“I’m coughing at night, but other than that, perfect.”
“Have you seen your specialist?”
“I don’t have one.”
Val lost his grin. “The doctor told you to find one.”
“I will . . .”
“When?” He wasn’t going to let this go. The image of her gasping for air would haunt him for some time.
“Since when did you become my mother hen?”
He sighed, could see the hair rising on the back of her neck if he squinted hard enough. “Please, Margaret. Next time you might not be so lucky.”
“I’ve made a couple of calls, Val. There are channels one has to go through so the insurance company pays the bill.”
The thought of her waiting for care because of an insurance company angered him. “Have the specialist bill you.”
“Not all of us own an island, Moneybags.”
“I’ll pay.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I can pay my own medical bills.”
Correction: she could pay her copayments so long as the insurance company approved of the doctor. He knew the drill. He also knew that waiting for specialists sometimes resulted in delayed care that left people sicker than they should be. His head scrambled for a way to take care of her without pissing her off.
Tightrope, that.
“You’ll be happy to know your sister skipped the six-figure dress.” Margaret changed the subject with skill.
“Was it really that much?”
“Stupid, huh?”
“Gabi is a practical girl. I doubt she would have said yes.”
“A lot you know, women tend to get emotional about the outfit they’re getting married in.”
“Had I known you were going to introduce her to designers offering hundred-thousand-dollar gowns . . .”
She paused. “Yeah? You would have done what?”
He had to admit, Margaret calling his bluff made him smile. “I would have told her to enjoy and be sensible.”
“Then I should tell her to go with her first choice?”
This was a test . . . the kind a woman placed on a man that determined their noble words versus their actions. Somehow, making both work in unison with Margaret was something he needed to do. Though he wouldn’t want his sister spending that kind of money on a dress, he wouldn’t deny her, either. “My sister deserves the best. She’s only going to marry once.”
“Well . . .” Margaret released a sigh into the phone as if in disagreement. “Lucky for you, she liked the less expensive gown. You’re off the hook, Moneybags. I’ll be sure and help her pick out expensive accessories to make up for the dress.”
“I’m sure you will.”
He heard Margaret cough away from the phone a couple of times, bringing her health into question before she deflected again. “Anything new from the mystery photographer?”
Without any new leads, or any new random photographs making their way into his in-box, frustration sat on the edges of Val’s nerves. “What do you know about spam e-mail?”
“It’s annoying.”
“There’s that . . . but do you have any idea how spammers find you, send you e-mail with your name and personal information?”
“The piano is my instrument of choice, not a keyboard.”
Val shook his head. “Me either. Rick and his friends have traced the e-mails as far as the Netherlands. Well, one of the e-mails that far, the other diverted to Japan.”
“So we know nothing.”
“Nothing. And nothing new is showing up on this end.” He rubbed the space between his eyes, hoping to ease his tension.
“I know this isn’t going to come out right, but that’s not what I wanted to hear.”
“I hear you, cara. If everything is silent . . . how do we know our photographer will keep quiet? What information does he have? How or when will he use it?”
“Blackmail.”
Exactly his thoughts. “I hope we’re wrong.”
“I know Rick and his colleagues, even if the trail is cold, there’s still a trail. It might take time, but he’ll find the person behind it . . . eventually.”
After two days with Rick Evans, Val knew the man was a bloodhound. Rick had nothing to gain by saving Val’s ass, but was deeply invested in his wife’s family. “Something will break.”
“I hate that the person who took the pictures is in control.”
Precisely. “If money is the drive, we would have heard something already . . . if in fact the photographer had something.”
“What else could a blackmailer want other than money? None of us have a criminal record to uncover and extort.”
“Even if one of us did, the end result would be the same.”
“Blackmail.”
“Yes.”
“Which puts us right back at the beginning and the photographer has the control.” The conversation was frustrating, even to his ears. “What are you wearing?” The art of distraction took a lot with Margaret. And he didn’t want to discuss what neither of them could control any longer.
“W-what? Wearing?”
“Yes, bella, the clothes on your back. What are you wearing?” He couldn’t imagine her shopping for wedding dresses in her pinup dresses and red lipstick. He knew much of that was for show.
“Jeans and a cotton shirt,” she said with a chuckle. “What about you?”
He opened his mouth only to have her cut him off.
“Wait, let me guess. Suit . . . your jacket might be off, depending on where you are on the island.”