Deadly Assets

by Wendy Tyson

  “You had better leave.”

  But Allison knew it was too late. She’d already heard the car door slam. Enzo would be down here any minute now. And John was right. He’d be pissed.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me about Francesca? Was she your friend?”

  “Not my friend, no. Not Gina’s friend, either.”

  “Why not, John? Why didn’t everyone get along?” She kept her tone soft, insistent.

  John shook his head, touched his face again. He looked agitated, scared. Why? Why would the mention of Francesca Benini have him this frightened?

  Allison heard the house door slam. “John!”

  “John?” Allison whispered, the sense of urgency nearly overwhelming her.

  He frowned, rocked some more. Allison knew he was not used to disobeying. She reached out and gently touched his hand.

  “Please?”

  “An overflow of good converts to bad,” he said. The dog ran toward the house and John walked after her, his gait a slow, trudging lumber.

  Allison recognized the quote from Shakespeare. An odd thing for a man like John to say, she thought.

  Unless he’d heard it repeated many times before by someone else.

  “I’m afraid you need to leave, Ms. Campbell.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Pittaluga. It wasn’t my intention to upset your brother.”

  “You know what they say about the path to Hell.” Enzo looked at her from across the yard, over small silver glasses, eyes narrowed in anger. He was dressed as impeccably as before, dapper in light wool pants, a blue button down shirt, silver cuff links and a bow tie, cane at the ready. He looked ready to beat her with that cane.

  “Can we talk, Mr. Pittaluga? About Francesca and your sister? Please?”

  “There is nothing more I can tell you.”

  “Francesca is missing. She could be in danger.” Allison sighed. “Look, I won’t mention you or John as the source of any information. I have reason to believe Francesca’s disappearance is somehow related to your sister, as crazy as that may sound.”

  “Good day, Ms. Campbell.”

  Allison advanced another step. Enzo opened the screen door, started inside to join his brother. Allison decided to take a chance.

  “Who set the fire, Mr. Pittaluga? Was it arson that destroyed your bakery and burned your brother?”

  Enzo looked startled. “What did my brother tell you?”

  “Nothing. I wouldn’t have asked him that. But I am asking you.”

  She saw a flash of relief, replaced quickly by fear. “Leave him alone, Ms. Campbell. He’s suffered enough.”

  “Then tell me. Help me to understand.”

  Enzo’s eyes widened with exasperation. He raised his voice. “Tell you that John was born with an umbilical cord wrapped around his neck? That as an old man he has the developmental ability of an eleven-year-old? That the only things he likes to do are be with me, bake, and care for animals—and one of those things was taken from him?” He stared into Allison’s eyes, seething. “My brother is my sole responsibility, my only reason for being. You are not the problem, Ms. Campbell. But you will be if you do not stop asking questions. You need to leave us alone.”

  He slammed the door, disappearing into the interior of the house. Allison started back toward her car, feeling awful. Enzo’s words triggered thoughts of Vaughn, of his desperation to care for Jamie. At all costs. Of his ruthless determination not to let anyone stand in his way of that goal. But there were many ways to protect someone. Not all of them excusable.

  Mia arrived home late that afternoon and collapsed on her bed in a fit of utter exhaustion. Vaughn was outside, walking around her property, checking for break-ins or other signs of trouble. Angela was feeling better, but to be safe, he’d hired a respite nurse to stay with Jamie for a few hours. It was just as well. He needed some escape.

  Mia lay there, inert, letting her breathing calm her. After a few minutes, she rose and peeled off the jeans and blouse she’d been wearing since the day before. Naked, she walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower, making it as hot as she could stand. She stepped under the spray, relishing the soothing feel of the heat against her back, her legs. So many things to think about, but her mind still felt cluttered and useless.

