Without a Trace

  "Nonsense. I wanted to know or I wouldn't have asked." He took a deep breath and let it out very slowly. "I want to know all there is to know about you, Sarah. I just wish—"

  "What?"

  "That I—" He brushed his fingertips across her lips. "My nights are ugly, Sarah, too ugly to share them with anyone."

  She stiffened. "Don't tell me you want separate rooms. I'll have hysterics."

  He tucked his chin against his chest to look down at her. "No, I mean on a permanent basis. You understand?"

  And suddenly she did. Oddly enough, with understand­ing came joy because, unlike Michael, she believed there had to be a solution to his problem if only they looked hard enough. He cared for her. If he didn’t,” he would never have begun this conversation. Knowing that gave her something to hold on to, even if it was fragile. "It's sort of silly to worry about permanent when we can't even count on tem­porary."

  His mouth curved into a half grin. "I prefer to think positively." Touching a hand to her hair, he whispered, "Oh, Sarah, Sarah, what have I gotten you mixed up in?"

  "I wish I knew." Snaking her arm around his waist, she gave him a quick hug. His expression, the ache in his voice and the incredibly light way he touched her, all told her how very deeply he cared, how concerned he was for her safety. "It's not your fault, you know."

  He sighed and closed his eyes, keeping his hand on her hair. "I can't understand it. That's what bothers me the most. In the beginning, they were trying to kill us. But now, for no apparent reason, they've changed their methods. Those guys at my house this morning could have picked us off easily and they never even went for their guns. Then the men at the hotel tonight—they wanted to take us some­where."

  "The men at the concierge's desk didn't shoot, either."

  "Which is another piece to the puzzle. I think half of Chicago's chasing us."

  She snuggled as close to his warmth as she could. "Oh, Michael...."

  He turned slightly, pressing his lips against her forehead. Silence settled over them. Time drifted by. Her eyelids be­gan to feel heavy. She fought sleep, acutely aware that he was wide awake, but eventually she lost the battle.

  When her breathing grew shallow and eyen, Michael traced the shape of her mouth with his forefinger, remem­bering the one time he had kissed her and the explosion of feeling that had erupted within him. Not just passion, though of course he had wanted her, but more than that— much more than that. Tenderness. Protectiveness. Long­ing. He supposed if he had to describe his feelings for her in one word, he'd choose cherish. He closed his eyes on that thought. Nightmare or no, he had to get some rest if he planned to get her out of this mess alive.

  Doughnuts and coffee were not Sarah's favorite way to wake up, especially not when both were cold and greasy. She'd seen greasy pastry plenty of times but never a cup of Java with oil floating on the surface. Blue film. It made her think of polluted bay water. It was particularly irritating to see Michael across the booth from her, sipping, dunking and munching as though he were at the Ritz.

  He lifted curious brown eyes to hers, a crescent of doughnut halfway to his mouth. "You're grumpy this morning."

  "I'm always grumpy until I've had my two cups of cof­fee."

  His gaze dropped to her Styrofoam cup. "That isn't cof­fee?"

  She jabbed an accusing finger downward. " That is muck. How can you drink it? Did you see that man's fingernails? He looks like a mechanic, not a cook."

  "I thought it tasted pretty good."

  She rolled her eyes. "You don't swallow this stuff; it slides down."

  The laughter in his eyes encircled her with warmth. "Come on, drink up so I can take you back over to the room. I promise lunch will be better."

  She raised an eyebrow. "What d'you mean, so you can take me back? You're not going?"

  "I'm going to Santini's house."

  She leaned forward. "Where you go, I go. This is Sarah the shadow you're talking to."

  "No way, not this time. It'll be too dangerous."

  Hysterical laughter welled in her throat. What could be more dangerous than staying in this creepy neighborhood by herself? "I'm not staying here alone. End of subject. You leave, I leave, capisce? Who knows, maybe I can snag a cup of decent coffee someplace."

  His eyes went deadpan. "I don't want you hurt."

  "Yeah? Well, I don't want me hurt, either, especially not when I'm alone. If I'm going to get it, I want to have com­pany."

