Steele remembered reading something about the deranged college student who’d claimed to be pregnant with Edoardo’s child. Turned out she was just trying to find a father for the kid who actually belonged to an abusive ex-boyfriend. Neither had connections to a radical Afghani group, as far as he knew.
He pulled out his cell phone. No new messages. Damn, he hoped this kidnapping turned into something big. Not that he wished Morelli harm or anything, but a sizzling story for The Chronicle would make spending all this time with Francesca worth something. And get my father off my back once and for all.
The house telephone rang, and she swooped up the cordless receiver beside the mantel. “Carl?” She turned away and lowered her voice, though Steele could still make out snatches of the conversation. “What the hell is going on? Who are you...called D.C. and told...any amount of money...”
Her voice rose with emotion, pitching and peaking each time she spoke.
He worked his way around the sofa, eavesdropping as best he could. But after a moment, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him. She trotted away on her high heels and disappeared through a door at the back of the parlor.
“Damn.” He sank onto the sofa. Couldn’t the woman have some kind of breakdown in front of him, or at least share her phone conversation? Or make an official statement to the kidnappers on the front steps of her estate? What a picture that would make, the slender woman fighting to keep her composure, her yellow dress pale and soft against the gray stone of the mansion.
Wandering into the foyer, he checked his voicemail for a third time. Still no messages. No texts, either. He ran a hand over his hair and scanned the space. Francesca didn’t have a television or even a radio, which he still had a hard time believing. Nor did she have wifi installed, though once in a while he could pick up a signal from a neighboring house. She claimed there was nothing she wanted to see, no reason to follow what chaos the fools in the rest of the world were creating. But as a result, now they had little idea what was happening with Edoardo.
Steele couldn’t imagine any other millionaire movie stars living like this, so isolated from human contact. He tried to check the news on his phone, but it took forever to load. He dialed his father’s direct number instead.
David Walker picked up on the first ring. “You get anything?”
“Like what? You think the terrorists are gonna call here? Or drop off Morelli on the front porch in a body bag?” He couldn’t resist the bite of sarcasm. Edoardo had been snatched on the other side of the world, after all. Francesca’s wishes weren’t going to have any bearing on a radical group’s next step. If they wanted a payoff, all they had to do was call Edoardo’s agent or his attorney. But they wanted political action, which was far trickier. Either way, Steele couldn’t see how Francesca had anything to do with it. This wasn’t going to turn into a story unless he gave it a little push.
Problem was, he wasn’t sure where to start.
“You don’t know where a story’s going to come from or where it’s going to lead. How many times have I told you that?” David Walker said, echoing Steele’s thoughts. “Give it another hour. If there’s nothing new, come on back to the office.” He sounded a fraction less angry, but Steele knew it was simply disappointment that had replaced the ire in his father’s voice.
He shoved the phone back into his pocket and walked to the front door. He stared through the intricate cut-glass windows, fascinated at the way the tiny angles turned the front lawn and flowerbeds into a fuzzy mosaic of color. His fingers itched, and he realized he’d left his cameras in the car. Wish I could get a shot of this. The sun shifting, and the light changing...
“Ms. Morelli? I’m going to go out and grab my camera. That okay?”
She didn’t answer. He peeked into the parlor to find she’d hung up with Carl and returned to the sofa. She’d also gotten a rosary from somewhere and held it close to her chest. Eyes closed, her lips moved in silent prayer.
He backed away and pressed the buzzer beside the door. Everyone who came and went had to be buzzed in and then out again.
“Hello?” Somewhere a hundred yards away, a guard sat in the detached security kiosk.
“Ready to leave?” The disembodied voice always asked the same question. Identical words, different timbre, depending on which guard was working. Steele wondered what they looked like, the nameless men behind the camera. They sounded a little like the no-necked jocks he’d graduated high school with, who skipped class and smoked pot and beat up the skinny kids in the locker room. But maybe the joke was on Steele and the jocks. Maybe those skinny kids had turned out to be the ones policing Francesca Morelli’s gates.
