She caught her breath. “Nathan, it doesn’t mean I don’t love you.” She bowed her head, the tears coming fast now. “What I had with Louie … it was … special, like a fairy-tale. I sometimes wonder if he had been free and we had married, if it would have lasted. It wasn’t quite real. But you and I … we are real, a family now.”
He moved toward her, closing the gap between them, and reached for her hand. “I know one thing: If he had left Angie and you had married him, he would have never stayed faithful to you. It’s not in Louie’s nature to stay faithful to any woman, even you.” He looked tenderly at her, brushing loose tendrils of hair from her face. “I’m sorry I haven’t been more open about my … work. But after this afternoon … thinking of you and the kids … I’ll be making changes for the better, less risky. I wanted to tell you that.”
She nodded, thinking of the secret she’d confided to him, the one she would carry to her grave. “Why didn’t you tell me you were there that night … you know … with Emilio?”
“I was in love with you, already attached to Joey. How could I not have been there?”
“I don’t feel bad for Emilio … the things he did. But that other guy—in Lake Worth, Pedro Morales. At the time Louie told me it wasn’t connected, but I didn’t believe him. I still don’t. And I … I struggle with it.”
He stroked the back of her hand. “It wasn’t connected. You shouldn’t feel bad. We weren’t involved with that—I don’t know what it was. Gang activity, I suspect. Let it go—it had nothing to do with Emilio’s situation.”
Looking at him, she saw nothing to indicate he was lying, but she had the same nagging feeling that she’d had two years ago. She’d never know for certain if her guilt was justified. She reached for her tea. “Last year they had a fundraiser for the widow and her children. I sent a generous donation. I feel we’re connected—Emilio destroyed her life the way he destroyed Natalie’s.”
“Natalie destroyed her own life,” said Nathan. They sat in silence, the house settling around them. “One of these days you are going to have to see your sister. She’ll be out in five years.”
“I’m not ready to deal with her.”
“Before they shot her, my mother begged for my sister’s life. My sister was two years old, just a little older than Lewis is now. I was hiding, but I could hear my mother screaming. I peeked out—I saw one of them stomp on my baby sister’s head. I had nightmares from that, for a long time.”
“My God, Nathan, I don’t know how you bear it.”
He put his arms around her. “I’ve been mad at the world for a long time, Tara. You’re the first person I’ve ever been able to love. You and Joey and now Lewis. I’ve done things … terrible things … because I forgot how to be good. I’ve found that again, with you.”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Two days later Louie threw a farewell party for Josephine Moore on the Stella di Mare. It was a small group, consisting of those who had been with him the night of the shooting. Louie sat on a deck chair, eyeing the magnificent skyline. A thick pad of gauze was taped on his shoulder, and his right arm was in a sling, his face scabbed and scraped from his fall. Louie was lucky. The Blue Diamond necklace, tucked into the inside breast pocket of his dinner jacket, had deflected Marguerite Rheims’ second shot.
The first shot had caught Louie beneath the collarbone. It bled profusely, and they had to dig out the slug, but it was never a mortal wound. The second bullet, ricocheting, imbedded itself in his right bicep, and his damaged muscle was responsible for almost all of his discomfort. The third shot, which certainly would have been fatal, never came, and Louie had Kaiser to thank for this. A trained shooter, Kaiser could have aimed to wound, not kill. But in killing Marguerite, he’d sent her and her secrets to the grave, thus saving Louie in more ways than one.
Kaiser was escorting Amber today, her brunette girlfriend coming aboard with Anthony. Franco and his wife had shown up, and Louie’s sons were expected. Angie, after holding vigil at the hospital for thirty-two hours, had departed in a huff when Josephine Moore arrived with a bouquet of flowers. Angie would not be attending Josephine’s party.
Fortunately, the paramedics had removed Louie’s dinner jacket at the scene, giving Victor ample time to transfer Greta Harper’s necklace to his own pocket. The authorities believed Marguerite had tried to rob Josephine of the fake necklace; her room at the Ritz turned up literature about the Blue Diamond. A ticket stub from the movie was in her handbag, leaving the police to conclude she had an unhealthy obsession with Miss Moore. They also discovered she’d been poisoning Hans—this being the source of his mysterious illness and bad luck.
