Impulse

by Catherine Coulter

  In the end he’d held himself back, protected himself from any involvement with her. He wasn’t certain why he didn’t trust her completely, but he didn’t, and his instincts about people had sharpened dramatically over the past two and a half years. Her come-on to Coco, her endless questions—She was up to something.

  He didn’t know now if he was off the mark or not. He could be completely wrong about her. She could be better; she could be much worse. She could even be dangerous. He sighed deeply, went into his villa, downed a brandy, looked at himself with disgust in his bathroom mirror, then changed into running clothes and took off down the beach, his only company the night sounds and a moon to show him the path clearly.

  He shouldn’t have been surprised when he saw a woman running ahead of him, turning the same bend she’d turned early that same morning. He’d known her for one day—It was incredible. The runner was Rafaella Holland, the woman he’d just brought twice to orgasm.

  This time he speeded up. She was really moving, unlike this morning. She was in very good shape, no doubt about that, and he imagined that her anger was making her go faster than was her habit.

  Then he rounded a bend another hundred yards up the beach and there she was sitting on that same damned rock, looking out over the sea.

  He came up behind her quietly. She didn’t hear him. He looked at the back of her head and decided he still couldn’t let down his guard, not now, particularly not now. He eased down beside her and said, “A sandy beach isn’t my favorite place to have sex, but why not? It’s my turn now, don’t you think?”

  She erupted, and he prepared to learn more about her, and, he admitted to himself, to enjoy himself, because she had a sharp tongue and a sharper wit. Too, in anger people said amazing things, and her barometer, from the looks of her, was fast reaching the fury level.

  “You touch me, you cretinous jerk, and I’ll kick you so hard you’ll sing in the choir.”

  “Goodness, from that reaction one could think I was a selfish pig and did a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am on you. When really all—”

  Rafaella jumped to her feet. “What do you want, Mr. Devlin? Or is your name really Devlin?”

  He smiled easily, controlling his leap of anger at the snide contempt in her voice, and came to his feet to face her. “Is Holland really your name? Maybe you could tell me why you wanted to hop in the sack with me after knowing me about fifteen minutes.”

  She looked at him, then looked out over the Caribbean, then back again, and she said without guile, “I don’t know. I guess I’m a first-class idiot. Go away now. I was here first.”

  “I’d rather make love to you. You’re no longer in the mood? I gave you too many orgasms? I wore you out and you’re in R.P.?”

  “I don’t know what R.P. is.”

  “You seem like a very curious type. Look it up.”

  Here she was talking to him when all she wanted to do was kill him. Instead, she turned away and began walking down the beach, shouting over her shoulder, “Keep out of my sight!”

  He laughed. He hadn’t really meant to, but he did, and when she heard it she stopped cold, whipped around, and looked at him like he was about to die. “You moronic jerk,” she said, and in the next instant he saw the smooth line of her body as she leapt forward, leg extended, and caught him square on the right shoulder with the side of her foot. He was so surprised he just stared at her as he went reeling backward, his hand clutching his shoulder. His only thought was: Thank God it isn’t the injured one. Of course, she hadn’t gone after him with murderous intent—he knew that, at least intellectually. He marveled aloud at her talent, knowing even as he baited her that she was likely to come after him again. “My God, you could take Punk. Maybe even Merkel.”

  She let her breath out in a hissing yell, leapt toward him, her side to him, turned like a dancer, and sent the side of her open palm into his belly. But she didn’t get off scot-free this time, because he wasn’t stupid or slow and he was ready for her. He clutched her arm just above the elbow, quickly gained leverage, and used her own momentum to flip her over, sending her flying onto her back in the sand. “You’re good, but not that good, lady. On second thought, maybe Punk could wipe up the floor with you.”

  Rafaella was up in a flash.

  When he said calmly, “Go home. I don’t want to hurt you,” she saw red. Her hand was open and there was blood in her eye and she was out to let him know that she could hurt him if she wanted to, if she chose to hurt him. Then, suddenly, Marcus heard something, a whizzing sound, and he stood there an instant, listening harder, and then just as suddenly she flew at him, knocking him flat, and pressed herself down on him.

