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Overview
That was Isabella Joubert’s inheritance from herfather, a man she loved but could not trust. Toright his wrongs, she was determined to turn theincriminating list over to the authorities.
But danger was stalking her. Her home wasransacked, threats were made—and people wereturning up dead. Someone wanted the disk evenmore than Isabella. And she was forced to turn toSandro Marchese, the man she’d left years earlierbecause of his willingness to sell his soul to thehighest bidder—her father.
Sandro possessed secrets that could save her—save them both from a traitor willing to forfeitinnocent lives. But no matter where the disklanded, Isabella feared Sandro was doomed, forhis name was on the list.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781460362860 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Harlequin |
| Publication date: | 07/15/2014 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 294 |
| File size: | 812 KB |
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
Her father was dying, and Isabella Joubert was so angry that she hadn't spoken a word since she'd boarded the plane at O'Hare Airport three hours earlier. She was afraid that if she opened her mouth to speak, she would start yelling at anybody unlucky enough to be within earshot. Either that, or she would start bawling and not be able to stop. She wouldn't be crying because she loved her father. Of course not. She would be shedding tears of rage because she was so damn angry at how he'd chosen to squander his talents and waste his life.
According to her mother, Marc Joubert's life expectancy could be measured in days, perhaps even hours. It would soon be too late for him to make amends, too late for anything except regrets. God knew, she had plenty of those, whereas her father most likely had none. With his usual reckless aplomb, he would face the prospect of meeting his Maker without a twinge of guilt or apprehension. Why would he be fearful? He had always enjoyed a flexible conscience and a supreme confidence in his ability to charm the stripes off the meanest tiger. He'd bargained with Saddam Hussein and come out the winner. He'd dealt with one of the bloodiest splinter groups of the IRA and made a tidy profit. When the Soviet army was being routed in Afghanistan, he'd sold Stinger missiles to three different factions of Afghani rebels and walked away unharmed. In her father's mind, talking himself through Saint Peter's pearly gates would barely present a challenge.
Belle paid off the cabdriver, adding a generous tip as an apology for not having spoken a word, and, in thesweltering air, crossed the few feet of pavement that separated her from the air-conditioned entrance to Miami's Good Samaritan hospital. When she'd left her Chicago office, it had been unusually cool for late September. Here in Miami, it was hot and steamy enough to wilt her gray linen skirt and stick her tailored jacket to her back. She hoisted her hastily packed travel bag higher onto her shoulder and willed herself not to feel frazzled. For a woman who prided herself on keeping her emotions on an even keel, her coping techniques had been conspicuously unsuccessful since her mother's phone call.
The hospital was vast, and Belle realized she was going to have to ask for directions to the Intensive Care Unit. Was she capable of sounding civil if she spoke? Belle closed her eyes, drew multiple deep breaths, and managed to shove her anger back down into the deep hiding place she'd custom-built for it during two years of expensive therapy.
"I'm here to see Marc Joubert," she said to the gray-haired volunteer at the information desk. "He's had open-heart surgery and he's in Intensive Care." She was relieved to hear that her voice sounded calm and perfectly pleasant. She left high drama to the other members of her family. Her parents and siblings could transform a piece of burned toast into a tragic opera in four acts.
The volunteer glanced down a list on the clipboard in front of her. "Yes, Mr. Joubert is in the hospital, but his visitors are restricted to immediate family only."
Thank God, he wasn't dead already. "I'm his daughter. Isabella Joubert" Her voice suddenly sounded thick with tears. Belle gave a tiny shake to clear her head and held out her Illinois driver's license to prove her claim, waiting patiently while the volunteer searched for her name on the list of approved visitors. Instead of increasing her tension, the delay actually calmed her. Belle understood the need for rules and approved of security measures in public places. In fact, Belle appreciated rules and regulations in general, since they made life more civilized and orderly. She only wished the other members of her family shared her point of view.
The volunteer smiled as she handed over a plastic card. "Thanks for waiting, Ms. Joubert. I've found your name, so you can go right up. Here's your pass. Intensive Care is in the west wing." She pointed to her left. "You can take these elevators here. Go straight ahead and follow the maroon arrows when you get to the fifth floor."
The Intensive Care Unit turned out to be a considerable distance from the elevators. Belle strode briskly along the corridors, trying to outpace the images crowding into her head from the last time she had seen her father, seven years earlier. Marc Joubert had been a vigorous sixty then, still at the height of his powers, a master of manipulative charm. It troubled her to remember that if it hadn't been for Sandro Marchese and her desperate need to get away from their failed love affair, she probably would have succumbed to her father's blandishments and remained in Miami. How ironic to think that a crook like Sandro had been responsible for pushing her out of the soiled family nest and into the world of honest, legal work.
Belle hated that memory and all the others involving her father. Not because Marc had been cruel and vindictive, but because he'd always seemed to-be the ideal father. Why couldn't he have been a monster who beat his wife and tortured his children? Why did he have to be so damn lovable ... so seductively reasonable in his self-justification?
As usual, she could find no answers to her questions. Marc Joubert was living proof that it was possible to be both a devoted family man, a friendly neighbor, and a ruthless merchant of death. Belle's footsteps faltered under the weight of painful and guilty memories. What was she doing here? Despite seven years of trying, she'd never come to terms with her past only found ways to keep it buried, where it couldn't hurt. This trip was opening up old wounds and making them bleed hot, fresh blood.
But it seemed that emotion was stronger than reason, and she kept walking, although when the nurses' station came into view she almost turned tail and marched straight back to the elevators. In the end she was propelled forward by a primeval urge to see her father once more before he died.
"I'm Isabella Joubert," she said to one of the nurses, flashing her pass. "I'm here to see Marc Joubert, my father."
(Continues...)