Deadly Embrace

  The young girl had taught him everything he was supposed to know about pleasing a woman, and although at the time he had not appreciated sticking his tongue between her legs and eating her out, he’d soon learned how much girls got off on it.

  “Good looks are not what’s gonna get you places,” his father had lectured him. “You have to be the fastest an’ the smartest in business, and you gotta know how to treat a woman in bed. That way you’ll have the world by the balls. Believe me, son, that’s what makes a man.”

  Michael Castelli was a man who did indeed have the world by the balls. Vincent looked up to him—in spite of the fact that Michael had never married Dani, Vincent’s mom.

  Vincent had not yet heard about the arrest warrant and his father’s disappearance. He was hardly in contact with his half sister, Madison—whom he’d only met once, several months ago, under strained circumstances. Michael had called him up and said he needed a favor. Naturally, Vincent had obliged.

  It galled him that Madison had no clue about Michael’s other family. How come he’d been told the truth, and yet she’d led some kind of sheltered life, believing she was an only child?

  Well, she wasn’t. There was him and his younger sister, Sofia. And if Madison thought she was any better than them, she was very much mistaken.

  “Oooh, stop!” Jenna squealed, smooth cheeks flushed as she playfully pushed Andy Dale away.

  “What’s going on?” Vincent asked, keeping his slow-burning temper under control.

  “Andy’s trying to see if I’m ticklish,” Jenna giggled.

  “Bet you are!” Andy said, lunging once again, his groping hands brushing up against her perky breasts.

  Vincent stood up. “Andy,” he said pleasantly. “Got something to show you.”

  “What?” Andy questioned. He was young, famous, and full of himself. He was a fucking movie star, for crissakes. He could have anything or anyone he wanted.

  “You’ll like it,” Vincent promised with a thin smile.

  “Not,” Jolie murmured under her breath.

  Andy stood up. He was five feet eight, thanks to cleverly concealed lifts in his custom-made shoes—without them he barely grazed five six. “Where we goin’?” he asked, following Vincent out of the plush restaurant into the packed casino.

  “There’s something in my office that might interest you,” Vincent said evenly.

  “If I can snort it or fuck it, I’m your man,” Andy chortled.

  Cretin, Vincent thought. Two more movies and you’re over.

  Marbella, Spain

  Sofia Castle was a wild one. Tall, tanned, lean, and street smart, she had no idea what she wanted to do with her life. A school dropout at fifteen, she’d rejected the very thought of college, and for three years had backpacked her way around the world with two girlfriends and a gay guy. One by one they’d all gotten into trouble. First, one of her girlfriends was arrested in Thailand for smuggling drugs. A year later, in Hawaii, her other girlfriend ran off with a married surfer she’d only known for five days. And Jace, her gay friend, managed to get himself beaten up wherever they went.

  “Like—what the hell do you do?” she’d demanded of him.

  “Nothing,” he’d answered primly, “except be myself.”

  Which was too gay for most people.

  So eventually Sofia had ended up alone, apart from a series of transient boyfriends.

  In spite of being by herself, Sofia had no desire to go home to Las Vegas, where her big brother, Vincent, bossed the crap out of her and her mom was always trying to tell her what to do. Yes, the gambling capital had lost its appeal long ago, so instead of heading home, she’d moved on to Marbella and landed a job as a roving photographer covering the nightclub scene during the tourist season.

  At eighteen, Sofia was a free spirit, and nobody could stop her. Not her mother—who, God knew, had tried. Nor Vincent—with whom she enjoyed a love-hate relationship. And certainly not her father, Michael—a man she resented big time because he’d never been around when she’d needed him.

  Sofia was her own person. Only, tonight she wasn’t so sure. Tonight she was trapped in a penthouse apartment with two drugged-out Spanish playboys who were old (at least forty) and very, very horny.

  Earlier she’d hooked up with a group of people at one of the clubs and thought they were fun. Never one to turn down free champagne and plenty of grass, she’d gone with the group to the penthouse, and suddenly everyone else seemed to have vanished, leaving her stuck with two horny old men.