  Another hissing sound, and he heard something ricochet off one of the rocks. It was a damned bullet! And she was on top of him, her arms wrapped around his head, protecting him.

  In a quick move that sent grinding pain through his healing shoulder, he rolled over on her and pressed his mouth to her temple. “Hold bloody still, do you understand me? Don’t you dare move. This isn’t fun and games anymore.”

  He ducked his head just as another bullet hissed about a foot over his head. He had to get her out of here, but they were on the open beach. The shots were coming from the jungle some twenty feet away, and the only cover was the rocks. But what did that matter? The guy with the gun had only to walk out here, look them straight in the eye, and shoot them cold. Where were all the resort security guards when you needed them?

  Then Marcus heard the most wonderful sound—the sound of people, drunk people, very drunk and very happy people, and they were singing and coming closer, toward them, down the beach.

  “Hey, come on, you guys, let’s go swimming!”

  “Your cock couldn’t shrivel any more, Crowley. It’ll disappear in the water.”

  “What about—? Hey, what’s that? That fellow’s humping that girl right here on the beach.”

  Wild drunken giggles and lewd comments.

  Marcus found himself grinning. He raised his head and looked down at Rafaella Holland.

  “Saved by a roving band of resort drunks. I would have done something heroic, but they came along first. And they are flying high.”

  “Hey, man, you’ve got your pants on! How you gonna make her happy with your pants on?”

  “Shall I tell him how to do it?—Okay, I won’t right now.” Marcus turned to look at the man. The guy was naked as a jaybird, waving his finger at him. A woman was giggling behind him, as naked as he was. There were four more drunk stragglers, all in different states of undress, and Marcus would gladly have kissed them all. There was one woman so drunk she’d tangled her bra around her neck and looked in danger of strangling herself.

  Marcus raised himself on his elbows and called, “Thanks, guys. The lady and I would join you in the water, but she just started her period—”

  “It doesn’t matter, it’s a big ocean.”

  “Fool, it’s not the ocean, it’s the Caribbean!”

  “True,” Marcus said in a mournful voice, “but she’s got cramps too.” Rafaella was struggling beneath him. “She wanted to neck but not put out.” And he laughed, rolling off her, then coming up and offering her a hand.

  He heard comments from the group before one of the women yelled as she dived into a wave, the woman whose bra hung off her neck like a horse’s halter.

  “Come on,” Marcus said, his voice low, “let’s get out of here before they decide to toss you in, period or no period.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her after him, turning briefly to wave good-bye to their drunk saviors.

  Rafaella was in a mild state of shock. She recognized it for what it was and tried to force herself to relax, to calm, to breathe deeply.

  “Sorry about that,” Marcus said, but she kept looking straight ahead. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just ducky. You’re a criminal and someone tried to kill you and I was lucky enough to be on hand to share in the bloodshed.”

  “No bloodshed. Don’t overreact on me
now.”

  Rafaella felt cold to her toes. “I won’t. I’m stronger than you are, you ass.”

  When they reached his villa, she realized suddenly where they were and whirled about on her heel. Marcus grabbed her arm, unlocked the door on the first try, and hauled her inside. “Don’t be a fool. You need some brandy and there isn’t any in your villa.”

  “There is brandy in my villa,” she said, but followed him inside. Unlike her villa, this one belonged in the twenty-first century. It was all earth tones and glass and brass and leather, and oddly enough, at least in her view, it looked homey and quite comfortable. She watched him pour her a brandy, watched him turn and smile at her and walk toward her. He lifted her fingers and closed them around the snifter.

  “I don’t like your furnishings. Fake, phony, plastic, and sterile, like you.”

  “All that? Thank you.”

  “I hate brass and glass and chrome and dull colors.”

  “Still on a roll, huh? All right, sometimes I do too. I prefer it, however, to Louis XVI settees.” His voice had changed, no more mocking amusement, only a gentle calm. “Drink it down. Then you can go after me again.”