“Actually, I just have to go to my car for a minute. I’m coming right back in.”
Not for the first time, Steele thought he couldn’t blame Edoardo’s daughter for taking off. If the place was this prison-like back then, he couldn’t imagine what it would have been like growing up inside its walls.
A buzzer signaled the okay, and he jogged down the driveway, happy for a few minutes of fresh air. He stopped and studied the shrubs that formed curving paths of emerald. Stone benches sat underneath archways of ivy. A fountain in the center of the lawn sprinkled water twenty feet into the air. He bet he could do a series of time-release photos and frame the house through its cascade of water droplets. Dawn to dusk, sunrise to moonlight. He looked over his shoulder and realized that from the front steps of the mansion, you could barely see the fountain at all. What a waste. Who was the show for, anyway?
A horn beeped, and Steele shaded his eyes. Outside the gates sat an oversized black SUV. Another beep. He rested one hip against his Mercedes and watched, wondering if the gates would swing open. They didn’t. He pulled out his camera gear and waited another minute. The vehicle backed up and followed the outer drive a few feet. Then it pulled onto the grass and parked. Three men and one woman jumped out.
A news crew. Of course.
He couldn’t see which station they were with, though they had to be local. Within five minutes, they had their camera focused on the house and the grounds. A female reporter tossed her hair over her shoulder and held a microphone in one hand. Steele retraced his steps. For the first time, he was glad to be locked up inside the Morelli estate, glad he’d spent the last four Fridays getting Francesca warmed up to him. He supposed some strange part of him was even thankful for his father’s affair all those years ago, if it had paved the way to this moment.
He just had to figure out how to get Francesca Morelli to talk.
3:00 p.m.
“Help me draw the blinds.” Miles wheezed as Steele stepped back inside.
“What?”
“The cameras. The reporters. Ms. Morelli saw them. She wants all the blinds drawn.” The man tugged on the long cords at the front windows.
“Okay.” Steele shrugged his camera bag onto the parquet floor, crossed the room and helped. At once, darkness filled the bottom half of the space. He looked up at the streams of light above them. “What about those?” The second and third floor balcony curtains remained wide open.
Miles nodded. Steele took the steps two at a time. Within minutes, he’d pulled the remaining curtains tight. Now the place resembled a tomb. To his right, closed doors lined the hallway. He’d never been allowed inside any of them, though he knew Francesca’s bedroom suite took up the entire west wing of the second floor.
Maybe now that I’m stuck here, she’ll change her mind about letting me look around. Or maybe he’d just give himself a self-guided tour of the place. He loped down the stairs and headed back into the parlor. “Ms. Morelli—”
She lay motionless on the sofa, eyelids blue and lips pale. One white hand dangled to the ground. The rosary had fallen to the carpet beside her. Oh, shit. She’d fainted. Or she was dead. His heart thudded behind his breastbone.
“Miles?” His chest constricted. He backpedaled and felt inside his pocket for his cell phone.
“She’s just sleeping.”
“You sure?” She didn’t look asleep. She looked—
But the man nodded. “Finally got her to take a couple of those pills.”
“Oh.” Steele slumped against the mantel. Okay, he was glad she hadn’t died in some dramatic overdose or heartbreaking swoon, though that might have made an interesting story. He rubbed his forehead. But he had no desire to watch Francesca sleep. The way her breathing had deepened, she’d be out for an hour, easy. That gave him plenty of time to look around. Perfect.
“What was that?” Miles turned. “Did you hear that noise?”
Steele had assumed long ago the place was haunted, what with its endless closed doors and creaky, drafty hallways. He’d heard strange noises on more than one occasion, not that he’d ever told anyone. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“Someone’s in the house.”
“What?” Impossible. The property was guarded from just about every angle. There was no way anyone had snuck in. Then he heard it too. A door opened somewhere, a swift click replaced by hurried footsteps. Steele’s fists balled. That wasn’t a ghost. That was a damn human being. Someone was trying to get in on his story.