  “Gotta go,” she announced nonchalantly.

  “No!” horny Spaniard number one said. His name was Paco and he had slit eyes and slicked-back boot-polish brown hair.

  “You stay with us,” horny Spaniard number two said, making kissing noises with his lips. He was a thin man in an off-white seersucker suit and shiny two-tone patent leather shoes. He smelled of lavender.

  Stoned as she was, Sofia knew it was time to get out. She also suspected that they’d locked the front door, which was not a good sign.

  “Sorry, guys,” she said, heading for the door and trying the handle. Yes, it was locked. Damn! “My old man’s a cop,” she said sharply, furious that she’d gotten caught in such a sucker situation. “So we don’t want any trouble, do we? You’d better let me out. And I do mean now.”

  “No, no—you come here, cara,” Paco crooned, coming after her and pawing her bare shoulder with his sweaty palm. “We show you sexy time.”

  “No thanks,” she said, twisting away from him. “And open this fucking door before I kick it in.”

  The men exchanged conspiratorial looks, then Paco grabbed her while the other man moved in.

  Sofia experienced a shiver of fear for the first time in her young life.

  She knew she was in trouble, and it wasn’t a feeling she appreciated.

  Las Vegas

  My daughter is in trouble. The thought kept running through Dani Castle’s mind. She’d awoken that morning after experiencing a vivid nightmare about Sofia, and hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since. Now it was nighttime, and she was having dinner with the man she should have married, but even so, she couldn’t concentrate—her mind was elsewhere.

  Dean King, a distinguished-looking man in his sixties, tall and barrel chested, with a thick head of silver hair, had never failed her, never let her down. However, in spite of their long relationship, she still lived with the hope that one day Michael would marry her and legalize their union.

  Michael Castelli. The love of her life.

  The father of her two children, Vincent and Sofia.

  She loved him. She always would.

  Dani was, at fifty-three, a beautiful woman—tall and naturally blond, with smooth skin, ocean blue eyes, and a showgirl’s body. Once a headline performer in Vegas, she now organized the occasional PR event at her son’s hotel. She was very proud of Vincent; he’d done so well—with only a small amount of help from his dad.

  Yes, Vincent could certainly take care of himself. It was Sofia she was worried about.

  Both of her children bore a strong resemblance to Michael. They had inherited his deep olive skin and jet black hair. And Sofia had definitely inherited his wild streak. One memorable day, after a big fight with her dad, she’d dropped out of school and taken off, leaving only a short note.

  Fifteen years old and she was gone. The only contact Dani had had with her since then was the occasional phone call or postcard.

  There was nothing she could do about it. Sofia possessed a will of steel, exactly like Michael, who had not seemed at all concerned by his daughter’s taking off. “The kid can look after herself,” he’d assured her. “You gotta stop worrying.”

  Easy for him to say.

  Sometimes Dani thought the only offspring he really cared about was Madison, his daughter from another woman.

  “What are you thinking?” Dean asked, leaning across the table and attempting to take her hand.

  She pulled ba
ck. Dean’s devotion was endless; maybe rejection did make the heart grow fonder. It certainly did in his case.

  Dean lived in Houston. He owned oil wells, and was extremely rich and quite powerful in his own way.

  So why didn’t you marry him, Dani?

  Because I never loved him.

  “I’m thinking about Sofia,” she sighed, sipping her wine. “I worry about her so much. I wish I could see her.”

  Dean studied her face. “Have you heard from her lately?” he asked.

  “A few weeks ago. She’s in Spain somewhere, she never says exactly where.”

  “I’ve told you many times,” he said. “If you want me to, I can hire people who’ll find her and bring her home.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Sofia will come back when she’s ready.”

  “Then you’ve got to stop worrying.”

  God! He sounded like Michael!

  “I have an early meeting,” she said, placing her napkin on the table and pushing her chair back.