  He watched her down the brandy. He took the snifter from her fingers and pushed her down onto a rich chocolate leather sofa. He covered her with a geometric afghan, all in shades of brown and cream, punctuated with soft yellow squares. “You get yourself together, then we’ll talk.”

  “I’m not your grandmother, so stop fussing. Leave me alone.”

  “Okay,” he said mildly. She watched him pick up a telephone, punch a couple of buttons, and speak softly into the receiver. Security? She hoped so. She hoped they’d find the person firing that gun, but she doubted they would.

  Rafaella closed her eyes, not opening them until he’d sat down opposite her in an overlarge leather recliner.

  It didn’t take long for Rafaella to regain her head of steam. “Someone tried to kill you. Do you know who?”

  Marcus was scratching his stomach, wondering the same thing. At her question, he inadvertently rubbed his shoulder and winced.

  “Another attempt? It’s a bullet wound, isn’t it?”

  “What are you, a nosy reporter? Forgive me, I’m being redundant.”

  “As a matter of fact, yes, I am. A reporter, that is.” There was no reason to lie about it. He’d find out quickly enough. She’d decided before she came to Giovanni’s Island that there was no way she could cover her tracks—from the Boston Tribune. Keep the lies to a minimum; that was the key.

  So he’d been right about that. He had a horrible sinking feeling that the attempt on Dominick’s life had leaked to the press and they’d sent her here to get the scoop.

  “I knew I was right not to trust you, not to take you for face value. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to write a book, if it’s any of your business, which it isn’t, because it isn’t about you. Who tried to do away with you?”

  “We haven’t even started on you yet. A book about what? About who?”

  “Whom, and the answer shop is closed. Who was that? Do you know? A man or a woman? Did you see anything?”

  He looked mildly apoplectic for a moment, then shrugged. “Thanks for saving my life. When you slammed down on me, I thought it must be a newly invented Japanese trick, or maybe a new-age sex move. Odd; I didn’t think you’d care one way or another.”

  “I don’t. It was instinct, nothing more.”

  “No, more an impulse. You’re the impulsive type, aren’t you? Think of me as the only man who’s ever made you feel like singing opera after sex and you—”

  “That’s really quite enough.”

  Her hair was hanging loose around her face, smudges of beach sand on her cheeks and chin and sticking to her hair. Her clothes were dirty, one sock scrunched down at her ankle, and he said, “I’ve always believed women had great instincts. They birth us, nurture us, and save our hides when we’re jerks. A book about who? Whom?”

  Rafaella just looked at him. “Give it up, John Doe Devlin. I’m sleepy, and for my first full day at one of the most expensive resorts in the world, I can’t say much for the restful quality of the experience.”

  Amusement returned full measure as he rose. “But you should have something nice to say about the restorative powers of our earlier encounter.”

  “Drop it, buster.”

  He gave her a small salute. “Sleep well, Ms. Holland. Do you want me to walk you to your villa?”

  “No. The nut with the gun might ambush us again. Alone I’ve got a better chance of making it.”

  “Rafaella?”

  She turned.

  “Thanks. About tonight, listen, I—”

  He stalled and she gave him a look so hot it could have fried an egg.

  Marcus made a second call to security after another shower, this one to get the sand off. As he’d suspected, they’d had no luck locating anyone, but they’d found a couple of shell casings on the beach. From a Glock-17, Hank, his security chief, said. A Glock-17 was a specialized steel-barreled plastic pistol, small, easy to assemble, easy to haul around, easy to dispose of if the need arose.

  As for Ms. Holland, Marcus decided he’d find out all about the lady first thing in the morning.

  Who had tried to kill him? He realized he was shaking his head. There’d been three shots from that Glock-17, or maybe four. Surely the killer could have gotten him with one of them. Was it a warning? If so, a warning not to do what?

  “Ah, that’s wonderful. A bit lower, dear.”

