The Sicilian Surrender, page 2
“Damn you, explain yourself!”
“I’ll sue you for assault if you don’t let go!”
It wouldn’t be assault, it would be murder. He was a heartbeat away from it. Stunned by the intensity of his rage, he let her go.
“Explain yourself.”
“I did, but you wouldn’t listen.” She wrapped her arms around herself and looked up at him. Her voice took on timbre; excitement flashed in her eyes. “You think you know all about making money? Maybe, but you don’t know squat about magazine publishing. You debut a new magazine or relaunch an old one, what you need is to produce an issue that’ll set the country talking. Just one issue, and the magazine will be so hot it’ll sizzle. And so will I.”
“Sizzle some other way. No one is setting foot here without my permission.”
“We’ll be here three days, no more than that. I won’t insult you by offering you money for the right to do the shoot here.”
He laughed, and her cheeks reddened.
“Don’t make me force your hand, darling.”
“Force it?” he said through his teeth.
“You want to keep your life a deep, dark mystery, don’t you?” She smiled slyly. “Offhand, I can think of half a dozen tabloids that would love an exclusive interview with the great Stefano Lucchesi’s mistress—along with aerial photos of his new hideaway.”
In the ensuing silence, Stefano could hear everything. The pound of his heart. The distant boom of the surf and the sharp cry of a bird far over the rolling sea. He could feel the shadows behind him, the ghosts of the wild warriors who’d done whatever was necessary to protect this place.
“I could kill you,” he said softly. “No one would know. All I have to do is drag you to the top of the cliff and throw you off. By the time your remains washed up, the crabs would have eaten their fill.”
Carla’s smile trembled but she moved closer to him.
“You’re a heartless bastard when you want to be, Stefano Lucchesi, but killing women? Never.”
Stefano stared at his former lover for long moments. Then he spat at her feet, brushed past her and headed for the house.
So much for his dreams.
She had defiled this place.
Maybe his grandfather had been wise to have left the island behind.
CHAPTER TWO
ALL the oceans of the world looked the same from 35,000 feet…and wasn’t it sad when you’d flown so often that you could think of nothing but that when you were almost seven miles above the Atlantic?
Fallon O’Connell sat back, pressed the button that fully reclined her soft leather seat and wondered when she’d turned into such a world-weary cynic.
Across the aisle, a little boy traveling with his mother sat with his nose almost pressed to the glass, enthralled by the cloudless view of the ocean miles below and by the wonder of leaving Connecticut this evening and arriving in Italy tomorrow morning…but then, the kid hadn’t made this trip a million times.
She’d been as excited as he was, her first flight to Europe ten years ago.
Fallon closed her eyes.
She was on her way to an island in the Mediterranean for a one week shoot, a suite in a mansion waiting for her as well as the best makeup artist and cameraman in the business ready to work their magic…
Her mouth twitched.
A little enthusiasm might be a good idea right about now.
She sighed, sat up straight and peered out the window again.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want the job. What model wouldn’t? The inaugural cover of Bridal Dreams and inside it, pages and pages of glossy photographs devoted to her.
Of course, she wanted it.
So, what was the problem? That was what her brother Cullen had asked her last night, after Keir’s and Cassie’s wedding.
The newlyweds had finally made their laughing escape, but the O’Connell clan wasn’t finished celebrating. They’d moved the festivities from the lushness of the Tender Grapes restaurant up to the handsome stone house that overlooked Deer Hill Vineyard.
Sean lit a fire on the massive hearth.
Anybody want to roast an ox? he’d said, to much laughter.
Cullen opened another bottle of Deer Hill’s prize-winning Chardonnay.
Damn good thing Keir bought himself a vineyard instead of a soft drink franchise, he’d said, to more laughter.
Cullen filled all their glasses. Sean went through Keir’s collection of CDs and put on something soft and classical while their mother and stepfather settled on the sofa. Megan, Briana and Fallon kicked off their stiletto heels and groaned with pleasure.
