Dangerous Kiss (15 page)

It wasn't as if she was running to Carlo, saying, 'Oh, I'm pregnant, please give me the money to get an abortion.' She had a fortune of her own, she needed nothing from him. All she wanted to do was look into his eyes and find out what the lying scum had to say for himself.

A few days earlier she'd gone over to Fredo's studio, and while he was busy on the phone she'd checked out his Rolodex, found Carlo's address and phone number in London and copied them down. Once she'd done that she'd felt more in control of the situation.

She hadn't told Lina, because Lina would have relished every moment and probably begged to join in.

What am I going to say to Carlo when I catch up with him? she thought. Who knows? When I see him I'll come up with something.

Suddenly she flashed back on the night Santino Bonnatti had kidnapped her and Bobby, sexually abusing them both. How had she dealt with that drama?

She'd reached for a gun and blown him away.

She shuddered at the memory.

Revenge is sweet. Lucky had taught her that. It was a lesson she'd learned well.

She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. Soon she'd be there, ready to deal with anything.

Heathrow airport was crowded as usual. Special Services met her as she alighted from the plane and whisked her through Customs. Outside the airport a car and driver were waiting to take her to the Dorchester, her favourite hotel. In fact, under different circumstances, London was her favourite city.

After a short drive into town, she checked into the Dorchester, ordered room service, ate in front of the television, then climbed into bed and slept for fourteen hours. Brigette knew how to beat jet lag better than anyone.

She awoke at eight a.m. refreshed and ready to face anything.

The first thing she did was call Lucky in LA. Lucky wanted to know what she was doing in London. 'Work,' she said vaguely. 'I might go on to Milan.'

'Take care,' Lucky said. 'And don't forget to have fun.'

'I always do.'

'Keep in touch.'

'Oh, I will.'

Thoughtfully she put down the phone.

Carlo Vittorio Vitti, here I come. I hope you're ready, because two can playgames, and believe me - I am in the mood to play.

Most days Carlo Vittorio Vitti lunched at either Langan's or Le Caprice. He had his own table in both establishments, and was popular with the waiters and maitre d's because he was an excellent tipper. Carlo understood the importance of taking care of the service people. It stood him in good stead.

He usually lunched alone, preferring his own company to other people's. It was enough that he was stuck in London in a boring job simply because his family had banished him on account of the scandal. He didn't need to mix with boring people as well.

Ah, the scandal. What was so bad about conducting an affair with a politician's young wife - who would inherit everything when her eighty-year-old husband died? Well, her husband had died - under mysterious circumstances, and suddenly every finger was pointed toward him.

It didn't matter that nobody could prove he'd had anything to do with it. What did matter was that he'd brought his family's name into prominence in a disgraceful way. He was Count Carlo Vittorio Vitti and, as such, he was quite a catch in Rome. But after the scandal he became a pariah, and his family couldn't wait to get rid of him. His father had promptly shipped him off to London and the mind-numbing job at the bank.

In the meantime, his young lady love, the widow Isabella, had eloped with an overweight opera star and, to his chagrin, he, Carlo, had ended up with nothing.

He'd arrived in London in a brooding fury. How had this happened? All his life he'd never had to work. He was a count. Counts did not do menial jobs. And although his family was piss poor, they at least had distinguished lineage dating back hundreds of years.

Carlo hated working. Especially in a bank surrounded by real workers. It was humiliating, not something he enjoyed at all.

He knew what he had to do, and that was to find himself a very rich woman. If he could manage that, he'd be free of his family for ever.

Of course, it had to be the right woman. Not just anyone would do for Count Carlo Vittorio Vitti.

Currently he was engaged to the homely daughter of a captain of industry. He didn't love the girl; in fact, he didn't even particularly like her. However, she was due to inherit a fortune, and she loved him dearly, so if nothing better came along, he would be forced to marry her, because the monthly pittance he received from his father and his meagre salary from the bank simply did not cut it.

