Blessed are the Meek (6 page)

 

Chapter 11

B
EYOND A BLACK
iron gate, I steer my Volvo up a long, winding driveway. The gravel road is flanked by olive trees and grapevines that snake up the yellow Napa hillside. Blue sky stretches forever.

What the hell am I doing here? I agreed to come last night but now feel awkward. I think back to dinner last night. There was something about Grant—­a streak of intensity beneath his outward poise that sent a shiver of excitement through me. He has an element of bad-­boy danger to him—­breaking his own city's laws by lighting up that cigarette in front of an army of reporters, talking about how oysters are an aphrodisiac, reaching for my necklace and rubbing it somewhat suggestively. The memory makes a flush spread up to my ears. There is more to him than meets the eye. I remind myself that I am there to hunt for a killer.

Careful, Giovanni.
Sure, he's handsome and charming, but so was Ted Bundy.

The dirt driveway meanders to a cluster of buildings. The main house—­small white stucco with bright blue accents—­looks like it was plucked off a Mediterranean hillside. Petal pink flowers in giant terra-­cotta pots border the entryway.

The big wooden door swings open, and Grant himself comes to greet me. He wears beige linen pants, cuffed to reveal his ankles, and a shirt with the sleeves pushed up and the buttons undone halfway down his chest. His tanned feet are bare. He kisses me on each cheek.

“Come along. Everyone's out by the pool in back. I'll show you where you can change.”

The murmur of voices drifts through the house from the back, along with a woman's tinkly laughter. I thrust a small box toward Grant. “Hope you like biscotti. My own recipe.”

He eyes the box like a little boy and holds it up to his nose, inhaling. “I love biscotti. I can smell the anise. Thank you. But, I'm warning you—­I'm not sharing. I'm going to hide these in the kitchen and eat them with my coffee tomorrow morning.” He leans over to kiss me, and I turn my head, so it lands on my cheek.

For someone who has as much money as he reportedly does, he is either an incredibly great actor or has somehow managed to stay remarkably unaffected.

Remember Ted Bundy.

We make a stop in the kitchen. A corner of the countertop has a jumble of olive oils and spices in old glass bottles. A worn oak table still holds a jar of jam and crumbs from breakfast and the scattered remains of the
New York Times.

Grant points me to a bedroom right off the kitchen. “Feel free to change in here. I'm ready for a swim, too. I'll meet you back here.”

I close the door and pluck my six-­year-­old swimsuit out of my bag. I don't do the beach—­at least not in a swimsuit—­so although it's a little faded, the suit is still ser­viceable.

“I know I've kept you in a drawer for a very long time,” I say to it, tugging it on. “But I promise if you be nice to me today, I'll take you out more often.”

Luckily, there is a full-­length mirror. The first thing I do is check my backside to make sure it is covered. I'm at my best weight in years, but no matter how thin I get, I've always got “back,” as they say. It's the Italian thing.

Now I check the front?
Mama mia.
I'm not super excited about how small the white triangles seem right now. Should have brought my even older, black one-­piece. Too late now. I wrap my towel around me and crack the door.

Grant is waiting with a big smile when I emerge into the hall. I pull the towel tighter around my chest. I sneak a glance at him. He has on a black Speedo. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

Somehow, over the past few days, I've been thrust into a foreign world where the men wear teeny, tiny European swimsuits. If I brought home a guy who wore a swimsuit like this, my Italian-­American brothers would want to kick his tiny Speedo-­clad butt.

“Can I take your towel?” Grant asks. I quickly shake my head.

He leads me past the kitchen. French windows reveal a backyard filled with small palm trees and a giant curving pool with at least two waterfalls. About two dozen ­people are mingling around the edges of the pool, some with their feet dipped in the water. Caribbean music is playing, and a light breeze brings with it the scent of barbecue and chlorine. I hear that laughter again and immediately recognize it and search for its source. Annalisa Cruz. Her back is toward me. She dips her head in laughter once again, and I see who has made her laugh.

Donovan.