How about taking the dollar tour? Bree said.
Yeah, Megan answered, looping her arm through Bree’s. Maybe we can finally figure out how many rooms this place really has.
She held out a hand to Fallon, but Fallon smiled and shook her head.
“You guys go ahead. I’m going to step outside for a breath of air.”
Her sisters trooped off and Cullen looked over at her. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, flashing another smile. “I just want to take a look at the sky. I’m not used to seeing all these stars.”
Her brother grinned. “Me, neither. Us city types tend to forget.”
Fallon nodded, opened the sliding glass doors and stepped out on the terrace. The stars shone down with crystalline brilliance from a black-velvet sky; the ivory moon seemed caught in the uplifted branches of a stand of trees.
The warm air of the Connecticut summer night enveloped her.
Wineglass in hand, Fallon went down stone steps that still held some of the day’s heat. She made her way slowly along the gentle slope of the hill and through terraced rows of grapevines.
There, the earth was cool and moist against her bare feet—she and her sisters had decided to forgo panty hose under their long bridesmaids’ gowns. The breeze, perfumed by heavy clusters of ripening grapes, smelled delicious.
It had been a lovely day. A wonderful weekend. Her mother was blissfully happy with Dan, who’d turned out to be the kind of stepfather that gave the word luster. Spending time with her sisters and brothers was always fun, and her oldest brother was so crazy in love with his Cassie that it almost made you believe in love.
For someone else, at least, if not for yourself.
Fallon stopped walking, sipped some of the wine, ran a hand lightly over a cluster of velvety grapes.
Then, how come she was feeling so—so—
What? What was she feeling? Weary? Under the weather? Maybe even a little bit down? There was no reason for it, none at—
“Hey.”
She gasped and spun around just as Cullen reached her.
“You scared me to half to death,” she said with a little laugh.
“Sorry. I figured you heard me coming.” He grinned. “I guess I have a delicate walk.”
Fallon grinned back at him. “Delicate” was not a word anyone would use to describe her brothers. Cullen, like the rest of them, was big, six foot two in his stockinged feet.
“Uh-huh. About as delicate as a moose. What are you doing out here?”
Cullen shrugged. “Same as you, kid. Checking the stars, stretching my legs, taking a breather. It’s been a long day.”
“A long weekend, you mean. Fun, though.”
“The gathering of the O’Connell clan always is. Fewer fireworks than usual this time, at least.”
Fallon laughed. “Probably out of deference to Cassie. I guess none of us wanted to scare her off. She scored lots of points, being able to tolerate all of us at one clip.”
“Uh-huh. She seems terrific.”
“I agree.”
Brother and sister sipped their wine.
“Amazing,” Cullen said, after a while. “That Keir got married, I mean.”
“It happens,” Fallon said lightly.
“Sure, but not to us.” They both laughed. “It was a great ceremony.”
“Mmm.”
“Those vows they wrote were cool.”
“Mmm,” Fallon said again, and took another sip of wine.
“Touching.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Touching?”
“Yeah. You know, the sentiments they expressed. Isn’t a man permitted to use the word? You thought so, too.”
Fallon blinked. “Were we talking about me?”
Cullen, who’d hours ago discarded his tuxedo jacket and bow tie, opened the top buttons of his shirt.
“You cried a little,” he said softly. “At the end.”
“Me? Cry at a wedding?” Fallon turned toward him and poked a finger into the middle of his chest. “Cullen. My darling little brother—”
“You’re only a year older than I am, kid. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“The point is, I do not cry at weddings. Why would I? When you’ve been a bride nine trillion times—”
“A magazine-cover bride, six times, and don’t look so surprised. Ma keeps count.”
Fallon looked up at him. “Does she?”
“Damned right. And if you want to know the rest, she sends each of us a copy of every magazine that has you on the cover…As if we all didn’t run to the nearest store and buy up all the copies ourselves.”
