The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 3

by Nora Roberts

“Look at me. At me,” she said with quiet intensity. “I’d rather he didn’t know what we’re speaking of.”

  “Has he seen a doctor? What’s wrong with him?”

  “He is sick—but in his heart. Your father called him.”

  “What does he want? Money?”

  “No, he knows he’ll get no more money.” She would have kept it to herself. She detested passing burdens. But the boy, she’d decided after much thought, had a right to know. A right to defend his own, even against his own. “He’s outraged. The recent problems, the scandals are interfering with his social calendar and causing him, he claims, considerable embarrassment. Apparently the police have asked questions about him in the course of their investigation. He blames Eli.”

  “He won’t call again. I’ll take care of it.”

  “I know you will. You’re a good boy, Tyler.”

  He looked down at her again, forced a smile. “Am I?”

  “Yes, good enough. I wouldn’t shift this burden to you, but Eli has a soft heart. This has bruised it.”

  “I don’t . . . have the soft heart.”

  “Soft enough.” She lifted her hand from his shoulder to his cheek. “I depend on you.” When his face registered surprise she continued. “Does hearing that surprise you or frighten you?”

  “Maybe both.”

  “Adjust.” It was an order, smoothly given, as she stepped back from him. “Now, you’re dismissed. Go find Sophia and lure her away.”

  “She’s not easily lured.”

  “I imagine you can handle her. There aren’t many who can. I haven’t seen her for some time now. Go find her, take her mind off work for a few hours.”

  And that, Tyler mused, was akin to a blessing. He wasn’t sure that he wanted it. Didn’t know what he planned to do with it. For the moment, he was going to tuck it away and follow the spirit of Tereza’s order. Find Sophia, and escape.

  She wasn’t in the ballroom or on the terrace. He avoided asking people if they’d seen her as that smacked too close to an eager idiot trying to find his date. Which he supposed was pretty much the case.

  Regardless, he prowled the wing, poking into a reception room where some of the guests had gathered to sit and chat. He found the Moores there, with James puffing on a cigar and Helen sipping tea while he discoursed on some ancient, landmark case. Linc and his date, who he thought had left an hour before, were either held hostage or enthralled on the sofa.

  “Ty, come on in. Have a cigar.”

  “No, thanks. I’m just . . . La Signora asked me to find Sophia.”

  “Haven’t seen her for a while. Wow, look at the time.” Linc surged to his feet, dragging Andrea to hers. “We’ve really got to go.”

  “She might’ve gone downstairs, Ty,” Helen offered. “To freshen up or catch her breath.”

  “Yeah, right. I’ll check.”

  He started down, and ran into Pilar on the steps. “Your mother’s wondering where Sophia is.”

  “Isn’t she upstairs?” Distracted, Pilar shook back her hair. She wanted nothing more than ten minutes of fresh air and a tall glass of water. “I haven’t seen her for, oh, half an hour at least. I was just down trying to talk to Gina through the door of her room. She’s locked herself in. Fighting with Don, apparently. She’s throwing things around, weeping hysterically, and of course she’s woken the children. They’re shrieking.”

  “Thanks for the tip. I’ll make sure to avoid that part of the house.”

  “Why don’t you check her room? I got enough out of Gina to know Sophia tried to referee. She might be in there cooling off. Is David in the ballroom?”

  “Didn’t see him,” Ty said as he walked by. “He’s probably around somewhere.”

  He turned toward Sophia’s room. If he found her, he thought it might be a fine idea to lock the doors and take her mind off work, as ordered. He’d been wondering all night just what she had on under that red dress.

  He knocked lightly, eased the door open. The room was dark and cold. With a shake of his head, he started across to close the terrace doors.

  “You’re going to freeze your excellent ass off in here, Sophie,” he muttered, and heard a quiet moan.

  Puzzled, he stepped out and saw her in the sprinkle of light that dripped down from the ballroom. She was sprawled on the terrace, braced on one elbow as she tried to shift. He leaped forward, dropped down on his knees beside her.

  “Easy, baby. What’d you do? Take a spill?”

