Impulse

by Catherine Coulter

  Immediately he looked down at the young woman and saw it in her eyes—fear and knowledge. He grabbed her, hauling her off the bed and in front of him as the front door opened and a man jumped into the room, his gun up. He fired from reflex when he saw Dominick, and the bullet struck the woman. Dominick felt the impact of it as her body jerked back against him. He dropped her and had his own pistol in his hand in an instant. The assassin saw what had happened, saw Giovanni’s pistol, and was out of the room, all within a second of time.

  It was silent, dead silent. Nothing, not a sound. Melinda was on her side, dead, and there was a small pool of blood collecting on the carpet, dripping from the hole in her chest.

  Dominick was on a privately chartered helicopter in less than an hour, headed back to Giovanni’s Island.

  Twenty

  Long Island, New York

  April 2001

  She was so still and pale. Charles wanted to shout to her to wake up, to come back to him, but she didn’t move. She remained away, remote. On some deep level he could never reach, she was thinking about Giovanni. She’d come to so briefly, speaking of him—to him? Charles shook his head violently. He couldn’t bear to think about it.

  Wake up, Margaret, wake up.

  But nothing happened. Charles waited for the nurse to finish her checklist and leave the room, then turned on the TV. It was Dan Rather with the national news. Charles really didn’t pay much attention until he heard Rather say, “Sylvia Carlucci Giovanni, fifty-one-year-old daughter of crime boss Carlo Carlucci, who died on Monday in his bed, age seventy-five, was killed today by a hit-and-run driver not twenty-four hours after her father’s funeral. She was struck while crossing the famed Rodeo Drive in Los Angeles. The identity of the driver is unknown.”

  There was a bit more, but Charles wasn’t listening. Rather then turned to the Middle East.

  Dead, that horrible drunken woman was dead. There was such a thing as divine justice. Sylvia had been killed by a hit-and-run driver, just as she’d hit Margaret and raced away. And her estranged husband, Dominick Giovanni, had ordered her killed. No doubt about that. The cops probably knew, but were keeping it under wraps for the moment. They needed proof. Well, he, Charles, didn’t.

  He looked over at his wife. She’s dead, Margaret. Wake up, Margaret, she’s dead. Margaret didn’t move.

  Charles was too keyed up to sit there and talk to Margaret, as was his usual habit. Besides, how could she care about what he’d done when he’d been at Andover and all of sixteen years old? He’d already told her about it before, if he remembered aright. And she wouldn’t want to hear his voice anyway. No, Giovanni was there, deep in her mind, where Charles couldn’t get.

  The Bennington Hotel, London,

  England April 2001

  Marcus locked the hotel-room door and fastened the chain. He turned to face Rafaella. She said without preamble, “I want to take a very long, very hot shower. I’m cold and I feel incredibly dirty.”

  “Throw out the dress—that should help.”

  She looked startled at that, then smiled at him. “It just might.”

  He could only imagine how she felt. He nodded and she disappeared into the bathroom. He called room service and ordered up bottles of whiskey and soda. He stripped down to his shorts and sat in the chair by the window. There was a small park across the street, but he hadn’t noted its name. It would be nice, once spring had come to England and turned everything green again.

  He thought of Coco, not Coco the woman he’d come to like and respect, but Coco, Dominick’s mistress, his property, his possession. It wasn’t right. Olivier had spoken as though Rafaella hadn’t been present, as if she were a commodity. And as a mistress, that’s how he’d seen her. And that’s how Dominick viewed Coco as well. Marcus wondered what Coco thought about it, if she’d accepted it, or if, deep down, it was a wound that wouldn’t heal.

  Marcus rose and began pacing the room. So Olivier wanted to be sporting about Giovanni, did he? Well, good thing he did. It just might give Marcus time to find this Bathsheba person or organization and neutralize it. Art, Olivier had said. Art? Marcus knew next to nothing about art. What did art have to do with this mess? And what did Olivier mean by “go south”? Marcus shook his head. He hoped Rafaella would have some ideas about that. He heard the shower turn on and imagined her stepping into the stall, naked and shivering and feeling dirty because of the way Olivier had looked at her and spoken of her.