  “Does this mean dinner is over?” he asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

  “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Would it matter if I did?” he said, thinking that this woman drove him insane—she always had. The problem was that he couldn’t stop being crazy about her. Two marriages to other women along the way had done nothing to extinguish the flame.

  “Of course it would,” she lied, trying to figure out why she kept Dean in the wings.

  “Well . . . ,” he said hesitantly. “I can postpone leaving and stay another day.”

  It won’t do you any good, she wanted to say, but she didn’t. Dean lived to please her, and she lived to please Michael, whom she hadn’t heard from in months. She wondered where he was and what he was doing.

  She refused to call him. She had her pride.

  Thirty-six years ago, at the age of seventeen, she’d given birth to his only son—and then eighteen years later, a daughter. He’d never married her, and yet there was no way she could ever stop loving him.

  Yes, it’s true, she thought ruefully, rejection does make the heart grow fonder.

  New York

  I’m running, Michael Castelli thought. I’m running like a rat being chased through the sewers, and I hate myself for doing this.

  But I have no choice.

  I have no fucking choice.

  His past had finally caught up with him, and it was either run and discover the truth, or rot in some lousy jail.

  Michael knew that if he was ever incarcerated again, he would never survive.

  And in Michael’s world, survival was the name of the game.

  Michael—1945

  Anna Maria was a pretty girl. Dark haired with a heart-shaped face, she spoke only a small amount of English. Her husband, Vinny Castellino, had tried to teach her, but not with much success. He didn’t mind; as far as he was concerned, Anna Maria could do no wrong. So what if she couldn’t speak the language? He was there to look after her and the baby she was carrying.

  Vinny was the proudest man on the block. He couldn’t take his eyes off his wife. Such a little girl. Such a big belly.

  He’d run into Anna Maria at the end of the war outside of Naples. She was frightened and lonely—most of her family had perished in the war and she was by herself. Vinny had befriended her, gifted her with chocolates and nylons, slept with her, and promised to keep in touch.

  Then he’d returned to his steady girlfriend in America, and tried to forget about the young Italian girl with the big soulful eyes and voluptuous body.

  His girlfriend, Mamie, a flashy blond hairdresser who lived near him in Queens, was immediately suspicious. “You do anything you shouldn’t while you was overseas?” she demanded, while treating him to a vigorous blow job in the back of her cousin’s beat-up old Pontiac.

  “ ’Course not,” he answered guiltily.

  “You sure?” Mamie persisted.

  “I’m sure,” he lied.

  “You better not have,” she threatened, “or I’ll have your balls for earrings!”

  Mamie had a colorful way of putting things.

  Vinny was used to it.

  “Oh yeah—yeah!” he yelled, reaching a satisfying climax.

  The truth was, he couldn’t get Anna Maria out of his head. She lingered in his thoughts, and as the weeks passed he knew he had to see her again in spite of Mamie’s threats of bodily harm if he so much as looked at another woman. Mamie was marriage minded. If he wasn’t careful she’d have him marching down the aisle before he knew it.

  A few months later, he still couldn’t forget Anna Maria, so he informed Lani, his mother, a big-boned woman of Sicilian descent, that he was returning to Italy.

  “Why you wanna do that?” Lani asked, her large work-worn hands on her ample hips. “Europe ain’t safe yet. The war’s only just over with.”

  “I havta go, Ma,” he explained. “There’s someone I gotta see again. It’s kinda fate.”

  “Fate my big fat ass,” Lani exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “You got a girl there, ain’tcha?”

  “No, Ma,” he protested.

  “Ha! Liar!” Lani snorted, wiping her hands on her apron. “How ya gonna pay for a ticket to Italy?”

  “You’ll lend me the money,” he said confidently.

  And Lani did, because Vincenzio was an only child, and since his dad had passed away several years ago, she gave him more or less anything he wanted. Besides, she longed to see the back of Mamie—a feeling she’d had ever since she’d first set eyes on the blowsy blond with the loud mouth who was certainly not good enough for her precious son. Maybe this was a convenient way of breaking them up.

