Oh, thank God you came,” she said, sitting down quickly. “I’m so worried.”

“Okay, hold on. What would you like to drink?”

“Oh? Campari and soda please.”

Sunny was surprised that Marisa was already acting like a Roman, ordering a Roman-style drink. Obviously this woman was adaptable. “Hi.” She leaned across the table to shake her hand. “I’m Sunny Alvarez.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Marisa shook it briefly and Sunny thought for a hot day her hand was exceptionally cold. She really must be frightened.

“You must be wondering who I am,” Marisa said to Mac, gulping the Campari and soda as though it were Diet Coke.

“Well, kind of. I mean at least now we know your name.”

Marisa took off the dark glasses and took a deep breath. “I’m Ronnie Perrin’s fiancée.” She held out her left hand with the whopping canary diamond. It caught the light and Sunny quickly put her own sunglasses back on.

“I admired it in Harry Winston’s window in New York, so Ronnie bought it for me. But I have to keep our engagement
real quiet until after the divorce. He’s divorcing Allie Ray you know?” She glanced inquiringly at them and they both nodded.

“Well, anyway when the divorce comes through I will be the next Mrs. Perrin.” She beamed at them and Sunny thought how attractive she was with her green eyes and wide sexy mouth. No wonder Perrin had fallen for her. Or had he?

“How did you two meet?” she asked, taking a sip of her lemonade.

“On an Internet chat room,” Marisa said, surprising her. “You can go visit people online, ask who they are, what they are, get to know each other before you even meet. I fell in love with Ronnie before I knew who he was,” she added defensively. “The fact that he turned out to be rich was a nice surprise. And Ronnie said the fact that I turned out to be so sexy was a nice surprise too. He loves the Internet, he says you never know who you might meet.”

She shrugged, staring down into her pretty pink drink. “The only thing is we can never be seen in public. We never go out together. I go to his Malibu home—he gave me a key. Or else he comes to my place out in the Valley, the suburbs really, where nobody knows what Ron Perrin looks like anyway. To them he’s just another guy on a nice Harley.”

A Harley girl, Sunny looked interested. “What does he have?”

“Oh, he has a couple, but his favorite is that real old one, not a Harley, the original … what’s it called?”

Sunny drew an envious breath. “The Indian.”

“Yeah, that’s it. A man like Ronnie can have anything he wants. Including women,” Marisa added, a touch bitterly.

“So you were alone at his Malibu house that night?” Mac prompted her.

She nodded, sending the floppy brim of the straw hat fluttering. “It wasn’t quite what it seemed that night though.” She hesitated, a little frown between her brows, obviously thinking. “I wonder, have you met Ronnie’s partner, Sam Demarco?”

“Haven’t had that pleasure.”

“Hmm,” she said, looking doubtful. “Anyway, Demarco told me Ronnie thought he was being followed. He said Ronnie was real worried about it, afraid some nut was going to shoot him, or else it was Allie Ray on the warpath. Or maybe the FBI keeping tabs on him. I asked Ron about it but he shrugged it off. I wanted him to get a bodyguard but he said that would only make him look like a guilty man.”

“And is he? ‘A guilty man’?”

Marisa’s eyes sparked with anger as she glared at Mac. “Why does everybody have to think that just because someone is rich he’s guilty of doing something wrong? It’s just not fair.”

“Okay,” Mac agreed mildly.

Then Marisa stunned them by saying, “Ron likes, kind of to be … dominated, y’know.”

Mac remembered that look in Perrin’s eyes, like a chastised
puppy. “Okay, so you are the dominatrix, he’s the subject,” he said.

“Kinda like that, yeah,” she admitted. “But I really hate to hurt him y’know, I try to go as easy as I can on him and …”

“Still achieve the end result,” Sunny said helpfully.

Marisa hung her head. “It’s not really my scene,” she said. “But, y’know, like, I’m an actress, I can play any role.”

Watching her, Sunny wondered why, if she was such a good actress, she could tell Marisa was lying.

Marisa took a large gulp of the bitter Campari, shuddering as she swallowed. “I hate this stuff,” she said, “but everybody here drinks it.”

“So what happened that night?” Mac asked.

“Ronnie had a meeting and I was in the house alone. I went upstairs to wait for him. I had the TV on but I could still hear the surf outside the windows. I had a bottle of champagne waiting in the cooler, the way I always did. Then Ronnie called, said he was running late, he’d be back in an hour.
That’s
when I heard the noise downstairs.

“I thought
no
, I’m imagining things, it’s just the waves on the rocks, high tide or something. Anyhow, I turned down the TV and listened. I heard the noise again.
A footstep.”
She shivered. “You know those floors, they’re some kind of concrete polished until it shines, but they’re hard as hell and nothing you can do can soundproof them. You could hear a petal fall from a rose in that house.

“It was a definite footstep. Someone was moving around downstairs, opening things.
And I was alone
. I was so scared, I grabbed Ronnie’s gun from the drawer in the bedside table. I crept to the top of the stairs and peered down.”

She stopped with a shudder that this time shook her entire body. She was obviously terrified by the memory. “Jeez, Mr. Reilly—Mac—I wanna tell you, my heart was thudding like a friggin’ steam engine. But I’d always told myself that in a pinch, in a situation like this, if it was a ‘him-or-me’ survival, it would be
me
.

“I still couldn’t see anybody so I crept further down the stairs. I was standing at the bottom looking round in the darkness when somebody grabbed me. I screamed and he pushed me to the floor. I dropped the gun and I thought, Oh shit this is it… . I was facedown, frantically groping around for the gun. By the time I found it and got to my feet—he was gone.”

She looked at Mac. “And then you appeared at the window. I thought you were him, come back again… . I didn’t recognize you until after I’d shot at you. And now I just want to say I’m sorry.”