Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [92]
Discretion was the nature of his activities if not his personal style, and the plush surroundings were meant to inform his clients that the services of Mario Tomasetti did not come cheaply. And yet he had more customers than he and his staff of thirty could handle. There was no doubt, he thought as he contemplated Marisa Paroli’s tight-lipped face, that passion paid very well—especially when you had a “sideline” like his.
“Here is a photograph.” Marisa placed a picture of India carefully on the table. “And here is one of my husband.”
Mario allowed his gaze to rest on them for the briefest moment but made no move to pick them up. Marisa looked at him uncertainly. Shouldn’t he study them? Ask her questions?
“If you need enlargements,” she suggested, “or the names of his favorite restaurants …”
Mario held up a small, plump hand decorated with an elaborate seal ring in some inky stone. “Say no more, signora, we have Signor Paroli’s office address, and the address of the apartment of Signorina Haven. It is all we need. Ah … perhaps there is one more thing. Your maiden name, signora?”
“My maiden name?” asked Marisa, astonished.
“Yes … just for the records. It’s a formality, signora, that is all.”
“Russardi,” said Marisa, taking out her checkbook.
“The Russardis of Milan and Turin?” Mario’s smile was filled with genuine warmth.
“Yes.” Marisa wrote her check and slid it across the table.
“Into the slot please, signora. I never involve myself in the financial transactions personally—this old tithe-table saves me from that. I prefer to consider myself more as a friend who wants to help out in a difficult situation.
A friend, thought Marisa with a shudder as Mario escorted her to the door, God forbid.
Mario sank into his green suede chair, his elbows resting on the arms, his fingers held in a little steeple in front of him. Russardi, eh? This could be a good one. Mario liked to think of himself as being in the espionage business—the James Bond of marital war games. He even dressed the part—though he was admittedly short. He wore sharp silk suits, burnished Rome shoes and expensive, custom-made shirts worn with slightly too much immaculate cuff showing. There was no doubt in his mind that he was better dressed than James; only, unlike James, he wasn’t averse to playing a double game when he felt it might be mutually profitable. And the Russardi-Paroli marriage should surely be profitable.
Mario had no hesitation at all in picking up the phone to speak with Fabrizio Paroli and stating that he had information in connection with his wife that he thought might interest Fabrizio. And at a meeting later that day he had no compunction at all in parting with the information that Marisa was employing him to investigate Fabrizio’s activities in relation to a Miss India Haven—after a certain large sum of money had been deposited in the worn groove of the tithe slot first, of course.
There was nothing as efficient for cooling a man’s ardor, thought India, as money. Or rather—parting with a lot of money. Not that Fabrizio was stingy—far from it. He paid her a generous salary, bought her expensive gifts—admittedly they were mostly of the intimate lingerie and perfume sort—but there had also been the wonderful carpet that now covered the floor of her apartment, and various chairs and sofas from the showroom, and a case or two of good wine in the kitchen. Perhaps Fabrizio just wasn’t practical when it came to presents—and why should a lover be practical? India could find no answer to that, and she sank into a chair, staring moodily into space.
It was time to take stock of her life. Her affair with Fabrizio had been losing its savor even before that disastrous weekend at the country villa. Fabrizio had called the situation right. It had cost him a lot of money to keep the scandal and their names from hitting the papers. He had had to distribute a large amount of money to the police sergeant and the fund for the widows and orphans of the local