“Only a fool could dump a girl like you,” observed Nathan.
She met his gaze levelly, flushing at the smile hovering on his mouth. “I’m boring you.”
“No, you are not. I’m fascinated.”
“I don’t see why. I’ve had a boring life. Louie’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Well … Louie’s an exciting guy. Women love him.” He saw her hurt look and hastily amended. “I’d say he’s pretty taken with you. He’s never moved anybody in here before.”
The computer was set and running, and Tara got up and went into the kitchen. She took a package of chicken from the refrigerator, telling Nathan she was going to feed him after taking up his day. He sat on the terrace while she grilled chicken and tossed a salad. Tara planned on eating outside, but at the last minute thunderclouds rolled in so she set two places at one end of the dining room table.
Nathan opened a bottle of Chardonnay, pouring it into two glasses. Rain began pelting the terrace, and Tara shut the sliding door and turned on the chandelier. They ate in companionable silence, listening to thunder crackling overhead. Then Tara stacked their plates and Nathan freshened their wine and told her the reason he had no relatives. When he was ten years old, his father took the family to a local café for lunch. The café was popular; his family went there often. On this particular day they were celebrating his baby sister’s birthday—she was turning two. Unfortunately, for Nathan’s family, the PLO decided to conduct a wholesale slaughter. They bombed the café, killing half the patrons instantly. The survivors were mowed down with machine-gun fire. “Russian weapons, AK-47’s,” he said, as if it mattered.
Horrified, Tara wept as he told the tragic tale. Brushing at her eyes, she said tentatively, “How did you survive?”
“I’m alive because I went to the bathroom just before it happened. I hid in there until it was over. There were only a few of us who did survive.”
He told the story bloodlessly, with great detachment. Seeing her tears, he actually said, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“How did you … cope?”
“As you can imagine, I was very angry. I went to live with relatives—they did what they could for me, but I developed a pretty big chip on my shoulder. As soon as I could, I joined the service.”
“How did you eventually deal with your anger?”
“I haven’t done very well, I don’t think.” He laughed. “Killing terrorists has been great therapy.”
Her eyes widened with shock. He said, “I guess I’ve talked too much. But that’s what I did in the service … went after the bad guys. I was special ops.”
“You mean like a Seal?”
He smiled. “Something like that.” He tilted the wineglass to his lips and studied her with quiet reflection. “I don’t readily tell people this story, Tara. In fact, I never even told my ex-girlfriend what happened to me. But I should have because it’s the reason I couldn’t ever really love her.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Tara drove up to Pompano Beach and met Louie in the bar of Houston’s Steakhouse. It was Sunday afternoon, and Houston’s was hopping. Hopeful patrons thronged the entry and gathered at the bar. Houston’s was a casual establishment with a solid reputation for good food.
Tara didn’t know any of this, having never been here before. But she came in wearing white denim shorts, a sequined jacket from Chanel, and gleaming satin slides from Miu Miu. She knew she looked like a million bucks with her new honey-toned do, and she reveled in the fact that every head at the bar turned, including Louie’s.
He got off his barstool and waved her over, watching her step through the crowd. He chivalrously placed her on his stool and brushed his lips against hers. She was suddenly hot for him, saw his eyes gleam. He touched her highlighted locks, and said, “Christ, you look beautiful. I love your hair.” His eyes slid over her, appraising and appreciative. “I see my money has been well spent.”
Tara had the good grace to blush. She’d spent a fortune at Bal Harbour. It was a total high, even if her mother insinuated she was little more than a prostitute. Although Tara had initially protested Louie’s generosity, she’d had no problem accepting it. As much as she hated to admit it, the money was a turn-on.
The bar was a boxy rectangle. A few steps down and the open dining room abutted the patio, where more people were eating. Because of its prime location on the Intracoastal, Houston’s was a hot-spot for boaters, and Louie, attired in a navy blazer and jeans, was one of them, his sleek Hatteras berthed at the dock. But he was in no hurry to bring her aboard. He ordered her a Cosmopolitan; he was drinking Famous Grouse on ice and smelled pleasantly of scotch whiskey. Chatting, they talked about their weekends, then Louie informed her that his son, Tony, would be at the Walker tomorrow morning, so it wouldn’t matter if she took the day off. He wanted to sail down to the Bahamas. Had she ever been to the Atlantis Casino?
