Page 12 of The Love Scam
He’d stopped on the shore, the water a foot or so away from his Gucci-clad toes. “You ever skip rocks across a pond? Me neither,” he added before she could say anything, “but always sounded fun. S’broken anyway, can’t use it.”
He shook his wallet like it was a remote with weak batteries, wound up like Roger Clemens (if Clemens were simultaneously drunk and having a seizure), and let it fly. She heard thesploosh!as the wallet hit, and sank, and didn’t know whether to laugh or laugh a lot. “Aw. Didn’t even bounce once. Lame!”
She stared out into the darkness. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“Me neither. Totally overrated activity! Say, you’re kinda cute in a—wuh-oh.” Then he bent at the waist, as if bowing to the lake, and threw up what she assumed was a bellyload of Negronis.
Goddammit. If I’d known he was going to spray me with his DNA, I wouldn’t have bothered breaking into his hotel room in the first place!
Not for the first time, she questioned the wisdom of introducing Rake to the girl who could be his daughter.
Six
“I threw my own wallet into Lake Como?”
“Stop screamin’, I hear fine.”
“I. Threw. My. Wallet. Into. Lake. Como?” he whispered, eyes big.
“Yep.”
“Wow!” From the child. “And it didn’t even bounce. No wonder you’re upset.”
“I’d like to say I can’t believe it, but it sounds pretty believable.” He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Then winced, no doubt because he caught another whiff of himself. They were sitting (alone, natch—the one other couple cleared off when they saw/smelled/heard Rake) in one of Venice’s fifteen thousand outdoor cafés, Osteria al Portego. He was starting to dry out and, if anything, he looked worse. The spring sunshine beating down on him wasn’t helping, either. He was drinking glass after glass of carbonated water (oracqua frizzante,as he insisted on calling it each and every time and, needless to say, she was paying), and looking beyondaggravated. “Because I was out of cash and my cards weren’t working.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then how’d I get to Venice?”
“I don’t know.” She didn’t. She’d had other concerns—meeting up with Teresa to secure the kiddo, checking the progress of the Big Pipe Dream, laundry, etc. “I think you must have talked one of your would-be muggers into giving you a ride, and checked in with his card. Somehow.”
She still couldn’t figure it. He’d been so drunk, he could hardly stand, but he had tried to come to her rescue, then given her the slip and gotten a stranger—a thwarted mugger!—to give him a ride. Or one of Kovac’s hired thugs? And talked him out of his shirt, apparently? Since he’d gotten barf all over his when he’d puked on the beach? Then stole that same bad guy’s wallet? Or at least just a credit card? Perhaps he seduced the lobby staff.
Or maybe the men who’d been onhertail were now on his, which was disturbing to contemplate.
“I was kinda surprised to see you climbing out of the canal.” Surprised, relieved, a little grossed out… she thought she’d picked the perfect spot to wait for him with Lillith, but her plan’s shortcomings were instantly visible when he swan-dived into a cesspool. Who could anticipate something like that?
“Did not jump. Did not— Wait. So who are you?”
“Oh. Sorry. Claire Delaney.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said automatically, extending a hand. She shook it, shrugged. It wasn’t nice to meet her, and they both knew it.
“And this might be your daughter, Lillith.”
“It means ‘of the night,’” Lillith said helpfully.
“Of course it does.” Bemused, Rake shook her small hand. “Who’s your mom?
“Donna Alvah.”
“Ah-ha! Argh!” He clutched his temples. “Too soon for yelling—yeah, that’s what I thought. I don’t know any Donna Alvah. I don’t know any Donnas at all. You’ve got the wrong guy, kid.”
“Your DNA might beg to differ.”
He snorted. “Sure it might, Claire. Which is— You don’t look—I mean, that’s an old-fashioned name. Nice, though,” he added, as if worried she’d be offended.
“I’m named for my grandmother. But everybody calls me Delaney.”