 

Chapter 12

M
Y FACE GROWS
warm. A woman in a maid's uniform hands me a glass of wine and whispers something in Grant's ear.

“Excuse me for a moment.” I watch him walk away before I dart a glance at Donovan, feeling foolish. Acid fills my stomach, and I realize I am sick with jealousy seeing him with Annalisa. It is irrational, I know, but all I want to do is run away.

I wonder if I can sneak back through the house and out to my car without anyone's noticing? But Grant, who is standing at one of the French doors looking at me while he talks on the phone, is watching. Damn. He smiles at me and holds up his finger, gesturing for me to wait.

“Gabriella, what the hell are you doing here?”

Donovan grabs my arm. I jerk away. I didn't even see him walking up.

“I should ask you the same thing. Thought you were in Sacramento.”

“That was yesterday. I stopped here on my way home.” His eyes flash with annoyance.

“Funny you didn't mention it to me.” I turn a little away from him, crossing my arms across my chest, and watch the other ­people having fun. I see a silky head bobbing in the water. Annalisa.

“Annalisa called this morning.” He lowers his voice. “She's afraid. She thinks the killer might be targeting her. Someone called her last night, said he was looking forward to her party today. She was hysterical, worried the killer might show up here, so I told her I'd stop by.”

“How gallant of you.” I take a big gulp of wine and feel it hit my cheeks in a warm rush.

“Why are you here?” He stares at the ­people splashing and laughing in the pool. “Annalisa didn't say she had invited you.”

“She didn't.”

Grant appears at my side, slipping between the space I've made between Donovan and me. “Gabriella, I'm terribly sorry to have left you alone, but I see you have no problem making new friends.”

Donovan's eyebrows lift in surprise.

Grant looks at Donovan with a perplexed look. “I'm sorry. I know we met earlier, but could you remind me of your name again?”

Now it's Donovan's turn to be pissed. He looks at me, as if he's waiting for me to explain our relationship. I'm too angry with him. If he wants to sneak around behind my back seeing Annalisa, I figure I don't owe him anything. We lock eyes. Slowly, I unwrap my towel and, without looking, hand it to Grant. Donovan's eyes sweep over my body in the skimpy bikini, and the muscle in his jaw clenches. The silence grows.

Grant frowns. “I'm sorry, your name was?”

Finally, Donovan looks at him. “Detective Sean Donovan, but you'll have to excuse me. I'm on my way out. I need to get back to the city.”

“A detective? I hope there isn't anything wrong?” Grant says, his eyebrows rising. I see a glimmer in his eyes, a spark of what looks like defiance. Or a challenge?

“No, everything is fine.” He grits the words out and turns to leave without a backward glance.

Grant has that same curious look in his eyes as he watches Donovan leave, but then he turns back to me, and it is gone. “Let me introduce you to some other ­people here.”

He takes my arm and leads me through the crowd. The electricity from his touch shoots through me at the same time I'm trying to process a surge of anger and disappointment about Donovan. Why was he here, and why do I feel betrayed? It doesn't help to realize that Grant's touch is dangerously alluring. He idly runs his fingers down my forearm, sending faint tremors through my body. I try to subtly elude his grasp, but he holds firm.

Across the backyard, Annalisa takes in Grant's proprietary clasp of my arm with a frown as she climbs out of the pool. She maneuvers through the crowd, her tiny red crocheted bikini actually making my suit feel a bit matronly. We both are more than ample in the chest area, but if hers are real, I'll hold up the white flag.

When she is a few feet in front of me, I feel her glare before I see it. Slowly, she scrutinizes my body, from my bare toes to the tendrils of hair sticking to my temple in the heat. Her eyes narrow to slits. I meet her gaze, and, for a split second, I can almost see the daggers in her eyes, but the look disappears so fast I wonder if I imagined it as her teeth spread into a wide smile.

“Adam, you didn't tell me we had another guest,” she says, grabbing both my arms as she kisses my cheeks, releasing me from Grant's hold. She knows exactly what she is doing. She pulls back, weaving her own arm through Grant's. Her head only comes up to his armpits. She presses her wet body close to him, slanting a glance at me. “Adam, did you scare Gabriella's boyfriend away? Sean seemed upset. Is something wrong?”

