Echoes Page 2

  “Oh, yes. St. Martin has the best food in the world. Even better than Paris!”

  Callie thanked her and followed Ben up a winding stone staircase to the third floor. As they turned down the long hallway toward her suite, she marked the position of the elevator, its stainless steel doors baldly modern yet somehow appropriate, and seamlessly set into the whitewashed stone walls. The promotional material the Paradis had sent when she had made her reservation explained that the rambling building had been a private home before being remodeled into a hotel in the 1940s by César and Hélène Charbonnet. Over the next twenty years, the French couple had acquired considerable acreage around the original building, including half a mile of private beach.

  As the story went—though Callie suspected the tale to be more romance than reality—the Charbonnets’ happiness was marred only by the fact that their son, Andre, and his wife could provide them with no grandchildren. In desperation, Andre and Marie turned to an American fertility specialist, Dr. Mark Lewis, who had often vacationed at the Paradis. Three years before Hélène’s death, Lewis performed a miracle, and Hélène had the grandchild she so desperately wanted. As a gesture of gratitude, Andre, who had no talent for running a hotel and was quickly heading for bankruptcy, sold the Paradis to Lewis for far below market value in the mid-1970s. The fiftysomething Lewis and his wife, Ava, a thirtysomething model, had transformed the hotel into an intensely private resort, a haven for politicians, sports figures, and celebrities of all stripes who wished to disappear for a week or two.

  Mark Lewis had died of heart failure in 2004, and six years later his wife had wrecked her car, crashing through the guardrail on a road in Alto Adige, high in the Italian Alps, and tumbling nearly three hundred meters to her death. That had not been in the promotional literature, which merely stated that Nicole Lewis and her brother, John, had taken over the running of the Paradis in 2010, opening it to a wider audience.

  Whatever the truth of the matter, the Charbonnets and Lewises had created a world-class resort. Callie had traveled extensively, and had stayed in more than one five-star resort, but when Ben opened the door to her suite, she drew a breath at the sheer, luxurious beauty.

  Diaphanous sheers hung in front of a sliding glass door that opened onto a wide balcony overlooking the pool. Two white rattan armchairs and a couch, all decorated in shades of burgundy, clustered about a marble-topped coffee table on which rested a huge fruit basket. Would she receive such treatment if the owners didn’t know she planned to feature the hotel in her next article? Then again, given the room rates, they could afford to treat all their guests like royalty.

  Ben opened louvered doors to reveal the bedroom. Despite her professional mandate to remain objective, Callie’s first reaction to the Paradis’s bedroom was entirely emotional: she wished she’d brought a lover. The walls, like those of the living area, had been painted a creamy butter yellow, the floor covered in deep terracotta tiles. The king-sized mahogany sleigh bed could have overwhelmed the small space, but it merely dominated, seducing with promises of long, lazy days and hot nights spent between crisp linen sheets.

  Callie thanked Ben and tipped him generously. Once he had left and she had locked the door behind him, she unzipped her computer bag and set her laptop on the teak desk in the living area. In many of the places she’d stayed over the years, finding Internet access had been a challenge, but the younger Lewises had added wireless access to the list of the Paradis’s amenities. While the computer booted up, she took a quick, cool shower.

  She’d laid out linen shorts and her favorite cap-sleeved tee for the afternoon, but when she emerged from the bathroom wrapped in the enormous, Egyptian cotton bath sheet, she couldn’t resist testing the huge bed. A thick, fluffy duvet enveloped her, caressing her skin as she sank onto the firm mattress. Yes, this would be the perfect spot for romance.

  She tried to imagine sharing the bed with any of the few lovers she’d chosen in her life, and failed. Too self-involved, too intellectual, too critical . . . None of them would appreciate the simple beauty of the space. None would suit the plush sensuality.