Pleased beyond reason, Fallon smiled.
“That’s nice.”
“Nice? It’s necessary. How do you think those magazines stay in circulation? If the O’Connells didn’t buy ’em, who would?” He laughed, ducked away from the fist his sister teasingly aimed at his jaw. “But being a bride on a cover doesn’t make you a bride in real life, babe. We both know that.”
Fallon narrowed her eyes. “What’s happening here? You think, now that Keir’s gone down the aisle, we all should?”
Cullen shuddered. “Hell, no!”
“Good. Because I’m not the least bit interested in getting married.”
“Fine with me. I’m just wondering why you were crying.” His voice gentled. “You okay?”
“Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. If some guy out there hurt you or something—”
“Oh, Cull,” Fallon said softly. Her lips curved in a smile; she clasped her brother’s forearms, lifted to her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”
“Hey, did I or did I not beat up Billy Buchanan for you in fifth grade, when he wrote ‘I Luv Amy’ on that fence instead of ‘I Luv Fallon’ after he’d sworn to be your boyfriend forever?”
Fallon grinned. “Probably because he couldn’t spell Fallon, but yes, you did.”
“Well, any other SOB gives you a bad time, you tell me, okay?”
She stared at Cullen, wondering what he’d say if he knew that she didn’t even date anymore, that one man too many had coveted her as a trophy to be won and ignored her as a woman who wanted to be loved for who she was, not what she was.
“Sis?”
Fallon smiled and looped her arm through his. “Okay.”
They began walking up the hill, toward the turreted stone house illuminated by moonlight.
“It was just that it all seemed so—so right,” she said after a minute, her voice soft and low. “The flowers. The words. The music. The way Keir and Cassie looked at each other. I guess you’re right. It was touching.”
“Sure.”
“Not that I want any of it for myself.”
“Your career,” Cullen said, nodding as if he understood that there was no room in her life for anything else.
Except, how could he understand when she didn’t? After years of hard work, her career was at its peak…and she wasn’t enjoying it half as much as she’d expected.
She’d hit it big at seventeen, just walking along a New York street on a break between finishing high school and starting college. A man had come up to her, shoved his card at her, said, when she jerked back, that he wasn’t a child molester or a lunatic, that he owned a modeling agency and if she wasn’t a fool, she’d come in to talk with him.
Fallon had never been a fool. You didn’t get to be valedictorian of your class or survive a childhood spent moving from place to place by being stupid. She’d checked out the name of the agency, called for an appointment and met with the man who now bore the distinction of having discovered her.
By the time she was eighteen, her face was everywhere. So was she. A week in Spain, another in Paris, long weekends in the Caribbean and on Florida’s Gold Coast that very first year, and scores of places ever since.
Maybe that was why she’d been so emotional yesterday, at the wedding. Maybe it was knowing that Keir and Cassie were going to put down roots.
Maybe it was why she was staring out the jet’s window again, wondering when she’d realized that one ocean was like another, one island like another, one man like another—
“Miss O’Connell?”
Fallon looked up. The cabin attendant was standing over her, smiling and offering the breakfast menu. She shook her head, declined everything but a small pot of coffee.
When it came, she raised her seat halfway and poured a cup.
You had to watch your weight when you modeled, more and more as the years sped by. The svelte figure you had at eighteen wasn’t the same as the one you had at twenty-eight.
Twenty-eight, she thought, sipping at the hot black coffee. Pushing thirty. Not bad in this business. Her body was still all right; hours in the gym kept it that way, but she’d have to do some things to her face soon, if she wanted to keep going. Maybe get her eyelids done or her mouth plumped with collagen. Take a shot of Botox to keep wrinkles from between her brows.
She hated even the thought of doing something so artificial. As it was, there were times she looked in the mirror after someone had done her hair and her face, after someone else had chosen what she would wear, after still another person told her to look soulful or excited or whatever would sell cars or hand lotion, and wondered who she was.