On his last trip to New York, his boringly plebeian cousin, Fredo, had attempted to fix him up with two models. Fredo was always trying to impress him because Fredo had always wanted to be him. Unfortunately for Fredo, nothing he did impressed Carlo.

One of the girls was named Brigette, and there was something about her that immediately rang cash-register bells in Carlo's head. When the girls went to the ladies' room, Fredo had kissed his fingers, made a suggestive sucking noise and said, 'Bellissima, huh? Bella! Bella?

'Who is the blonde one?' Carlo asked. 'She's not just a model, is she?'

Fredo leaned towards him, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. 'Brigette doesn't like people knowing,' he said. 'But the truth is, she's a Stanislopoulos.'

'Of the Stanislopoulos fortune?' Carlo enquired, perking up considerably.

'Yes,' Fredo replied. 'Eventually she will inherit everything. But don't mention that you know.'

'Of course not,' Carlo said smoothly. And as Brigette made her way back to the table, he saw his future.

Carlo was not a foolish man. At thirty-one, he'd been around and knew women very well. Because of his title and elegant looks, women were constantly throwing themselves at him - just like the black girl with Brigette, he could have her any time he wanted. He considered most women to be worthless whores, cheap futtane not worth a second glance.

However, as soon as he learned who Brigette was, he made a plan. And because he was in New York for only two days, his plan had to be executed quickly. In his pocket he kept a packet of little white pills, using them when he couldn't be bothered courting a girl all night. One dropped in her drink, and she was his. Not that he needed to drug his conquests, but it was so much easier this way, and did not involve conversation and false declarations of love.

Instinctively he knew that Brigette was not the kind of girl to jump into bed on a first meeting, so shortly before they left the club, he slipped half a pill into her drink. When they reached her apartment she was in an extremely relaxed state, and it was easy to make love to her.

He left before she awoke. He knew exactly what he was doing, using just half a pill. He wanted her to remember this one night of passion. He wanted her to fret and wonder why he hadn't called.

If she was like every other girl he'd slept with, she'd be waiting by the phone, holding her breath until she heard from him.

Mission accomplished, he flew back to London and his fiancee. But his mind was full of Brigette and what a match they would make.

Calculatingly he decided to give it three months, then he'd return to New York and sweep Brigette up into his arms like a conquering hero. By that time she'd be easy pickings.

In the meantime he needed capital, so he worked on his fiancee, persuading her to buy an antique diamond pin she didn't need, and pocketing the hefty commission he got from the dealer. He then asked her for a short-term loan, explaining that money he was expecting from Italy had inexplicably been held up.

She would do anything for him, this unattractive thirty-three-year-old heiress who still lived at home with her equally unattractive parents.

Unfortunately for her, she wasn't rich enough. Why have her when he could have a beauty who was due to inherit the world?

Chapter Twenty-nine

Basically Teddy was living his life in fear. Nothing new about that, because the truth was he'd always been a fearful kid - ever since his mother had taken off when he was only four years old.

'Goodbye, Teddy,' she'd said, drunk and full of venom, her luggage stacked in the front hall. 'See if you can get along with this whoremongering bastard who calls himself your father!'

Nice words for a four-year-old to remember his mother by.

After that there had been a series of nannies, who never stayed long because they couldn't stand being around Irena, who made their lives miserable.

And then, when he was just eight, along came Price's wife number two - a blonde with a huge bosom and a habit of hugging Teddy too close. She was forever whispering in his ear that he should live his life like a white boy and forget about being black. She told him about racism and hate and that he didn't want to get called a nigger, so maybe he should try bleaching his skin like Michael Jackson.

When Price heard what she'd been filling his son's head with, he'd gone berserk and informed her she was the world's biggest idiot. A few months later she was history.

At an early age, Teddy became used to treading carefully. And since his dad was always on the road doing stand-up, Teddy's only real companion was Mila. He looked up to her because she was two years older than him and tough. But she never let him get close, always treating him with a mixture of disdain and disinterest.

Now this terrible thing had happened, bonding them together for ever. And he was scared.

