From Barcelona, with Love (10 page)

Lorenza thought Antonio was nothing if not predictable.

She said, “For God's sake sit down and listen for once, Antonio,” in a tone Juan Pedro would have recognized as her “not to be messed with” voice; soft but touched with steel. Antonio must have recognized it too because he unbuttoned his jacket again and slumped abruptly back into the sofa. He put his head in his hands.

He said, “So go on then, tell us what we are all going to do to save the Ravel bodegas and find the poor, long-lost murderer, our dear half sister, Bibi.”

Jassy leapt to her feet again. “How can you even
say
that in front of Paloma? How
dare
you?” Antonio lifted his head and gave her a smirk. Her hand shot out and she smacked him right across his smug face. “Bastard,” she snarled.

“Oh, Jesus.” Floradelisa turned away. She walked over to the window and pushed back the swagged silk taffeta curtain. “Oyster-colored like the winter sky” she remembered Lorenza telling her when they had bought the fabric together. Staring out at the empty courtyard in the house she recalled as being full of life when she was a child, she asked herself what was happening to this family? She thought longingly of her kitchen and her staff, waiting for her. Her busy, pressured restaurant seemed almost peaceful after this scene.

Paloma hid her face in Lorenza's shoulder, and Lorenza said, “There's no need for all this ugliness. I'll explain the situation again. First, Peretti is claiming Bibi's share of the Ravel estate. He plans on getting custody of Paloma to reinforce that claim. He's forcing us into a corner. We cannot allow Paloma to go to that man. Second, the Ravel business cannot continue unless we either find Bibi or find out what has happened to her, because we also need to sell off some of the sherry vineyards, less profitable thanks to you, Antonio, to expand by purchasing the MacGuire bodega.

“I've already told you, I'm prepared to hand over half of my own shares to you. Whichever one of you finds Bibi will get the major share, plus a bonus that I will not even talk about right now.” Her dark glance collected them once again. “I said, I've always believed one of you knows where Bibi is. Now maybe we'll find out.” She watched to see what reaction she got, but Antonio remained stone-faced, Floradelisa stared out the window, and Jassy seemed lost in her own thoughts.

Then Jassy said, “Paloma, did you ask Mac Reilly to find your mother?”

Paloma shook her head. Looking at her, Lorenza thought she seemed to have shriveled into herself, looking somehow even smaller, thinner, like a fallen angel in a Titian painting.

“I just couldn't, I really wanted to but I couldn't do it. I couldn't talk about Bibi.… I was…”

“You were too shy,” Jassy finished her sentence.

“Too afraid, more likely,” Lorenza said. “You wanted to know—but you didn't want to know.” Paloma nodded. “In that case this meeting is closed.” Lorenza put her papers back in the canvas bag. “I'll think about Mr. Reilly, consider what he might be able to do to help us. After all,” she added thoughtfully, “he was probably in Hollywood when it happened.”

“That's what he does,” Jassy said. “Solves old Hollywood murders and brings criminals to justice.”

“You must all think this over,” Lorenza said. “Meanwhile, I insist Paloma comes to stay with me at the bodega.”

“Oh, but…” Paloma stared longingly at Jassy.

“No ‘buts' this time.” Lorenza was in charge. “I don't want that stepfather and his lawyers claiming Jassy is an unfit guardian. You are coming to live with me. We'll leave right away.” She looked at her stepchildren, wondering what they would do next. “You can think about this, then call me and give me your suggestions. If you have any.”

“Not me.” Antonio turned his back on her and strode out into the hall.

Watching him go Lorenza wondered when he would ever learn.

“I have to get back to my kitchen,” Floradelisa said, and Lorenza submitted her cheeks to be kissed, first the left, then the right, then left again.

“Three for love,” she said, hoping to catch an answering gleam of understanding in her stepdaughter's eyes.

“I'm not sure I've always believed that,” Floradelisa said, moving away to kiss her sister, and then Paloma.

Lorenza wondered exactly why Flora was behaving so resentfully when all they were trying to do was find out what had happened to Paloma's mother and to save the Ravel family business. She wondered if Floradelisa—and Antonio—knew more than they were saying.

