Without a Trace

by Catherine Anderson

  Michael glanced at Sarah. From her radiant smile, he knew she was fine. He hesitated a moment, then offered the mobster his hand in friendship. Pascal raised an eyebrow, then shook hands with him, chuckling. "It seems I have changed my colors, eh? It's just as well. Here soon, we'll be like cousins."

  Michael lifted a dubious eyebrow. "Pardon?"

  "Cousins, you and me. Your Uncle Giorgio, he is like my papa. We'll go under with you. During the trial, we'll re­turn here, but otherwise, we'll be starting a new family."

  Michael hesitated. "In a limited sense, perhaps. No breaking the law."

  Looking at Tealson, Pascal lifted his hands in supplica­tion. "But of course not! Me? I am an upstanding citizen."

  Tealson shoved La Grande toward the door, his expres­sion amused. "Just don't forget it, Pascal. I'm grateful, but not that grateful."

  Sarah grinned up at Michael, hugging his waist, obli­vious to the confusion as Tealson joined the other marshals in the entry hall. Michael responded by running his hand up and down her back, caressing her lightly. Tealson returned within moments, a gigantic smile spread across his face.

  "Well, we did it. I hope it didn't get too nasty?"

  Michael slipped his arm around Sarah's waist. "It was worth it."

  Tealson gave Pascal a congratulatory pat on the shoul­der. "If it weren't for this fella, we'd have had problems. The guys in the Pontiac were an unexpected complica­tion."

  The memory made Michael's body grow taut. As long as he lived, he'd never forget that instant when he'd looked up and seen the Uzi aimed at Sarah. "So now what? Do I have to testify?"

  "Thanks to Pascal and Giorgio Santini, I think we'll have enough on La Grande to send him up and keep him there for good. You and your father probably won't be needed."

  "Does that mean my dad no longer qualifies for protec­tion?"

  "Not at all. He already did his part for society. As long as he's in danger because of it, we'll give him assistance. You should both be able to lead relatively normal lives."

  "Normal? Is that what you call it?"

  Tealson's smile held a hint of grim resignation. "I know it's not ideal, but it's better than the alternative." He glanced at his watch. "I'll bet you two are tired. Your lug­gage is being held at our office. It's early evening. I'm sure there's a room available at a suitable hotel with tight secu­rity."

  "That sounds great," Michael replied. "I feel like I could sleep for a year."

  "Me too," Sarah agreed.

  "Well, let's get you back to the city. You'll need a good night's sleep. Ms. Montague has a flight to catch at ten- thirty in the morning, and you'll be leaving to join your fa­ther even earlier. That only gives you a few hours."

  Sarah stared at her reflection, unable to dispel the ache within her. A few more hours, Tealson had said. That was all she and Michael had. She wanted to scream, to cry, to shatter the mirror. Anything to block out the hurt. It wasn't fair—it just wasn't fair.

  Opening the bathroom door, she stepped out and saw Michael standing by the window, gazing out at the swiftly falling darkness. With her heart in her throat, she went to join him. He didn't glance down as he put an arm around her.

  "What are you thinking?" she asked.

  "About you." At last he looked at her. "About what's best for you. It's selfish, I know, but I want you to go with me."

  She couldn't speak; if she did, she would cry.

  "You're not going to come, are you?" His eyes searched hers. Then he heaved a sigh. "I guess I don't blame you."

  She moistened her lips, fighting to keep tears out of her eyes. "We have tonight, Michael."

  "Yes, that's true. We have tonight." He laughed, an empty hollow sound. "It doesn't seem like much."

  "You kissed me once and said you wanted that one time to remember. That's how I feel now. Give me tonight?"

  "Oh, Sarah." He turned and pulled her against him, lowering his head to press his mouth to the curve of her neck above the edge of her nightgown. "You might regret it to­morrow. I'll be gone. You'll never see me again. What kind of—"

  "Trust me, I'll never have regrets." She leaned her head back, placing her palms on his rumpled shirt, lifting her eyes to his. "There's magic between us. Once in a lifetime magic." Sliding her hands up his chest, she cupped his face between her palms and rose on her toes to press her lips to his.

