Die for Me (28 page)
“I’d appreciate it,” she said quietly. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She tugged her hand free and pulled out another folded sheet from her pocket. “I got a little more information for you on that guy who died in Europe. Alberto Berretti.”
This sheet listed the names of Berretti’s children and their attorneys. It also listed names of the man’s household and business staff and his key debtors. It would be a very good start when he talked to Interpol the next day. “Where did you get this?”
“Etienne—you know, my old professor? He didn’t even know any more than Berretti’s name and the rumor. But my father’s old friend knows lots of rich people, and if not personally, he knows someone who does. I called him, and he got the information.”
Vito pushed back his irritation. “I thought you agreed not to call anyone else.”
“I didn’t call anyone I thought was dealing or buying.” She was irritated and didn’t bother pushing it back. “I’ve known Maurice since I was a little girl. He’s a fine man.”
“Sophie, I’m grateful. I just don’t want you hurt. If you know him, he should be fine.”
“He is,” she said stubbornly. But she didn’t pull the hand he held away and Vito saw that as a good sign. He took her free hand again and once again she relaxed.
“So . . . your father. Is he still alive?”
She shook her head sadly. “No, he died about two years ago.”
She’d liked her father, then. Unlike her mother. “It must have been hard on him, having you so far away in Europe for so long.”
“No, he lived in France. I was able to see him more at the end of his life than when I was growing up.” She looked at him sideways. “My father’s name was Alex Arnaud.”
Vito crunched his brows. “I know I’ve heard that name before. No, don’t tell me.”
She looked amused. “I’d be very surprised if you knew him.”
“I’ve seen his name fairly recently.” The memory clicked and he stared at her. “Your father was Alexandre Arnaud the actor?”
She blinked. “I’m impressed. Not many Americans know his name.”
“My brother-in-law is a film buff. Last time I was visiting them, he was on a French film kick and a few of them weren’t too bad. No offense.”
“None taken. So which one did you see?”
“Do I get a bonus prize for getting the movie title, too?” Again her cheeks heated, and he realized there was as much shyness as desire in her eyes. This was new for her, flirting, like this, and that was an even bigger turn-on than anything else. Almost anything, he amended. He knew what lay under the black jacket was more than enough of a turn-on on its own. “I’m glad I have a good memory,” he teased, then reluctantly released her hands when the waitress set the pizza on the table with a knowing grin.
“You still want this to go?” the waitress asked. “I can bring the box.”
“I’m starving,” Sophie confessed. “Are you closing soon?”
The waitress patted her hand and gave Vito a wink. “When you’re done, honey.”
Vito snapped his fingers. “
Soft Rain,
” he said. “Your father’s movie.”
Sophie stopped chewing, her eyes wide. “Wow. You’re good.”
Vito put a slice on his plate. “So what’s my bonus prize?”
Her eyes shifted, changed, nerves giving way to anticipation. He could see her pulse flutter at the hollow of her throat as she caught that full bottom lip between her teeth. “I don’t know yet.”
Vito swallowed hard, his own pulse kicking into overdrive. He barely restrained the urge to drag her away from the table and bite her lip himself. “Don’t worry. I’m sure I can think of something. Just do me a favor and eat fast, okay?”
Tuesday, January 16, 11:25
P.M.
It was good. Damn good. Not as good as
Warren Dies,
but still better than ninety-nine point nine percent of the drivel that made it into galleries.
He looked back at the stills, then at his own painting of the moment of Gregory Sanders’s death. There was something about Sanders’s face. Even in death it looked better on film than in reality. His lips quirked. The boy probably could have been a star.
Well, if he had anything to say about it, Gregory would. For now, he had a bit of cleaning up to do. He’d hose off the body in the studio below ground. His dungeon. Gregory had been suitably impressed. Suitably terrified.
As well he should have been. “Try to steal from me,” he muttered. The young man had begged forgiveness. For mercy. There had been none.
He’d be able to get several good scenes from the Gregory footage. Thievery had been a common crime in the Middle Ages, with a variety of punishments. It hadn’t been the torture he’d planned, but it had worked, all in all.
He’d head out to bury the body at first light, then get back here to work on the game. By morning he should have some responses to the e-mail he’d sent to the tall blonde from UCanModel before meeting Gregory this afternoon. He’d devise an end fit for a stately queen to please Van Zandt. Then he’d make the knight’s damn head explode. He wasn’t sure exactly how he’d accomplish it, but he’d figure it out.
Tuesday, January 16, 11:30
P.M.