She watched Floradelisa pat Paloma's shoulder as she said, “When are you going to come and help out in my kitchen,
querida
? I'll teach you how to cook.”

Paloma's plain face lit up. “Can I use that blowtorch thing you burn everything with?”

Floradelisa laughed. “You'll have to ask your grandmother's permission for that.” She waved goodbye as she trotted, fast as always, out into the hall. They heard her talking for a second to Buena, then the sound of the great door slamming.

“So, Jassy? What about you?” Lorenza didn't really need to ask. She knew Jassy was a devoted, if sometimes neglectful aunt. Her heart was in the right place, even though she gave it away too quickly, and too often, to other people.
Men,
Lorenza meant. But that was simply the way Jassy was. In and out of love and in and out of bed.

“I'll do whatever needs to be done,” Jassy promised and was rewarded by Paloma's first smile of the day.

Still, Lorenza wondered about Jassy too. One of the three siblings knew something, she just knew it. The question was, which one? And why wouldn't they tell?

“Come on, Paloma,” she said, taking her stepgranddaughter's hand. It felt hot and she hoped the girl wasn't getting a fever, her face was quite flushed too.

“So what about Mac Reilly?” Paloma looked hopefully at her. Mac was her last hope.

“We'll have to think about that,” Lorenza said.

 

Chapter 13

Malibu

Sunny Alvarez lay on
her stomach on the old Wal-Mart chaise lounge on Mac's deck, listening to the roar and hiss of the waves while reading a travel brochure for Mauritius. Tesoro was curled very neatly in the small of her back, lifting gently up and down with her breathing, while keeping a slightly bulging eye out for Pirate's return. And Mac's, of course. It was Sunny's belief that Tesoro secretly adored Mac, though so far the dog had done little to prove it.

The fish soup Sunny had prepared earlier simmered gently on the stove and the aroma of the rouille she had made, a saffron and garlic red pepper mayonnaise that later she would spread on croutons and float on top of the soup, lingered temptingly.

Her menu was inspired by the two books she'd been reading in bed the previous night: Patricia Wells's
The Provence Cookbook
and Roger Verge's
Cuisine of the Sun
. So inspired, in fact, that that morning, she'd gotten on the Harley, buckled Tesoro into the saddlebag, and sped off to Santa Monica Seafood to pick up the necessary fish. Everything had to be fresh. Cleaned, scaled, whatever good fish they had, plus a few shrimp for the broth. Mussels would have been overkill, though she was tempted, but an authentic Mediterranean fish soup contained no mollusks.

She'd spent her afternoon chopping onions, tomatoes, and garlic, sautéing and seasoning. Saffron turned her soup yellow, then the tomatoes turned it coral, and now the whole was blending beautifully. Add a fresh baguette, a green salad dressed with a goodly slurp of light olive oil, Italian balsamic vinegar, from Modena of course and of course aged at least ten years, a twist of black pepper, and dinner was ready. A bottle of Mac's good Montrachet was chilling in the fridge and she couldn't wait for him to get home.

A glance at her watch told her he was late, though her rumbling stomach had already informed her of that. It wasn't unusual for Mac to be late, but what was unusual was that he had not called her.

It was seven o'clock and the sun was already sliding down into the ocean. Time for a sweater. Time to dab Mitsouko behind her ears, brush out her hair, add a touch of her “evening” lipstick, the slightly bluer red Chanel she always used at night. Time also to light a romantic candle or two, because she had a brilliant idea that she meant to discuss with Mac over the special dinner, about a vacation in Mauritius, an island in the crystalline Indian Ocean, where the food was an enticing mix of Chinese and Indian and Creole. There were beautiful hotels, where she felt sure they would serve those delicious holiday rum drinks complete with little umbrellas. She and Mac could swim and snorkel; they could sit in—or more probably
out of
the sun, eat divine food, sip divine drinks and—she was sure of this—make divine love. All she needed was for Mac to take a week off—and that was the difficult part. Still, he hadn't taken a break in months, and now she was working on it.

She sniffed the soup and hoped the Mitsouko would win out over the garlic. She was looking forward to a wonderful evening.

She dabbed on the lipstick—she never smoothed it on, you couldn't do that with red, it looked gloppy—and took stock of herself in the bathroom mirror. Why, she asked herself, do women act all girly when they want something from their man—the perfume, the candles, the good dinner, the beautiful wine. Because we're clever, she answered herself smugly.