He strode into the middle of the foyer and looked around. The footsteps stopped. Behind him, Miles pressed the intercom button. “Simon? Did you let anyone in?”
No response for a long moment. “Sir? I’m sorry, did you say...?”
“I think someone’s gotten into the house. Through the back door.”
“I’ll check it out right away.”
Steele dropped his notebook onto an antique table. “Want me to do something?”
“Come with me. I have an idea.” He put a finger to his lips and beckoned. Together, they tiptoed to the back of the foyer, where the hallway split and curved in opposite directions. Miles turned right and mouthed the library.
As they neared the door, Steele heard footsteps again, heading in their direction. Adrenaline pulsed in his veins. He was ready for a fight, if that’s what it took. This was his territory right now, and his goddamn story. He still couldn’t imagine how anyone could have slipped past security. The moat was rumored to be twelve feet deep and covered in algae. They reached the library door in a matter of seconds. The footsteps had stopped, and Steele wondered if they’d imagined them after all. Only one way to find out. At Miles’s gesture, he put one hand on the ornate brass knob, took a deep breath, and pushed.
The woman on the other side nearly fell into his arms. “What the hell? Let go of me!”
Steele blinked, confused. He’d instinctively grabbed at the first thing he saw, determined to catch the intruder. As a result, he’d gotten his hands on one soft arm and a nice, firm, totally female breast. Holy fuck. He dropped both and stepped back. “Whoa. Sorry.”
The petite stranger dressed in turquoise and denim glared at him. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” Her gaze took him in, head to toe, and dismissed him in less than a second.
“No offense, but who the hell are you?” Steele didn’t recognize her from any of the local news channels, and she sure wasn’t dressed to do an interview. She wore a miniskirt and flip flops and had a backpack slung over one shoulder. The external door remained ajar, and a breeze moved through the room. As they stood there facing off, she crossed her arms and lifted her chin.
Steele turned to Miles, a dozen questions on his lips. But the oddest expression lit the old man’s face. Steele looked back at the woman dressed in mismatched clothes with a butch hairstyle that did nothing for her face. She wore too much eye makeup. She had a ring in her eyebrow and a glittering stud in her nose. Tattoos on both arms. And she was glaring at him.
“Holy shit,” he blurted out.
It was in the eyes, and the sensuous curve of her mouth. A ray of afternoon light cut through the drapes, and then he knew for certain. Put her next to Edoardo, and he bet the resemblance would be uncanny.
“It’s you.”
She’d vanished all those years ago. She’d turned into a myth. She’d managed to escape being front-page news since the day she left. Now Isabella Morelli, long-lost daughter of Edoardo, granddaughter of Francesca, stranger to Napa Valley for over seven years, stood less than three feet away from Steele.
And she looked like she wanted to tear off his head and feed it to the wolves waiting on the other side of the gate.
“MISS ISABELLA!” MILES clasped one of her hands. “My dear, I never thought I’d see you again.”
“Miles, who is this?” Kira kept her eyes trained on the man in the doorway. Miss Isabella. It had been years since she’d heard those words.
The guy who’d grabbed her ducked his head in what she supposed was a humble motion. It didn’t fool her. “Sorry. Steele Walker. I’m with The Chronicle.”
A reporter in the house? Already? Her stomach twisted. He held out a hand for her to shake. She didn’t. “Didn’t waste any time getting here, did you?” In an instant, she assessed him: too good-looking, too well dressed, too full of himself. Just like all the rest—only worse, because this one also worked for a paper.
“Well, I don’t know how you got in, but you can let yourself out.” She brushed by him. “And no, I don’t have a statement.”
Spine straight, Kira walked into the foyer, managing a good twenty steps or so before she faltered. Though the drapes had been drawn, sunlight still filtered through them, casting red and gold shadows across the floor. For a moment, she lost her bearings, and all she could see was a little girl playing hopscotch in the squares of hardwood. Alone.