Sophie’s hands shook as she tried to get her key in the lock in Anna’s front door. They’d said nothing as he’d driven her home, save her clipped directions. Through it all he’d held her hand, at times so hard she nearly winced. But it was welcome pain, if there was such a thing. For the first time in a long time, Sophie felt alive. And clumsy. She cursed softly when the key bounced off the lock for the third time.
“Give me the keys,” he ordered quietly. He managed the door on the first try, bringing the dogs, barking shrilly. The look on his face would have been comical had she not been so impatient. He was staring down at Lotte and Birgit with mild horror.
“What the hell are those?”
“My grandmother’s dogs. My aunt Freya lets them out at noon, so they’re impatient by now. Come on, girls.”
“They’re . . . colored. Like your rainbow gloves.”
Sophie looked at the dogs with a wince. “It was an experiment. I need to let them out. I’ll be right back.” She took the dogs out through the kitchen and stood on the back porch, arms wrapped around herself, toes tapping, while they sniffed the grass and each other. “Hurry up,” she hissed at them. “Or you’re both getting dry dogfood for a month.”
The threat seemed to work, or maybe they just got cold, because they finally hurried. Sophie scooped them up and nuzzled each fuzzy head against her cheek before putting them down in the kitchen. She locked the deadbolt, then turned and sucked in a breath. Vito had materialized inches away, his eyes dark and reckless and her knees went weak. He’d shed his coat and gloves and made quick work of hers.
His gaze dropped to her breasts, still covered by layers of clothing. He lingered there for a few beats of her heart before lifting his eyes to hers and for a few more hard beats it was as if she couldn’t breathe. Her breasts were tight, her nipples almost painfully sensitive and the throbbing between her legs had her wishing he would hurry.
But he didn’t. With maddening care, he traced her lower lip with his fingertips until she shuddered. His lips curved, his smile sharp. Predatory. “I want you,” he whispered. “I’d be lying if I said anything different.”
She lifted her chin, wishing he’d touch her. Nervous that he didn’t. “Then don’t.”
His eyes flashed and for another long moment he stared, as if he waited for her to say something more. Then in a blur of motion his hands were in her hair and his mouth was on hers and she moaned because it felt so good. His kiss was reckless and hot and demanding and she wanted more of it. She wanted more of him.
She flattened her hands against his chest, feeling his rock-hard muscles through his shirt, nearly moaning again when those muscles flexed against her palms. She curled her fingers into his shirt, pulling him closer. Needing to feel that hard chest pressed against her aching breasts. She wound her arms around his neck and lifted herself the few inches she needed to align their bodies, needing to feel his hardness all over.
He didn’t disappoint, and in seconds he’d pressed her back against the door, the hard ridge in his jeans thrusting where it felt the very best. The door against her back was ice cold, but Vito burned hot against her front as she strained against him. His hands finally took her breasts, his fingers plucking and teasing until she moaned again.
His hips and hands came to an abrupt halt and he ripped his mouth from hers.
“No.” It was a whimper, but she was too turned on to care.
“Sophie. Look at me.” She opened her eyes. He was so close she could see every eyelash. “I told you what I wanted. I need you to do the same. Tell me what you want.”
He would make her say it. “You.” The single syllable emerged rusty. “I want you.”
He shuddered out a breath. “It’s been a long time for me. I can’t go slow this time.”
This time.
“Then don’t.”
He nodded slowly, then dropped his hands to the hem of her sweater and yanked, pulling it over her head. Then he laughed breathlessly when it got tangled in her hair. Together they freed her, and he sobered, staring at the wispy white lace of her bra.
He swallowed hard. “God, you’re pretty.” He skimmed his fingertips down the scalloped edges and under the fullness of her breasts, narrowly, but purposely missing her nipples which now strained against the lace. But his hands were shaking.
Her heart was going to pound right out of her chest. “Touch me, Vito. Please.”
Again his eyes flashed and in another blur of movement he’d dispensed with the lace by ripping the front clasp. She had only a moment to feel the cold air against her skin before he’d covered one breast with his warm palm, the other with his even warmer mouth. She threaded her fingers through his wavy dark hair and held him close, then closed her eyes and let herself feel. And it felt so good. So necessary.
Too soon he straightened. “Sophie, look at me.”
She opened her eyes. His mouth was wet, his eyes live coals. “Where’s your bed?”
Another shudder shook her and she lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “Up.”
His grin was quick and wicked. “Up it is.” He leaned in to kiss her again and her fingers stumbled over the buttons on his shirt, his over the zipper on her slacks. They backed out of the kitchen, frantically dropping clothes as they made their way to the stairs. He stopped at the first step and pressed her into the wall. She was naked, but he still wore his boxers. His eyes took an appreciative ride from her face down her body. His chest rose and fell, as if he jerked each breath from his lungs. “You’re beautiful.”