  She shook off the depressing parade of less-than-satisfactory images, rolled off the seductive bed, and dressed. By the time she sat down at the little desk, her parents’ photo shone out from the screen of her laptop. The picture had been taken in the main square in Milan, a fabulous cathedral as a backdrop. They were laughing. If Callie had one memory of her mother, who had died when she was eight, it was her laughter. Much later, when Callie realized how long Sharon Pearson had suffered from the cancer that eventually stole her life, she wondered how her mother could have maintained such a cheerful disposition. Her father’s smiles were rarer even early on, and had disappeared completely the painfully sunny afternoon Callie had helped him scatter her mother’s ashes from a cliff overlooking the Atlantic. For nearly twenty years, he’d focused solely on his work and his daughter, homeschooling her all over the world as they traveled together.

  Until he died, she had believed they had no secrets from one another.

  Callie checked her e-mail and dashed off notes to both her housemate and her editor so they’d know she’d arrived safely. She had closed her mail program and was starting to write down her impressions of the island and the hotel when a knock interrupted the process. Expecting turndown service or something similar, she was unprepared to find Mac Brody on the other side. Startled, she stepped back, an action he chose to interpret as an invitation.

  “I have a few questions for you.” Keeping his eyes on her face, he shut the door behind him. Callie pushed away the nervous tremor that simple action engendered, but couldn’t prevent herself from shuffling backward a few more paces. He had to be close to a foot taller than she was—six one or six two would be her guess—and she rationalized her movement as a means to look him in the face without craning her neck.

  “Mr. Brody,” she said, determined to be polite—no point in alienating a potentially valuable source on her first day—“I’m terribly sorry about your wife, but I’ve told you everything I know, which is precisely nothing.”

  “You’ll understand if I don’t believe you.”

  “Actually—”

  He ignored her attempt at denial, speaking over her. “I had a chat with Tom Ingalls.”

  “Then you know I was telling you the truth. I’m here on a story.”

  “Maybe. But he explained you don’t work for the magazine. You specifically asked to come here. Your use of their name is a courtesy.”

  “Travel writers freelance. I’ve written for Travel/Style many times. It’s true that I proposed this article before writing it, and it’s also true I’d usually have the story in hand before I contacted Tom. But the Paradis isn’t exactly cheap, and before I spent the money to stay here, I wanted to be certain he’d be interested in the article. Travel/Style has right of first refusal, and Tom allowed me to use their name because doing so often nets me lower rates than the norm and reservations where I might not be able to get them otherwise.”

  “So it’s just coincidence, your arrival just after Nikki, who could be your twin, vanishes.”

  “I’ve had my reservation for months.” Five, to be precise. She’d taken the first room she could get once she’d recognized the setting of the mysterious photograph she’d found among her father’s belongings. “And my picture and résumé are on my website. My appearance is not exactly a state secret.”

  “He also informed me you speak fluent French.” Callie waited for Mac to apologize for his earlier rudeness. He didn’t. “Would you care to explain why you didn’t reveal that little fact?”

  She shrugged, deliberately casual. “I find I get a better feel for the experience of most of our readers that way. The majority of them don’t speak any foreign languages.”

  “Why did you choose the Paradis?”

  “Aside from the opportunity to stay at a fancy resort and be
able to write it off?” She tried a smile, but his grim expression didn’t lighten and she sighed loudly, allowing her irritation to show. “The Paradis hasn’t been done. Many of our readers can afford to stay here, but they won’t spend the money for a room without a recommendation from someone they trust. They’ll opt for the known elegance and comfort of La Samanna, instead.”

  “So you’ve never been here before?”

  “Surely you can check the records and see I haven’t.”

  “Not the hotel. The island.”

  “No.” Evasion she could handle; outright lying wasn’t in her nature, and she paused before answering. A split second, but he caught it. His eyes narrowed, pulling the scar tight. How had he gotten it? Surely not in his job at a five-star resort.

  “This is a small island, Miss Pearson.”

  “Thirty-four square miles. I do my homework.”

  “Thirty-four square miles, much of which is uninhabited. Sooner or later, someone’s going to recognize you.”