Surgery, injections, little tucks and snips would only make the real Fallon more difficult to find.
Sometimes, she looked in the mirror and wondered what life would be like if she were a real person instead of a woman created by the camera.
Fallon grimaced and put down her cup.
For heaven’s sake, what was wrong with her?
She was Fallon O’Connell, supermodel. Thousands of women would give anything to trade places with her, and every last one of them would tell her she was certifiably crazy not to be happy.
She had a wonderful, exciting life. And she knew, even if nobody else except her family did, that she was more than just a pretty face.
She smiled, remembering the way Sean and Cullen had greeted her at the Hartford airport a few days ago, enfolding her in rib-squeezing hugs, Sean saying he was glad to see she was still as homely as sin, Cullen adding yes, it was true, and wasn’t it a terrible shame?
Fallon chuckled. Her family knew how to keep her grounded.
She pressed the seat button and sat up straight.
Enough of this silliness. She had to concentrate on the job ahead. It was an incredible assignment. She’d be the only model in the shoot, and she’d work with Maurice, her favorite photographer, and Andy, a genius of a makeup artist who’d always been able to make her look ethereal.
Carla—the Bridal Dreams editor who’d set up the whole thing—would be there, too, but that was it. Just their little group, and nobody else, not even the mansion’s owner. That was a relief. She’d done shoots on private property before and sometimes the owners got so star-struck and excited, they got in the way.
Not this time.
This owner, Carla said, was an old man with a bad temper. God only knew what magic Carla had worked to convince him to let them use the site for the shoot. When Fallon had asked, Carla winked and said it was a secret. She’d probably used that same magic to get the old guy out of the way. Carla said she’d given him the option of staying around but he’d refused.
So there’d be just a handful of people, people Fallon already knew, and the ruins of an old castle, a view Carla swore went on forever, the sun, the sea, the beach…
And the volcano, smoldering in the distance.
She felt better, just imagining it.
She’d been to Sicily before, only for a couple of days. That had been work, too, but she’d been one of three models. The other girls had hated the island. They said it was too rugged, too old-world, too windswept, but Fallon had loved it.
Sicily was reality. Islands where the trees were lush, the land gently rolling, the people smiling and laid-back were fantasies.
A touch of reality was a breath of fresh air in a life where the end product was illusion.
The sound of the jet’s engines changed. It was subtle, but she’d flown enough to recognize the different nuances in tone. The pilot was throttling back. Soon, he’d put down the flaps and lower the landing gear.
Fallon leaned toward the window. The sky was turning light; a slender red thread stretched across the horizon. They’d be over land any minute, touching down in Paris where she’d change planes for the last leg of her flight.
Perhaps, she thought with a little kick of excitement, perhaps Sicily was where she’d finally figure out who she was and what she was going to do with the rest of her life, because the truth was, the future was on her mind lately.
On her mind, a lot.
Fallon shut her eyes, blocked out the sound of the engines and the excited voice of the little boy across the aisle. She took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly and deeply.
A couple of relaxation exercises, she’d be absolutely fine.
* * *
A few hours later, not even a day’s worth of relaxation exercises would have helped calm her nerves.
What kind of place was this?
Was there supposed to be a deluge in Catania at this time of year? Was she supposed to be so wet and cold that she was shivering?
Plus, nobody spoke English. Well, nobody here at the cab stand. Nobody spoke Italian, either. Fallon did, a little. More than a little; she had a good ear and she’d picked up a considerable amount of the language when she lived in Milan for six weeks at the start of her career.
What people were talking here sounded like Italian, but it wasn’t. It was a dialect, sort of what you heard in New York when you went into one of those fantastic little shops all the way downtown where they said “proh-voh-lone” when they meant “prah-vah-lohn-eh” or “scun-geel” when they meant “scun-gee-lee.”