She’d heard the words before. She so wanted to believe them now. But words were just that. Words. It was the action that counted. A little desperately she pulled his head down and kissed him hard. With a deep growl he took control of the kiss, deepening it, running his hands down her back. He kneaded her butt, pulling her against him. She felt his erection pulse against her and she gyrated her hips, rubbing closer, but she needed more. “Vito, please. Now.”
A shiver wracked his body, even though his skin burned against her hands and she knew he was as close as she was. He backed away and took her hand to lead her up the stairs but she slipped her hands beneath the elastic of his boxers and pushed them down his hips. Once again he did not disappoint and she wrapped her hand around him and squeezed, dragging a ragged groan from his lungs.
“Sophie, wait.”
“No. Here. Now.” She leaned against him and bit at his lip, her hand in the center of his chest, pushing at the rock hard wall of muscle. She held his gaze, on solid ground. This was sex. This she knew. “Now.”
She pushed him, straddling his hips as he sank to the steps.
“Sophie, not like—”
She cut off his words by covering his mouth with hers and lowered herself, taking him into her body. He was hot and hard and huge and she closed her eyes against the sensation of being filled. “You want me.”
“Yes.” His hands gripped her hips, his fingers dug deep.
“Then take me.” She arched her back, forcing him deeper, opening her eyes to watch his slowly close, his dark stubbled jaw clench, his beautiful body go completely rigid. Then she began to move, slowly at first, then hard and fast as she felt her own climax coming.
With a cry she came and slumped forward, catching her hands on the step above him. She kissed him hard and he groaned into her mouth as his hips jerked wildly. Then his back went rigid and he thrust with staccato beats of motion as he found his own peak.
Breathing like he’d run a race, he collapsed back against his elbows and let his head fall back against the stairs. For a few seconds neither of them said anything, then Sophie rolled away to sit on the step below him, feeling relaxed and . . . damn good. She lightly patted his thigh, but he stiffened, drawing away. Twisting to look at him, she found him staring at her, not with sated pleasure, but raw anger.
“What,” he said harshly, “the hell was that?”
Wednesday, January 17, 12:05
A.M.
S
ophie’s mouth fell open. “What?”
“You heard me.” He twisted to his feet, leaving her sitting naked on the step staring up at him. He grabbed his boxers and pulled them on, then disappeared into the kitchen. When he came back he was wearing his pants and carrying her clothes. He tossed them to her but she made no move to catch them.
Her whole body was numb, but no longer with pleasure. “Why are you so mad?”
He stared down at her, fists on his hips. “You’re kidding.”
“You wanted me. You had me.“ A wave of fury made it past the numbness and she lurched to her feet. “What is your problem anyway? Wasn’t it good enough for you?” The last she added with a sneer, because hurt was moving in, pushing her anger aside.
“It was damn good. But
that
—” he pointed to the steps, “wasn’t what I wanted. That was . . .” His mouth flattened and so did his voice. “That was fucking.”
The crudity hit her hard. “And you feel so used? You got what you came here for, Vito. If the delivery wasn’t to your liking, well, at least it was free.”
He faltered. “Sophie, I didn’t come here for . . . I came here to . . .” He shrugged, uncomfortable. “To make love to you.”
The very words mocked her. “You don’t love me,” she said bitterly.
He swallowed hard and seemed to be choosing his words. “No. No, I don’t. Not now. But someday . . . Someday I could. Sophie, have you never made love?”
She lifted her chin, tears dangerously close. “Don’t you dare make fun of me.”
He exhaled. Then leaned over and picked up her underwear. “Put them on.”
She swallowed the lump that had taken over her throat. “No. I want you to leave.”
“And I’m not going to until we talk.” He was gentle again. “Sophie.” He shook his head and held out her underwear. “Put them on, or I’ll put them on you myself.”
She had no doubt that he would so she snatched them from his hand. She jerked them up around her hips and held out her hands, still nude except for the panties. “Satisfied?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Not even close.” He pulled the sweater over her head like she was five years old. She elbowed his hands away.
“I can do it,” she gritted. She pushed her arms through the sleeves and pulled on her pants. “I’m all dressed now. Now get the hell out of my house.”
He pulled her across the living room. “Stop fighting me.” He pushed her to the sofa.
“Stop being an asshole,” she shot back. Then she crumpled and the floodgates crashed, letting the tears come. “What the hell did you want from me?”
“Obviously not what you know how to give. Not yet anyway.”
Furiously she wiped her cheeks. “I haven’t been with a lot of men. Surprised?”