  The sound of another knock saved her having to deny his assertion. Brody didn’t step aside, forcing her to brush by him to get to the door. She refused to look at him as she did so, but she could feel both the heat and the vibrating tension of his body. Both provoked reactions in her own body she refused to consider.

  Callie recognized her visitor immediately. Businessman handsome, John Lewis was the public face of the Paradis. He gave interviews, talked up the resort at every turn, and was rarely seen off the island without a gorgeous woman hanging on his arm.

  He introduced himself, clasping her right hand in both of his. “Excuse me for staring. I thought Claudine must be imagining things when she told me how like Nicole you looked. But the similarity is amazing.” Laugh lines fanned out beside his gray eyes as he grinned at her.

  “So I’ve been told.” And it was beginning to grate. Seriously, what was it with these people? Did they really believe she was connected to a woman as rich and famous as Nikki Lewis? And Mac, what had he said, that Nikki had hired her? Did he think so little of his own wife that he imagined she would do such a thing?

  He peered over her shoulder and the smile disappeared. “I see you’ve met Mac.”

  “Oh, yes. And I am sorry to be so rude. Won’t you come in?”

  He stepped into the room and shook hands with Brody. “Miss Pearson here must have given you quite a shock.”

  “You could say that.” Brody’s heated gaze met hers, promising a continuation of his interrogation at some future time.

  “Of course, if you look closely, you can see the resemblance is superficial. Your eyes are dark brown; hers are hazel.” John reached out and brushed a lock of Callie’s hair away from her face, an intimacy she might have protested had they been alone. But pride would not allow her to fuss over such a trivial thing in front of Brody. “Your hair is wavy; Nicole’s is straight.”

  “Wavy is too kind.” Callie knew exactly what the humidity did to her hair, and “wavy” didn’t begin to describe it. She never dared cut it above her shoulder blades for fear of morphing into a poodle in New York’s summer humidity. She’d restrained it in a French braid for her flight, but stubborn strands were wiggling free, frizzing around her face from climate and the shower. Her mother had always called her heart-shaped face and curly locks throwbacks to previous generations of Gruene women, but Callie had never seen pictures of her mother’s family, who had cast her out for marrying outside their faith.

  John laughed. “Well, it’s not straight, like my sister’s, anyway. And although her color depends on a series of very expensive treatments, I am pretty sure it’s a bit lighter than yours is when in its natural state.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. Lingered. “And I doubt your lips owe their shape to collagen injections.”

  Callie blinked. If she didn’t know better, she’d believe the man was making a pass at her. Not that such a thing hadn’t happened before, but here? Now? When even Nicole Lewis’s husband had commented on how much alike they looked? Her shoulder blades twitched before she tuned back in to what John was saying.

  “In fact, any one of your features, taken individually, is substantially different from my sister’s. But the overall effect is quite astonishing. Perhaps the two of you are distant cousins.”

  “The two of us? But not you?”

  “Nicole is my half sister. If you’re related to her, it’s definitely through Ava. Our father’s family isn’t nearly as attractive.” He winked, but she glanced away. He had a point beyond a simple comparison of her features with his sister’s, but she couldn’t imagine what it might be.

  “Then again,” said Mac, “maybe you two were twins separated at birth. Maybe you came here looking for your biological parents. An inheritance.”

  “Now, really. That’s going a bit far, don’t you think? Besides, I’ll happily show you my birth certificate—travel as much as I do and you always know where it is.” She kept her tone as light as she could, dismissed Mac, and turned back toward John. “How old is your sister?”

  “She’ll be twenty-nine at the end of next month.” Callie hadn’t realized Nicole Lewis was so young. John was in his early forties—the PR package she’d read had included the information that he’d become a full partner in the hotel at the age of thirty—and she’d never considered there could be so many years between them. If the articles on Nicole’s disappearance had mentioned her age, Callie hadn’t noticed. A hotel like the Paradis would be a great deal of responsibility for someone not yet thirty. No wonder John handled all the PR work.

  “So much for your theory, Mr. Brody. I won’t be twenty-eight until October.”