  He scowled at her, but if Sarah were one to be intimi­dated by scowls, she never would have gotten where she was in the business world. She smiled brightly and poured her coffee into his cup. He narrowed his eyes, but she could see by his expression she'd won the argument.

  "So... why Santini's?"

  He sighed, reaching for another doughnut. She had been counting and that was three, a good sign if increase of ap­petite was an indication that he was recovering from his wound. "I think he can tell me something. There must have been a reason my dad left here and never once got in touch with his own brother. If I can find out why, we'll be that much closer to finding out who's behind all this."

  It sounded reasonable. Unfortunately it also sounded risky. She leaned back in her seat. "We'd better not call him in advance. As it is, we could be walking into a trap."

  The first thing Sarah said when she saw Giorgio's ex­pensive home made Michael recall his first visit there when he'd longed for a dose of her sense of humor. She climbed out of the cab, tipped her head to one sidle and smiled. "One thing's for sure, he doesn't toss noodles for a living."

  "He doesn't make doughnuts, either."

  A horrible thought struck her. "Your dad doesn't make greasy ones, does he?"

  He laughed and slammed the cab door. "I was hungry, okay? Give me a break. I'll take you to the nicest place I can find for dinner and make up for it."

  "In our new neighborhood, the nicest place has roaches crawling along the baseboards." She linked her arm in his, walking up Giorgio's walkway with him as if they had been invited for high tea. In burgundy slacks, a purple blouse and sneakers, that was a feat in itself.

  "You sure you want to go in? You'd be safer waiting in the cab."

  A little quiver at the corners of her mouth told him how- tense she really was. "No way. Like I said, if I'm going to die, I want to do it in good company. Besides, he might serve coffee."

  He rang the bell, then placed his hand over Sarah's where it rested on his arm. Her small fingers felt fragile beneath his, reminding him how easily she could be injured. His throat tightened around a lump the size of a baseball. He would have given everything he owned right then to have her someplace safe, uninvolved in the circus his life had be­come.

  A man in a gray suit answered the door. His blue eyes flickered with recognition when he saw Michael, then drifted curiously to Sarah. "May I help you?"

  "Yes, we're here to see Mr. Santini. I'm Michael Smith. He'll recognize the name."

  The man stepped back, motioning them inside. After closing the door, he led the way into the living room and offered them each a seat. "I'll inform Mr. Santini that he has guests. Please, make yourselves comfortable while you wait."

  Michael kept hold of Sarah's hand, pulling her down on the sofa beside him. Moments later, Giorgio appeared in the archway, his brown eyes filled with alarm. "Gino, what brings you here?" Glancing over his shoulder, he snapped his fingers. "Please, Pascal, remain here with us? I may re­quire your presence."

  Pascal lingered beside the much shorter Santini, his eyes darting nervously around the room. Michael glanced at Sarah. Pascal didn't seem any too thrilled about staying.

  Had he hoped to notify someone outside the house of their arrival? Giorgio motioned Pascal to a wing chair, then took a seat opposite him. "This is an unexpected pleasure."

  "I came to get some answers," Michael said with a bluntness that made the room grow still. "When I came here before, we both did a lot of hedging. The time for that is over. My father has disappear
ed. I think you may know who abducted him."

  The color washed from Giorgio's face. "Angelo has dis­appeared? When did this happen?"

  Michael leaned forward. "It happened over a week ago, as you probably well know." He gestured toward Sarah. "And after that her secretary was attacked in an alley. What is it, the mob? Some kind of vendetta?"

  Pascal settled back in his chair, scratching his chin. Then, ever so nonchalantly, he reached a hand under his lapel. Giorgio's attention shifted immediately to him. "Don't do it, Pascal. You were right, blood is thicker than water. He is my brother's son. I don't have any of my own."

  Sarah couldn't breathe. Her gaze was glued to the almost imperceptible lump under Pascal's jacket. She felt Michael's tension. It was so powerful, so electrical, it pulsated around her, tingling on her skin.

  "The boss won't like this," Pascal said in a silken voice.

  "To whom do you owe your loyalty?" Santini de­manded. "Him or me?"

