desk. And thanks for your help.
The initial C was scrawled below.
Could a man actually feel his blood pressure threatening to burst his arteries?
Luca stared at the note.
At that thanks for your help .
What was that supposed to mean? His help with her plans for Sweetwater Ranch? Or what had happened here. In this room. In this bed.
She’d had an itch and he’d scratched it.
Was that the ‘help’ she was talking about?
H, made his hand into a fist, then dropped the crumpled pad on the carpet.
His head was pounding. Pounding!
He thought back over the years, to other times he’d been angry. Times he’d been furious. The worst had been when he’d found out that his father was a bigamist, that he’d created four bastard children.
And even then, his anger had not been like this.
He could feel it rising within him, a black cloud of pure rage, wiping out all logical thought, all civilized behavior.
“Bitch,” he said. “Fucking bitch.”
He told himself to calm down. To take it easy. To be reasonable…
“Goddammit,” he snarled, and he reached for the ugly lamp on the ugly table beside the ugly bed, wrapped his hand around it, yanked its electric cord free of the socket and hurled it at the wall across from him.
It shattered into dozens of pieces.
That, at least, was a start.
Then he took a deep breath. A series of deep breaths.
He took his trousers from the floor, pulled his cellphone from his pocket and punched a button.
Matteo answered on the first ring.
“Luca? Where the hell have you been? We’re already on the road, heading for the airport.”
Luca spoke calmly.
Yes, he said, he’d figured that. He apologized for not returning to El Sueño. Something had come up, he said, his mouth thinning at the ugly pun.
“I’ll meet you at the airport,” he told Matteo. “Yes, fine, I’ll be there in plenty of time.”
“Did you finish with the McKenna woman?” Matteo asked.
“No,” Luca said, still calmly, “no, I haven’t finished with her.”
He disconnected. Took a hundred dollar bill from his wallet and left it on top of the lamp shards. Then he pulled out another hundred and placed it on a pillow on the bed.
He phoned the cab company. Took a fast shower. Dressed. And as he paced outside the motel, waiting for his taxi, he thought how much truth there had been in what he’d told Matteo.
He wasn’t finished with Cheyenne McKenna.
Not by a long shot.
CHAPTER THREE
H e reached the airport in time.
Not that it really mattered.
The Bellinis were using a private jet; there was no particular schedule to adhere to other than everyone having agreed they wanted to be in New York by nightfall. Matteo and Luca had business functions they had to attend; Bianca was going to a lecture, and Alessandra, as usual, was mysterious about it all.
He made his way down the aisle of the luxuriously appointed Dessault Falcon 50 EX and took a seat. His sisters moved past him to a pair of loveseats in the plane’s midsection. Bianca took an iPad from her oversized purse; Alessandra took a copy of Vogue from hers. Matteo chose a seat and opened his laptop.
Luca took out his iPhone. All he could recall about tonight’s commitment was that it involved some kind of charity. He sighed. The last thing he was in the mood for was being in the company of people whose common bond was that they were rich.
Perhaps his P.A. had included some information about the evening in an email.
“Takeoff in two minutes, folks,” the pilot’s disembodied voice said. “Please fasten your seat belts.”
There was nothing from his P.A.
He probably wasn’t being fair to the glittering crowd that would attend tonight’s whatever. His P.A. accepted or declined invitations to such things on his behalf; she’d been with him almost from the start of Bellini Construction—he’d dropped the ‘Wilde’ from his name the day he’d turned twenty-one.
He trusted her judgment.
If he was attending a dinner or a cocktail
The initial C was scrawled below.
Could a man actually feel his blood pressure threatening to burst his arteries?
Luca stared at the note.
At that thanks for your help .
What was that supposed to mean? His help with her plans for Sweetwater Ranch? Or what had happened here. In this room. In this bed.
She’d had an itch and he’d scratched it.
Was that the ‘help’ she was talking about?
H, made his hand into a fist, then dropped the crumpled pad on the carpet.
His head was pounding. Pounding!
He thought back over the years, to other times he’d been angry. Times he’d been furious. The worst had been when he’d found out that his father was a bigamist, that he’d created four bastard children.
And even then, his anger had not been like this.
He could feel it rising within him, a black cloud of pure rage, wiping out all logical thought, all civilized behavior.
“Bitch,” he said. “Fucking bitch.”
He told himself to calm down. To take it easy. To be reasonable…
“Goddammit,” he snarled, and he reached for the ugly lamp on the ugly table beside the ugly bed, wrapped his hand around it, yanked its electric cord free of the socket and hurled it at the wall across from him.
It shattered into dozens of pieces.
That, at least, was a start.
Then he took a deep breath. A series of deep breaths.
He took his trousers from the floor, pulled his cellphone from his pocket and punched a button.
Matteo answered on the first ring.
“Luca? Where the hell have you been? We’re already on the road, heading for the airport.”
Luca spoke calmly.
Yes, he said, he’d figured that. He apologized for not returning to El Sueño. Something had come up, he said, his mouth thinning at the ugly pun.
“I’ll meet you at the airport,” he told Matteo. “Yes, fine, I’ll be there in plenty of time.”
“Did you finish with the McKenna woman?” Matteo asked.
“No,” Luca said, still calmly, “no, I haven’t finished with her.”
He disconnected. Took a hundred dollar bill from his wallet and left it on top of the lamp shards. Then he pulled out another hundred and placed it on a pillow on the bed.
He phoned the cab company. Took a fast shower. Dressed. And as he paced outside the motel, waiting for his taxi, he thought how much truth there had been in what he’d told Matteo.
He wasn’t finished with Cheyenne McKenna.
Not by a long shot.
CHAPTER THREE
H e reached the airport in time.
Not that it really mattered.
The Bellinis were using a private jet; there was no particular schedule to adhere to other than everyone having agreed they wanted to be in New York by nightfall. Matteo and Luca had business functions they had to attend; Bianca was going to a lecture, and Alessandra, as usual, was mysterious about it all.
He made his way down the aisle of the luxuriously appointed Dessault Falcon 50 EX and took a seat. His sisters moved past him to a pair of loveseats in the plane’s midsection. Bianca took an iPad from her oversized purse; Alessandra took a copy of Vogue from hers. Matteo chose a seat and opened his laptop.
Luca took out his iPhone. All he could recall about tonight’s commitment was that it involved some kind of charity. He sighed. The last thing he was in the mood for was being in the company of people whose common bond was that they were rich.
Perhaps his P.A. had included some information about the evening in an email.
“Takeoff in two minutes, folks,” the pilot’s disembodied voice said. “Please fasten your seat belts.”
There was nothing from his P.A.
He probably wasn’t being fair to the glittering crowd that would attend tonight’s whatever. His P.A. accepted or declined invitations to such things on his behalf; she’d been with him almost from the start of Bellini Construction—he’d dropped the ‘Wilde’ from his name the day he’d turned twenty-one.
He trusted her judgment.
If he was attending a dinner or a cocktail
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