“How big is this island?” she asked once Alonzo returned.
“About two miles across, I think.”
“How did you find it?”
Alonzo sat back on his elbows and stared at his departing men. “We were diverting around a storm a couple of years ago . . . before I met you.”
“You’ve been back since.”
He turned his attention on her. “Once or twice.”
“The captain seemed to know exactly where to anchor. I would think that reef would be difficult to maneuver.”
Gabi couldn’t see Alonzo’s eyes, but his smile waned.
“My captain is one of the best.” Alonzo’s words had an edge to them. As if she doubted him.
“I’m sure he is.”
Alonzo stood and reached for her. “Let’s take a walk.”
She finished her drink and slipped her sandals on.
The brush on the island swallowed them in a few feet. Because the island was small, Gabi didn’t worry about getting lost, and let Alonzo lead the way. The throbbing in her head made her wish for more of Alonzo’s medicine. Instead of asking for it, she let him lead away from the water’s edge.
“I think I found something.” Meg was on the phone with Rick the minute she learned of Michael’s late-night call and subsequent departure.
“God I hope so,” she told Rick.
“Heard of the name Steve Leger?”
“I can’t . . . no. No clue. Who is Steve Leger?”
“How about Stephan Léger?” Rick added an accent to the last name, but she still didn’t catch the name.
“I have nothing, Rick, who is Stephan Léger?”
Val was half listening to the conversation, his brow shot up in question. “Stephan? What about Stephan?”
Meg held up her hand. “Hold on, Rick. Seems that name means something to Val. I’m going to put you on speaker.” Once she was done, she set the phone in the middle of the table and suffered with the delay in the conversation.
“Tell me what you know,” Val said louder than his normal tone.
“You know the name Stephan Léger, who has another alias, Steve Leger.”
Val gripped the side of the table. “Why would the captain of my off-island charter need an alias?”
“That’s a good question. An even better one would be . . . what is the man’s real name? Steve Leger died from natural causes in a convalescent home in Milwaukee about twenty years ago. I took the liberty of doing social security checks on your more trusted employees. Stephan’s social belongs to a dead man.” Rick’s voice delayed with a buzz in the line. “I’m working on finding out who he really is. I’m going to have to twist some arms.”
“Pull Eliza and Carter’s strings,” Meg suggested.
“Blake has already done that. I have a few more I can tap into. We’ll get to the bottom of this. In the meantime, don’t clue Stephan in on anything.”
“I trusted Stephan.”
“Something tells me the man banked on that. Do you know what you pay him?”
Val shook his head. “Carol will have all that information.”
“Clear me for a call. I think his expense account is larger than his income, but I won’t know that until I have your numbers.”
Val already had his cell out of his pocket.
“You call Carol, I’m going to fill Rick in on what’s happened with Michael,” Meg told Val.
He offered a curt nod, lifted his cell to his ear, and walked away.
Meg took her phone off speaker and explained what had happened in the last twenty-four hours.
“I know your new boyfriend isn’t going to like this, but my gut says this Alonzo guy is just as sketchy as Stephan.”
Meg felt her chest tighten. “I know. I wish she wasn’t with the man right now. Val’s people are looking for her, but it’s a big ocean out there. Service isn’t available unless you’re close to a domestic shore.”
“Yeah.” Rick paused and then started to laugh.
“It’s not funny.”
“I just thought of something. Who do we know that understands shipping? If Alonzo is shipping his wine, that isn’t his wine, offshore, where is it going? Who is buying it, and why?”
Meg hesitated. “Blake.” Blake Harrison, the duke himself, owned and operated one of the largest shipping companies in the US and the UK.
“I’ll call him.”
“Before you do, call Karen and Zach. Michael wants his brother to know what’s going down. It sounds like Michael is coming out. At least with his parents. He’s going to need Zach’s support.”
Rick blew out a sigh. “OK. I’ll call.”
They talked a few minutes longer about the timeline for staying in Italy, and where they were going from there.
Even though Meg was more pensive than before the call, at least they were learning something.
Not a good something . . . but something.
Gabi barely made it back to the small campsite Alonzo’s crew had constructed before she emptied her stomach behind a bush.
“I’m not well,” she stated the obvious to Alonzo as she dragged her way back to his side.
“Maybe we should get you back on board—”
“No. Please. One night.” Just the thought of being on board the ship made her green.
“OK, darling. One night. Maybe Captain Alba can help. He has medic training.”
The sun was setting, but her body heat was topping the charts. “Maybe.”
Alonzo helped her lie back. “We shouldn’t have taken our walk.”
“I thought I was better. It’s not your fault.”
He kissed her forehead before walking away.
When Gabi opened her eyes again, the captain sat over her, his hand rubbing on her arm. “Just a small injection, Mrs. Picano.”
She felt the pinprick on her arm and a sudden rush of warmth. The instant nausea brought on by whatever he injected into her quickly faded and much of the pain drifted away.
Then she was floating.
Such a peaceful place, where waves on the side didn’t induce a headache, and sun wasn’t intense. On some level, Gabi knew medicine to heal her didn’t work like what she’d been given. But she didn’t care. She felt so much better. Her pulse slowed to a steady pace and her head was dancing in a never-ending yoga class.