  So Vinny flew to Italy with his mother’s blessing, and immediately reconnected with Anna Maria, who was thrilled to see him again.

  Several weeks later, much to Lani’s surprise, he returned home with a pregnant wife—a seventeen-year-old Italian girl who barely spoke a word of English.

  At first Lani was deeply disappointed that her son had gotten married without her being there, but the fact that he’d found himself a girl from the old country did a lot to help her get over her initial disappointment—although it struck her that it would have been nice if Anna Maria could have waited to get herself knocked up.

  Still . . . they were married. Mamie was definitely out of the picture, and Lani decided to make the best of it.

  She soon fell in love with Anna Maria; everyone did. The girl had a sweetness and vulnerability about her that was quite irresistible.

  When Vinny’s dad had passed on (Lani called it a heart attack—the truth was that he’d had too many beers, fallen into a drunken stupor, hit his head on a shelf, and never recovered), Lani had taken over his business, the convenience store on the corner. She ran the place herself, ordering the stock, balancing the books, and taking care of everything else that needed doing. Most often she served customers in the shop, although she employed a man called Ernie, who was way into his sixties, a man Lani considered useless.

  Shortly after Vinny returned to America with his bride, Lani put them both to work. After all, they were living with her, it was only fair. She arranged for Ernie to take care of the store in the mornings, Anna Maria was allotted afternoons, and Vinny got the late shift.

  “But Ma,” Vinny objected at first, “shouldn’t I be gettin’ into business for myself? I got a wife now, an’ a family on the way.”

  “This is your business,” Lani pointed out. “When I’m gone, the store’ll be all yours, so you’d better take damn good care of it.”

  Vinny loved his mom; however, he couldn’t wait for the day when it was all his. Not that he wished her any harm—she was the best, and the good thing was that she and Anna Maria had bonded in a way he could only have dreamed of.

  Early February the weather was cold and stormy. Anna Maria was huge—the birth of their baby only weeks away. Still, she insisted on working at the shop, trudging through the snow and rain—always making sure she was
there on time, refusing to let her mother-in-law down. Things were tough all over, and Anna Maria knew she was a very lucky girl indeed. She didn’t take anything for granted; besides, hard work was not foreign to her. Before meeting Vinny she’d worked as a maid in a hotel filled with Germans, and struggled to get enough to eat. She’d been raped twice, beaten up a few times, and in spite of her delicate appearance she’d learned to look out for herself. Then Vinny had come along and rescued her, and she would do anything for him. She adored her husband. To her he was the American dream personified: tall, handsome, kind. What more could any girl ask for?

  Weekends Ernie didn’t work, so on this particular Saturday morning in February, Anna Maria was on her own. She had trouble turning the key in the rusty padlock affixed to the back door. Her fingers were swollen and she felt a touch nauseous. She’d promised Vinny this would be the last weekend she’d work before the baby came. Lani had already spoken to Ernie about taking over her hours and he’d agreed.

  The shop smelled of stale beer mixed with the faint aroma of rancid cheese. There was a bar next door, and the stale beer smell always seemed to hang in the air.

  Anna Maria shivered. It was too cold to open the back window and get rid of the offending smell, so she rubbed her hands together for warmth, switched on the lights, set up the cash register, opened the front entrance, and waited for the first customers.

  There were quite a few regulars, and Anna Maria had quickly learned their names: Mr. Rustino, who always bought two loaves of bread and a dozen eggs; Mrs. Bellimore, who requested three small bottles of club soda, and then went down the block to the liquor store for a quart of gin—as if the liquor were an afterthought; the widow Sylvana, who never purchased anything but enjoyed gossiping.

  The customers loved Anna Maria. They all asked after her health, patted her belly, and inquired when the baby was coming. Even though the entire neighborhood knew exactly when the baby was due, they asked anyway, happy to spend time with the sweet young Italian girl who reminded them of their roots.