She blinked, and the girl vanished. “Miles, where’s Francesca?”
The stooped man hurried after her as best he could. With his crooked back, whiter hair, and wizened hands, he’d aged so much in the years since she’d lived here. Something tightened in her chest. Miles, she felt sorry for. The only one.
“She’s in there. Resting.” He pointed toward the parlor.
Kira drew in a long breath. For the first time all afternoon, her resolve weakened. She tried to remember what they’d said to each other, the night before she left. She tried to recall the exact words that had shattered her. But she couldn’t. All she’d taken with her was the heavy weight of a story she hadn’t wanted to hear. All she could see in her mind’s eye was a face closed in denial. She tried to summon strength. I promised I’d come back if anything bad ever happened, if they ever needed me to run interference with the outside world. But now that she had to, she wasn’t sure she could.
Kira remained where she was, staring at the open doorway. They hadn’t moved any of the furniture. A pair of antique tables still framed the front window. The glass vases atop them still held fresh-cut flowers from the back gardens. If she took another step closer, she knew she would see the baby grand piano, the fireplace, the chairs and couches arranged in a semi-circle as if expecting visitors.
“How long until she wakes up, you think?”
“Half an hour, maybe longer.”
She turned and saw that the reporter had followed her into the foyer. He stood near the staircase, watching her. He hadn’t said much since he’d tried that pathetic grab and feel, but if he thought the shadows hid him now, he was dumber than he looked. Of course, he didn’t look dumb. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a damn magazine, tall and built and with the kind of chiseled jawline she always fell for. Maybe thirty. Maybe a little older. She gave him a good glare, just so he didn’t try and read her thoughts. He didn’t seem too taken aback, though; he just studied her with a curious gaze. She imagined that at any moment he might whip out his notepad and begin recording details.
“I thought I told you to get out.”
He had the nerve to grin. “Sorry, but Francesca wants me here. I’ve been interviewing her for the last month.”
She doubted that. Francesca hadn’t opened this house to the media even when Kira lived here. “Well, she’s asleep now, I’m here, and I’m asking you to leave. Nicely.”
“I wouldn’t call that nice.” He
approached her with a casual gait and stuck out his hand again. She scowled. If he expected her to shake it, to exchange civilities like they were strangers on the street, he had another thing coming. Besides, if she touched him, she might lose her resolve. It had been a long damn time since she’d gotten laid, and a guy built like Steele Walker was more than a little tempting.
“Miles, I’m going upstairs.” She turned away. “Is there a room I can stay in for the night, one that’s made up?”
“Of course. Third floor east wing. If that’s all right.”
Same room she’d slept in as a child. A chill passed through her. “It’s fine.” It didn’t matter where she holed up for the next twenty-four hours. As long as she could close herself in there and figure out how to deal with the fallout of her father’s disappearance, she’d do her best to ignore any ghosts that might slip under the door to haunt her. She had more immediate problems to deal with, anyway. She’d already seen two camera crews setting up camp outside. If she couldn’t get rid of this guy in her house, she’d have worse trouble.
“Listen.” She lifted her chin, trying to narrow the six inches between his height and hers. “Nobody knows I’m here, okay? You want money, I’ll give you money. But if you’re not gonna leave, then...you’ve got to keep your mouth shut. I’m not here. You don’t know who I am. Got it?”
He didn’t say anything.
“There’s no story to tell. You don’t have to try and sniff anything out. I came back because I promised Francesca I would.”
He took another step toward her, and she could smell his cologne. It distracted her. She decided to play the vulnerable woman and lowered her lashes. “Please?” She knew she didn’t have a prayer. He was a damn reporter. He made a living off this kind of discovery, and he wouldn’t keep quiet. She knew that. She only hoped to minimize the damage by avoiding him until she could get him out of the house.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “How about you give me ten minutes? Then I’ll go.”
Countdown: Steele Page 4