Namaste.
Captain Alba watched her closely, then his eyes drifted to Alonzo. “She’ll feel better for a few hours.”
A harsh voice sounded behind her.
“That’s all I need.”
Hilton was a small town. It would be impossible for Michael to show up without notice, especially when he was the city’s claim to fame. They even had a freeway sign pointing out how proud the town was of his success.
He couldn’t help but wonder if the sign would be taken down when and if they all knew the truth about him.
After forcing himself to sleep on the plane, Michael woke with enough energy to rent a car and drive from the airport to his hometown. The streets rolled up before eight on most nights, six on Sunday if the shops opened at all.
It was all quaint now . . . smothering when he was a kid.
Ryder lived outside of town, but not far enough to escape notice if Michael visited him now that he was famous.
He timed his arrival close to dark. Most of the neighbors wouldn’t notice a car driving by, or think to walk outside to look unless noise accompanied a lone car.
Ryder’s single-story home sat on a few old farm acres that had gone to weeds since Ryder picked up the property. The TV flickered through the front window, the sound of a baseball game played on the speakers.
Michael hesitated, wasn’t exactly sure what, or how, he was going to tell Ryder that his life was about to be turned upside down because he picked the wrong lover.
He squared his shoulders and gave a firm knock.
The volume on the set lowered and Michael knocked again.
The moment Ryder opened the door there was an ins
tant smile. A God I’m happy to see you smile. The kind a man could grow used to when coming home from work, from a hard day . . . then reality hit.
Ryder’s smile made a slow, painful descent. “Oh, no.”
“Can I come in?”
Ryder opened the door wide and Michael walked into what would have been his life had he stayed in Hilton.
“I’m sorry.”
Ryder clicked off his TV, moved to a minibar, and proceeded to pour liquor into a glass. He downed it, poured another, before adding a second glass for Michael.
“When will it go public?”
Michael took the glass, downed the liquid as quickly as Ryder. “I don’t know. But it’s safe to say it will . . . eventually. Jesus, Ryder . . . I didn’t want—”
“Stop. OK. I’m a big boy. I knew the risk.”
“But—”
“Mike. Enough!” Ryder slapped his glass on the bar top and walked away, pulling the blinds closed tight. A small laugh escaped his lips and started to build.
Michael started to worry if maybe Ryder was losing it. The it that kept you a step above sanity, and a step below sainthood.
“I’m relieved.” Ryder leveled his eyes with Michael. “I can’t live here . . . like this anymore.”
Not the reaction Michael expected. “Your job?”
“It’s almost summer. I’m out. I’ll find another job.”
The words were easy to digest, but he didn’t believe them. “You love Utah.”
“Love is a strong word. I’m used to Utah. I didn’t leave when I was eighteen. Most of you did, even if only for a little while.” Ryder refilled both their glasses and moved to the couch. Michael followed. “Do you know how many states gay marriage is legal?”
“Twenty.” The answer came easy. If there was one thing easy to support and follow, it was any topic related to homosexuals.
“Twenty. At least eleven more have appeals in the courts to add those states to the mix, Utah included.” Ryder set his glass aside and took Michael’s hand. “It’s going to take small towns like this forever to catch up even after it’s legalized. I don’t want to wait for them. I want to live, Mike.”
This was that moment Michael knew was coming.
Truth.
“I don’t know if I can come out completely.” As much as he wanted to say otherwise, Michael didn’t think a complete exit from the closet was going to work with him.
“Then don’t. I can step into your world. Get a job. What happens in our home is our business. No one else’s.”
Michael’s heart leaped. “Our home?”
Ryder offered a soft smile. “If your invitation still stands . . .”
Michael could count on two fingers the times he’d felt the need to cry like a baby. One was the day he realized women did nothing for him. The second was when he and Karen decided to go forward with their divorce. Didn’t matter that Karen wasn’t his wife in the true sense, but he knew that relationship, the friendship day in and day out, would be gone for him.
Still, his eyes swelled with the need to shed. “The invitation is paved in gold.”
Ryder flashed the smile that undid him the first time Michael had really noticed it.
“We’re doing this.”
Michael nodded. “Yes. We’re doing this.” He leaned forward, captured Ryder’s lips, and knew the time had come in his life to move on.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“You think I fucking care what you want? You’re in this just as deep as I am. Now get in there, and make it look good.” Alonzo nodded toward the bed. His wife, for however short their marriage would be, was stoned and squirming on the bed.
Alba ripped his shirt from his shoulders, kicked out of his pants, but left his whites on. Pussy.
It sickened him, the look of her like this. Not emotionally, of course, he’d never loved the woman, but how weak she was in such a short time. Day two of mainlining, and she was his bitch. So easy. If he could make a living hooking innocent women on drugs he wouldn’t have to prove himself any longer.
Then again, if this worked out, hooking this woman would be the first of many.
Alba climbed into the bed, hid his hips with the sheets, and buried his head into Gabi’s shoulder.
Alonzo started snapping pictures.