  He didn’t blame her a bit. Olivier scared him to death. Marcus wondered why this was so, and decided it was because the man felt deeply about absolutely nothing at all. He was devoid of humanity, and it showed. After room service left, Marcus quickly poured himself a whiskey, neat, and drank it down. He poured another and drank it. He felt the warmth curling in his belly. He began to relax. He heard the shower spray.

  He rose and walked into the bathroom.

  He kicked off his shorts and opened the shower door, quickly stepping inside. Rafaella was staring at him, her wet hair plastered to her head and face. “Come here,” he said, and pulled her against him. He buried his face against her throat.

  “I’m so sorry about all this, Rafaella. So sorry, love. I didn’t realize it would be that bad.”

  Rafaella burrowed against him. He was wet and warm and he was now very hard and pressing against her stomach, but his hold on her wasn’t the least bit sexual. It was comforting, soothing. He was offering her consolation. She pressed closer. “It was horrible, Marcus, so horrible.”

  “I know, he said, and kissed her forehead. “Let’s get bathed and go to bed, all right?”

  He felt her nod against his shoulder. Marcus didn’t bathe her—he didn’t trust himself to. The last thing she needed was sex or any kind of reinforcement of the idea that sex was all she was good for.

  Once in bed, Marcus arranged her against his side, her head on his shoulder. He said, his breath warm against her temple, “I like you there, Ms. Holland. Very much. It feels right.”

  She was silent for a long moment, then just nodded again against his shoulder.

  “It would help, you know, if you’d spit out how you’d like to roast Olivier on a barbecue. Righteous anger’s good, better than wallowing in this show of debasement.”

  That got to her, as he’d guessed it would.

  She reared up in his arms and stared down into his face. “What do you mean ‘debasement’? I have nothing to feel debased about!”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Of course. Olivier’s the one who’s debased; he’s a depraved monster, a—” She leaned down and bit his shoulder.

  “Yes, he is, and was that a love bite?”

  She just looked at him, saying nothing, just looked, and slowly she smiled. It was a sweet smile, one that held relief and comprehension and love.

  “You really do belong here, you know,” he said, pressing her head back to his shoulder.

  “Maybe.”

  He reached over and turned off the lamp beside the bed. “Go to sleep.” Very soon her breathing evened and she relaxed against him.

  He didn’t sleep. He was too wound up. There were too many unknowns, too many things happening he didn’t understand. Anton Rosch hadn’t been much help either. He was here on Hurley’s order to keep an eye on Marcus, to try to keep him safe just in case Olivier tried anything nasty. Marcus liked and trusted Rosch, a man who knew the dens and denizens of England and Europe as well as Marcus knew Giovanni’s Island.

  Marcus sighed and tried counting rabbits. That didn’t work either. He wasn’t really surprised when Rafaella said quietly, after about twenty minutes, “Are you asleep, Marcus Whatever-your-name-is?”

  “Naw, I’m a real man. I don’t sleep, I don’t drink milk, and I don’t wash my own underwear.” He’d hoped for a chuckle, but wasn’t too disappointed when he got nothing. She was still too raw, but at least now she was talking.

  “Tonight was awful. I’ve never felt so out of my depth before in my life,
so on display. I thought it would be fun, amusing, to role-play a tart, but it wasn’t. It was disgusting, repellent. It was a killer for the soul, Marcus. Olivier—he’s a very creepy man.”

  “True. Have you barbecued the bastard in your mind? You’re firmly off the debasement kick? You’re back to being superior and obnoxious?”

  “Almost. I still don’t even have the slightest wish to throw you or stomp on you, though. I want to stay right here where it feels safe.”

  “You feel safe with me?”

  “Yes. She fell silent a moment, then added, her voice puzzled, “I’ve never even thought about that before. Being safe with someone. We’re still in a mess, Marcus.”

  “Yeah. Now, are you feeling smart right now? Just nod, that’s right. Okay, what could he have meant about art? About going south? And the main thing: he knew that Tulp had gone to New York, which means it’s probable that Bathsheba is in New York. Does that make sense?”

