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Mary smiled. “I’ll remember that.”
She walked him to the front door and gave a sidelong glance to the guest room on her way back. The door was shut. It was always shut. After that one outburst when she’d arrived, Fallon hadn’t said more than a dozen words; she stayed in her room except for meals, when she came to the table and poked at her food.
It was the housekeeper’s afternoon off. Rather than call down for room service, Mary went into the kitchen, made fresh coffee and filled a serving tray with all the necessities for a civilized coffee break. At the guest-room door, she hesitated, then cleared her throat.
“Fallon?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve brought us some coffee.”
“Thank you, but I don’t want any.”
“Jenny made some of those oatmeal scones you always loved.”
“I’ll have one later.”
Time to play a mother’s ace card, Mary thought, and sighed.
“I’m supposed to take an afternoon break, Fallon. The doctor says so, and I’ve gotten in the habit of coffee—decaf, of course—at about this hour, but if you don’t want to join me—”
The door opened, as she’d known it would.
“Thank you, darling,” Mary said, brushing past her daughter, determinedly ignoring the lifeless expression and drooping body language even though those things troubled her more than the scars. They spoke of a deeper wound that might be harder to heal.
“Would you like to go out on the terrace, Fallon? It’s hot, but it’s a lovely clear day and the air will do us both good.”
“First tell me why the doctor wants you to take a break in the afternoon. You said your last tests were fine.”
“And they are.” Mary nodded at the sliding doors. “Would you, darling? Thank you.” The women stepped outside, both of them blinking in the sudden glare of the sun.
“If your tests were fine, why did he tell you to take a break?”
“Well, he did say that when I first got out of the hospital, but my heart’s sound now.” Mary put the tray on a round glass-topped table. “I just stretched the facts, that’s all. How else was I going to get you to open your door?”
“Letting me think there was something wrong with you wasn’t very nice, Mother.”
“No,” Mary said blithely, “it wasn’t. It’s awful when someone you love lets you worry needlessly, isn’t it?”
“That’s sneaky, Ma. And it’s not the same thing at all. I’m not making you worry about me. You’re doing it all on your own. I told you what happened. I drove into a tree and cut my face.”
“That’s not what’s brought you here,” Mary said as she filled their cups. “I know you like cream in your coffee but I’m never sure if you’re dieting or not.”
“No need to diet,” Fallon said with forced gaiety, “now that I’m not modeling anymore.”
“But your figure will still matter to you.”
“I suppose. Is that what you want to talk about? My figure? My future? What I’m going to do with myself, now that I’m finished modeling?”
“Are you?” Mary said bluntly. “Finished modeling? What about makeup? Or surgery?”
Fallon’s face turned white. “Don’t tell me. You want to recommend a surgeon, too.”
“No, I don’t have any…Too?”
“Forget it, Mother.”
“I only meant—”
“I know what you meant. You’d like to see me look like my old self again.”
“I’d like to see you with some spirit again,” Mary said, “and if all this moping is because of the scarring on your face, then I think you might want to consider doing something about it.”
“I’m not moping.”
“On the other hand,” Mary went on, as if Fallon hadn’t spoken, “the scars don’t detract in the least from your looks.”
“Ha!”
“Besides, I seem to recall that the last time we saw each other, you said something about being tired of the business and wanting a change.”
“I did. I just didn’t expect the decision to be taken out of my hands.”
“Life’s like that sometimes. Things happen, choices are made whether you want them or not.” Mary held out the platter of scones. “Want one?”
“No, thank you.”
The women sipped their coffee in silence. Then Mary put down her cup.
“The man you mentioned, the reporter—”
“What about him?”
“He has an Italian name. Did you meet him in Sicily?”
“You know, Ma, you have this infuriating habit of asking questions but not answering them.”
“Do I?”
A smile flickered on Fallon’s lips, then faded. “Yes.”
“This Steven Lucchesi—”
“Stefano Lucchesi.”
“Right. What magazine does he write for?”
Fallon hesitated. Had she said Stefano wrote for a magazine? The day she’d arrived was a blur. She remembered seeing Mary’s face, seeing her open arms, knowing she had to protect herself from Stefano, should he somehow track her here…
“Fallon? Who does he write for?”
“He’s—he’s freelance.”
“I see. Did you meet in Sicily?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Well, the Italian name…”
“He’s an American. And yes, we met in Sicily.” What did a few details matter? Her mood was rotten, her temper mean, and her mother wasn’t going to leave her alone until she’d pried some answers out of her.
“Was he on assignment to get photos of you?”
“No. Not exactly.”
“But he got some.”
“Mother…”
“And he’s driven you crazy since then.”
Fallon’s eyes flashed. Wonderful, Mary thought. It was her daughter’s first real reaction to anything since that outburst of emotion when she’d arrived.
“Why are you asking all these questions, Ma? Has Stefano called?”
“Stefano?” Mary raised her eyebrows. “Interesting, that you’re on a first name basis with a reporter you despise.”
“Just remember, if he calls—”
“I don’t know where you are.”
“Exactly.”
“Because he’s a persistent reporter.”
“Right.”
“And not just
a man who’s trying to find a woman who ran away from him.”
“Absolutely ri—” Fallon blinked. “What?”
“Dan thinks your Mr. Lucchesi mistreated you,” Mary said casually. “But I said, a woman doesn’t mope around the house—”
“Who said anything about running away? And I have not moped!”
“And cry in her sleep—”
“I most certainly do not cry in my—”
“Yes, you do. And a woman doesn’t do those things over a man who’s been cruel to her. Not a woman with O’Connell blood in her veins.”
Fallon shot to her feet. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Mary looked at her daughter. “I don’t know,” she said calmly. “Not in any detail. I only know what I think, which is that you and this Mr. Lucchesi had a lovers’ quarrel—”
“A lovers’ quarrel?” Fallon slapped her hands on her hips. There was fire in her eyes and her chin was high. Mary wanted to grab her and hug her and welcome her back…but she knew better.
“Yes,” she said, still calmly, “a lovers’ spat, and you left him and now you regret it, and—”
“I do not regret a thing! Stefano Lucchesi is a self-centered, self-indulgent son of a bitch!” Fallon strode to the end of the terrace, turned sharply and strode back. “I never want to see him again.”
“Because?”
“Because he’s a liar and a cheat. Because he used me. Because—because—”
“Because you fell in love with him, and he fell in love with you, and neither one of you was smart enough to know when it was time to admit it.”
Fallon felt her heart stand still. That wasn’t her mother’s voice. It wasn’t Dan’s. It was—it was—
She swung around. Stefano stood in the open door to the terrace, his hands on his hips, just as hers were; his eyes shooting sparks, just as hers were.
He looked awful. Disheveled, as if he’d been sleeping in his custom-made suit. As if he’d run his hands through his dark hair a hundred times. As if the stubble on his face hadn’t seen a razor in a week…
And she, oh God, she loved him!
A whole week of telling herself she’d never loved him, that she’d confused gratitude with love, went sailing into the blue Las Vegas sky. A whole week of chastising herself for ever having returned to the States with him, turned into nonsense.
She loved him, this man who’d hurt her, she loved him…
