FACETS (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 6) (2 page)

The two girls lay languidly nude in Maura’s bed in the room they shared. The room was spartan. Other than their two twin beds, which were separated by a simple three-drawer table on which sat a Brazilian hand-painted Tiffany lamp shaded with roses that provided some color, there were two small wooden writing desks. On Alana’s, there was a photo of the girl on a large white mare. On Maura’s, a photo of her adored older brother, Anthony, the presumed heir to the Dallassio empire. 

She now raised her left leg and pointed her toes at the ceiling, twirling her foot. Both girls were proud of their legs, which were long for their frames.

“Do you think we should get boob jobs, Alana?”

It was a frequent discussion, since their breasts, while firm with youth, were smallish.

Alana playfully tweaked one of her friend’s still-swollen nipples.

“Don’t be silly.” She reached over her head to a small table to turn down the radio, whose music had hopefully masked the sounds of the delightful session of lovemaking they had just completed. “We are perfect the way we are.”

They giggled. Alana’s natural blond hair, cut short, framed a face sprinkled with a few small freckles. She had a full mouth, and widely set and almond-shaped gray eyes that gave her a slightly oriental cast. Her skin had a healthy tone common to someone who spent much of her time outdoors, either on skis or a horse. Maura’s skin was darker, befitting her Mediterranean heritage. Her raven hair was also cut short. Her brown eyes were large and set far apart above an aquiline nose and full, luscious mouth. Neither was a classic beauty, but no one who saw them, clothed or naked, ever thought they were anything but stunning.   

Neither were they gay, much preferring sex with men. In fact, often the same men, including several healthy young ski instructors at the nearby Chamonix resort. The girls’ physical relationship was more educational than passionate, with Alana the instructor and Maura her more-than-eager acolyte after learning her friend’s background.

For when it became apparent from her letters home that Maura had befriended Loeb, the Dallassio family lawyers had also delved into the Argentine’s girl’s past. One of the family retainers had even traveled to Chamonix to provide Maura with a concise — and scathing — report.

“The girl is damaged goods,” the man told Maura sternly. “She comes from a powerful family in Mendoza, but she was kidnapped at thirteen and sold into a high-end Buenos Aires brothel. Her family, using mercenaries, eventually found and rescued her, but not before she was corrupted. After her rescue she was involved in several sexual scandals in Mendoza. Her family could not handle her and sent her to this school. Needless to say, your father wants you to have nothing to do with her.”

Maura Dallas’s response to the man, a prominent San Francisco attorney named Wendell Warren, was also concise — and equally scathing.

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself, Wendell. My father does not get to choose my friends. Alana was obviously a victim of the same kind of people who run some of his own whorehouses. Corrupted? You have balls using that word with me. As if you haven’t been corrupted?”

The lawyer had started sputtering and wagged a finger in her face. He only stopped his tirade when Vincent Anastasia grabbed him by the arm and roughly ushered him out the door. Anastasia was her father’s right-hand man and the family enforcer. He had accompanied the lawyer on his fruitless mission, probably to emphasize her father’s concern, but would not stand for anyone berating Maura. He doted on both Dallassio offspring. As Anastasia left, he looked back and shook his head. Maura stuck her tongue out at him, and got the smile she expected.    

Her father’s disapproval — and hypocrisy — only reinforced Maura’s devotion to Alana, who eventually revealed all the details of her captivity and rescue by the dashing former French Legionnaire who soon became the first of the many older lovers that scandalized her family. The story so intrigued Dallas that on a school trip to Paris she duplicated the small
Cross of Lorraine
Legionnaire tattoo that adorned the base of Alana’s spine. Only Maura’s tattoo was just above her mons veneris. 

Armed with the helpful information supplied by the lawyer, Maura boldly asked her friend, the closest she’d ever had, for sexual advice.

And it was advice that mandated hands-on training. It was not long before she mastered many of the sexual techniques that would stun her own future lovers, both men and women.   

