Chapter Five

Resorts such as Sapore di Amore always housed gyms that rivaled any paid membership fitness center, but unlike the clubs in LA, these were empty. While Michael slept in, taking full advantage of his vacation, Meg pushed herself out of bed. The chef on the island was sure to put an extra five pounds on her if she didn’t at least make an effort to burn some of the delicious calories off.

She’d considered a swim, but without a spotter who knew her lungs didn’t always play well, she’d be risking more than she’d gain.

The twentysomething attendant at the gym handed her a bottle of water and a workout towel and greeted her by name, even though Meg hadn’t yet set foot inside the gym.

She couldn’t help but be a little impressed with the attention of Val’s staff.

Once inside, upbeat music pumped through hidden speakers, the views outside the glass panels presented a lush garden view.

Meg managed a long stretch and moved to one of the ellipticals to warm up. She took her time and paced herself.

“Good morning, Miss Rosenthal.”

So much for a peaceful workout.

Without stopping, Meg turned her head toward his voice and paused.

Why couldn’t Valentino Masini be tucked into a Dri-FIT short-sleeved shirt and shorts? Then she could see for herself if the man sported a farmer’s tan.

The fact that he was perfectly polished in a suit and tie shouldn’t have surprised her. “Working out in a tie must really suck.”

His gaze dropped, briefly, then met hers. “The ocean is my gym.”

The instant image of him trying to swim in a business suit made her smile. “I didn’t know they made suits to swim in.” She realized, after the words were out of her mouth, how they sounded.

“The island is private, but I usually wear something while swimming.”

The image of him butt naked and facedown in the water had her cheeks heating up. “Skinny dipping on your own island seems like a rite of passage,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice her blush.

When he was silent, Meg glanced over and noticed his grin. He smiled so rarely, she couldn’t help but enjoy the tingle up her spine when he did.

The brat. Now she’d be searching for private spots where he dipped his ass naked.

“Now I know the real reason pictures are discouraged.”

“You’ve figured me out, Miss Rosenthal.”

“Ha! I doubt that.” She took a swig of her water and felt the burn in her legs as the elevation on the machine changed automatically. When he didn’t say anything to that, she added, “So, you hang out in the gym wearing a three-piece suit often?”

“I make an appearance to many parts of my island daily.”

“Ah. A workaholic.” Which might sound like stability to some, but to her, it sounded like an early heart attack.

“Perhaps.” The smile on his face faded, leaving her disappointed with the direction of their conversation. “You appear to be a woman who likes order and routine.”

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

“You’re working out on vacation, which tells me you either vacation a lot and therefore feel the need to exercise while away from home, or you crave routine.”

She thought about that for a minute. “Or maybe I just want an excuse to indulge on your menu choices and I don’t want to get fat.”

The lazy sweep of his eyes heated the room. “I doubt you have to worry about that.”

“Every woman worries about that. They might not say it aloud, but they worry.”

One side of his lips lifted in amusement . . . not a smile, she decided, but very close. “Thank you for the lesson on the female psyche.”

“You’re welcome.”

Val stared briefly, before he pushed away from the treadmill he leaned against and tilted his head. “Enjoy your I-don’t-want-to-get-fat workout, Miss Rosenthal.”

The man made her smile. “Try not to work too hard.”

He’d avoided them all day and into the evening. Made a point to stay far from the private villas . . . but on the third morning he found an e-mail in his in-box with a picture.

Margaret Rosenthal laughing in the arms of Michael Wolfe as he tossed her into the ocean. The picture wasn’t intimate or suggestive, but it had been taken.

And it had been taken on his island.

He released a string of obscenities in Italian and pressed the intercom. “Carol. I need security in my office in five minutes.”

“Is everything all right, Mr. Masini?”

“Five minutes.” He disconnected the call and printed out the photograph.

Lou Myong stood before him four minutes later, the photograph in his hand.

“This was taken from the island, not the ocean, not above in a plane.”

Val could see that.

“Can you tell who sent it?”

Val shook his head. “I expect an Internet team on this. I want to know the IP address, the origin. I need to know who sent the photograph.”

Lou folded the copy of the picture and tucked it in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. A second-generation Korean American, Lou stood a few inches shorter than Val, but the man had a good thirty pounds over him. Lou had been the head of his security on the island since before the first guest arrived. He understood the need for secrecy and made damn sure pictures like the one in his pocket weren’t taken.

“The question is why send it to you? Why not just print it? Pictures of movie stars on vacation fetch thousands of dollars.”

“Someone wants me to know they can do it.”

“Or someone is placing focus on these two.”