Gabi turned to him, her eyes unfocused, her lips smiling. “Hey, what are you doing over there?”
“Smile, honey.”
She did . . . and he snapped a candid that would keep Val quiet forever.
Val wished the never-ending ocean below him would fade away to land. Then he’d know he was closer Gabi.
Closer to ending all of this.
Margaret reached over and grasped his hand for the umpteenth time since the photo had landed in his e-mail.
“He needs her,” Margaret whispered.
“She didn’t look like her.”
Margaret looked away. “I wish it wasn’t Gabi. We both know it was.”
There were two photographs, one with Gabi holding out her arm for an awaiting needle, and another of her in bed with a man Val didn’t recognize. The image left him physically ill, ready to murder. The images were captioned with a simple if you know what’s best for both of you, leave Italy message.
“How did this happen?” he asked. How would he ever look his sister in the eye again?
“It’s not your fault, Val. You didn’t know.”
The private jet, arranged by Margaret’s boss, carried them home. “I’m responsible for her. She’s my sister.”
“Blame me. Michael and I forced our way on your island . . . then the trouble began.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Margaret drew her hand away. “Are you giving your sister drugs?”
“No!”
“Did you arrange to take pictures of her in bed with a stranger?”
Val felt his blood boil. “No!”
“Then you didn’t do this. Now stop feeling sorry for her, for you, and let’s work this out. We’re three hours to Miami and we have nearly no plan as to what we’re going to do when we get there.”
Val pushed out of the plush leather seat of the private six-seater plane, and moved about the cabin.
All the time in an airplane left him with too many stagnant hours with nothing to do but question why he didn’t see this coming.
Even with all the pictures, the reconnaissance that Margaret and her friends had provided, there was still little to no proof that Alonzo was involved. Except that the man had his sister. Val had left messages for Gabi on her cell phone to call him. Left a message on Alonzo’s that Val didn’t expect them to be out so long, that if he didn’t hear from him directly in twenty-four hours, he would notify the authorities about a possible downed yacht.
Who was he kidding? Alonzo was the only connection with every dot. The wine, the winery passing off a vintage that wasn’t his . . . the crew member left on Sapore di Amore who could have taken pictures. If Captain Stephan was someone Alonzo knew . . . the dots were complete.
“There’s a missing link,” he vocalized for Margaret’s benefit.
“More than one. Let’s place our suspect in the role of the bad guy here. Stephan . . . what do we know about him?”
“He moves passengers on and off my island.”
“Sounds innocent enough. How long has he worked for you?”
“A few years, I think.”
“Longer than Alonzo has been in the picture?”
“Yeah,” Val told her. “According to Lou, none of my employees have skipped out of work since the pictures of you and I showed up. Stephan is still shuttling passengers.”
“Could he know Alonzo? Be working with him?”
“It’s possible. I guess. Why?”
While they talked, Margaret jotted notes down on a pad of paper. “We know Stephan is an alias. That makes him a suspect in something. Not what’s happening now with Gabi, since he’s not missing from his island duties. But he could have been someone behind the
pictures early on.”
“That’s more probable than a housemaid.”
Margaret made a dark line on her notepad and started to question again. “When did Gabi meet Alonzo?”
“A year . . . maybe a little longer. We were at a fundraiser on the mainland. I met Alonzo and introduced them.” I introduced them.
Val squeezed his eyes at the nausea in his stomach.
“Focus, Masini. How did you meet him?”
Val shook the guilt from his limbs. “At the bar, the auction . . . I don’t remember. We started to talk. He told me he was in the wine business, and asked who was my lovely wife. I corrected him and Alonzo made my sister blush. I thought it was cute. He sent flowers, wine . . . They started dating. It didn’t take long for him to ask me for her hand.”
“Archaic.”
“Not for me. I expected it. Alonzo knew I’d been the man of our household for many years. I suppose Gabi and I were both honored by his action of asking me permission to marry her.”
“But not your mother,” Margaret said.
“My mother never liked him. Said he was too smooth, too shady.” When did Val stop listening to the ramblings of his mother?
“So Gabi liked him, you liked him, then what?”
Val shrugged. “We fell into a comfortable pace. I asked that he not rush their wedding for my mother’s sake. He didn’t seem happy about that, but agreed. He drops anchor on the island often. He understands the need for limited access of his crew and has always respected that. In what I believed was an effort to woo my sister, he started delivering crates of wine without charge. My guests enjoyed it, so I added his selections to the menu.”
“But the wine isn’t his. So he’s passing another vineyard’s wine off just to schmooze your sister?”
“We won’t know that until we find out if there are other vendors buying his brand. The island goes through many bottles a week, but I don’t think we take all his stock.”
“Aren’t there international shipping regulations to jump through to buy direct from Italy?”
Val took the seat across from Margaret. “I hate to sound uninvolved, but I have people for that. In the case of Alonzo, he gifted the wine. I’ve never paid a dime for any of his bottles. The wine shuffles hands in Italy, then makes it to his yacht . . . or his supplier that sometimes came to port with crates of the stuff.”
Seduced by Sunday Page 21