***

The news that Sister Angelina Faggini had been summoned to the Vatican to participate in a month-long synod devoted to reviewing Catholic teachings in the modern world stunned everyone at Notre-dame des Monts, not the least of whom Faggini herself.

The Mother Superior herself graciously volunteered to take over the departing nun’s theology class.

And Maura Dallas received an “A”. 

CHAPTER 2 - A FRIEND IN NEED

Boston

1995

“Maura, wait up!”

Maura Dallas, who was just leaving Austin Hall after participating in a mock trial, turned to see Lindsay, another third-year law student, approaching. A nice kid from Michigan, Lindsay lived in the same apartment complex with Maura and they often studied together. She was accompanied by a good-looking Native American boy who Maura only knew in passing.

“Hey, Linds, what’s up?”

“We’re headed into town to grab a bite at the Oyster House and then bar hop. Why don’t you join us? You must be ready to get smashed after the verbal beating that prick Brandeford just gave you. What’s his problem?”

“He needs a good fuck,” the boy said.

“That’s your solution to everything,” Lindsay chided.

“Works for me,” he said.

“Unfortunately for you, homo sabe, he’s straight.”

“Nobody is perfect.”

They all laughed.

“Besides, they frown at professors boffing students,” Lindsay said, “male or female.”

“Being objective,” the boy said, “I doubt if Brandi has any problems getting laid. He’s a hunk.”

“Down, boy.”

Lindsay turned to Dallas. 

“He seems to hate you, Maura. I thought your arguments in class were fabulous.”

Lindsay tended to idolize her friend, who was older and more worldly. In fact, most of the third-year law students with whom she came in contact, and plenty of her instructors, seemed in awe of the beautiful and exotic Maura Dallas. Only the acerbic Lucas Brandeford seemed immune to her aura, and singled her out for his particular brand of sarcastic criticism. She seemed unfazed, even contemptuous, of his put-downs, which only increased the respect of her fellow students. 

“Thanks. Don’t worry about me. I’ll live. Listen, I’m sorry, but I can’t join you. I have to change. Got a date.”

“For the weekend?”

Maura smiled enigmatically. She lived alone in her off-campus apartment, but it was common knowledge that she didn’t always sleep there. No one knew who the lucky guy was — or even if it was a man — since she kept her sexual proclivities private. Most of the males, and a couple of the females, in their class had made a run at her, but she had turned them all down. Whoever her lover was, he or she was widely envied.

“Don’t stay out too late, children,” Maura mocked, good-naturedly. “We have some tests next week, and I understand there may be a real live Supreme Court Justice auditing our next mock trial.”

“Oh, God,” the boy muttered. “I hope it’s not the black guy. If he finds out I’m a gay Indian, I’m cooked. He hates minorities and I fill two slots.”

“Just don’t wear a pink war bonnet,” Lindsay said.

Maura laughed.

“Let’s all meet the day before in Gannett House and plot strategy,” she said.

The Grecian-columned Gannett House, built in 1838, was the oldest building on campus and is home to the Harvard Law Review, the prestigious student-run journal of legal scholarship. An invitation to study there with Maura Dallas, who was on the Review, was a treat.

“I don’t know how you do it, Maura,” Lindsay said. “You study hard, but we all do, and you are the best-prepared, despite your, uh, extracurricular activities. And you get the highest marks, even from Brandeford.”

“Lots of coffee,” she said.

***  

Maura Dallas was cold. One would have thought that a professor at the Harvard School of Law, who was snoring contently at her side, would know enough to keep the thermostat at a decent temperature in his apartment. But, as she was finding out, Lucas Brandeford was a cheap bastard.

Not that Maura particularly minded cold weather. After all, she’d spent four years at Notre-Dame des Monts in the French Alps. But that was outdoor cold. Indoors, she liked to be warm, especially when naked.

