She raised her brows. “How about I agree to let you leave without calling Simon or Rex to escort you out?” She wondered if the same guards still manned the security booth. Probably. Francesca resisted change like no one else.
But he had the balls to grin. “Like I said before, Francesca asked me to stay. And I’ve got orders from the paper—”
“I don’t care about your damn orders.”
The intercom buzzed. “Miles? We don’t see any breach along the fence out here. You still think there’s someone in the house?”
The old man smiled. “Ah, yep. Know it for a fact, ’cause I’m standing here lookin’ at her. It’s Miss Isabella, come back to visit.”
One corner of Kira’s mouth lifted. She wasn’t sure she’d use the word visit, as if it was a casual stopover on her way through the valley, but she didn’t correct him.
A throat-clearing that lasted a good ten seconds came over the intercom. “Ah, really? Isabella? She got inside?” The voice chuckled. “Okay.”
Kira’s grin widened as she pictured the security guard’s expression. C’mon, Simon. You know I’ve been sneaking in and out of this place since I was twelve.
“Listen,” the reporter began.
She held up one hand. “What’s your name again? Greg?”
He looked pained. “Steele. Walker.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Please. I’d love to just talk to you. Off the record, if you want.”
She lifted a brow. “You have to be kidding.”
“No one’s seen or heard from you in years. All of a sudden, here you are.”
She threw her fingers open, as if scattering fairy dust in the air. “Out of the clear blue. What a story, right? I bet you can’t wait to tell your editor.”
He flushed. “I just want to talk. You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to.”
“I don’t want to answer anything. Period.”
“I won’t bite.”
She laughed out loud. “Please. I grew up with reporters. The kindest thing you do is bite. Everything else is much worse.” She headed for the stairs. “Miles, have Simon show Mr. Walker the way out. And can you call me when Francesca wakes up?”
4:00 p.m.
Kira stood inside her childhood bedroom and tried to breathe normally. Don’t think about what happened the last time you were here. She should’ve asked Miles if there was another room she could stay in. Somewhere downstairs a male voice echoed and a door opened and closed. She couldn’t believe Francesca had actually allowed that reporter inside. Since when had she been so open to sharing her story with the world?
Kira sank onto the bed and wished she’d thought to bring along the damn sleeping pills Scotty swore by. She’d now been awake nearly thirty-six hours straight, yet adrenaline zipped through her veins and chased sleep away. She looked around the room, surprised that Francesca had changed the décor after all. Instead of the vivid colors Kira had chosen as a child, the entire space was now dusky and demure, as if all the brightness had faded into shadow. A blue comforter and striped pillow shams matched the blue carpeting on the floor, the pinstriped wallpaper, even the oil painting above the fireplace.
That’s Francesca for you, everything matching and in order. If you couldn’t control the people in your life, might as well focus on the inanimate details of your surroundings. That was how she’d always lived, and it didn’t look like much had changed.
Kira drew the curtains and turned on a light beside the bed. Oh, Dad...
Sure, she’d left home years ago, mad as hell and swearing never to return. But you could only banish the past, and your blood, for so long. She belonged to Edoardo. His eyes stared back at her every time she looked in the mirror. His love for pasta, his perfect pitch, his dark hair...it all beat under her skin, no matter how hard she tried to forget it. Or change it.
She pulled out her iPhone and checked the news. Same headlines on every site.
Hollywood Star Abducted
Morelli Held in Demand for Prisoner Exchange
So stupid. Why would terrorists bother with a movie star? Why wouldn’t they kidnap a politician, an ambassador, someone with actual influence on the White House?
But of course she knew. Her father was one of the best-known personalities in the world. If you wanted to make a statement, that was the perfect person to target, to get everyone to sit up and take notice. She hoped he wasn’t hurt. She hoped he wasn’t scared. She’d be shitting bullets, probably weeping in a corner or having a panic attack.