He still stood, fists back on his hips. He was still angry, but now his anger no longer seemed directed at her.
Big fucking deal.
Hers was still directed at him.
“No,” he murmured. “I’m not surprised.”
“But no
customer
has ever been dissatisfied with the sex. Until you.”
He winced at that. “I’m sorry. I wanted you and it had been a long time and . . . Sophie, what we just did was incredible. But it was . . . just sex.”
She drew a deliberate breath. “And you expected
what
? Moonlight? Music? To
hold
me afterward and murmur promises you don’t intend to keep? No, thank you.”
His eyes flashed. “I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep.”
“How gallant of you.” Then she dropped her head against the sofa, suddenly so weary. “You said you wanted it fast, so I did it fast. I’m sorry if you were disappointed.”
He sat beside her and she flinched when his thumb caressed her cheek. “I said I couldn’t go slow.” He slid his fingers through the hair at her nape and tugged her to face him. The smooth timbre of his voice had her heart pounding again, but she refused to open her eyes. “That’s different from racing to the end because that’s all there is.” He kissed her eyelids, then both corners of her mouth. “There were so many things I wanted to do with you. For you.” His mouth covered hers, sweet. Patient. “To you.” She shuddered and felt him smile against her lips. “Don’t you want to know what all those things are?” he teased and every nerve ending buzzed.
“Maybe,” she whispered and he chuckled, rich and deep.
“Sophie, any two people can just have sex. I like you. A lot. I wanted more.”
She swallowed hard. “Maybe I can’t give you any more.”
“I think you can,” he whispered. “Sophie, look at me.” She forced herself to look up, dreading what she’d see. Sarcasm and scorn she could take. This she knew. Pity would be harder to swallow. But her breath caught in her throat because what she saw in his eyes was desire, tempered with tenderness and even a little self-deprecating humor. “Let me teach you the difference between fucking like minks and making love.”
Deep down she’d known there had to be something more, that she’d never really shared what people in real relationships had. Deep down she’d always known she’d only . . . she winced. Fucked like a mink. Somehow it had always been simpler to keep it to that. But deep down, she’d always wanted to know the difference.
He nibbled at her lower lip. “Come on, Sophie, you’ll like it better.”
Sophie eyed the stairs. “Better than
that
?”
He smiled, sensing victory. “I guarantee it.” He stood and held out his hand.
She eyed his hand. “What if I’m not completely satisfied?”
“I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep.” He pulled her to her feet. “If you’re not satisfied, then I guess I’ll have to keep working until you are.” He cupped her jaw, his lips grazing hers. “Come to bed with me, Sophie. I have places to take you.”
The breath she drew was unsteady. “Okay.”
Wednesday, January 17, 5:00
A.M.
Vito crept from Sophie’s bed, where she slept curled up like a kitten. A very beautiful, teachable kitten. He moved his shoulders. With claws. Which she’d dug into his back that last time, when he’d taken her so high . . . The memory made him shudder. He’d like nothing better than to feel those sharp claws once more. But he had to get home and change and get on with his day.
Another day of identifying bodies. Of notifying grieving families. Of trying to stop a killer, before there were any more bodies or grieving families. Vito pulled on his clothes, then pressed a kiss against Sophie’s temple. At least he’d satisfied one customer.
He looked around for something to write on. He didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye. He got the impression she’d gotten enough of that over the years, from men who’d taken what they’d wanted and gone on, leaving her to believe that’s all there was.
She had no paper on her nightstand, unless he counted the candy wrappers, which he did not. But a framed picture caught his eye. He carried it to the window and held it to the light from the streetlamps. It was a young woman with long dark hair and big eyes, taken sometime in the fifties. She sat sideways, looking over the back of a chair, in front of what looked like a dressing room mirror. Vito thought about Sophie’s father, a French film star with whom she hadn’t spent much time until the end of his life. He wondered if this was her mother, but doubted she’d keep her picture next to her bed.
“My gran.” He looked over to see her sitting up in bed, knees pulled to her chest.
“She was an actress, too?”
“Of a fashion.” She lifted a brow. “Double bonus prize if you know who
she
is.”
“I liked the bonus prize from before. Are you going to give me a hint?”
“Nope. But I will make you breakfast.” She grinned. “I figure it’s the least I can do.”
He grinned back, then picked up another photo, turning on a lamp. It was the same woman, with a man he did recognize. “Your grandmother knew Luis Albarossa?”
Sophie poked her head out of a sweatshirt, her face stunned. “What is it with you? You know French actors and Italian tenors, too?”