  Coco obligingly smoothed her fingers past Dominick’s waist to his buttocks. “Better?” His skin was remarkably youthful, but he was an older man and there was really no way for him to keep aging at bay for much longer.

  The phone rang and Coco picked it up.

  “Marcus? Can’t you tell me? Dominick is stretched out getting a massage. What happened?”

  Dominick took the phone from her. “Yes, what is it?” Coco watched him, knowing well the intense look of concentration in his eyes, the set of his mouth as he learned of things that disturbed him. “I want you over here at the compound until we find out who’s responsible.”

  He listened some more.

  “If you insist. But I don’t like it. It doesn’t make sense. You’re right. If the guy wanted you dead, it seems to me you’d be dead. A warning, then. But why? About what? Coco told me she’s lunching over there today with a young lady she met yesterday. Tell her anything you manage to remember or learn.” He listened again, then hung up.

  “Strange,” Dominick said, and stretched again onto his stomach.

  “What is?” Coco said as she rubbed some more coconut oil onto her palms.

  “The young lady you’re having lunch with—she was with Marcus on the beach last night and she hurled herself down on him and saved his life.”

  “Goodness!”

  “Yes, goodness—Ah, deeper, Coco.”

  “I was thinking, Dominick. This Bathsheba thing—did you discover anything?”

  “Not yet, but don’t worry, my dear. My right shoulder. I’m stiff there. What did you do to me last night?”

  “Nothing that you didn’t want, Dom. I thought you rather enjoyed yourself.”

  “If only I’m as lucky as Rockefeller,” Dominick said, “when my final time comes.”

  “Don’t say that, even joking.”

  Dominick raised himself on his elbow for a moment and looked closely at Coco. “You all right this morning? You look a bit pale.”

  “I’m fine,” she said quickly, then smiled and stroked her fingertips over his cheek. His skin was surprisingly resilient. “I’m just fine. Worried, but fine.”

  He clasped her fingers and kissed them, one by one.

  There was the sound of a man’s and woman’s voices coming toward the gym. Coco looked up to see DeLorio standing there, Paula beside him. Dominick released her fingers and resumed lying on his stomach.

  “I heard there was troub
le at the resort,” DeLorio said. “Someone tried to shoot Marcus.”

  “That’s right,” Dominick said. “He’s okay, saved by a woman.”

  DeLorio was wearing tennis shorts, a white T-shirt, and sneakers. His sportsman image was ruined by a sullen mouth, a gold chain around his neck, and a very expensive Rolex on his wrist. Coco had always wondered what Dominick’s first wife had looked like. She’d seen a couple of grainy photos, but no portraits, nothing in Dominick’s possessions to indicate he’d ever had a wife, nothing except DeLorio, who had dark Italian eyes, even darker hair, thinning a bit on the crown. He didn’t have his father’s long aristocratic body either. He was shorter, more compact, not fat, but the physical package was one of a longshoreman, not a rich man’s son. His thighs in the white tennis shorts were thick and very hairy.

  “Merkel wants to know if he can go over with Coco,” DeLorio said to his father. “He wants to sniff around a bit, talk to Hank, see if they discovered anything.”

  “He told you about the thing with Marcus?”

  “Yeah. You know he’s got spies everywhere.”

  “Tell him to go if he wants to.”

  “Who’s the woman?”

  “Her name’s Rafaella Holland,” Coco said. “I met her yesterday and she wants to have lunch with me.” Coco shrugged. “A groupie maybe.”

  “Why don’t I come along?” Paula said, inching past her husband.

  Coco gently shook her head. “I don’t think it would be appropriate, Paula. The woman asked me. Let me see what she wants.”

  “You’ve become a cynic,” Dominick said.

  “It’s boring here,” Paula said.

  “Let’s play tennis,” DeLorio said, and took his wife’s hand. “Hear anything else about those Dutchmen, sir?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “I don’t want to play tennis.”

  “You need to, you’re getting fat on your thighs.”

  “Fat! That’s crazy, and you’re just jealous.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who is it this time?”