The bed covers were strewn on the floor — the sex had been vigorous, probably too vigorous for Brandeford, who looked like he might never wake up — and the single sheet left over just didn’t cut it. She walked over to the thermostat. It was set for 65! And she knew it was colder by the bed, what with the draft through a rickety window frame that did little to keep the chill out.

She turned the dial on the thermostat to 75, knowing that Brandeford would pitch a fit, and went to a closet to put on one of her lover’s flannel shirts. Then she padded out to the kitchen and made coffee. She looked out the second-floor window down at Commonwealth Avenue, which still had a dusting of snow from the night before. It was Sunday and there was little traffic. Boston looked quite beautiful. She reached under the shirt and touched her left nipple and winced. Lucas was a biter, especially when he came. She smiled. He had his own bite marks to contend with, in a much more sensitive area.

Maura Dallas didn’t have to screw professors to excel in the law school. After Chamonix, she had graduated magna cum laude at Duke before moving on to Harvard Law. In addition to studying hard, she possessed an almost photographic memory and now spoke four languages fluently. But she had long ago decided not to leave anything to chance. In her first two years at Harvard Law she had reconnoitered the faculty she was likely to get in her third, and final, year. There had been two possibilities for seduction. One was a woman law professor who made no secret of her lesbianism. Maura preferred sleeping with men. But well-trained by Alana Loeb, she enjoyed occasional dalliances with women.

Alas, the female professor was in a long-term committed relationship. Not that the woman’s lover would have stood a chance if Maura put her mind to it, but Brandeford was between relationships and thus became the low-hanging fruit. A dual threat in the Harvard community — while a Doctor of Law, he also taught English Literature at the university — Brandeford’s academic star was on the rise. It was rumored that he would soon be fast-tracked for tenure.

Dallas started out by asking him for some help on something she was writing for the Law Review, help she didn’t really need. Then she made it a point to run into him at one of the pubs frequented by professors, where he was sipping scotch in his tweed jacket with the leather elbow patches. He bought her a drink.  From there it was easy. Whatever reservations Brandeford might have had about having an affair with a student disappeared after the first blow job.

Of course, to deflect any suspicion about their affair, he went out of his way to act superior to her in front of others. Hence, his frequent attacks on her in class and the mock trials. That superior attitude disappeared once she took off  her clothes. Maura was content. Brandeford was a capable, if not the most-inventive, lover, only a few years older than she. And he was, indeed, a hunk. A narcissist of the first order, he took good care of his body. She provided all the sexual invention he would ever need, and he was soon in thrall.  He even took her away during school holidays. He was almost as good a skier as she was, having grown up in New Hampshire. But on one trip he hurt his knee and began devoting himself to his other passion, scuba diving. Maura did not mind. The occasional trip to the Caribbean was a welcome respite.     

There was a knock on the door. Maura Dallas was startled. Normally people had to be buzzed into the building. It was very early. Perhaps it was one of the neighbors. She opened the door but left the chain on. She immediately recognized the hatchet-faced man standing in the hallway.

“Maura.”

She unlatched the chain and the man stepped into the apartment. His eyes briefly took in the woman’s state of undress then quickly shifted around the room. As the chief enforcer for the Dallassio crime syndicate, Vincent Anastasia never entered an unfamiliar enclosed space without looking for a potential threat.

Had it been anyone else, Maura would have gone to put more clothes on. But although not a blood relation, Anastasia was family. He’d been privy to her peccadilloes for years.    

“Vinnie, what are you doing here?”

She did not bother asking him how he knew where she’d be. Vincent Anastasia had kept tabs on her since she was a baby. She felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Your father would like you to come home.” He paused. “It’s Tony.”

Maura Dallas took a deep breath.

“What happened.”

“An accident. He crashed during a test run in Mugello. He is dead. I am sorry.”