  Pascal hesitated and at last dropped his hand to his lap. Santini visibly relaxed. Only Michael seemed coiled to spring. "The boss? Uncle Giorgio, please level with me. My father's life, as well as mine and Sarah's depend on my knowing who's behind all this. You're involved with the mob, aren't you?"

  Giorgio's mouth twitched as he smiled. "Don't be ridic­ulous, Gino. The day of the Chicago gangster is over, has been for years. Do I—" He threw back his head and chuckled, lifting his hands in a persuasive way. "Do I look like a mobster to you? I am an old man, no?" His gaze slid to Sarah. "Ms. Montague, I presume? You are a close friend of our Gino's, eh? Perhaps you should persuade him to go home before it's too late. Before you both get hurt."

  The threat was unmistakable. Michael stood, pulling Sarah to her feet beside him. Nudging her toward the entry, he turned to face the two men, walking backward so he could watch them while he moved away. "Go to the cab, Sarah. I'll be right there."

  "But—"

  "Go. This visit was obviously a waste of our time."

  Sarah grasped the door handle, reluctant to leave him, afraid not to for fear she'd get him killed. Escaping onto the front porch, she ran for the cab, not looking back.

  When he reached the archway to the gallery, Michael paused to give Sarah time, his gaze leveled on his adoptive uncle. "If you have me tailed, if you let him have me tailed, you're signing my death warrant. I'm going to trust you not to let that happen."

  Giorgio inclined his head ever so slightly, indicating that he would see to it that Michael left without anyone follow­ing. Whether he could trust him or not, Michael didn't know, but it was a chance he had to take. He didn't have any options.

  After Michael left the house, Giorgio closed his eyes for a moment, then fastened an understanding look on Pascal. "I know what you must do. I will not stop you, eh? But out of loyalty to me, wait five minutes. As Gino said, for old times' sake? I will ask nothing else of you."

  "You're a dead man. You know that, don't you? When La Grande finds out Gino was here and you didn't grab him, it's wreath time."

  Giorgio again inclined his head. "I am an old man, Pascal. Gino has the rest of his life ahead of him. I would die soon anyway, would I not? When I do, I want a clear conscience. My brother is the only family I have left. Be­cause of my connections, I chose never to marry and have children of my own. After Angelo left, I never felt...worthy or safe."

  Silence settled over the room. Pascal fastened his atten­tion on the wall, a distant expression on his face. "You could clear out. If I got hit on the head, no one could blame me. You could be long gone by the time I came around. I got Gino's cab number. That'll pacify La Grande."

  "If you give it to him, my nephew may be killed once he is no longer useful."

  Pascal smiled. "I have a hunch Gino's got more Santini in him than you think. He won't be easy to trace. At least he has a fighting chance. I'll buy him a little time, but I can't make a miracle. Neither can you. Go for it. Get out while you still can. I hate funerals."

  "And where would I run?"

  Pascal raised an eyebrow. "To the Feds, where else? Who knows, maybe they can work a miracle for your Gino, eh?"

  Giorgio grinned. "Perhaps. I got the cab number, too."

  Another seedy hotel in another seedy neighborhood. More greasy coffee, coming up. Sarah plopped on the creaky bed and threw her head back to stare at the smoke stains on the green ceiling. She might not have minded loud bed springs if she and Michael were making some of the right noises with them, but the frown of concentration on his forehead didn't indicate he had any such intention.

  She sighed loud and long, casting him an inquisitive glance. "So now what?"

  "I'm thinking."

  "My vote is Marcus St. John. He might know some­thing."

  He shook his head. "No, whatever's going on, it started with my father. St. John wouldn't even know the Santinis, so how could he help us?"

  "How about your mother? Her behavior was sort of about-face, suspicious at best."

  "Same thing goes for her. She probably never laid eyes on Angelo Santini. No, Sarah, it all leads back to my father, no two ways about it."

  She twisted on the bed, snapping her fingers. "Newspa­pers!"

  "What about them?"