“No,” she said. “I’ve never even been to the Hardrock Casino.” She meant the landmark casino in Hollywood where Anna Nicole Smith had died of an overdose.
Victor came in from the patio with a short-haired brunette at his side. He introduced the young woman as Mindy. This one was sober, but she had the same type of busty figure as Suzy, wearing skin-tight leggings with a skimpy black top. She wasn’t wearing a bra and definitely needed one. Her skin was Coppertone brown.
Victor and his date dined with them, everybody going for the strips except Mindy, who ordered a salad and picked at it. Seated at a table near the patio, Tara kept craning her head to get a look at the Stella di Mare. Mindy said, “You are going to love his boat. It is so fab.”
Victor entertained them with amusing anecdotes. Looking out at the patio, Tara noticed the afternoon was waning, the air beginning to cool. Around her, the restaurant buzzed with diners and wait-staff. Enjoying herself, she took in her surroundings with a detached eye. About halfway through the meal she became aware that two men dining at a table opposite theirs were staring. Facing them, Tara couldn’t help but notice the bold stare one of the men directed at her. He was a husky guy in his mid- to late-thirties, with reddish-blond hair cut military style. His companion was at least a dozen years older, with graying hair and glasses. What disturbed Tara was that when she caught the man’s surveillance, he didn’t turn away or try to pretend she wasn’t the object of his scrutiny. More than once Tara looked up from her steak and caught him studying her, something insolent in his eyes when she met his stare head-on.
He gave a little smirk, and Tara plucked at Louie’s sleeve. She said, “Louie, those two men keep watching us.”
“Yes, I know.”
“They act like they know you. Do you know them?”
“I’m acquainted with them,” he said, unfazed.
A little later he summoned the waiter and asked him to get the men a drink. Tara saw the men refuse the alcohol, although they acknowledged the gesture with a curt nod. Tara said, “They don’t seem very pleasant.”
“They’re okay. Don’t let them bother you.”
“But they keep staring at me.”
“Of course they do, baby. I’m staring at you, too.” He turned her face and kissed her, murmured softly. “You’re so goddamned beautiful, I can’t wait to get you alone.”
* * *
Louie had told Tara to pack an overnight bag, and after dinner Victor retrieved it from her car and took it aboard the Stella di Mare. Then he and Mindy left in Tara’s Sebring—he was going to drive it up to the yacht club in Boca where it would be waiting upon her return. Louie settled the bill, and they walked onto the patio where people were dining al fresco, and Tara got her first glimpse of the Stella di Mare.
There were other boats at the dock, but none quite as large or as dazzling. Pearl white with sliding smoked-glass doors, the Hatteras epitomized South Florida weal
th. Bold lettering read: “stella di mare, boca raton”.
People gawked as they boarded. The Stella’s captain and one of the crew were on deck to greet them, and then the captain’s wife, Linda, was introduced. Right away she mixed them drinks, serving them on deck. There was a crew of five, including Linda, who functioned primarily as a cook/steward. Linda was a no nonsense type of gal and put Tara at ease immediately.
The crew prepared for departure. The big engines hummed, churning water. Slowly and smoothly the cruiser backed away from the dock. It began to glide forward, creating a wake. Sitting on deck with a martini, Tara felt conspicuous and beautiful and privileged. Then she looked ashore and saw the husky voyeur standing on Houston’s patio, just standing there and staring.
He seemed so sinister some of the joy was taken from her. Tara said, “Louie, that man is still watching us.”
But the boat cruised south and the faces on Houston’s patio began to fade. They passed other restaurants flush with Sunday diners and sailed by houses with turquoise slides angled into swimming pools. One residence was hosting a party, people standing on the lawn and waving. Boats passed going north; one huge yacht, flags flying, dwarfed the Stella di Mare, but this was followed by a small fishing vessel and a pair of wave-runners.