Grant looks at me. “Boyfriend?”

I ignore the question in his voice. “He had some urgent business back in the city. Important things. Cop stuff.”

“Oh, I
know,
” Annalisa says with a small smile. “I remember those days. Good God, that was so boring, having him leave in the middle of the night because work called.”

She hits her mark. The image of Donovan in her bed sears my brain. I take a big gulp of my wine, so she won't see my reaction. But when I look up, I know I didn't fool anyone.

Grant laughs. “Annalisa, he's another one of your conquests? Your track record never fails to amaze me.”

Her look sours. “He wasn't one of my conquests. He was my first true love.”

That's it. “Excuse me. Where's your restroom?” I need to escape before I slap her.

“
I
'M SORRY IF
I upset you.” Annalisa is waiting for me outside the bathroom. “It's hard for me to see Sean with another woman. It's not that I don't like you. It's just that I've always assumed that one day we would get back together. I've always imagined us growing old together.”

I say nothing. She looks forlorn. But I know she's a good actress.

“If it makes you feel any better,” she says, turning to me with sad eyes, “he told me today that it would never happen.”

I take a minute to process this. She reaches into a small bag and takes out a compact mirror and a tube of blood red lipstick.

“I'm not the first woman he's been with since you. He was married, after all.”

“Oh, her,” Annalisa laughs. “Teresa never was any competition for me. He would have left her for me in a heartbeat if I'd said the word. But I wasn't ready for him yet. I'm more mature now and ready to settle down.” She pouts her lip in the compact mirror and takes a manicured finger to a small lipstick smudge. “Believe me, Teresa wouldn't have stood a chance.”

She stops and looks right at me. “You, on the other hand, seem to have a bit more of a hold on him. And there's not even a wedding ring on your finger.”

She sounds puzzled. I can tell that she is trying to figure out what it is about me that Donovan would prefer over her. This true-­confessions thing is pissing me off. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want us to be friends.”

“I don't know if that's possible,” I say with ice in my voice.

Her eyes widen as I walk out. She may be a viper—­may even be a killer—­but I'm Italian.

T
HE LA
TE LUNCH
consists of a buffet of fresh seafood and fruit. ­People fill up their plates and find spots on lawn chairs or plop down on the grass to eat. I've tried to keep an eye on Grant and Annalisa without making it too obvious. For a while, they roughhouse in the pool like teenagers. Grant keeps picking Annalisa up, holding her over his head, and tossing her in the water. She squeals with delight.

I don't know why, but I feel something that doesn't make any sense—­jealousy. I feel like Grant threw me aside as soon as Annalisa walked up. It's absurd. I have a boyfriend. This is not a date. And besides, he could be a
killer.

Maybe it's because Grant has one of those magnetic personalities. He's able to make you feel like you are the only person in the world that matters to him at that moment. It is so intense and flattering that it feels like something is missing when he directs his attention to something or someone else.

I strike up conversations with other ­people at the party, trying to find out more about Grant and Annalisa without making it obvious. Nobody seems to know anything about Annalisa beyond the fact that she is the artist being honored, but everyone talks about how Grant is a great guy. Donovan said Annalisa was fearful the murderer would show up at this party. But what if the murderer is the one hosting the party?

I feel bad about the way Donovan left, so I sneak into the house and dial him on my cell. He should be home in Oakland by now. His phone rings and rings, but his voice mail never picks up. This seems odd, so I redial his number. This time it goes straight to voice mail. I hang up without leaving a message.

When I come back out, Grant has Annalisa backed up against a wall in the pool, leaning in close to talk to her. She doesn't seem to mind one bit. Maybe they
are
in on it together. They're awfully cozy for a woman who just lost her live-­in boyfriend. How convenient to have him out of the way.

Grant pulls Annalisa out of the pool and leads her to the patio. They seem deep in conversation, with Annalisa gesturing fiercely, casting a glance back at the pool.

