Don't Say a Word - Barbara Freethy [11]
"I'm just doing my job. But I didn't come here to talk about my job."
"Why did you come?" she asked sharply. She didn't like the intense look in her son's eyes. When he wanted something, he tended to go after it with all that he had. Maybe that was the one trait he got from her.
Alex motioned them toward a quiet corner. "It's about one of Dad's photographs-the orphan girl at the gates. Did Dad ever talk to either one of you about that picture or the girl?"
"He didn't talk to me about any of his photos," Kate replied, still feeling the pain of Charles's distance even after all these years. "Especially the ones he took on that last trip to Moscow. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some people to greet. Stop by the house tomorrow, Alex, and we can talk more." By tomorrow, she'd have her wits about her. She'd be ready to deal with Alex's questions then. Tonight she just wanted to enjoy the party.
Alex watched his mother walk away, not surprised that she'd given him such a sharp answer. After twenty-five years she was still pissed off at his father. That would probably never change. She looked good, though. Her hair was a dark copper red, and she had the face and the figure of a woman at least ten years younger. He knew she cared about her appearance. He didn't know what else she cared about. He never had.
Alex glanced over at Stan, seeing a thoughtful look on the older man's face. "What about you?" he asked.
"What do you really want to know? Cut to the '' chase, Alex."
Alex hesitated, then said, "I want to know if there's a chance that the Russian orphan girl is alive and well and living in the United States."
Stan's eyes narrowed. "Why would you ask that question?"
"Because I think she came to my apartment today." Alex was a pro at reading people's expressions; he'd had plenty of practice behind his camera. Even though Stan tried to cover his reaction with a bland smile, Alex could tell that he was surprised, maybe even shocked. His face paled and his eyes glittered with an odd light. Stan knew something, but what?
"That's impossible," Stan replied.
"Why is it impossible? Do you know what happened to that girl?"
"What I know is that the photo was not supposed to be published. I can't tell you any more."
"Can't or won't? My father has been dead for twenty-five years. Surely there are no secrets left to protect."
Stan stared at him for a long moment, then drew him farther into the corner of the room so that there was no chance they could be overheard. "Like you, your father sometimes got involved in things he should have left alone."
"What does that mean?"
"It means butt out, Alex. Do what your father asked. Don't talk about any of it. If the woman comes back, tell her she's crazy. Tell her that girl in the photograph died a few weeks after that picture was taken. End of story."
"But she's not dead, is she?"
"In all the ways that matter, she is. Forget about her, Alex. Trust me. You do not want to reopen the past."
Alex suddenly wanted nothing more.
DeMarco family birthday parties were always big, loud affairs. Tonight the cafe was filled to the brim with Italians of all ages, shapes, and sizes. The small tables were dressed in red checkered tablecloths, candles gleaming in each floral centerpiece. The food was plentiful, the wine flowed, and laughter filled the room like music. This was her family, Julia reminded herself. It didn't matter that she was the only blonde in a sea of brunettes. It didn't matter that she wasn't a DeMarco by blood. They loved her. They treated her as if she were one of their own. She just wished she had more in common with her family, that she didn't feel so out of Step with her father and her sister. Not that they ever tried to make her feel that way. She just did.
"Julia, you're not eating." Her aunt Lucia, a short, plump woman with pepper gray hair, paused by the table, her face disapproving. She pointed to Julia's un-touched lobster ravioli. "Is it too spicy? Shall I get you