  He moaned and crushed her to him, raising her feet clear off the floor. She felt a pinpoint of warmth kindle in the hollow of her stomach, a pinpoint that burst into a searing, licking heat when his lips slanted like silk across hers. She slipped her arms around his neck.

  It seemed to her she had waited a lifetime for this mo­ment. She had yearned for him, tried to imagine what being with him would be like. But dreams were nothing com­pared to reality. When he led her to the bed, she felt as if she were floating on rainbows. Michael was indeed magic.

  There was no initial feeling of strangeness between them, no hesitation. She didn't even think about it when she felt him peeling off her gown. His touch wasn't a physical thing so much as it was emotional. He was satin, a cradle of warmth, her love. To share her body with him was ecstasy. She arched into his hands, breathless with wonder as he learned the contours of her flesh, seeking its secrets with gentle fingers and silken lips.

  When at last he came to her, she cried, not with regret, not with pain, but with an indescribable joy because being one with him felt so incredibly right. It didn't matter that his injured shoulder hampered them. It didn't matter that marshals stood outside their door. Michael was her only reality for now.

  When the last waves of pleasure ebbed slowly from their bodies, she pressed her cheek against his bandaged shoul­der and closed her eyes, not wanting to move away from him. As if he sensed that, he held her close and stroked her hair, not speaking, not moving, letting the minutes slip sweetly past.

  After a long while, their surroundings came back into fo­cus. She heard the forced-air heat kick on first. Then she heard traffic sounds outside their window. But the most jarring sound of all was the faint ticking of his watch, mea­suring off their remaining minutes together.

  "I love you. You do know that?" he whispered.

  She touched the dark hair that tufted over the wide strip of bandage on his chest. "Yes, I know."

  He made a fist in her hair. "Sarah, I realize how impor­tant family is to you, but we could start over, have our own family."

  She closed her eyes. "Oh, Michael, please, don't make this harder than it has to be. It breaks my heart to say goodbye. But how long would I be happy? I'd never be able to see my mother and sisters and brothers again. I know it sounds selfish but—"

  "No—no, it doesn't sound selfish, sweetheart. I under­stand. Probably better than anyone else possibly could. You've found all the things I've searched for. It wouldn't be fair to ask you to give them all up." He lay quiet for a mo­ment. "I have nothing to offer you, nothing. A fake name in an unknown town, always looking over my shoulder, afraid La Grande might find me. Ten years down the road, I might have to jerk up roots and go under all over again. That's no kind of life. When I think about it, I don't want that for you. I don't even want it for myself."

  Sarah bit her lip, holding her breath to keep from sob­bing. When she regained her composure, she said, "Maybe if I'd had a different kind of childhood, it'd be easier for me to cut ties. But I used to ask myself who I really was, and there was never an answer. Now I know who I am, where I came from. I can't imagine going back to—"

  He rose on one elbow, tracing the contour of her cheek. His eyes were cloudy with tenderness. "You don't have to explain. Even now, I wish I could have seen St. John again, talked to him. At least then I could have taken a piece of myself with me, something to hold on to."

  "Then why don't you go? It's still early. Call him. You'll never have another chance, Michael. Once you leave here, you don't dare come back. Not ever."

  "I don't want to waste the time I could have with you."
r />   "So we'll stay up all night. You'll regret it forever if you don't go."

  He sat up, glancing over his shoulder at her. "You really think I should?"

  Sarah replied, "Yes, I do Michael. Because of La Grande, you'll never have an opportunity to convince your birth mother to meet with you. Marcus St. John is the only blood relative you'll ever be able to see."

  "Why don't you come, too?"

  She nearly said yes, but then she realized the sooner they grew accustomed to the idea of parting, the easier it would be when the inevitable moment arrived. "I'll wait here. You go. When you get back, we'll order dinner by candlelight."

  "It'll be so late. I know you're hungry."

  "I'll order a snack. Go. Please? I want you to, really I do."

  He hesitated a moment then reached for the phone, dial­ing out to information. A few minutes later, he said good­bye to Marcus St. John and turned to her with a smile. "He's sending his car to pick me up. He practically insisted you come, but I explained you were too tired. Didn't seem upset that he missed us at the cafe earlier. I was afraid he might be."

