accented English, “and bring out the signorina so your fans can see her face, per favore.”
“One of these days, Cerelli, you're going to lose your teeth.” All the blandness was gone from Carey's voice. “Out of here,
“He's resourceful,” Molly said with a touch of irony when Carey returned.
“He's a pain in the ass,” Carey growled, watching the retreating figure.
“You must be profitable for him.”
“Hell, yes, but with Cerelli it's the damn challenge more than the money. I'd be happy to pay him double what he makes to stay off my back, but the bastard's refused. And like some goddamn ferret, he shows up anywhere!”
“Like at the Rembrandt Hotel?”
Carey's head snapped around.
Molly lifted her brows.
“Christ,” Carey muttered, “that picture must have been in every paper in the world.”
“Serves you right, keeping married duchesses out all night.”
Carey groaned. “Could we drop the subject?”
“I, on the other hand, have been quite virtuous,” Molly replied, mischief and a touch of resentment blending in her voice.
“Have the last ten years been a contest?” Carey asked.
“It appeared as though
“Are we having a fight? Because if we are, let's fight about something more interesting.” It was the primal masculine response to discord in general and inquiries into infidelity in particular.
“Weren't
Carey grimaced, considered briefly, and said, “Not particularly. Any more questions?” By now there was a certain terseness to his responses.
It fell, however, on the fearless ground of Molly's pride. “Only one,” she crisply replied. “Could you keep Cerelli away from me? I don't care to be in every paper in the world as your latest fling.”
“Okay. I'll have both his knees broken.”
“No!” she exclaimed. “You wouldn't, would you?” she finished, contrite and confused and feeling slightly out of her depth.
“Look, honey, I'll do what I can, but seriously even broken knees would only slow him down for a few weeks. Now,” he said “can we
His arms held her tightly, and she had to arch her neck to look up at him. It was cool inside the cavernous hangar, undisturbed by the morning sun held at bay outside the large open doors. For a moment she felt as though they were in some ancient pagan temple.
“Okay,” she murmured without further thought. Suddenly discord seemed trivial. Her smile was strong enough to banish images of a dozen irritating Cerellis.
“I'll be back as soon as I can,” he whispered, not wanting to leave.
“When?” she asked, not wishing to relinquish him, either.
“Tomorrow… the next day.” And then Allen's insistent reminder overrode his own potent wishes, and he amended, “Probably a couple of days. Do you want to come back with me?”
“Can't,” she breathed just before his lips brushed hers.
“I'll try and wait two days, then.”
“Why wait?” It was a breathy invitation, a flirtatious promise from a young woman who had until very recently relegated her own sexuality to a future place on a future list of future leisure time.
Carey's head came up, and his sweeping glance took in the quiet dim, interior.
“I haven't done it in the backseat of a car since that night at Lake Fourteen,” Molly teased, reaching up on tiptoe to nibble his earlobe.
Bending his head, he kissed her very hard. He'd also remembered that night, had recalled it fondly countless times. “Let me show you,” he said a moment later when his mouth lifted from hers, “the inside of my plane.”
“
“You're the only one who's ever heard it.”
“I find that charming,” she said, her chin resting on his chest.
“And I find you irresistible-Excessively so at this exact moment. Damn the photographers.” And, sweeping her into his arms, he carried her to the gleaming jet parked outside.
An hour later, Carey flew back to northern Minnesota and Molly drove home to face her busy schedule at the office. There were fewer photographers now; most had grown tired of waiting, and had left. So Molly didn't notice the gray sedan in the traffic behind her, following her on the freeway back into the city. Nor did she notice the man across the street from the Mart parking lot hastily fit a telephoto lens on his camera and run through twenty shots as she left her car to enter the building. From his vantage point near the wooden fence of Molly's small garden and yard, Paolo Cerelli noted with surprise and pleasure, the young girl walking toward the garden gate. An artist beneath his lucrative commercial profession, he immediately recognized the resemblance to the man he'd come to know intimately through the lens of his camera. “She's quite beautiful,” he murmured over the hum of the automatic shutter. “Like her father,” he added. That explained why production had been shut down so suddenly.
Cerelli had been following Carey for nearly a decade, since he'd appeared as the barefoot boy director- everyone's darling at Cannes-with his first full-length film and walked off with the prize. And Cerelli knew how serious Carey was about his movies. Once production began, he was thoroughly dedicated, even in his enfant terrible stage when women and drugs were taking a great deal of his time. Even then, the cameras rolled every morning with the young director on the set bright and early doing his job. Nothing had ever interfered with Carey's film-making. Until now.
After the pale-haired girl disappeared into the garden behind the fence, Paolo packed up his film and drove to the airport. He was anxious to express his newest photos to the sensational news magazine that paid him so well.
CHAPTER 25
C eci had contacted his team by phone and passed on his orders in a cryptic code impenetrable to listeners. With the specialized surveillance equipment throughout the world, no one relayed sensitive information in open language. Everyone was listening to everyone else, the modern-day Maginot Line of self-defense encumbered by its own informational bulk, just as its predecessor was by its static concrete.
All the men collected from various points on the Mediterranean were to be in Paris in a week. There they would meet in a safe house near Orly and confirm the required procedures for kidnapping Count Fersten's daughter. Ceci was flying up with all the necessary bank account numbers to finance the venture. The men expected half-payment up front deposited in their Swiss accounts prior to the beginning of the mission.
Deraille had only to travel from Marseilles, so he had arrived first, followed by Reha from Athens. They were still waiting for Timur Makal, but he was always the last to arrive, loathe to leave his gambling and women. Since the deadline for their meeting was noon on Thursday, Kemal “Ceci” Kiray expected Timur to arrive just under the wire, as usual.
His entrance was as expected. At 11:45 there was a small flurry of flying gravel in the curved drive, and a black Porsche Targa came to an abrupt halt. A minute later, he stood in the drawing room doorway. “I drove all night from Vienna,” he said, and his eyes were dilated from the amphetamines in his blood. But he always appeared with a beaming smile, like an uncontrite young boy.
“Was she pleasant company?” he asked, indicating the peony pink lipstick stain on the coarse silk weave of Timur's putty-colored jacket.
“They're all pleasant company,” Timur replied with a negligent glance at the pastel souvenir of his beautiful