  Rafaella shivered; she couldn’t help it. She was still thinking about Olivier and feeling his eyes on her and hearing his voice, so soft and quiet and cultured. She realized she hadn’t been able to focus on anything else, except for the comfort Marcus gave her.

  “Earth calling Rafaella Holland. Anyone home?” She scratched her fingernails over his belly. She felt the shudder go through him and drew back her hand. “No more of that. Now, I just remembered that real men don’t beg women to listen to them. Either you soak up my brilliant words or I’ll just shut up and go to sleep.”

  She laughed and hugged her arm over his chest. “I like you, Marcus. That is, you’re okay when you’re not being a jerk. I fry divine fish. I’ll even make you hush puppies, southern-style, with lots of honey and butter oozing over the sides.”

  “I like the thought of that. What do you know about art?”

  “I took a couple of classes in school—some medieval courses and Renaissance—” Suddenly Rafaella jerked upright in bed. “Oh, my God,” she said, staring off into the darkness. “Dear heavens. No, no—I’ve got to be wrong, it couldn’t be—”

  “What are you talking about? What’s wrong?” He sat up, hugging her to him, shaking her. Her damp hair slapped his face when she whirled her head about to face him.

  “I—Nothing. At least not yet. We need to go to Paris tomorrow, Marcus, all right? We’ve got to see if something’s still—where it should be. And if it isn’t, then maybe, just maybe, we’ll know.”

  “Know what?”

  “No, not yet. I don’t want to say anything yet. It’s just too crazy.”

  “Now, look, Rafaella, you’re supposed to be my partner in all this, not go haring off on your own. So just tell me what’s going on.” But she kept shaking her head. “Trust me, dammit!”

  Rafaella wanted to pour it all out. She wanted more than anything to trust him. But the dam held and she shook her head. If it were only her, it would be different, but it was no longer just her. “I can’t, not yet. Please, not yet. And what about you, you clam?”

  They were back to their familiar impasse. Finally, so frustrated he wanted to yell, he drank another finger of whiskey, gave her a very sour look, rolled over on his side, his back to her, and pretended sleep.

  Trust was just too dangerous for both of them. It was damnable, but it was true. They were going south.

  Giovanni’s Island

  April 2001

  Coco stared at him. “What did you say? Someone tried to kill you in Miami? Mario Calpas set you up?”

  Dominick waved away Merkel and Link. He shook his head, saying nothing. Reaction had set in and he was at once very tired and feeling limp from the terror of that moment. Every movement of Melinda’s, every movement the man had made when he’d come into the suite—all of it was printed right before Dominick’s eyes. Who had set him up? Was it Mario? But why? Mario couldn’t have anything to do with Bathsheba, could he? And it was Bathsheba. Dominick knew it.

  “No,” he said to Coco. “Mario didn’t set me up. Someone else did. Bathsheba did.”

  Coco got him a drink, telling him curtly, “Drink it—you need it. Then we’ll go to bed. But first, tell me what happened.”

  He drank, then said easily to his mistress, “I was with a very beautiful young woman, about Rafaella’s age. I thought Mario had set her up for me. Now I’m not so sure. She was sucking me off and then I wanted her in bed, and when she was naked and lying there, I heard a key turn in the front door of the suite. I looked at her and knew that she knew what was going to happen. Before she could get away, I grabbed her and pulled her in front of me. The assassin panicked and shot her. She’s quite dead.”

  Coco was suddenly very pale. “You were with another woman? She’s dead?”

  “Right.” He paused, staring off into space. “She was good, Coco. She was very good.” He paused a moment. “I guess you heard that Sylvia is dead?”

  “Yes, there was a mention of it on the news. You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you? It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

  “Of course.”

  Coco looked at him closely, then said, “What did you do with the girl’s body?”

  “Melinda? I called Mario and told him to get rid of it. An efficient man, our Mario. He was scared out of his wits. It was his permanent suite, you know, at the Carlton Hotel. I’m sure he took care of everything just right.”

  Coco waited. “And now?” she said finally, searching his face.