  "Did he ask what had happened?"

  "No. Maybe there was no sign of trouble when his driver got there."

  She sat up, smoothing his hair back from his forehead with trembling fingertips. "Well? What are you waiting for? Get dressed and go downstairs to meet him."

  She pulled on her nightgown and propped herself up with pillows, watching him race around the room getting ready. When he stepped over to the dresser to straighten his tie, he glanced back at her, clearly nervous. "Well, how do I look?"

  He looked wonderful, heartbreakingly so, "Very nice," she said softly.

  He walked over to the bed and pressed a kiss to her fore­head, then rushed for the door. When he opened it, Paddao stepped into his path, lifting an inquisitive eyebrow. Mi­chael explained where he was going and started to step around him.

  Paddao grabbed Michael's arm. "I'm afraid I can't let you do that. You're in protective custody."

  She slid from the bed, approaching the door. She could sense Michael's disappointment.

  "This is something I have to do," Michael insisted.

  Paddao shook his head. "Let me call and get you an es­cort."

  "How long would it take?" Michael asked, checking his watch.

  "A couple of hours, at most."

  "That'll be too late." Michael looked at Sarah. The fu­ture without her yawned ahead of him like a black abyss. There was only one thing concrete in his life—his true iden­tity. He had already lived half of his life not knowing who he really was. The next half he was going to be someone else. Was it so unreasonable to want something solid to cling to? "I'm going," he whispered to her. "If La Grande's thugs are out there, then maybe that's how it's meant to be."

  Sarah nodded, understanding in a way that another per­son might not have. He was taking a big risk, but to him, it was worth it.

  Paddao stepped into his path. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you leave."

  Michael brushed past him. "What are you going to do? Shoot me?"

  "You could be kicked off the program for this!" Paddao warned.

  Michael turned to walk backward, lifting his hands in a helpless shrug. "You gotta do what you gotta do, man. And I gotta do what I gotta do. Sorry—"

  Sarah's thoughts were with Michael. She called room service, ordering dinner to be served at ten, then went over to her suitcase to see what she might wear. Dinner by can­dlelight. Her brushed cotton nightgown was completely unsuitable.

  Her soiled clothing lay in a crumpled heap on the floor beneath the suitcase rack. As she rummaged through her case, her foot brushed the garments and she heard a faint crackling sound. Perking her ears, she glanced down and spied the folded photocopies about Adam St. John pro­truding from the pocket of her slacks. She'd been so anx­ious to shower earlier, that she'd stripped without a thought for the clothes she shed.

  Thankful she had spotted the copies, she picked them up to lay them on top of Michael's suitcase so he wouldn't leave tomorrow without them. Her wish to be close to Michael somehow, along with boredom and curiosity, made her un­fold them. She had only skimmed the articles earlier, and so much had happened since, her recollection of them was a blur. Stepping over to the bed, she flopped back against the pillows to read the first news story. A smile curved her mouth. Adam St. John had been touted as a genius in ad­vanced computer technology. It figured. It was no news to her that Michael came from superior stock.

  Scanning the next page, her smile faded and her grip tightened on the papers. Adam St. John hadn't just looked halfheartedly for Michael, he'd searched for years. She bolted upright in bed, her trepidation escalating as she read. St. John had put out newspaper feelers and offered re­wards to anyone with information that might lead him to his son. The inheritance involved wasn't just a token portion of his estate, but the estate in its entirety. Marcus St. John would have had to relinquish claim to everything if his nephew had ever been found.

  Dread filled her. It seemed rather odd that Marcus would welcome his usurper so cordially, even going so far as to send a limousine for him, when he knew Michael's exis­tence would divest him of millions. The man was either a saint or a...

  She leaped to her feet, staring at the phone. Should she call St. John's and caution Michael? Or was she jumping to crazy conclusions? Gnawing her lip, she began to pace, re­reading the articles. Tension crawled up her neck, tighten­ing her jaws. "Oh, Michael, what should I do? I hate to ruin your visit for nothing."