Maura had spoken to her brother earlier that week. He had been excited by the chance to try his Ferrari team’s newest race car in Tuscany prior to the Monaco Grand Prix. It was quite an honor. He thought it would not be long before he was allowed to drive in one of Formula One’s minor races on the circuit. Their father disapproved of his son’s dangerous “hobby”, but could hardly object to such an obvious demonstration of “coraggio virile” in someone destined to run a criminal empire. But he extracted a promise that next year Anthony would return to the States to take more responsibility in the family business. Maura, who loved her brother dearly, was not jealous of his favored status. She was to be insulated from the Dallassio’s criminal operations and had her eyes set on corporate law and Wall Street where, she teased her father, “I can steal money legitimately”. And now the dashing, handsome son that Joseph Dallassio put so much of his hopes in was gone. He would be devastated. Thank God mother is dead, Maura thought.

“Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my apartment?”

Maura turned to see Brandeford standing in his underwear. Anastasia gave him a stare only slightly warmer than absolute zero. The professor started to say something, but thought better of it.

“I have a car outside,” Anastasia said. “Your father would like us to meet the body in New York and escort it back to San Francisco.”

“Give me 15 minutes,” Maura said.

She walked past Brandeford without a word.

***

The next week was a blur. Her father was indeed devastated and Maura took on many of the responsibilities of planning the funeral and all the events that went with the death of a mob kingpin’s son. The Dallassios were a powerful family and the media was out in force. Joseph Dallassio pulled himself together enough to put on a brave front with both his friends, and more importantly, his enemies, as all the West Coast crime families sent representatives. Weakness could not be shown.

Maura could barely hold it together herself as she learned more details of her brother’s horrendous death. He had been so mangled and burned in the crash that the casket had to be closed. Two people helped her get through it all. Vincent Anastasia, who loved both her and her dead brother, was like a rock. He followed her orders to the letter, and made sure everyone else did as well.

And then there was Alana Loeb. The two girls, women now, had kept in touch after graduating from Notre-Dame des Monts, although with Alana going to college and then law school in Miami, their contacts were limited to phone calls. So when Alana showed up in San Francisco two days before the funeral, Maura Dallas was both surprised and deeply touched. Like Anastasia, Alana rarely left her alone. She was such a help to the family that Joseph Dallassio took her aside.

“I was wrong about you,” he said. “I hope you will always be Maura’s friend.”

***

Maura went back to Boston to finish law school. But now she had no time for the likes of Dr. Lucas Brandeford. She told him abruptly that their affair was over. He did not take it well. The thought of losing the most accomplished sexual partner of his life reduced the haughty academic to begging like an adolescent.

“I can’t live without you,” he bleated.

When she told him to “grow up”, he exploded.

“You are nothing but a whore, a cunt,” Brandeford screamed. “Where do you get off dumping me? I’ll make your life miserable.”

And he did. His comments in class became even more biting, and other students noticed real venom behind them. Maura’s grades suffered. Although she suspected that her plans  for a “legitimate” life outside the family were probably dashed after Anthony’s death, and law school grades less important,  her pride would not stand for Brandeford’s blackmail. And she did not want the son-of-a-bitch preying on any other students.

She called Vincent Anastasia.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said.

“No,” Maura said quickly. “Not that way. Here is what I want you to do.”

A few days later, the police, acting on an anonymous tip, discovered a kilo of cocaine taped to the back of Brandeford’s dresser. Despite his frantic denials, he was arrested. The search, instigated by cops on the payroll of a local mob family Anastasia occasionally did business with, was patently illegal. The evidence quickly suppressed. But even with the drug charges dropped, the scandal was enough. Professor Lucas W. Brandeford, rising academic star, was forced to resign from Harvard.

It was a bit of overkill, Maura Dallas realized. And Brandeford might even realize who was behind his downfall. But she never believed in half measures when it came to enemies. Besides, what could he do?

So, with her nemesis gone, and a new professor teaching her course, Maura graduated near the top of her Harvard Law School class and moved back home to San Francisco. Where she found out she was pregnant with Brandeford’s child.