Judy giggled. “I was always your first. She can’t take that away.”
As an only child, Meg relished her friendship with Judy, missed some of the day-to-day stuff now that she was married. “So, can you look him up?”
“Of course. Consider it done.”
“If anything looks crazy, give the information to Sam, see if she can dig more.”
They spoke for another minute before Meg returned the phone to the manager.
“Miss me?” she asked when she sat back down beside Michael.
They arrived back on the island before the last charter and Val was still seething.
There were times when his sister was a teen that he’d sat waiting for her to return home after a date . . . but he’d never felt this stressed.
The employee interrogation turned up next to nothing. He tucked away a few tidbits the housekeeper offered, but none of the information would lay a finger on why, or who took a photograph of Margaret and Michael.
Did Margaret have someone snap the shot and send it to him? The woman he met online, maybe . . . the woman he met in person . . . he wasn’t sure.
He found no fault in her genuine response to some of the simplest of things. Her reaction to his mother, the way she engaged his sister in conversation, held a sincerity he thought was real.
As for Michael Wolfe, the man was an actor. Much like politicians, Val knew better than to record anything he said as scripture. Besides, if what the housekeeper said about the sleeping arrangements was true, the lies were stacking up.
As tidbits went, that one left a smile on his face.
Margaret Rosenthal and Michael Wolfe might be friends with benefits, but those benefits didn’t start or end in a bedroom.
The titillating information thrilled him, and also made him question why they were there. Why Sapore di Amore? Why together?
Why now?
Why did the idea of his guests sleeping in two different bedrooms delight him?
Maybe because it had been some time since he felt himself taken by a woman. Margaret Rosenthal was a colorful package with many layers to unwrap to determine what made her tick. Outside of the hotel, there weren’t many things that intrigued him. He’d dedicated every minute of his life to the island. Assuring his sister and mother were taken care of was paramount. He’d had the occasional brief affair. Most were physical and lacked any real emotion.
Funny how Margaret was all emotion.
“You need therapy, Val.”
Now he was talking to himself. He pushed his mind away from women and continued his Internet search for recent sightings of Michael Wolfe.
Lou walked into his office thirty minutes after the Wolfe party had returned to their accommodations. It was late, the man was working past his designated hours . . . he never complained.
“What can you tell me?”
Lou started detailing every move from the moment he found them.
“They didn’t call attention to themselves?”
“They did the tourist thing, hid behind sunglasses. I even overheard Miss Rosenthal tell some of his fans that she’d be rich if she earned money off every time Mr. Wolfe was mistaken for Michael Wolfe.”
“Did they meet anyone?”
Lou shook his head. “No long conversations.”
“Pictures?”
“A few on the cell phone they took of themselves. Nothing more. The phone was checked in per protocol. None of the shots included any of our other guests. Nothing suggestive.”
“Vacation pictures.” Val rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Exactly.”
“Keep eyes on them.”
“Already done, Boss.”
“Thanks, Lou. Get some sleep. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long week.”
Val drove his golf cart past his guest villas and decided to walk along the beach back to his office. Normally the walk, the sea . . . the moon shining on the water would calm him.
Not on this night. This night he wished for the counsel of his father and could only hope he was somewhere silently guiding him.
He’d been a young man when his father had passed. He had been finishing up his last year in high school and remembered in vivid color the last look his father had given him.
Val wanted to spend time with his friends, celebrate life as any seventeen-year-old would. His father understood, but didn’t completely approve. Some of Val’s friends at the time went on to do a little time. Not that he fell into the crowd, but growing up in a big city like New York, it was hard not to know kids from all walks of life. His parents had provided well for him and Gabi, but they certainly didn’t live on Park Avenue.
Still, there had been one look between Val and his father, the night Masini senior had died of a heart attack, that stayed with Val his entire life. Val was running out the door with his friends and his father stopped him with an out-of-place hug. When he pulled away, he stared into Val’s eyes. His look said two things: I trust you. I depend on you. Now, years later, the feeling inside his veins matched that of one so many years before. He longed to trust and depend. On someone.
He walked past the Rosenthal/Wolfe villa and tried hard not to stare. Lights were on in the back of the house, but those in the front were dark.
Cameras wouldn’t catch anything tonight.
Tomorrow, however, was an entirely different story.
The next morning, long before the sun rose, Val sipped his first cup of coffee for the day and opened his e-mail.
A picture of himself popped up. Val saw himself staring into the darkened Wolfe villa, the sea at his back.
A shadow fell over her, drawing Meg’s attention from the nap she was trying to take. It might have been unfortunate that she opened her eyes to find a pair of dress pants with a rather impressive bulge hiding the sun, but Meg found herself tearing her gaze away to follow the overdressed path to broad shoulders, partially shaven face . . . dark eyes. “Mr. Masini.”