“My grandfather was an opera fan.” He hesitated. “So am I.”
She’d bent at the waist to pull on a pair of sweats and paused, her hair a curtain over her face. She parted it with one hand and glared out. “What’s wrong with opera?”
“Nothing. It’s just that some people don’t think it’s very . . .”
“Manly? That’s just macho bullshit inherent in a patriarchal society.” She yanked at the sweats and pushed her hair from her face. “Opera or Guns-N-Roses, neither makes you less of a man. Besides, I’m the last person you need to prove your manhood to.”
“Tell that to my brothers and my dad.”
She looked amused. “What, that you give great sex?”
Startled, he laughed. “No, that opera is manly.”
“Ohhh. It’s always good to be clear. So gramps was an opera aficionado?”
“Every time it came to town he’d get tickets, but nobody would go to the concerts except me. We heard Albarossa do
Don Giovanni
when I was ten. Unforgettable.” He narrowed his eyes. “Give me a hint. What was your grandmother’s last name?”
“Johannsen,” she said with a smirk. “Lotte, Birgit! Time to go out.” The dogs scrambled from one of the bedrooms, yapping. She headed down the stairs and he followed.
“Just a hint, Sophie.”
She just smirked again and went out the back door with the two ridiculously colored dogs. “You know too much already. You should have to work for a double bonus.”
Chuckling, Vito wandered into the living room and investigated there. A double bonus prize was nothing to sneeze at. Plus, he admitted to himself, he was nosy. Sophie Johannsen was a damn interesting woman on her own, but it appeared her family tree had some unique knots and forks.
He found what he was looking for and carried it to the kitchen. She was back from outside and pulling pots and pans from the cupboard.
“You cook?” he said, surprised again.
“Of course. Woman cannot live by beef jerky and Ho Hos alone. I’m a good cook.” She looked at the framed program he held and sighed dramatically. “So who is she?”
Vito leaned against the refrigerator, both smug in the knowledge that the double bonus was now his and awed. “Your grandmother is Anna Shubert. My God, Sophie, my grandfather and I heard her sing
Orfeo
at the Academy downtown. Her
Che faro
. . .” He sobered, remembering the tears on his grandfather’s face. In his own eyes. “After her aria there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. She was remarkable.”
Sophie’s lips curved sadly. “Yeah, she was.
Orfeo
here in Philly was her last performance. I’ll tell her you knew who she was. It’ll make her day.” She nudged him out of the way, taking eggs and a carton of cream from the fridge and setting them on the counter. Then her shoulders sagged. “It’s so hard to watch her die, Vito.”
“I’m sorry. My dad’s got heart disease. We’re grateful for every day he’s with us.”
“Then you understand.” She blew a sigh up her forehead. “If you want, there are a few photo albums in the living room. If you like opera, it’ll be a treat.”
Eagerly he brought them to the table. “These albums have to be worth a mint.”
“To Gran, yeah. And to me.” She set a cup of coffee next to his elbow. “That’s the Paris Opera House. The man standing next to Gran is Maurice. He’s the one who gave me the information about the dead collector,” she added before going back to the stove.
Vito frowned. “I thought you said Maurice was your father’s friend.”
She winced. “He was Alex’s friend, too. It’s kind of complicated. Sordid, really.”
She called her father by his first name. Interesting. “Sophie, stop teasing me.”
She chuckled. “Maurice and Alex went to university together. Both were wealthy playboys. Anna was in her forties and at the peak of her career, touring Europe. She’d been a widow a long time by then. I guess she was lonely. Alex had had a few small movie roles. Maurice worked for the opera house in Paris which is where he met Anna. The opera threw a party and Maurice invited my father, introduced them, and”—she lifted a shoulder—“I’m told the infatuation was instantaneous.”
Vito grimaced. “Your grandmother and your father? That’s . . . ew.”
She whipped the eggs with a wire whisk. “Technically she wasn’t my grandmother and he wasn’t my father. Not yet anyway. I wasn’t in the picture yet.”
“Still . . .”
“I told you it was sordid. Well, they had a grand affair.” She frowned into the pan as she poured the eggs in. “Then she found out he was married. She tossed him aside.”
Vito was beginning to see a pattern here. “I see.”
She shot him a wry look. “Alex didn’t. Anna was born in Hamburg, but she was raised in Pittsburgh. I’m told he was quite devastated when Anna left.”
“Who told you all this?”
“Maurice. He’s quite the gossip. That’s why I knew he’d be able to get all the good stuff on Alberto Berretti.”
“So how did you . . . come into the picture?”
“Ah. It gets even more sordid. Anna has two daughters. Freya the Good and Lena.”