She peeked behind the curtain. How long before the rest of the media descended on this place? They could only do so much, feeding the same stories over and over again, waiting for new releases from the international reports. They’d substitute by sneaking peeks at the Morelli mansion and hoping for a statement from Francesca. And that was why Kira was here—to herd them all away and protect the family scandal at all costs.
Someone knocked. “It’s me, Miss Isabella. Francesca’s awake. I told her you were here.”
And she didn’t have a heart attack? “Is the reporter gone?”
No answer. She crossed to the door and unlocked it. “Miles? Did he leave?”
“Francesca said he could stay. She said if she was going to talk about it to anyone, she wanted it to be him.” He lifted his shoulders and let them drop again. “He’s been coming here every week for the past month.”
“Terrific.” The golden boy downstairs had a lonely, desperate woman wrapped around his little finger. “I’ll be right down.”
She took the stairs with slow, deliberate steps. One hand skimmed the railing, following its curves all the way down. Another memory flashed inside her mind, this time of a girl sitting at the top of the second floor balcony and watching her father greet guests. She’d stuck her fingers through the spindles and stared at the beautiful men and women who walked through her front door with wide smiles and open arms.
They’d forgotten about her, imagined her asleep though it was only nine. And though she resented that fact, she couldn’t help but watch Edoardo kiss women’s hands and whisper into their ears, as they responded as if he were some kind of god. Francesca always stood to the side, watching her adopted son with an odd, proud smile, as if she didn’t know what to make of the man he’d turned into.
Kira stumbled at the bottom. She brushed her hands along her shirt and ran two fingers under her eyes to smear away eyeliner and mascara. She had no idea what she’d say to Francesca when she finally saw her again.
Steele stood in the doorway of the parlor, blocking her view.
“Excuse me.”
He turned and smiled.
Smile away. You’re not getting a single word out of me.
He stepped to the side, and then Kira saw her—the matriarch of the Morelli home and fortune, the woman who’d grown up in an Ohio trailer park and fought her way to stardom. The woman responsible for everything Kira herself had become. The reason Kira had left all those years ago. She sucked in a breath, knocked over by emotion.
I can’t do this.
I can’t see her again.
Then she pushed the thoughts away and steadied herself. You’re an actress, remember? This is just a role. You’re playing the part of someone who died a long time ago. That helped. Minimally. She took one step inside. Then another.
Francesca sat in a chair by the front window, looking out across the yard. Her hair, though thinning, remained dark honey-colored. Her skin, smooth and white, showed little sign of age, thanks to multiple visits to her favorite plastic surgeon. She wore a pale yellow dress and matching sandals on her feet. She held herself regally, with a sense of detachment, and in that respect, Kira thought, nothing at all had changed.
“Hello.” Kira sat on the edge of the other chair.
Francesca burst into tears. “Isabella...” The calm image shattered, and great sobs shook her shoulders. She groped for Kira’s hand. “You’re here. You came back.”
Kira said nothing.
“Do you—have you—” She dissolved without finishing the question.
Oh, for God’s sake. Stop the hysterics. There’s only one reporter here, and no cameras. Kira bit her tongue and allowed the woman to take her hand and hold on as if she were drowning.
“Have you heard about Eddie?”
Eddie. Kira hadn’t heard that nickname in years. Francesca was the only one who’d ever called him that.
“Yes. That’s why I’m here.” She glanced at Steele. “I’m sure there are hostage negotiators and other people who can help. He’ll be okay. It’ll be over soon.” Her voice shook with the lies. “Have you talked to Carl?” The family attorney, agent and trustee of Kira’s estate had been the one to call her. Surely he was handling things from his Los Angeles office.
Francesca nodded. “I made him call whoever’s in charge in Washington. I said money wasn’t an issue, but he said that’s not what they want. He’s promised to let me know the minute he hears anything.”