  She thought back to the very beginning. When she'd first begun her investigation under the name Santini, immedi­ately after speaking to Giorgio Santini, she had called Marcus St. John, giving him her name and the name of her agency. He would have had just as much time as La Grande to trace her.

  Passing a hand over her eyes, she remembered La Grande's insistence that he'd made no attempts on Michael's life. Had he been telling the truth? Had it been Marcus St. John all along? Had he hired someone to run over her? To break into her office and erase her computer? To attack Molly? It all began to make sense and Sarah's horror mounted. The first break-in had been engineered by an am­ateur—Robert De Lorio, most likely—but the second had been a professional job. Of course for Marcus's purposes, she and Molly would have to be eliminated as well. They knew who Michael De Lorio really was. Michael had been La Grande's ace in the hole, just as he claimed; a pawn in a game of revenge; more valuable alive than dead. Only St. John would have benefited from Michael's death.

  Sarah froze, studying the telephone for a long moment. She should at least call Michael at St. John's and check to see if anything was up before raising an alarm. With a trembling finger, she dialed to get an outside line, called in­formation and acquired St. John's number. While punch­ing the digits and listening to the phone ring she closed her eyes and prayed. A gentleman with a British accent an­swered.

  "Yes, may I speak with Michael De Lorio, please?"

  The man asked her to wait and the line rustled. She pre­sumed he had covered the mouthpiece. A moment later, he came back on the phone, saying, "I am sorry, but there's no Mr. De Lorio here, ma'am."

  "I see. Thank you."

  She hung up, gazing at the wall. Michael would never leave St. John's without notifying her, not when the threat from La Grande still hung over them. He would know how worried she would be. Rising from the bed, she raced for the door, pouncing on Paddao who lounged against the wall outside her room. Talking so fast she tripped over the words, she told him about the news clippings and the siz­able inheritance. "Anyway, I just called to check on Mi­chael at St. John's—" she gasped "—and some man with a British accent told me he wasn't there. I'm really fright­ened."

  Paddao frowned, following her into the hotel room. Giv­ing her shoulder a comforting pat, he picked up the phone. "Let me check with the office to see if Mr. De Lorio called in about a change in plans." With a smile, he sat on the bed, propping his elbow on his knee. "Yea
h, Tealson? Paddao. Have you had any word from De Lorio? Nothing, hmm? Well, yeah, I am. Ms. Montague has some interesting pho­tocopies here that might shed a different light on things." As briefly as he could, Paddao related the contents of the news stories. He listened for a moment, then nodded. "Okay, will do. If there's anything up, I'll get back to you." Hanging up, he quirked an eyebrow at her. "You got St. John's num­ber? I'll call and check myself."

  She pointed to a piece of hotel stationery. Paddao glanced at the number jotted there and made the call. Clearing his throat, he said, "Yes, may I speak to Marcus St. John, please? Sam Paddao here, U.S. deputy marshal."

  She leaned against the dresser, wringing her hands. Her stomach tightened when Paddao began speaking again.

  "Yes, Mr. St. John, this is Deputy Marshal Sam Paddao. I'm calling to see if Michael De Lorio is there." Paddao lis­tened with a broadening grin. "Ah, the butler was just con­fused? Then we were alarmed over nothing. May I speak with him, please?" Again Paddao waited, flashing Sarah a reassuring smile. "Yeah, Dr. De Lorio? Paddao here. Everything okay there?"

  "I want to talk to him!" she cried. "Please, just for a sec."

  "Uh, Mr. De Lorio, Ms. Montague wants to talk to you. Yeah, here you go."

  She grabbed the phone. "Michael, are you okay?"

  "Yes, fine."

  There was a strained edge to his voice, almost undetecta­ble but there. "Are you sure?"

  "Except for being stuffed from that dinner we had, I'm great. How 'bout you?"

  Her empty stomach knotted. She threw a frightened look at Paddao. "I-I'm fine. You'll be back soon then?"

  "The sooner the better," he replied. "I love you."

  The line clicked and went dead. Slamming the receiver into its cradle, she whirled to face the deputy. "I knew it. He's in trouble."

  Paddao's eyebrows rose toward his hairline and he laughed. "I just spoke to him myself and he said nothing was wrong."