  “I don’t know . . . I . . . Ty?”

  “Yeah. Jesus, you’re freezing. Come on, let’s get you inside.”

  “I’m okay. Just a little jumbled. Let me get my head clear.”

  “Inside. You took a knock, Soph. You’re bleeding.”

  “I’m . . .” She touched her fingers to the pump of pain on her forehead, then stared dully at the red smear she took away. “Bleeding,” she managed as her lids closed again.

  “Oh no, no, you don’t.” He shifted his grip. “No passing out.” His heart staggered in his chest as he lifted her. Her face was sheet-white, her eyes glazed, and the scrape on her forehead was oozing blood. “That’s what you get for wearing those skinny heels. I don’t know how women walk on them without breaking their ankles.”

  He kept talking, to calm them both, as he laid her on the bed and turned back to shut the terrace doors. “Let’s warm you up some, and we’ll take a look at the damage.”

  “Ty.” She gripped his hand as he pulled a throw over her. Despite the pain, her mind was clearing now. “I didn’t fall. Somebody pushed me.”

  “Pushed you? I’m going to turn on this light so I can see where you’re hurt.”

  She turned her head away from the glare. “I think I’m hurt everywhere.”

  “Quiet now. Just lie still.” His hands were gentle, even as his temper raged. The head wound was nasty, a vicious scrape already swelling and full of grit. Her arm was scraped as well, just below the shoulder.

  “I’m going to get you out of this dress.”

  “Sorry, handsome. I have a headache.”

  Appreciating her attempt at humor, he eased her forward, searching for a zipper, buttons, hooks. Something. “Honey, how the hell does this thing work?”

  “Under the left arm.” Every inch of her was beginning to ache. “Little zipper, then you sort of peel it off the rest of the way.”

  “I’ve been wondering what you had on under here,” he babbled as he undressed her. He imagined there was a name for the strapless deal that cinched at her waist and curved up high at the hips. He’d have just called it stupendous. Stockings came up to her thighs and were hooked by little garters shaped like roses. While he appreciated the architecture of the underwear, he was more relieved that there wasn’t extensive damage to the woman in it.

  Her right knee was a little scraped up, and the sheer, silky stocking was a ruin.

  Someone, he promised himself, was going to pay and pay dearly for putting marks on her. But that would have to wait.

  “Not so bad, see?” His voice was easy as he helped her sit up a little to see for herself. “Looks like you fell on your right side, a little bruise coming up on your hip there, scraped knee and shoulder. Your head took the worst of it, so that’s lucky, considering.”

  “That’s a really amusing way to tell me I have a hard head. Ty, I didn’t fall. I was pushed.”

  “I know. We’ll get to that after I clean you up some.”

  When he rose, she just lay back. “Get me a bottle of aspirin while you’re in there.”

  “I don’t think you should take anything before you get to the hospital.”

  “I’m not going to the hospital for a couple of scrapes and bumps.” She heard water hitting the sink in the adjoining bath. “If you try to make me, I’ll cry and go very female and make you feel horrible. Believe me, I’m ready to make someone feel horrible, and you’re in the line of fire. Don’t use my good washcloths. There’re some everyday ones in the linen closet, and antisepti
c and aspirin.”

  “Shut up, Sophie.”

  She tugged the blanket higher. “It’s cold in here.”

  He came back in carrying her Murano glass bowl, one of her best guest towels, already wet slopping inside, and a glass of water.

  “What did you do with the potpourri that was in that dish?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Come on, let’s play doctor.”

  “Aspirin. I’m begging you.”

  He pulled a bottle out of his pocket, opened it and shook out two.

  “Please, let’s not be stingy. I want four.”

  He let her take them and began cleaning the head wound. It took effort to keep his hands steady, to draw breath smoothly. “Who pushed you?”

  “I don’t know. I’d come down looking for Gina. She and Don had a fight.”

  “Yeah, I heard about it.”

  “I couldn’t find her, came in here. I wanted a minute to myself, and some air, so I went out on the terrace. I heard something behind me, started to turn around. The next thing I know I’m skidding—couldn’t catch my balance. Then lights out. How bad’s my face?”