After an hour the sun began to lower in the west, and lights popped on in the houses. Louie took Tara’s hand and led her to his master stateroom where two dozen red roses were arranged on the pillows and a bottle of Dom Perignon was chilling in a silver bucket.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tara slept that night on finely woven sheets that slipped through her fingers like silk. Eight-hundred-dollar bed sheets with a scalloped edge trimmed in nautical blue and monogrammed with a big LM. Louie even had a gift for her, a narrow jeweler’s box from Ari Klein Jewelers. Inside was a sapphire- and diamond-studded tennis bracelet.
Waking beside Louie in this fantasy that had become her life, Tara wore her new bracelet and nothing else. She’d lost all her shyness, telling him she loved him. She was disappointed he didn’t repeat the sentiment. In fact, he seemed slightly amused. But he was tenderly affectionate, responding with passion rather than words. She was certain he was in love with her too.
He was thrilled by her admission of inexperience. She’d been with David for twelve years, realizing now that he was cold and unaffectionate, and then, briefly, Franco. Tara had never had a lover like Louie, couldn’t imagine that “sex could be this good.”
She could see the satisfied gleam in his eye, the smile curving on his lips. When Stella called, Louie told her he was on his boat, “heading to Nassau for a little downtime”. He caressed Tara’s naked body while chatting with his daughter, calling her “baby” and “princess”. If Tara hadn’t already been apprised of Stella’s age and marital status, she might have thought Louie was talking to an adolescent. But how could she fault him for loving his daughter, saying the words to her before he hung up: “I love you, Princess.”
Tara slipped out of bed and did a quick primp, donning a coral bikini with a matching sarong. Louie sat on the side of the bed, hair tousled, glints of silver sharp in the morning light. He had two phones with him, and both were ringing.
She headed off to the salon without him. Linda was in the galley brewing a pot of coffee. She greeted Tara with a cheery hello. They made pleasant chitchat. Linda told her she would serve breakfast as soon as Mr. Morelli joined her. Tara went on deck and saw the Stella di Mare’s bow slicing the sea as she cruised parallel to shore, the sea deep blue and frothing with whitecaps. The air was balmy and warm and hot with the sun and the smell of the tropics. Off to the east the sky held a few cumulus clouds, like smoke puffs hovering above the ocean.
It was nine o’clock and the sun was already burning. Tara would have to be judicious about her sunscreen. Squinting against the brightness, she noticed other vessels—snow white sails, cabin cruisers and pleasure crafts, then the big guns—cargo ships and tankers. They were not that far out, having anchored sometime around midnight, but early this morning while she lay wrapped in her lover’s arms, the Hatteras had entered the open waters of the Atlantic.
Tara returned to the galley. She hadn’t seen much of the ship last night and was anxious to do a little exploring. Inside, her eyes adjusting to the decreased light, she found Linda beating eggs in a bowl. She’d set the dining table with creamy damask, blue-rimmed china, and heavy silver. Linda smiled and said, “Mr. Morelli said to tell you he will join you shortly.”
Tara moved into the dining area. She was fascinated by the intricate luxuries so extravagantly displayed on the yacht. Everywhere she turned there was something to admire, starting with the view through the wall of windows that gave onto the deck.
One interior wall was filled with silver-framed photographs. It was a labor of love, family photos dating back to when Louie’s kids were babies. At first Tara assumed a young, dark-haired woman, at Louie’s side in several dated photos and obviously the mother of his children was his ex-wife. But as the pictures spanned the years, the woman aged to a well-kept matron.
It was Stella’s wedding picture that blew his cover. A true princess in her white satin gown, Stella was flanked by her parents. Louie stood on one side of his daughter, heartbreakingly handsome in his black tux. On Stella’s left her mother posed with a radiant smile. She was an attractive woman wearing a chiffon gown with an eye-popping emerald necklace. On the third finger of her left hand was nothing short of a ten-carat diamond, a ring so vulgar and beautiful it eclipsed Stella’s platinum stunner. The backdrop revealed a setting akin to a Roman villa with tall stone columns.