“It’s a beautiful day, huh Lou?” said Victor, gazing at the water, smooth as glass beneath cloudless skies. The air smelled warm and rich with the tropics, the breeze blowing in from the south. A giant freighter was moving into the government cut, small craft heading out toward the open seas.
Louie said, “It’s a beautiful life, Victor.”
Victor had catered the party from Joe’s and platters of stone crabs were set on the table. Louie’s steward was setting out plates, and Linda, serving as barmaid, was whipping up margaritas for the ladies.
Josephine looked smashing in a white sundress and straw hat. She was very gracious, giving autographs to fellow boaters in the marina. But it was not a mad scene; everybody was respectful of her privacy. Fortunately, no paparazzi were tailing her.
Arriving, she kissed Louie on the cheek and called him her hero. “I can never thank you enough for saving my life.”
She was returning to LA at the request of her agent, who was appalled by her friendship with Louie. Perching on the edge of his chair, she said, “Ralph said you’re not good for my reputation.”
Louie laughed. The media had been hounding him. His attorney had made a statement denying any personal relationship with Miss Moore. But the gossip shows were full of speculation about her alleged lover, and the details of his life were beginning to emerge. He said, “So I’m bad for your career?”
Josephine rolled her eyes. “Ralph wants me to date the British actor Miles Davey; he thinks it would be a good move. He’s young, good-looking—”
“He looks queer to me. I thought you liked real men.” She looked crushed, and Louie patted her leg. “Sorry, baby. Listen to your agent. I am bad for you.”
Reaching into her handbag, Josephine removed the fake necklace. “I want you to have this,” she said. “Marty gave it to me, but after saving my life, I think you deserve it.”
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Sometimes, when Angie got mad at Louie, she would sit beneath the columned canopy on her terrace and gaze at the paradise he provided her. This way any seriously disloyal thoughts were quashed by the bounteous beauty surrounding her, from the palatial splendor of her veranda to the azure waters of the Atlantic.
Today, Angie was very mad at Louie, and she picked her favorite spot on the terrace, reclining on a cushioned chaise with a tall glass of iced tea and a stack of magazines. Exhausted after a run on the beach, Gigi was curled into a ball on an adjacent lounger, oblivious to the whirring ceiling fan and the noisy seaplane flying low over the beach. It was hot today, a real scorcher, but shielded from the sun, her swimsuit still damp from the pool, Angie barely felt the heat.
She was reading the National Enquirer when Louie pushed open the door and stepped onto the veranda. He paused a moment to peruse his property, squinting against the brightness, and then he turned toward Angie, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and her stomach did a little somersault. She’d intended to read him the riot act, but here he was, beautifully attired in cream-colored trousers and a short-sleeved pale-blue flowered shirt, and all she could think of was how handsome he looked. Hungrily, her eyes drank in his appearance, noting that his bone leather shoes, beautiful Italian lace-ups, were the exact same shade as h
is slacks. Somebody would have had to tie his shoes; Louie’s arm was still in a sling. He seemed to be walking stiffly, his good arm dangling at his side. He was carrying a brown lunch bag.
Five days since the shooting, and the first time he’d been home in a week. Angie knew he had been recuperating on the Stella di Mare, still, she begrudged him the break. She thought he should have come home upon his release from the hospital and had not hesitated to voice her opinion.
He stepped beneath the shade of the canopy, halting at the foot of her chaise. His smile, both intimate and playful, melted her. “Hi, sweetheart,” he said, setting the brown bag on Gigi’s chair. The poodle stirred, but did not wake. Louie poked at the newspaper in Angie’s hands so he could make the publisher, glean the lead story. He smirked, “So what does the Enquirer say about Josephine Moore’s mystery lover? An older man, too. Tsk, tsk.”
Angie set aside the paper. “It says Louis Morelli is a former hit man for a crime syndicate in New Orleans. Supposedly, he made his money trafficking in illegal drugs.”
His eyes met hers, searching, probing. She felt almost giddy. “Well,” he said drolly, “at least they got my name right.”