Kira wondered why the local police hadn’t sent anyone out to check on Francesca. Perhaps they’d already spoken to the security detail. Simon and Rex had been working there since Kira was ten. They were retired San Francisco police officers, and Francesca trusted them completely. They also had massively complex confidentiality statements built into their contracts, and they were paid well. No one got past them, other than a daughter who knew more secrets of the house than anyone. Kira guessed there wasn’t much worry out here, no real threat to Francesca. The mansion sat in the hills above Napa Valley, isolated and secure, except for the shallow spot in the moat, the one she’d built up years ago so she could sneak out at will.
Francesca leaned back in her chair and dropped Kira’s hand. “You came home,” she said again.
Kira nodded. Didn’t feel much like home. She didn’t know what it felt like.
“You cut your hair. Your beautiful long hair.”
Kira swallowed without answering. She’d also downed a bunch of pills one night, and sliced a ladder line of cuts up and down both arms. She’d pierced herself, inked herself, changed herself as much as she could so Isabella Morelli ceased to exist.
“I’m glad you’re here. I thought maybe—I hoped—I wasn’t sure you would come.” Francesca looked away.
Late afternoon shadows gathered near the fountain. Another news crew had set up outside the front gate. Kira wondered how long they could keep the vultures at bay. She considered telling Simon about the moat crossing after all, in case some media hound decided to sneak onto the grounds.
“How long are you staying?”
“A day or two. Or until they hear something positive about Dad and you don’t need me here.” Sudden fear flooded her. She glanced at Steele and lowered her voice. “Did you tell him about us? Did you tell that reporter?”
Francesca stared at her. “Of course not.”
“Good.”
“I’ve never told a soul. I never would. It’s no one’s business.” Her gaze returned to Kira with a sadness so great it tore at her heart. “I’ve always loved you, Isabella. Protected you. I know you don’t believe that. I know you think we disregarded everything you wanted, made your life miserable, just so we could be happy. That we didn’t care about you.”
“I didn’t think that.” Of course I did. Oh, God. She didn’t want to have this conversation.
“But you were always the most important person, even from the very beginning. You were the first person we thought of when—”
“Stop it.” Kira jerked to a stand. She couldn’t stand to hear those words; they turned her stomach to jelly. “Just don’t talk to him. Don’t answer any of his questions. Let me.” She didn’t trust Francesca, especially under the influence of whatever sleeping pill or anti-anxiety medication her doctor had prescribed. “Why don’t you go upstairs? Get some rest. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
“I’d rather stay down here.”
But Kira placed a hand under Francesca’s elbow and lifted her to her feet. “I’ll have Miles run a bath, make you some tea.”
Francesca gave in, though she pulled her arm from Kira’s and moved on her own. Step by step, she ascended the staircase like she was going to meet the queen. Or like she was a queen.
Some things here never change.
Kira turned away and checked her phone again. Nothing. No news. How was that possible? She wanted to text someone, but there wasn’t anyone she could confide in. She’d made sure of that years ago.
“They’re holding him until the president agrees to a prisoner exchange.”
She looked up. “What?”
Steele stood by the front window. “I just talked to my father. He’s got a pretty reliable source.”
“Who’s your father?”
“David Walker. Editor in chief of The Chronicle.”
She dropped to sit on the second step of the staircase. “Why?”
“Why is he the editor?” Steele smiled. “I ask myself that almost every day.”
She ignored the playful tone in his voice, the one she knew was meant to thaw her. “You know what I was asking. I don’t give a rat’s ass about your father. Only mine. I mean why prisoners? Why the exchange? Why—” Her voice broke on the next question. “Why my father?”
“I don’t know. They saw an opportunity or something. I’m sorry. Really.”
She reached up and rubbed away tears.
Steele sat beside her and propped his elbows on his knees. “Can I ask you a couple questions?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. I already said no.” But she didn’t move. Exhaustion, fear, and nostalgia all settled into her bones and glued her to the floor.