  “Nothing bad about your face. That’s part of your problem. You’re going to have a knot up here, right along the hairline. Cut’s not deep, just a good-sized shallow scrape. You have any impression who pushed you? Man? Woman?”

  “No. It was fast, and it was dark. I guess it might have been Gina, or Don for that matter. They were both furious with me. That’s what happens when you get in the middle.”

  “If it was either of them, they’re going to look a whole lot worse than you before I’m finished.”

  The quick little leap of her heart made her feel foolish. And went a long way to cooling her own bubbling temper. “My hero. But I don’t know if it was either of them. Could just as easily have been someone who’d come in to poke around in my room, then gave me a shove so I wouldn’t catch them.”

  “We’ll take a look around, see if anything’s missing or messed with. Hold your breath.”

  “What?”

  “Hold your breath,” he repeated, then watched her face contort in pain as he used the peroxide he’d had in his other pocket.

  “Festa di cazzo! Coglioni! Mostro! ”

  “A minute ago I was a hero.” Sympathetically, he blew on the sting. “Better in a minute. Let’s deal with the rest.”

  “Va via.”

  “Would you mind cursing at me in English?”

  “I said go away. Don’t touch me.”

  “Come on, be a big, brave girl. I’ll give you a lollipop after.” He yanked the blanket aside, dealt quickly, ruthlessly with the other scrapes.

  “I’m going to put this gunk on them.” He pulled out a tube of antiseptic cream. “Bandage them up. How’s your vision?”

  Her breath was puffing from the exertion of trying to fight him off, and he wasn’t even winded. It killed her. “I can see you well enough, you sadist. You’re enjoying this.”

  “It does have certain side benefits. Name the first five presidents of the United States.”

  “Sneezy, Dopey, Moe, Larry and Curly.”

  Christ, was it any wonder he’d fallen for her? “Close enough. Probably don’t have a concussion. There you go, baby.” He kissed her sulking lips gently. “All done.”

  “I want my lollipop.”

  “You bet.” But he just leaned down, held on. “Scared me,” he murmured against her cheek. “Scared hell out of me, Sophie.”

  Hearing that, knowing that, had her heart making that same little leap. “It’s okay now. You’re not really a bastard.”

  “Still hurting?”

  “No.”

  “How do you say ‘liar’ in Italian?”

  “Never mind. It feels better when you’re holding me. Thanks.”

  “No charge. Where do you keep your glittery things?”

  “Jewelry? Costume is in the jewelry armoire, the real things are in my safe. You think I surprised a thief?”

  “Easy enough to find out.” He sat up, then rose to turn on the rest of the lights.

  They saw it at the same time. Despite the lingering pain, Sophia shot straight out of bed. There was as much anger as terror in her belly as she read the message, scrawled in red, on her mirror.

  BITCH #3

  “Kris. Damn it, that’s her style. If she thinks I’m going to let her get away with . . .” She trailed off as terror overwhelmed every other feeling. “Number three. Mama. Nonna.”

  “Put something on,” Tyler ordered. “And lock the doors. I’ll check it out.”

  “No, you won’t.” She was already marching to her closet. “We’ll check it out. Nobody pushes me around,” she said as she dragged on a sweater and pants. “Nobody.”

  They found similar messages on the bureau mirrors in Pilar’s and Tereza’s rooms. But they didn’t find Kris Drake.

  “There must be something else we can do.”

  Sophia wiped furiously at the letters smearing her mirror. The local police had responded, taken statements, examined the vandalism. And had told her nothing she hadn’t concluded for herself. Someone had entered each bedroom, left an ugly little message written in red lipstick on the glass. And had knocked her down.

  “There’s nothing else we can do tonight.” Tyler took her wrist, drew her hand down. “I’ll take care of that.”

  “It was addressed to me.” But she threw the rag down in disgust.

  “The cops are going to question her, Sophie.”

  “And I’m sure she’ll tell them she waltzed in here, scrawled this love note and knocked me down.” She let out a sound of frustration, then clamped her teeth down on it. “Doesn’t matter. The police may not be able to prove she did this, but I know she did. And sooner or later, I’ll make her pay for it.”