He hitched up his trousers with his left hand, claiming a seat on Gigi’s chaise, involuntarily wincing as he sat. Angie said, “Does the arm hurt, Louie?”
“It’s sore as hell.”
“No right hand use. It’s got to be driving you crazy. Who tied your shoes?”
His eyes danced. “Linda.”
“Did she shave you too?”
He rubbed his jaw with his left hand. “Victor took me to a barber.”
“Hmm. You look very dapper for a man who has just been shot.” She tilted her head and studied him, said with feigned sweetness. “It’s so nice of you to come home.”
“I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea, dear.”
“Hmpf. You’ve got a lot of nerve, Louie.”
“Josephine’s a nice young lady. It wasn’t at all what you thought.”
She gazed at him, thinking, already forgiving him. “Josephine Moore was on The Today Show this morning. She said she’s dating a British actor and that you were just a nice man who happened to take a bullet for her.”
“That’s true.”
“Josephine said she’ll be eternally grateful to you for saving her life. She said she gave you the necklace she wore in The Blue Diamond. She said Ari Klein designed it for Marty Morgan.”
“Actually,” said Louie, “Ari designed it for me so that I could sell it to Morgan. But that’s another story and not one I would readily share with anyone other than you.”
Angie pondered this. The Blue Diamond had been filmed on location in Miami, some of it at the Walker Hotel. Angie was starting to see a connection that hinted at more than coincidence. She sipped her tea, met Louie’s eye. He was watching her intently, a little smile on his lips that made her breath quicken.
She set her glass on the table. “What are you going to do with the necklace?”
“I gave it to Franco. When his wife is not wearing it, he’ll have it on display behind the bar. It’ll be in a glass case with a movie poster signed by Josephine Moore: A little Hollywood memorabilia in Franco’s.”
“Indeed,” she said icily, drawing her lips together. “Did it ever occur to you, Louie, that I might like something like that?”
He picked up the brown bag and set it on her lap. He was smiling, eyes twinkling. “Oh, baby, of course it occurred to me. That’s why I saved the real one for you.”
Angie opened the bag, and Greta Harper’s long lost necklace fell onto her lap. She gasped. “Oh, Louie—oh my God.” She lifted the necklace, holding it aloft in her hands. The diamond was the color of the sea, shot through with sunlight. Dazzled, Angie turned astonished eyes to Louie, saw that his pleasure in the necklace came from watching her reaction to it.
“Louie,” she breathed. “Isn’t it bad luck?”
He smiled. “It saved my life. Of course, it does have its drawbacks. You’ll never be able to wear it in public or tell anyone that you own it. It’ll be for my eyes only.”
“It frightens me.”
“I’m giving it to you, Angie. You can throw it into the ocean for all I care.”
“Oh no, how can you suggest such a thing? It’s much too beautiful. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I can have Ari reset it for you. He needs to repair the diamonds that were damaged when I got shot.” He pointed out two white diamonds high on the necklace’s chain, one of them completely smashed. “Imagine, Angie, if the necklace hadn’t been in my pocket, I’d be dead.”
She shuddered, fingering the giant blue stone. She spread it on the chaise in front of her, staring intently at it. “I don’t think we should mess with the necklace, other than to make the obvious repairs.” She recalled the story behind this diamond, the trail of blood left by it. She looked cautiously to her husband. “I’m afraid to own it, Louie. You claim it saved your life, but I don’t see it that way. Think about it. If you hadn’t had the Blue Diamond, that woman would have never shot you.”
He wore an amused expression. It frightened her that he feared nothing. He said, “You don’t have to keep it, darling. I’m acquainted with a Russian gentleman who would gladly pay a fortune to own the Blue Diamond. I could broker a deal for you.”
Angie watched the maid step out of the house with two tall glasses of iced tea on a serving tray. She hurriedly dropped the necklace into the bag, handling it as though its mere touch could harm her. Realizing the diamond’s allure and feeling the first of its magic, she looked at Louie, caught his indulgent smile. She knew what she had to do. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Make a deal for me, Louie.”
Books in the Louie Morelli series
Louie Morelli’s Mistress
Stella di Mare
Louie Morelli’s Daughter
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Patricia Bellomo
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 33