  “Now what?” He was irritated because he was tired, and now Coco was asking cryptic questions.

  She placed her hand on his forearm. She looked down at the perfectly manicured nails, the soft peach polish. “Now, what about us, Dominick? What are your plans for us? You’re free, finally.”

  “Yes,” he said, but he still didn’t look at her. He was looking out the front windows, and saw DeLorio in conversation with Merkel. DeLorio was gesticulating wildly with his hands; he’d heard about his mother. Or was he upset about his father’s near-demise? Probably not.

  But he’d wanted to go to his grandfather’s funeral and perhaps see her. Why? Dominick had to think.

  He had to figure out how he would explain things to the boy—the fact that DeLorio Giovanni was now a very wealthy twenty-five-year-old kid with a hair-trigger temper and the judgment of a pubescent teenager. Old man Carlucci must have hated her too, Dominick thought. He’d cut her off without a dime. For a moment he regretted killing her. It would have been wonderful to know she was broke and alone. No more sexy young studs for poor Sylvia. He should have let her go about her business, watched her turn into a slovenly sow. She probably would have drunk herself to death within the year. Well, it was done.

  Dominick had always made it a practice, a personal philosophy really, not to worry about the past, to keep it back there, out of mind and sight, never to delve, to pick, to regret. What was done was done, and there was nothing that could change it. Why think about it? He turned to Coco, trying to remember what she’d said. Oh, yes, she was pushing him, but she was too old now and he’d have to tell her soon. But not tonight.

  “Yes, at last I’m free. Come with me. I’d like you to get me off before I go to sleep.”

  Coco did get him off, and soon he was snoring lightly, his head against her breasts. She was on the point of getting out of their bed when he moaned, then started thrashing around. She stroked him and caressed him and crooned soft words to him, telling him it was just a nightmare and she would take care of him. And finally he quieted and held on to her tightly.

  The Louvre, Paris, France

  April 2001

  They stood in front of the painting and Rafaella read slowly, “Bathsheba, by Rembrandt, 1654.”

  Marcus just shook his head. “A painting. It is Bathsheba, of course, but I didn’t even know Rembrandt had painted her.” He looked more closely at the canvas, frowning. “She’s fat, our Bathsheba. Do you think she was this hefty before David sent her husband off to battle?”

  Rafaella remained silent. She didn’t
know what to think. Here was the painting, right where it was supposed to be. Perhaps she’d been wrong. What with all that had happened, it was possible she was remembering something else, another painting, one that looked something like this one—but not this one, just another stout woman, naked, in the classical pose. It was certainly common enough. Yes, she’d been wrong. She sighed with relief, relief that she’d kept her mouth shut and hadn’t told Marcus. But the room in her stepfather’s house was kept locked and monitored to keep the temperature constant, and she hadn’t been meant to see it at all, but she had, by accident, returning from a date before she was supposed to and seeing her stepfather there, in that room, looking at the paintings that lined the walls. And she’d realized that here was something that wasn’t any of her business, so she’d kept quiet about it and crept quietly to her room. She’d never mentioned that room to either her mother or her stepfather, not in the ten succeeding years.

  Now she had to make Marcus forget all her admittedly weird behavior. But the painting was named Bathsheba. How to explain that? “Oh, rats,” she said, adding as she turned to Marcus. “Fat? Hefty? Aren’t you ever serious? For heaven’s sake, Marcus, this isn’t a joke. Don’t you realize what this means?” She was suddenly terrified that she knew exactly what it meant.

  “I’ve never been more serious in my life, and no, I don’t know what this means. We have here a painting of Bathsheba, a painting, not just a Bible story. So what? So it’s seventeenth-century and not B.C. before the Greeks. So what’s the significance? So Tulp used two Dutchmen as her backups and Rembrandt was also Dutch. What is the profound significance of that? I’m angry, Rafaella—you can’t begin to imagine just how much. You act mysterious, you drag me over to Paris, to the Louvre, of all places, to stare up at this painting of a fat woman named Bathsheba. And you won’t tell me a thing. You won’t tell me why you’re so upset.”