  “And I’ll hold your coat. In the meantime, go to bed.”

  “I can’t sleep now.”

  He took her hand, led her to the bed. She was still in her clothes, and he wore his shirt and tuxedo pants. He eased onto the bed with her, pulled up the blanket.

  “Try.”

  She lay still a moment, amazed when he made no move to touch her, to seduce, to take. He reached over, turned out the light.

  “Ty?”

  “Hmmm.”

  “It doesn’t hurt as much when you hold me.”

  “Good. Go to sleep.”

  And settling her head on his shoulder, she was able to do as he asked.

  Claremont stretched back in his chair as Maguire read the incident report. “So, what do you think?”

  “The youngest Ms. Giambelli gets knocked down, banged up a little. All three of them receive an unpleasant message that smudges up their mirrors. On the surface?” she said, tossing the paperwork back on his desk. “Looks like a prank. A female one.”

  “And under the surface?”

  “Sophia G wasn’t hurt badly, but if it had been her grandmother who walked in at the wrong time, it could have been a lot more serious. Old bones break easier. And from the timeline the locals were able to put together, she was lying out there in the night chill for at least fifteen, twenty minutes. Very unpleasant. Might’ve been longer if our young hunk hadn’t gone hunting for her. So we have a mean prank, and somebody who’s doing whatever’s handy to needle them.”

  “And from the youngest Giambelli’s statement, Kristin Drake fits the bill.”

  “She’s denied it, vehemently,” Maguire countered, but they both knew she was playing devil’s advocate. “Nobody can place her in that part of the house during the evening. No handy fingerprints to tie her in.”

  “Sophia G’s lying about it? Mistaken?”

  “I don’t think so.” Maguire pursed her lips. “No point in lying about it, and she doesn’t strike me as a woman who does anything without a point. Careful, too. She wouldn’t accuse unless she was sure. The Drake woman took a slap at her. It may be as simple as that. Or it may be a lot more.”

  “It bothers me. If we have somebod
y who’s gone to the time, trouble, the risk, to taint wine, somebody who was willing to kill, why would that person bother with something as petty as a message on a mirror?”

  “We don’t know it’s the same person.”

  Links clicking onto links. That’s the way he saw it. “Hypothetically, using a vendetta against the Giambellis to connect.”

  “To kick at them, then. Gonna throw a big party, are you? Want to pretend everything’s getting back to normal? Take this.”

  “Maybe. Drake’s a connection. She worked for the company, she had an affair with Avano. If she’s pissed enough to’ve caused the trouble at the party, she might’ve been pissed enough to put a couple bullets in a lover.”

  “Ex-lover, according to her statement.” She frowned. “Frankly, partner, she was a dead end before, and I don’t see this little sneak attack pinning her to the Avano homicide. Different styles.”

  “It’s interesting though, isn’t it? The Giambellis go for years, decades, without any substantial trouble. In the past few months, they’ve had nothing but. It’s interesting.”

  Tyler paced outside with the phone. The house seemed too small when he was talking to his father. California seemed too small when he was talking to his father.

  Not that he was doing any talking at the moment, just listening to the usual gripes and complaints.

  He let them run through his head. The country club was rife with gossip and black humor involving him. His current wife—Ty had actually lost track of how many Mrs. MacMillans there’d been by this time—had been humiliated at the spa. Expected invitations for various social functions had not been forthcoming.

  Something had to be done about it, and quickly. It was Eli’s responsibility to keep the family name above reproach, which he had obviously ignored by marrying the Italian woman in the first place. But be that as it may, it was essential, it was imperative, that the MacMillan name, label and company be severed from Giambelli. He expected Tyler to use all his influence before it was too late. Eli was old, and obviously long past the time for retirement.

  “Finished?” Tyler didn’t wait for his father’s assent or objection. “Because here’s how it’s going to be. You have any complaints or comments, you direct them to me. If you call and harass Granddad again, I’ll do whatever I can, legally, to revoke that trust fund you’ve been living off of for the last thirty years.”