I look where she is gesturing. At first, it looks like everyone is frolicking, swimming, or sitting on the edge of the pool as they drink, but then I notice a woman in a black bikini casting dark looks at Annalisa and Adam Grant. She's sitting in a beach chair, scowling and sipping on her drink. For a second, it looks like she's mumbling to herself. I had talked to her earlier, and she had dismissed Annalisa with a wave, saying, she'd never heard of her or her art, and she was only there because she was a longtime friend of Grant's. She went on to tell me how she was a famous interior designer who had “done” Grant's penthouse apartment in the city.

Now I give her a second look. Who said the killer had to be a man? A scorned woman could have seduced the pants off Laurent, shot him, and sent his vehicle plunging over the ledge. I'm about to go pull up the chair beside her when I notice another guy, a man with dirty blond hair and a rugged attractiveness.

It looks like he is paying too much attention to Annalisa, but it is hard to tell exactly where he is looking because his gaze is hidden beneath dark glasses. He stands out from the crowd because he's the only one dressed, and I don't remember seeing him here earlier. He's sitting with his feet in the water, wearing a tight T-­shirt and rolled-­up cargo pants. He has an intense look on his face, his lips clamped together.

After a few seconds, he says something to a woman in the pool directly in his sight line between him and Annalisa. The woman swims over and stands between his knees. He leans down and gives her a long kiss. He must have been staring at his date, not Annalisa.

I search the other faces, but nobody seems to stand out. What made Annalisa so agitated? I start to head over to the lawn chair, but the woman in the black bikini is gone. I search the heads in the pool but can't find her anywhere.

Grabbing a towel, I head toward the house, pretending to use the bathroom while I snoop for the black-­bikini woman. The house isn't big, so I try every door on my way to the bathroom. Off the kitchen is a hallway with about five doors. All closed. I try the first one. As soon as I see the stairs leading down, probably to a wine cellar, fear spurts through me. I shut the door. No way.

All the other rooms are empty. Where did she go? When I come across the bathroom, I decide to take advantage of the facilities. When I come out, I fling open the door and scream.

The man from the pool in the dark sunglasses is standing there. He's Robert-­Redford handsome with dirty blond hair brushed back and a strong jaw with a cleft in his chin.

A low chuckle erupts from his throat. “Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you. Isn't this the bathroom?”

I burst into nervous giggles. “You scared the daylights out of me.”

He looks over his shoulder. “I'm surprised the whole party didn't rush in to see what was the matter. You've got some pretty good lungs on you.”

Even though he wears dark glasses, I feel his gaze rake over me, taking in every inch of my bare flesh. It sends a shiver down my spine. I grab my towel from my arm and wrap it snugly around my torso.

He gives me a wry smile, the side of his mouth curling up. He takes a step closer, and I involuntarily shrink back.

“That's too bad. I was enjoying the view.” His voice is low and seductive and sends a tremor through me. His body blocks the doorway. I swallow and look down.

“What's your name?”

“Gabriella.”

He is silent for a moment, then steps to the side.

Rushing by, I barely catch his murmur: “Nice to meet you. I'm Mark.”

N
OT LO
NG AFTER,
Grant asks for our attention. After everyone quiets, and a maid passes out flutes of champagne, Grant whips away a black velvet cloth to reveal a five-­foot-­long white marble sculpture on a huge pedestal. The art piece is much like the smaller ones by Annalisa at the gallery, but this one's a fountain. It features a voluptuous woman with long flowing hair leaning back with her back arched. The figure is lying on the edge of a pool of water, with one hand dipping into the water. It takes me a minute to figure it out, but the fingertips are resting on what looks like a whale's head emerging from the water.

“When I first met Annalisa, she told me a beautiful story from her childhood in Mexico that warmed my heart,” Grant says. ­People grow quiet. “I asked her several months ago to bring that story to life in a sculpture for me, and I'm honored to unveil it today. And I'm honored that Annalisa is here to share that story again.”

Annalisa moves to Grant's side.