into circulation. This time she was going to have to do more than just show up. She would need to put on the razzle and dazzle needed to sell.
In her kitchen, she rinsed and dried her favorite Florentine cappuccino mug and returned it to its hook, satisfied that she could leave knowing that the condo was in order. If she never returned—in her life, always a possibility—she could still hold her head up in heaven. She’d not left a mess behind.
A small, rueful smile touched her lips. Star had said more than once, “I think your problem with men is that you’re too damn neat. What man can relax and scratch his balls in comfort in such a neatnik home?”
Although they never discussed it, she and Star both understood just why Nova had such a “thing” about control. For four hellish years, their stepfather, Candido Branco, had controlled Nova’s existence while secretly molesting her. When Candido turned his attention to Star, Nova had instinctively reacted and threatened Candido with a knife. During their struggle, she had killed him. She’d not planned it, but she also hadn’t regretted it. And since she could not prove the molestation, a jury had convicted her of manslaughter. She’d served five years, from age sixteen to twenty-one. And in prison she’d been unable to decide things as simple as when to turn out her light at night. Between Nova and Star, Nova’s passion to be always in command required no discussion or explanation—or excuse. But it did have consequences. For Nova, living the rest of her life unmarried might just be one of them.
A sigh slipped out as she closed the blinds that let in generous swaths of western light and a stunning view of the Pacific Ocean. Last night in Steamboat Springs she’d said nothing to David, not wanting to spoil the end of their trip, but when he’d dropped her off at the condo early this morning, she’d told him it was over.
He’d been so surprised. She felt another rush of sadness mixed with guilt. Breaking up right before Christmas and New Year’s had seemed especially unkind. On the flip side, maybe at some big holiday party David would meet someone new. Someone to make his life complete.
She leaned over the couch to pick up Divinity, her white Angora cat, a treasure with one green and one blue eye. She scratched gently behind one of Diva’s ears. “Time to visit Penny, sweet thing.”
She left the condo’s door ajar and strolled along her balcony to Penny’s door. Their two condos took up the three-story building’s top floor.
Today’s gorgeous blue-skied weather in San Diego could not be bettered any place in the world she’d been to, and from working for the Company and Cosmos Adventure Travel, she felt like she’d visited an impressively large selection of the planet’s offerings. Sunny, clear, a pleasant eighty-two degrees.
To her left, the Pacific Ocean beckoned, framed by four palm trees. A pleasant December day in exclusive and beautiful La Jolla, named “The Jewel” for its beauty and perched on the coved edge of the sea. Seven days before Christmas.
Reginald Pennypacker, her closest friend, was an African-American with delicate, Ethiopian bone structure and large, dark eyes. Penny owned La Jolla’s most exclusive beauty salon and, bless him, he took care of her plants and Diva upon request, no advance notice—something that happened rather often.
Today, Nova didn’t even need to knock. She’d told him weeks ago about the New York trip. Apparently hearing her steps, he flung open his door and stood there, regally dressed in a gold jogging suit with black trim.
“Come to me, precious one,” he commanded, lifting Diva from her arms.
“Back in three days,” she said.
“Right. And if not, you’ll call.”
He smiled and studied her face to see if she had further suggestions or requests.
She hugged him and offered her half of their ritual parting. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“I intend to do a bunch of things you’d never do,” came back his reply.
She turned and saw the Airport Shuttle service pull up. Now it was off to New York and sell, sell, sell.
Chapter 4
C IA field agent Joseph Cardone unbuckled his seatbelt. He should have been tired but instead he felt “fired up and raring to go,” one of his father’s expressions. Within the hour he’d be driving on a summer evening through moon-washed Texas sagebrush, soaking up vistas from a childhood that had been damn near perfect. He’d grown up in a loving family on a Texas ranch, where he’d ridden horses, milked cows, mended fences, driven a tractor, and baled hay. He was almost home.
The man next to him in first class, an oil exec also returning from Baghdad to Houston, had the aisle seat. They stood, and the man opened the overhead bin and pulled out his briefcase. Like Joe, the exec had traveled casual: chinos and a short-sleeved shirt, white for the exec and a light blue for Joe.
“It’s been damn pleasant sharing the hours with you,” the exec said. He stuck out his hand and Joe shook it. “You decide to come into town for some fun during your stay, give me a call. Or if IBM ever sends you to Houston on a troubleshoot. I’d love to show you around.”
IBM troubleshooter was Joe’s cover identity, and he would never take the likable guy up on his offer of hospitality. CIA business was Joe’s real life, one that occupied virtually all of his time. He had no idea where the Company would send him next, although it sure wouldn’t be Houston. “Like I say, I’m just here for a few days for my brother’s wedding. Family stuff. It’s not likely I’ll get away from my folks’ ranch or into any town other than Placita. That’s where the church is.”
At the door leading from first class into the Boeing 737’s exit, the flight attendant on this leg out of Baghdad pressed her business card into Joe’s hand. She said, “I don’t fly out again for four days.” He flipped the card over and checked the back. Sure enough, there was her phone number.
He smiled and used his forefinger to touch the tip of her chin. “I don’t know my schedule right now. But thanks for great service.”
He pocketed her card and strode down the gangway.
There had to be sixty or seventy people waiting for arrivals, but drawn by the unerring pull of maternal love, the first face that registered was his mother’s. Rosalinda Cardone. She stood next to his brother, Manuelito, and seemed to glow from within, her smile identical to the one for which Joe was legendary among CIA colleagues of both sexes: brilliant white teeth, sensual lips.
He dropped his overnighter as she embraced him, plump arms hugging his waist, her head pressed hard against him. Standing on tiptoes, her head came to his midchest.
He closed his eyes and let a warm sensation spread up his neck to his face. He was flushing with happiness. And something else. Some powerful feeling. This is absolutely the only place in the world where I am safe.
His mother pulled back enough to look up at him. His eyes were dark brown with some gold flecks, like his father’s. Hers were deep pools of velvet black from her Spanish heritage. “Your muscles are firm enough, but you are too skinny, Joseph,” she said.
He laughed and kissed her on the forehead. “You are my home.”
“Been too damn long,” Manuelito said, grabbing Joe into a bone-crushing hug.
“And how’s Dad?” Joe asked.
His mother took his hand. “He’s fine, he just didn’t want to wrestle the wheelchair through the airport. He’s waiting for us at the ranch.” His bullock of a father had finally been broken by a car accident that had robbed him of the use of his legs.
Joe checked out Manuelito, head to toe. Levis. Red shirt. Black, well-worn cowboy boots. He’d let his hair grow long and wore it pulled back in a ponytail, Antonio Banderas style. It looked good. When they were young they were often mistaken for each other. Same dark brown wavy hair, light brown skin, brown eyes, and quarterback physique.
Joe at thirty still had rock-hard