He drove his jeep reluctantly, taking it out of the garage only when absolutely necessary. He started leaving the house later and later, riding the bus to school.

Every day he expected the cops to turn up at their front door and arrest both of them.

'What's wrong with your car?' Irena asked, because Irena was a witch - she never missed a thing.

' 'S making a weird noise,' he lied, wishing she'd butt out for once.

She immediately told their night-time guard, who informed him in front of his father that he'd checked out the jeep, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with it.

'I bought you the goddamn car two months ago,' Price complained. 'If there's somethin' wrong with it, why didn'cha tell me? We could've sent it back.'

'Thought I heard a rattle,' Teddy muttered. 'Nothin' serious.'

'Serious enough for you to start ridin' the bus,' Price said.

'I like taking the bus,' Teddy said truculently. 'That's the only way I get t' meet real people.'

'Y' know, Teddy,' Price said, staring at him accusingly. 'If I ever catch you doin'

drugs, I'll whack your ass so bad you won't be able to sit down for a week. You listenin' to me, fool?'

'Yeah, Dad, I hear you.'

'You'd better,' Price said ominously.

Teddy's main priority was staying out of Mila's way, which was easier since she'd gotten a job at a local burger joint and was no longer in school. Whenever their paths crossed, she glared at him with a scary malevolent look in her eyes. He was a witness to her crime, and she knew that he knew she was guilty, and that it wasn't his fault.

Occasionally she sidled close enough to make a few threats. 'Remember what I told you, fuck-face. Don't open that puny dumb mouth of yours, 'cause if you ever say anything, I'll kill you. You can depend on that.'

He didn't know what to do. He would've liked to have gotten it all out in the open, gone to the cops and confessed everything.

The only problem was that if Mila didn't do it first, his father would most certainly kill him. Price's rage would be unbearable.

He spent hours trying to figure out how it had happened. Where had Mila gotten the gun? And the biggest question of all, why had she used it? The two people in the car weren't doing anything to them, they hadn't even put up a real fight.

Every day he pored over the newspapers, trying to find out anything he could about the two victims. One thing he knew for sure: Lennie Golden had recovered, Mary Lou Berkeley was dead.

He studied Mary Lou's pictures in the newspapers and magazines, clipping everything he could about her and hiding it under his mattress for further review.

She was so pretty. What had she done to deserve Mila blowing her away?

His school grades suffered. He couldn't sleep at night and couldn't concentrate during the day. He knew that any moment his dad was likely to get on his case, so to ease the tension he started smoking a little weed he scored from a boy at school. At least it took his mind off the horror of what had taken place.

It didn't take long for Price to catch on. One day Teddy arrived home to find him standing in his room. 'What the fuck is this?' Price demanded, holding up a couple of half-smoked joints that Teddy had hidden in his closet.

'C'mon, Dad,' Teddy whined. ' 'S better than mainlining heroin or gettin' into crack

- like you used to.'

'What I used to do has nothin' the fuck t' do with you,' Price yelled, eyes bulging.

'Don't look at me to be your example in life, 'cause I ain't no shinin' angel.'

'Never said you were,' Teddy muttered.

And outside his room he saw Mila flit by, ever watchful.

He knew she was listening, spying on him to see if he'd weaken.

He had a plan.

He was going to take off.

It was the only answer.

Mila Kopistani did not know who her father was, but she had her suspicions.

Irena, her mother, refused to discuss it. All she'd managed to get out of her was that her father was a Russian ex-boyfriend who'd visited America, knocked Irena up, and then returned to his homeland. Mila didn't believe her for a moment: there had to be more to it than that.

Growing up, she hadn't thought about it that much. However, once she reached school age and the other girls started questioning her, she'd grown curious. At first, she'd thought her father might be Irena's boss, Price Washington. But no.

He was black and she was white, so she'd abandoned that idea. Then she'd considered Father McBain, the priest at the local church. He and her mom seemed pretty damn friendly. 'Impossible,' one of her girlfriends informed her.