“How about I talk and you decide if you want to chime in?”
“You can talk all you want.” She noticed a dampness around the collar of his designer shirt and was glad. Maybe he was suffering in here, too.
“I’m guessing you don’t live too far from here. Since you managed to show up in, say, a couple of hours after the news broke.”
Kira studied a chip in her nail polish.
“And I’m also guessing you don’t go by your given name anymore. Or you would have been a lot easier to find.”
She shrugged. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of an answer, though she didn’t really mind the sound of his voice. It filled up the cavernous space.
“And your plan is to stay hidden in the house until this thing with your father goes away, the sooner the better.” He paused. “Then head out again, ideally with no one even knowing you were here.”
She lifted her chin. So he had a little intuition. Big deal.
He stretched out his legs. Long, strong muscular legs that landed a little too close to hers. “The obvious question, though, is why?”
His hair, dark and too long in front, fell over his forehead. Beneath it, she noticed a scar above his right eye, a thin, pale half-moon. It dipped down toward his temple. Bar fight, she decided. Steele Walker looked like the type who needed to prove his masculinity by challenging someone else to a drunken brawl.
On second thought, maybe he didn’t need to prove his masculinity at all. This guy practically oozed it.
“Why did you leave in the first place? That’s the million dollar question. And why show up again now?” He leaned back on his elbows and stared at the ceiling, three stories up. “I’m going out on a limb here, but I don’t think you came back just to comfort Francesca.”
She narrowed her gaze. Don’t try to guess the complexities of my existence. You’ll wade in so far that you’ll drown before you know what’s happening.
“Maybe you just decided you’d been gone long enough,” he went on. “Or maybe you feel guilty about leaving her alone here.” He ticked off the points on his fingers.
Kira got up. She needed a nap. And a change of clothes. She definitely did not need to listen to Steele talk any longer. She wondered how much wine was left in the cellar. Probably not eno
ugh to dull the ache inside her, but it was worth a try to see. After a shower. And a nap. Without a word, she climbed the stairs, leaving Mr. Good-looking Reporter on the floor behind her.
“My guess, though, is you have something here to hide,” Steele called after her. “Something you have to make sure no one else finds out.”
5:00 p.m.
Steele watched her stomp up the stairs and out of sight. Nice ass, he thought before he could help himself. Nice everything, actually, if you could get past the anger in her eyes and the metal in her face. A few seconds later, she slammed a door, harder than she had to—for effect, probably. He leaned all the way back, rested his head on the step, and grinned like a kid who’d just discovered the secret hiding place of the best Christmas present in the world. Isabella Morelli was here with him, and he was going to get a story out of her if it killed him.
He stared at the intricate patterns on the ceiling. Wait until his father heard about this. Steele fiddled with his cell phone. He was tempted to spill the news at once. You’ve got the Morelli daughter there? Think she’ll talk? He wanted to hear those words; he wanted to catch his father off guard. And then he wanted to hear the pride in his father’s voice that came after.
Then he changed his mind. He’d wait until he had something more. A real story, that’s what he needed, starting with why she’d left and why she’d returned. He’d get quotes. Maybe even a picture of her sitting in her childhood bedroom. His excitement grew. He’d put together an exposé of the most mysterious disappearance—and reappearance—in recent Hollywood history, coupled with a terrorist kidnapping.
He pulled himself to a seat and rested his elbows on his knees. He’d wait out the daughter, convince the grandmother to open up, and get a story the nation would drool over. Then he’d drop the whole thing in his father’s lap and wait for the promotion and the praise.
Steele stood and looked around. Miles had disappeared. So had Francesca. Well, solitude wasn’t going to get him started on the story; he had to get both women out of their bedrooms and back downstairs. He peeked behind the front curtains again and saw three news crews sitting outside the gate. For a moment, he wondered if they knew about Isabella, if anyone had seen her sneak into the house. He hoped not.
Countdown: Steele Page 5