  She lifted her face, let the dirt and tension of the last twenty-four hours run down the drain. She soaped her hair with honeysuckle shampoo, took a razor to her legs, and scrubbed her skin until it felt smooth and clean. She was reaching for the shower handle when she heard Vaughn come into the bathroom. She peeked out from behind the curtain. He was sitting on a stool, facing the shower.

  “See anything out of the ordinary?”

  He shook his head, looking surly.

  Mia softened her voice. “What’s the matter, Vaughn?”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I mean, besides the mess we’re in.”

  Vaughn huffed out a sigh, twisted in his seat. He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re going to leave me.” His voice was flat, resigned, without even an edge of accusation or self-pity.

  “I love you.”

  “That doesn’t change anything.”

  “Oh, but it does.” Mia opened the curtain, water still running. She stood before him, nude, and held out her hand. “Join me.”

  Vaughn looked away, but not before Mia caught the hurt in his eyes. That should have mattered, but it didn’t. Somewhere along the line, they had broken the rules of engagement. She cared, he cared. Too much. Right now she was strong and independent, but that wouldn’t last forever. Twenty years his senior, she refused to be dependent on him. She refused to have the love and lust she felt reduced to something needy and, she hated to admit it, unattractive.

  But now, in spite of everything, they had this moment. That’s all she could offer. It was all she had a right to ask for.

  Mia stepped out of the shower. She knelt on the floor in front of Vaughn and took his face in her hands. Dripping, still a little soapy, she didn’t care. She kissed him. He pulled away at first, but then he gave in, matching her need with his own.

  Mia reached up and under his shirt. She felt the rise of his chest, the hardness of his back and stomach. Slowly, gingerly, she traced a nail down the length of his torso, stopping at his belt. She looked up at him and smiled.

  He didn’t smile back.

  Instead he picked her up, pushed her against the wall, wrapped her legs around his waist. She felt his hand on his buckle, the tug of his zipper, his mouth on her breast. The thrust of him inside her. His clothes remained on, fueling her hunger.

  They finished like that, an animalistic need overriding any sentiment. Spent, exhausted, Mia relished the ache in her bones and the bite of his teeth marks on her bruised flesh. She reached down, stroked him, and pulled him toward the still-running shower for another round.

  He obeyed, the hurt in his eyes replaced with desire.

  Desire, Mia wanted.

  But the hurt would not wait forever.

  Thirty-Five

  Dom’s house was a handsome but unassuming Cape Cod in a neighborhood of older, stately homes. Modest by Benini standards, the house sat upon a half acre of sloping lawn dominated by ivy and hundred-year-old trees. Stone exterior, white wooden shutters, a detached garage mini-version of the main house. The house to the right of Dom’s was a three-thousand-square-foot Colonial. The house to the left, a slightly smaller Dutch Colonial. All were well-maintained, ivy-covered and just old enough to be charming. Professors’ homes, if Allison had to guess.

  Professors…and Dom Benini?

  Allison climbed out of the rental car and glanced around, half expecting the white Honda, or some other tail. But the street was quiet, which, she supposed, was odd in and of itself. A hazy summer night, she would expect to see kids running about. Skateboarders, bikers, small
tots on Big Wheels with parents scurrying behind. But other than the steady hum of air conditioners, the street was barren.

  Allison saw Alex’s Audi parked next to the house. She made her way across the driveway, a bottle of good French Chardonnay under one arm, her purse and Gina Benini’s diary under the other. Allison rang the doorbell. It was only a moment before Alex answered. He smiled when he saw her, a smile that lit up those captivating blues.

  “Allison, so nice to see you. Come in.”

  Alex placed his hand on Allison’s back, between her shoulder blades, and led her through a narrow vestibule, past a steep set of steps, and then into a vaulted-ceilinged living space. She looked around, trying to ignore the heat of Alex’s hand through the thin material of her blouse.

  If the outside of Dom’s house was conservative East Coast, the inside was contemporary New York City penthouse. Large, open spaces. Chrome and black leather. Modern art in bold colors. Sleek lines and absolutely no clutter. The only nod to the house’s past consisted of two-inch quarter sawn oak flooring, refinished to an un-scuffed shine.

