Passion (In Wilde Country 2)

Matteo took a quick step back, reached into his pocket for his iPhone.

“Bellini! Matteo Bellini! Hey, over here!”

It was Pastore, rising from a booth at the far end of the room, gesturing to him and grinning.

Matteo hadn’t seen him in a couple of years, and he was startled at how he’d changed.

Pastore was tall; he’d always been what people would describe as a big man. He’d reminded Matteo of the actor who’d played Tony Soprano years before in the hit HBO series. Now, he’d gone from big to corpulent. Only his brassy voice and ruddy face were the same.

Trapped, Matteo thought, and he pasted a smile to his lips as he walked toward him, hand outstretched.

“Tony,” he said, far too heartily. “What a surprise.”

“Small world, huh? Haven’t seen you in forever! Sit down and join us.”

“No,” Matteo said.

Pastore’s eyes fixed on him like laser beams.

“I said—”

“I know what you said, but I, ah, I can’t stay. Call me Monday and we’ll talk then.”

“I don’t think you understand,” Pastore said carefully. “My wife is with me. Surely, you can spare a few minutes to meet her.”

Shit.

Trapped again, but not for long. He’d smile, say hello, shake the lady’s hand. Matteo fixed that phony smile to his mouth again as he turned toward the other side of the booth.

“Sure. Of course. How do you do, Mrs. Pastore? I’m—I’m—”

His words stuttered to a halt.

Pastore had said his wife was crazy.

What he hadn’t said was that she was beautiful. More than beautiful.

Ariel Pastore was stunning.

Hair the color of wheat. Eyes the color of rich chocolate. An oval face, a generous mouth, cheekbones that could probably cut glass. Clichés, sure, but how else to describe a woman who looked like this?

But there was no way at all to describe what he saw in her eyes as she looked up at him, except to say it was emptiness so deep and dark it sent a chill down his spine.

“Ariel. This is an old friend. Matteo Bellini.”

“Mrs. Pastore,” he said softly, and held out his hand.

Ariel Pastore looked from his face to his hand, then to his face again.

“Shake the man’s hand, Ariel. Say ‘hello, Mr. Bellini.’”

Matteo shot him a look. “There’s no need to—”

She grasped his hand. Her skin was cool, almost icy.

“Hello, Mr. Bellini.”

Her voice was a papery monotone. It sent a chill through Matteo’s blood.

“That’s the way, baby. Mr. Bellini is an old friend. He’s going to have a drink with us.”

“No,” Matteo said quickly. “Unfortunately, I—“

“Please,” Ariel Pastore said. “Sit down.”

Her hand was still in his, empty darkness still yawned in her eyes, but her tone had taken on something.

Was it urgency?

Cristo.

Agreeing to meet the woman, to help Pastore, had absolutely been a mistake. His off-the-cuff thoughts had been valid. Whatever was wrong here was more likely a job for a shrink rather than an attorney.

Logic told him to turn and walk away, but her eyes were still on him.

“Please,” she said again.

A muscle knotted in his jaw.

“Just for a minute,” he said, and slipped into the booth beside her.

Pastore took the seat across from them. “Excellent,” he said, and snapped his fingers at a nearby waiter. “What are you drinking, Bellini?”

“I’m not.”

“Of course you are. What do you like? Bourbon? Irish whiskey?”

“Scotch,” Matteo said. “Straight up.”

“Johnny Walker Blue for my friend.” Pastore flashed a grin. “Only the best for an old paesano, right?”

I’m not your paesano, Matteo almost said, but what would be the point? Ten minutes, fifteen, and he’d be out of here.

“Another Grey Goose, rocks, for me. And for the lady.”

“No,” Ariel said quickly. Her husband looked at her. Matteo saw color rise in her pale face. “I mean, no, thank you, Anthony. I haven’t finished this one.”

She was right. The glass before her was still filled with ice and a clear liquid.

“Finish it, then,” Pastore said.

The words were a command. Matteo saw her throat constrict. She wrapped her hand around the glass and brought it to her lips.

“C’mon, baby.” Pastore’s tone had turned wheedling. He chuckled. The sound reminded Matteo of the dying engine of an old car. “My wife’s such a lady! She likes to drink, but not so much in public. She’s afraid you’ll think she’s a lush if she puts away her usual amount. But Mr. Bellini’s not judgmental. Right, Matteo?”

Matteo felt his jaw knot.

“Not about most things,” he said quietly. “But if your wife says she’s had enough…”

“Nah. She wants another. Am I right, baby? C’mon. Don’t be shy. Drink up.”

Ariel Pastore stared at her husband, as if some secret communication were passing between them. Then she took a drink of vodka, a very small one, and put down her glass.

“Good?”

She nodded. A lock of hair, long and golden, tumbled over the side of her face. It looked like a strand of silk.

Would it feel that way?

“I know what’s best for you, Ariel,” Pastore said. “You know I do.”

She stared down at the table. Pastore looked at Matteo and shook his head. “Sick,” he mouthed.

Matteo looked away.

The waiter brought their drinks. Ariel didn’t touch hers. Neither did Matteo. Pastore drank half of his in one gulp.

“So, Bellini, what’s new with you?”

Small talk? To hell with that.

“Nothing much,” Matteo said tightly.

“Mr. Bellini’s so modest. Ask him what he does, Ariel.”

Ariel Pastore didn’t answer. Pastore downed the rest of his vodka.

“He’s a lawyer. Shoves paper around all day. Not too exciting, right, Bellini?”

Matteo looked at him. “No,” he said coldly, “not exciting at all.”

“Yeah.” Pastore lifted his glass, tipped an iced cube into his mouth and crunched it between his teeth. “We can’t all do exciting things, I guess. For instance, what did you do today, Ariel?”

Ariel Pastore raised her head. Her expression was blank.

“What did I do today?”

“Yup. Was it fun?”

“I didn’t do anything today.”

Pastore crunched another ice cube. “See how this goes, man? Wives don’t like to admit they were out spending loads of money.”

“I didn’t spend anything today. How could I? I was in my room.”

“You sure?”

“Yes,” she said quickly, but Matteo could see confusion clouding her eyes. “I didn’t do anything except—except watch television.”

Pastore gave a heavy sigh. He reached across the table and took her hand from where it lay beside the glass of vodka. Was it Matteo’s imagination or did she flinch as her hand all but vanished within her husband’s meaty paw?

“She went to Saks,” he told Matteo, though his eyes remained fixed on his wife’s face. “Bought herself half a dozen pairs of those shoes with the red bottoms and the spiked heels. My Ariel always treats herself good. Isn’t that right, baby?”

“I—I don’t…”

“You don’t what? You don’t remember, or you’re gonna lie about it?”

She winced, and made a tiny, breathless sound. Her gaze flew to her hand, still trapped within Pastore’s hand.

“Tony,” Matteo said in a low voice. “Hey, man…”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “I went to Saks and bought—”

“No,” Pastore said, his tone suddenly sharp and cold. He sat back, all but flinging her hand from his. “

You didn’t go anywhere. You stayed home. The nurse wanted to take you for a walk, but you refused. Why are you lying to me?”

Ariel shifted her weight. Her thigh brushed Matteo’s. He could feel her trembling.

“I’m not lying. I tried to tell you—”

“How many pills did you take today?”

“None. None at all. You said I didn’t have to take any today, and I didn’t.”

“I said? I said?” Pastore threw up his hands. “The doctor said, is what you mean. And there’s another lie. You did take a bunch of pills. The nurse caught you, remember? But that’s fine. Blame your addiction on me. “