The scotch was warm, and he settled back in the high leather chair and listened to Brahms’s violin concerto, the final movement, where all the yearning was. So much yearning, he thought, the lone violin seemed to reach ever upward, toward some impossible height of unquenchable desire. To be captured by such longing for even the briefest moment, he knew, could change a man forever.
He closed his eyes and she was with him.
Marisol.
The odd truth assailed him once again, the fact that he’d traveled the world only to find the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen lounging in a small bar in Chueca, on the dark side of Madrid.
It had begun as business, just another day in the life of one whose job it was to find the scattered pieces of broken lives. Runaway partners, children, husbands, wives, people he tracked down and bought back to what they’d shattered when they left-homes, businesses, a lolling sense of trust. He’d always understood that it was not his job to put anything back together-blasted families, companies, estates. He simply brought back the ones who’d fled the destruction so that they could face whatever punishment or reconciliation his clients had in mind.
He remembered the small packet of information Lockridge had given him.
Lockridge, who claimed to be Marisol’s lover.
Lockridge, who claimed to want her back because he loved her so.
Lockridge, who said he only wanted a chance to talk to Marisol, apologize, beg her to return.
Lockridge, who swore that if Marisol refused to go back to him, he would let her go.
There’d been a photo of the woman in question, but it hadn’t done her justice. A beauty like hers was rare and deep, but it was not the beauty of a fashion model or a movie star. Nothing about her appearance seemed the product of oils and powders, the right slant of light. Her loveliness made its own light, and this light flowed over her like a stream.
“She’s a seductress,” Lockridge had written along the margin of the photograph, “so be careful.”
Careful, Stark thought now, lifting the glass to his lips again as he recalled the moment he’d first seen her in the flesh, the way she’d looked at the little wrought-iron table in Chueca, her long, slender fingers curled around a glass of red wine to which she’d just added a burst of Casera water. Her black skirt fell well below her knees, and her plain white blouse was knotted at the front and open just enough so that the orbs of her brown breasts were slightly visible.
Her coal-black hair had thrown off small white flashes when she’d turned her head at his approach, and as he’d drawn near, he’d seen tiny drops of sweat along her upper lip. But it was her eyes he most remembered when he remembered her-dark, oval, with a hint of ancient coastal towns about them. “ Buenas tardes, senor ” was all she’d said.