“Hey, babe.” Mac's voice was followed by the slam of the front door.

“In the kitchen,” she called, running back there because she knew it looked good when a man came home and found his woman busy at the stove. Grabbing a long spoon she began to stir the soup. She lifted the pan lid, burned her hand, let out a yell, and dropped it. Then the spoon fell into the soup and Tesoro jumped up onto the counter and knocked the baguette onto the floor and the bowl of precious hard-slaved-over rouille teetered on the very edge of the counter.

Mac grabbed it just in time, as Pirate came sauntering over. The dog sniffed the baguette, gave it a tentative lick, decided it wasn't for him and looked up at Sunny, hoping for steak.

“And I thought you were a big shot in the kitchen,” Mac said, laughing. “A Miss Culinary-Know-it-All.”

“In my
own
kitchen, I am, not in this apology for a cupboard you call by that name.”

“It works for me. Anyhow, love-of-my-life, I picked up pizzas for dinner. Pepperoni for me, margarita for you. I know your taste.”

He leaned in for a kiss but she pushed him back with a glare. All her carefully laid plans were going awry … the beautiful dinner, the wine, the candles, the white shirt buttoned just to “there,” the pale cashmere sweater over her shoulders, the soft, full skirt, the bare gold sandals that brought to mind summer beaches.…

Mac looked at her, puzzled. “What's wrong with a good pizza? I thought we'd celebrate.”

Uh-oh—he realized something must be up; they usually fell into each other's arms, even if they'd been apart only five minutes, but tonight Sunny hadn't even kissed him, yet. She had not even made a move toward him. In fact Sunny was standing there with her hands on her hips and a glare in her eyes that told him, somehow, he was in trouble.

“I hate pizza.” She took the dish of rouille from him and put it back on the counter. She picked up the pan lid, rescued the drowned spoon from the soup, then ran her singed fingers under the cold tap. She realized suddenly what Mac had just said.

She turned to look at him. “
What
are we celebrating?”

He sniffed the air. “Something smells wonderful.” He sniffed again. “Fishy.”

Sunny put the lid back on the pan and leaned against the counter, hands on her hips. “Celebrate
what
?”

Mac took the chilled bottle of Montrachet out of the fridge. “How about a glass of wine, Sunny Alvarez?” He inspected the label. “Hmmm, very nice. Tell me, is this from my cellar? Or did you buy it specially?”

Sunny snorted. Mac's “cellar” consisted of three metal wine racks stashed in a cupboard next to the front door, though she had to admit it did contain some pretty good stuff. Of course her own “cellar,” back in her stylish condo overlooking the boat-slips at Marina del Rey, had custom-built refrigerated wine storage. Well, it was a cupboard too,
really,
that kept the wine perfectly, though she had to admit Mac's choices were better than her own. She was a risk-taker where wine was concerned, buying names no one had ever heard of, though always from good areas, known for their excellent product.

“Actually, it is your wine,” she admitted. “I didn't have time to shop at the wine merchant as well as cook this special, and very wonderful dinner.”

Mac clapped a hand to his head, as it dawned on him. “Oh my God, I brought pizza and you've been…”

“Slaving over a hot stove…”

“All afternoon…”

“You didn't even call to ask did I fancy a pizza,” Sunny complained. “And I can never get you on the phone when you're working … and well, it was all just meant to be a surprise.” She sighed, melting, and said, “Oh, the hell with it, let's just have that glass of wine.”

One step toward him took her from the stove to the kitchen door and into his arms. And then Mac did kiss her, and he did smell her perfume and not the garlic and the fishy soup.

He kissed her some more, hands flat on her back against her ribs, pressing her to him. Her softness, her scent, her amber eyes, her golden skin made her the sexiest woman in the world.

The kiss lasted a long time. It made Sunny's knees tremble. In the back of her mind, though, she was wondering why Tesoro wasn't snapping at Mac's ankles, or any other part of him her jealous little dog could reach.

She leaned back, happy again. Laughter lurked in her eyes. “Pour that wine, baby,” she murmured. “I vote we have it in bed.”