  Allison pointed to the high ceiling over the family room area. “It’s unusual to see two-story ceilings in a Cape, isn’t it? Custom work?”

  Alex nodded. “My brother had the house gutted, modernized. The stairs lead to a bedroom and bath, which is where I stay when I’m here. The other half of the upstairs was sacrificed to create this space.”

  Allison looked around the open family room/dining area/ kitchen in which they were standing. The kitchen ran the length of the outside wall. A three-foot-deep island ran parallel to the cooking space and served as a divider between the kitchen area and the family room. A small but expensive-looking dining room table, dark wood, sat off to one side, a sleek, modern chandelier dangling above it. The couches were black leather. They faced each other across a lacquered coffee table, its surface inlaid with an intricate marble design.

  “It’s...impressive.”

  Alex laughed. “It’s not everyone’s taste, but it suits Dom. A true bachelor. Hates clutter, in his home and his life. I guess a psychiatrist could have fun with that.”

  Allison smiled. “And you? Do you hate clutter, too?”

  “Maybe if I found the right...clutter.” Alex smiled. “But for now, I keep it simple.” He pointed at Gina’s diary, still tucked under Allison’s elbow. “As you probably gleaned from that book, I wasn’t what you’d call a wanted child.”

  Allison gave him an empathetic smile. She handed him the wine.

  “Chilled white. Lovely. I’ll get two glasses.”

  “I wasn’t sure what to get a man whose family owns vineyards.”

  “You can never go wrong with French.”

  “Spoken like a man of the world.”

  “Spoken like a true Italian. We appreciate fine anything, no matter where it comes from.” He gave Allison a long look. “Even the Philadelphia Main Line.”

  Allison swallowed, and found somewhere other than Alex’s face to rest her gaze. “It smells heavenly in here.”

  “And it’s going to get better.” He pulled out a bar stool for Allison before heading to the stove. “You sit. Relax. Would you like anything to drink besides the wine?”

  “Ice water, please. Tap is fine.”

  He poured them each wine, filled a tall crystal glass with ice and water from the refrigerator dispenser, and handed her a glass of each.

  Allison sat back against the stool. She tucked her purse and the diary on the bar stool next to her and watched as Alex pulled a head of radicchio from the Sub-Zero. He chopped the vegetable like a pro, long, tapered, masculine fingers flying over a Global chef’s knife. Next up, a chiffonade of Swiss chard. He pushed the thin strands of chard to the side of a large, wooden cutting board and minced garlic, then onion.

  “Mmm. What are you making?”

  “Pan-seared trout. With a sauté of radicchio and Swiss chard. So white wine was a perfect choice.”

  Allison sniffed, savoring the aroma of chocolate. “I smell something sweet, too. Cake?”

  “You have a good nose. Chocolate soufflé. For dessert. With Italian coffee.”

  “Do you always cook like this?”

  Alex looked up from the lemon he was slicing. “Only when I like the company.”

  Allison flashed him a caustic smile. She wasn’t that easy. “Where’s Dom?”

  Alex looked down, sliced lemon with swift, smooth strokes. “I don’t know. He just said he’d be out.”

  “I’m so sorry about your sister, Alex. I—”

  “Don’t, Allison. It’s okay. Really. We are all a little crazed, with Francesca, my father, now Maria. Dom, he doesn’t react well to things generally. He’s like a grizzly bear, just waiting for a reason to attack.” He frowned. “The truth is, there is only so much one family can endure.”

  “Have there been any new developments in Maria’s death?”

  He glanced down at the knife in his hand, twisted his wrist. “They seem convinced it’s an accident.”

  “You still don’t believe that?”

  “I don’t know what to believe. What would you think?”

  “That someone wanted Maria dead.”