Tara was already panicking when Linda appeared in the lounge with a mug of coffee. “I see you found the family pictures,” she said. “Aren’t they great?”
“Gosh, yes.”
“Stella does all this for her father. It’s a good thing she takes the time because Mr. Morelli lost his house in Hurricane Katrina, and I know they lost a lot of pictures.”
They, not he. Tara said, “I didn’t know he lost his house.” Obviously, there was a lot she didn’t know about the man she’d given her heart to.
“Oh yeah. They were on Lake Pontchartrain; they flooded. They rebuilt—not that the family spends much time in New Orleans these days. But Mr. Morelli still does quite a bit of business there.”
“Umm,” said Tara, pointing to the woman she’d identified as Stella’s mother. She had a terrible, sinking feeling, as though the big Hatteras was going down under her. “Linda, is this Louie’s ex?”
Linda almost dropped her mug. She coughed once, looked sharply at Tara. “Honey, that’s Mrs. Morelli.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Pissed she made an issue of it, Louie said, “I don’t understand. You did go with Franco, and he is married.”
“He lied—”
“Don’t accuse me of the same. I never lied to you, Tara.”
“You didn’t tell me—”
He said icily, “I did tell you, that first night at Joe’s.”
“Ooh,” she fumed, while recalling that he had told her he married young. When he discussed his love affair with Mercedes, she’d assumed he was divorced. Fool that she was, she’d deliberately ignored the signs. Now she understood why his little girl lived in New Orleans, why he had allowed another man to adopt her. What kind of man was this that he had fathered a child with another woman while remaining married? Did his wife know or suspect?
She looked at him with shock and dismay, and he said, “For God’s sake, let’s not blow this out of proportion. I’m sorry you misunderstood, but how could you not have known? Everybody knows I’m married. My marriage is not something I take pains to deny or conceal.”
It was at this point that she burst into tears, retreating to his stateroom. A short time later the boat executed a graceful turn around, and she knew they were head
ing to homeport. She spent most of her time locked in his cabin, but eventually she ventured onto the deck. She could feel that they were moving at a much brisker speed.
Tara sat in the sun, fighting tears. Louie stayed in the salon, issuing orders via his cell phones. She heard him speaking with his secretary, and then another call came in, and she heard him say, “Hi Angie,” and she knew he was talking to his wife, having the audacity to make dinner plans, telling her to set it up. Then he said, “Bye, baby,” with the same tenderness he’d shown Tara, and her heart broke all over again.
Louie didn’t speak to her until the Stella di Mare pulled into the marina in Boca, and even then it was a civil exchange for the benefit of the crew. Back in his stateroom Tara tossed her bracelet onto the bed. Gathering her valise, she went on deck and said good-bye to Linda.
As she came off the dock, her feet on solid ground, Louie caught her by the elbow and pulled her against him. “Don’t fuck it up, baby. You know we’ve got something special.”
Tara yielded to a brief kiss, tore away with tears in her eyes. She hopped in her Sebring and drove home in a daze, not to South Beach but to her apartment in Fort Lauderdale. Her apartment was easily accessible to the interstate, not so accessible to the beach. It didn’t look so hot, either. Twenty four hours on the Stella di Mare and several nights in the lap of luxury had spoiled her. She felt like Cinderella after the ball, forced back into servitude. She even had a wicked sister waiting for her.
Tara spotted Natalie’s olive green Camry as soon as she turned into her complex. Natalie was parked at the edge of the lot, beneath the spreading shade of an oak tree. Rosa was perched on her lap, and Joey was sitting in the back, sucking his thumb. He was not wearing a seatbelt, and there was no child carrier in the vehicle. Natalie was a beat-up wraith, with a blackened eye and a trail of hideous bruises on her arm. She was chain smoking, even with Rosa bouncing on her lap.
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 13
