Read Online Impulse by Catherine Coulter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Catherine Coulter
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wounded, but he’s also a survivor.”
Charles fell silent. Rafaella watched as he carefully lifted her mother’s hand and kissed her fingers. Rafaella wished at that moment that Charles, kind, handsome Charles, was her father. But he wasn’t her father. Neither was her father a man named Richard Dorsett, a physician who’d been killed in a freak car accident.
A very brave man, a very good man.
All a lie. She should have realized it was a lie so much sooner—because she didn’t carry his name. She carried her mother’s. She remembered her mother explaining that to her, and since she hadn’t really cared, since that shadowy man had never been real to her, she’d paid little attention.
She wondered if there were a man whose name was Richard Dorsett. If there were, he’d sure be a better father than her real one was.
Her father was a criminal. There were six and a half journals covering twenty-six years. Rafaella had looked to see the last entry. Her mother hadn’t written a word since November. Was it possible that Charles knew about the journals? About Dominick Giovanni? She shook her head. No, her mother would protect him from that, just as Rafaella would.
She was nearly halfway through the third journal and she itched to get back to them. She looked down at the five-carat marquise diamond on her mother’s left hand, a gift from a man who loved this woman more than he loved himself, more than he loved his own life. She wished she could talk to him, pour out her fear to him, her questions. But she mustn’t.
Dominick Giovanni had been her mother’s private penance, a demon she’d exorcised again and again, or tried to. Rafaella hoped writing the journals had helped her. She knew that her mother would never have shown the journals to her.
Rafaella had learned in the third journal that her mother had gotten her revenge on Gabe Tetweiler. She’d gotten him; but good. It had cost her ten thousand dollars or thereabouts, but old Gabe was now in prison in Louisiana for attempted child molestation.
Rafaella said, “You’re a very fine man, Charles. I wish you were my father.”
“I agree with that, my dear.”
Rafaella lifted her mother’s other hand. So cold and so very limp. “I don’t want her to die.”
Charles was silent.
“She’s not going to die, is she?”
“I don’t know, Rafaella. Would you rather she spent the next twenty years hooked up to all this cold equipment, a vegetable? Dead but alive thanks to these machines?”
Rafaella laid her mother’s hand down beside her and rose. “Who’s the man who hit her?”
“Nobody knows. There was a vague description of the car—a dark sedan, four-door, but that’s it. Man, woman—the guy who saw the accident wasn’t sure. Whoever it was, the driver was weaving all over the road—a drunk, the cops say.”
“So this drunk hits her, guesses things are bad, and takes off?”
“That’s what the police are saying. They put out their bulletins on him, but—” Charles shrugged.
“Yeah, I know what you mean. I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back soon.”
Charles gave her an intent look. “Don’t lock all your feelings inside, Rafaella. You don’t have to keep all that hurt to yourself. I’m here, you know, and I love you.”
Rafaella merely nodded. She walked from the room, closing the door very quietly behind her.
Giovanni’s Island
February 2001
Marcus was in pain; he was also confused by what had happened. Why had Van Wessel and Koerbogh poisoned themselves? And why now? If they’d planned to, why not immediately? Why didn’t Dominick come and explain it to him?
But Dominick didn’t say anything when he visited. Nor did Merkel. The late afternoon of the Dutchmen’s demise, Marcus was alone, bored, in some pain, and woozy from the lingering effects of the Demerol. He didn’t open his eyes when he heard the door open quietly. It was probably Merkel with an ad to show him from the most recent
GQ
, a suave new suit he
Charles fell silent. Rafaella watched as he carefully lifted her mother’s hand and kissed her fingers. Rafaella wished at that moment that Charles, kind, handsome Charles, was her father. But he wasn’t her father. Neither was her father a man named Richard Dorsett, a physician who’d been killed in a freak car accident.
A very brave man, a very good man.
All a lie. She should have realized it was a lie so much sooner—because she didn’t carry his name. She carried her mother’s. She remembered her mother explaining that to her, and since she hadn’t really cared, since that shadowy man had never been real to her, she’d paid little attention.
She wondered if there were a man whose name was Richard Dorsett. If there were, he’d sure be a better father than her real one was.
Her father was a criminal. There were six and a half journals covering twenty-six years. Rafaella had looked to see the last entry. Her mother hadn’t written a word since November. Was it possible that Charles knew about the journals? About Dominick Giovanni? She shook her head. No, her mother would protect him from that, just as Rafaella would.
She was nearly halfway through the third journal and she itched to get back to them. She looked down at the five-carat marquise diamond on her mother’s left hand, a gift from a man who loved this woman more than he loved himself, more than he loved his own life. She wished she could talk to him, pour out her fear to him, her questions. But she mustn’t.
Dominick Giovanni had been her mother’s private penance, a demon she’d exorcised again and again, or tried to. Rafaella hoped writing the journals had helped her. She knew that her mother would never have shown the journals to her.
Rafaella had learned in the third journal that her mother had gotten her revenge on Gabe Tetweiler. She’d gotten him; but good. It had cost her ten thousand dollars or thereabouts, but old Gabe was now in prison in Louisiana for attempted child molestation.
Rafaella said, “You’re a very fine man, Charles. I wish you were my father.”
“I agree with that, my dear.”
Rafaella lifted her mother’s other hand. So cold and so very limp. “I don’t want her to die.”
Charles was silent.
“She’s not going to die, is she?”
“I don’t know, Rafaella. Would you rather she spent the next twenty years hooked up to all this cold equipment, a vegetable? Dead but alive thanks to these machines?”
Rafaella laid her mother’s hand down beside her and rose. “Who’s the man who hit her?”
“Nobody knows. There was a vague description of the car—a dark sedan, four-door, but that’s it. Man, woman—the guy who saw the accident wasn’t sure. Whoever it was, the driver was weaving all over the road—a drunk, the cops say.”
“So this drunk hits her, guesses things are bad, and takes off?”
“That’s what the police are saying. They put out their bulletins on him, but—” Charles shrugged.
“Yeah, I know what you mean. I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back soon.”
Charles gave her an intent look. “Don’t lock all your feelings inside, Rafaella. You don’t have to keep all that hurt to yourself. I’m here, you know, and I love you.”
Rafaella merely nodded. She walked from the room, closing the door very quietly behind her.
Giovanni’s Island
February 2001
Marcus was in pain; he was also confused by what had happened. Why had Van Wessel and Koerbogh poisoned themselves? And why now? If they’d planned to, why not immediately? Why didn’t Dominick come and explain it to him?
But Dominick didn’t say anything when he visited. Nor did Merkel. The late afternoon of the Dutchmen’s demise, Marcus was alone, bored, in some pain, and woozy from the lingering effects of the Demerol. He didn’t open his eyes when he heard the door open quietly. It was probably Merkel with an ad to show him from the most recent
GQ
, a suave new suit he
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