  “She’s got you there, Mac.” Though John spoke lightly, a thread of tension wove through the words. It vanished when he turned his attention back to her. “I’m afraid I have to go. But I hope we can get together before you leave. Travel/Style’s readers are just the kind of clientele we’re hoping to attract. I’d love to get your input on some ideas I have for the future of the Paradis.”

  “I’m sure we can arrange something. After I leave here, I’ll be staying at Port de Plaisance for a week.”

  “Why?” John’s expression of horror was almost comical.

  “Because two nights here are all I can afford. My friend Marlon has a time-share over there he’s letting me use.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You can stay here as long as you want. Let me just make sure this room is available and we don’t have to move you.” Before Callie could protest, he was out the door, leaving her alone with Brody.

  “Is he always like that?” If she could focus the conversation on John Lewis, perhaps she could distract Brody from his suspicions about her. Plus, a profile of the hotel’s young owner would make a nice addition to her article. “Bulldozing over objections?”

  “He’s used to getting what he wants.”

  “Why would he want me to stay here?” Not that she’d complain, given how prominently the Paradis figured in the mystery she was trying to unravel. But the invitation was almost too convenient, and the situation—the two men, the missing woman, the strange undercurrents—gave her the willies. Brody quirked an eyebrow, the expression a challenge.

  “Oh, please. You can’t think he has anything romantic in mind. He must be twenty years older than I am.”

  “Fifteen. And I wouldn’t call what he has in mind ‘romance.’”

  “Romance, sex, whatever. We only just met.”

  Brody’s gaze did a slow crawl down her body and back up. Callie felt her face heat, along with several other areas she’d have preferred stay cool.

  “Believe me, sugar, it only takes one look for a man to know what he wants.” The image of the suite’s bedroom, its seductive, king-sized bed, popped into Callie’s head. She squelched it, but not before her breath hitched in her chest. Damn the man; he’d as much as told Claudine he considered Callie fat and boring. He ha
d no right to pretend she was some kind of sex goddess. And where had her self-respect run off to?

  “I still say you’re being ridiculous.” She turned her back on him and walked to the small galley kitchen, where she pulled a bottle of water out of the undercounter refrigerator. Bone-bred courtesy forced her to offer one to Brody. His refusal left an awkward silence, broken by the ring of his cell phone.

  He listened to the voice on the other end for the moment, then rubbed a hand through the waves of his coarse, black hair, making parts of it stand straight up. “Again? I swear, Lewis needs to throw them out. I don’t care how much they pay.” He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Just hold on to her. I’ll be right there.”

  He flipped the phone shut. “We’re not finished,” he said as he moved to the door.

  “I guess you’re lucky I’ll be staying here for a while, then.”

  Brody paused, hand on the knob. “You’re taking Lewis up on his offer?” He infused the words with so much innuendo they washed over Callie like a slimy current. She stopped herself from protesting just in time. What difference did it make if he believed her promiscuous as well as dull? Maybe if he found her contemptible enough, he’d leave her alone to pursue her investigation.

  “Look at this place.” She tossed her head. “Who wouldn’t want to stay here for free?”

  “Certainly not you.” He paused to examine her a final time, giving nothing away, then left without another word.

  As the door swung shut, Callie’s muscles all relaxed at once, leaving her weak and limp. Mac Brody put her on edge and kept her there. She’d be wise to avoid him as much as possible.

  ***

  Mac grunted in displeasure as he set the barbell into its cradle with a clang. His concentration was shot. Maybe he ought to go for a swim; at least he wouldn’t injure himself if his form was off in the water the way he might on the weights. But he had no desire to head for the pool. Not when he’d just hauled April Matthews out of it, wrestling a towel around her and explaining—for the third time in less than two weeks—why she couldn’t strip naked poolside no matter how famous she was or how much money her husband had. Then he’d been forced to wait with her in her room with one of the female bartenders as a chaperone while Andy, one of his assistants, dug up Clayton Matthews and brought him back to take control of his wife.