  Alex bit his lip, nodded. The gesture held little boy echoes and Allison pictured the boy in the family photo, on the outside, alone. Was it possible that Alex had no part in any of this? That he was simply a victim, caught up in his family’s issues through no fault of his own?

  Or maybe you just want him to be innocent, Allison thought. Get a grip. Tall, handsome, dark and mysterious played well in romance novels. In real life, such men spelled trouble.

  Problem was, Alex was distracting. And she couldn’t afford to be distracted right now.

  “Tell me,” Allison said, pulling the diary onto the island’s marble surface, “what do you remember about your mother? You were so young when she passed.”

  “You mean when she killed herself.”

  “Alex, I—”

  “It’s okay, Allison. I’ve had a lot of years to come to terms with what happened.”

  Do you ever come to terms with something like that, Allison wondered, thinking of her own parents.

  She watched as he walked to the end of the counter and pulled a glass dome off a cheese dish. He wore khaki pants and a dark gray Polo shirt that hugged the muscular width of his back and the slim line of his waist. His hair was combed back, away from his face. Those blue eyes shone bright with intelligence, and he focused them on her now, drinking her in, as he placed the cheese and olives in front of her, along with a freshly sliced baguette.

  “You look like you could use some refreshment, Allison. Eat, drink.” He poured himself a fresh glass of wine. “Let’s sit outside. The sun is going down, and Dom has a deck he built specifically to capture the sunset. Come. I’ll answer all your questions.”

  Alex picked up the cheese plate and his wine and Allison followed. Off the back of the house, behind the kitchen, a wall of windows and a set of modern French doors looked out onto a three-tiered deck. The decks fanned an amoeba-shaped in-ground pool, outlined with stone. A spa graced one end, a fountain the other.

  Each tier of the deck had its own elaborate seating area, and Alex chose the highest platform, resting against a chocolate-cushioned chair, and placed the food and his drink on the small glass coffee table. Allison sat on the chair next to him.

  “This spot has the best view of the horizon. I sit out here often when I need to think. Or be alone.”

  “Why do you stay at the estate if you enjoy it here so much?”

  He let his head fall to the side. With a half-smile, he said, “The estate is my home,” as though she’d asked a silly question.

  “But not Dom’s?”

  “Dom is a complicated man.”

  “And you’re not?”

  He
laughed. “Not as complicated as my brother.”

  “In what way?”

  “Did you come here to talk about Dom?” A bristle of jealousy crept into his voice.

  “I came here to understand your family.”

  “Why, Allison? Why the insistence on getting involved?”

  “Your aunt is missing. She’s my client.”

  “This has nothing to do with you.”

  Allison tilted her head, tried to gauge his honesty. “Let’s see. Francesca disappeared while with Vaughn. Maria called me just hours before she died. Vaughn has been questioned by the police multiple times. I’ve been followed, and someone broke into my house. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Sounds like someone’s trying to warn you away. Maybe you should listen.”

  “Someone as in you and your brother?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Allison shook her head. “Who has more to gain than you and Dom? With Francesca gone, Dom can run the business. He doesn’t have to share the power.” She gave him a pointed look. “Except with you.”

  But Alex didn’t take the bait. “Allison, you have a very active imagination.” He cut into a piece of Gruyere, placed it on a slice of baguette, and ate it with a cured Kalamata olive. “Have some food.”

  “Why do you think Francesca and your mother were at such odds?”

  “You picked up on that.”

  “Gina was pretty clear in the diary. She disliked Francesca.”

  “And she resented me.” No hint of self-pity, just the same matter-of-fact tone one would use to describe the weather.

  Allison looked at the man across from her. So handsome, yet so…unknowable. Was he a bad guy, or simply a guy who’d learned to deal with dysfunction by limiting his emotional reaction?

  Or was she seeing what she wanted to see? Was this just a show? Allison reminded herself that he was a musician, an entertainer. He was paid to make people want more of him. In fact, perhaps of all the Beninis, he was the one who required the most caution.