  "Old ones. I'll bet we could come up with something if we went through old publications. Think about it. In your nightmare, there's blood on the floor. That means some­one was badly injured or murdered. That would make the news. Maybe your dad killed someone." She warmed to the idea, rising to her knees on the mattress to wag a finger at him. "Or finked on someone! Presto, you've got ven­detta."

  He turned from the window, his brow creased in a scowl. "Maybe you have something there. Where could we find old news copy?"

  "At the library. They keep it on microfilm. And if that fails, most newspapers have morgues."

  "Don't say that word. It sends chills up my spine."

  Bouncing off the bed, she hurried to the scarred dresser to rummage through the grocery bag sitting there. Pulling out a newly purchased brush, she went to work on her hair, grinning at his reflection in the mottled mirror. "We're on to something this time. I feel it in my bones. With both of us going through film, it shouldn't take us that long."

  Four hours later, Sarah would have given almost any­thing she owned for a good cup of coffee. The viewing room was stuffy and hot, she felt nauseous from staring at blurred pictures and she had eyestrain from reading. And she was getting sleepy. The lack of caffeine in her system was tak­ing its toll. Since Michael was searching for news articles on the Santinis and there were no duplicate films available, she was looking for information on his real father, Adam St. John, trying to find an obituary. So far, no luck. She was beginning to wonder if St. John had died in another city.

  Running the film forward, she stifled a yawn and blinked tears from her eyes. What a dull year. She passed a hand over her brow and ran more film. Wait a minute, was that something? She reversed, scanning the bold print. And then she realized what had caught her attention. A picture of Michael? A tingle of excitement slithered down her back. No, not of Michael, but a man who was his near double— Adam St. John. Bingo! His obit. Sarah bit her lip, forget­ting all about her headache.

  The headline read:

  COMPUTER MAGNATE DIES HEIR TO ESTATE CANNOT BE FOUND

  Heir? Slowly advancing the film, she scanned the article. She had just begun to read about a clause in St. John's will that provided an inheritance for his illegitimate son when Michael called her name, his tone imperative. Shoving back her chair, she circled to his machine.

  "You'll never guess what. Your father did have a son. I just found mention of it in his obit." The inanity of that re­mark hit her and she giggled. "Well, of course, you knew he had a son. But this is proof that—" She stared down at his pale face. "What's wrong?"

  He stared straight ahead, not moving, not seeming to hear her. She could see that he was stunned. She leaned forward to peer at the newspaper page. SANTINI AGREES TO TESTIFY leaped
off the screen at her. Excited, she moved closer, grasping his shoulder. Angelo Santini has agreed to testify against someone named Paul La Grande? La Grande, according to the article, had been charged with several crimes ranging from police bribery, prostitution, illegal gambling and loan sharking to several counts of murder by proxy. Santini's testimony was considered to play a key role in the prosecution's case.

  She advanced the film, wondering what had upset Michael so badly. This was no more than they had expected. His dad had finked, just as she had said. She found an­other article dated three days later that said Santini's life had been threatened by Paul La Grande's father, Brian. As she ran the film forward again, she felt Michael's tension build. And then she saw why:

  MOBSTERS HIT SANTINI HOME, MURDER HOUSEKEEPER

  Nausea rolled through her stomach, and she knew if the effect on her was that bad, the effect on Michael had been far worse. The mobsters, according to the paper, had swept through the Santini home with machine guns, riddling the walls with bullets. Three-year-old Gino Santini had hidden under his bed and miraculously escaped harm. When Fed­eral agents searched the house, the child had been so terri­fied, he stayed hidden even though agents called his name. The child had to be forcefully removed from his hiding place.

  Sarah's heart twisted. Tightening her grip on his shoul­der, she started to crouch beside him. He forestalled her by saying, "Advance it. There's more. It says we were taken into protective custody."

  She did as he asked, her pulse slamming. A picture came on the screen of Michael, three years old, clinging to his fa­ther's leg, attending the highly publicized funeral of the murdered housekeeper. The expression on the little boy's face in the photo was one of shock. Even with the grainy detail, she could see the blank horror and utter confusion in his eyes as he fell back from the cameras. Michael. She touched a finger to the child's dark hair, the love she felt for the man beside her stretching back thirty-two years to in­clude the boy he had been.