This was new territory. Brooke hadn’t realized Kathy knew or cared about her social life. “I haven’t found anybody.”
“You work at a resort! Men come through there every day. Politicians. Rock stars. Movie stars. Wine barons. Millionaires. Billionaires. You even said you have a con man who vacations at Bella Terra. Gagnon, I believe you said his name was.” Obviously, Kathy had given this some thought.
“You want me to date a con man?”
“He sounds charming.”
Brooke recalled Gagnon’s dark hair, tanned skin, his towering height . . . the slash of scar across his cheek, the way he smiled as if he knew all too well what she wore under her clothes . . . “He’s French. Of course he’s charming.” She also remembered the bodyguards never left his side and the unrelenting watchfulness in his dark eyes. “He’s dangerous, too.”
“You’re too sedentary. A little danger would do you good.”
Brooke couldn’t decide whether she should be amused or appalled. “Mother, how desperate are you to get rid of me?”
“It simply seems as if you should give at least one of those men a whirl.”
“They’re not bicycles!”
“Rafe Di Luca has been back less than twenty-four hours and he’s already mesmerized you.”
“No, he hasn’t,” Brooke answered a little too quickly.
“Has he kissed you?”
“You mean like . . . today?”
Kathy saw right through that evasion. “Oh, Brooke. Not again.”
“It was just a kiss.” . . . His lips smoothing hers. His body pressing her onto the sun-warmed front steps until Brooke felt each tread against her spine, until the smell of the old boards and old paint had been a newfound pleasure . . .
“Find a man,” Kathy said. “Settle down. Have some kids.”
Now, that was insulting. “I am not having kids to distract me from Rafe.”
Kathy narrowed her eyes at Brooke. “I’m going to pray the next time you have sex, the condom breaks.”
“Vibrators don’t wear condoms, Mom.” Brooke thought that would put an end to the conversation.
Instead, Kathy said, “Don’t I know it.”
It took Brooke a second before she caught on. Then she groaned, “Oh, Mom. Gross me out.”
Kathy laughed.
“Ew. I’m scarred for life.” She heard women’s voices on the walk, and saw her chance to escape. “Everything’s set up.” She kissed her mother on the cheek. “I’m going out the back. I’m going home. I’m going to take a bath—alone—and read a book—alone—and I’m going to pretend I never heard you say that.”
Kathy caught a strand of Brooke’s hair. “When you get out of the bath, why don’t you get online and book your next trip? Go someplace civilized. Someplace romantic.”
“Someplace Rafe would never go?”
“Exactly.” Kathy’s expression reflected her satisfaction. “Go to France or Spain or Italy. Or Scandinavia! You’ve never been to Scandinavia.”
“That would be different.” Brooke warmed to the idea.
“Yes! Find someplace you like. Get a job in a hotel there. Don’t come back.”
“Mom!” Brooke couldn’t believe she was talking that way.
“I’ll get along without you, and so will the Di Lucas. It’s time you went out into the world and lived your own life.” The bell rang. Kathy went to the door and looked back at her daughter. “Go on. Get going.”
She didn’t mean get out of this house.
She meant get out of town.
And for the first time, Brooke entertained the idea.
Because maybe Mom was right.
Chapter 18
In the fifties, when the Marinos built it, the Beaver Inn had been a cramped, crummy bar across the river, and in the twenty-first century, it was still a cramped, crummy bar. But now it was run-down, too. It boasted the original girly calendars—thus the Beaver Inn—the original fixtures, the original pool tables. . . .Rafe supposed the chairs were new, but “new” was a relative term. Every one of the metal-framed chairs had a black, cracked, padded plastic seat and at least one short leg. The place smelled like beer and piss, not necessarily in that order, and the lit Budweiser sign in the window flickered in an annoying offbeat rhythm.
Despite the name, when the Di Luca brothers stepped in the door, there was not a single woman in the place. It was, however, full of men who spent more on their tattoos than on soap and had the body odor to prove it.
Rafe gave a sigh of relief. As a general rule, guys who hung around in places like this—field laborers, truck drivers, linemen—were good with fists and knives, but they never watched movies about a kid with an imaginary dragon. If they did, they for sure never admitted it.
“No Marinos,” Rafe observed.
“Good. I don’t feel like beating the shit out of someone tonight,” Eli said.
“Liar,” Noah said.
“Yeah. You’re right. I’d like to beat the shit out of a lot of people tonight.” Eli didn’t fight often, but when he did, he was bare knuckles and balls to the wall. “They all deserve it.”
Rafe looked sharply at his brother.
Not that he didn’t understand the sentiment. This attack on Nonna left him frustrated and angry.
But Eli sounded bitter, ready to take out his anger on anyone who stepped in his way. Eli met Rafe’s gaze, held it, then shook his head. He wasn’t going to talk.
Okay. If there was one thing Rafe understood, it was that a man had a right to his privacy, and Eli was more private than any man Rafe had ever met.
Rafe was pretty sure that here in the Beaver Inn, if they played it right, they’d find someone with a similar urge to use his fists. “Let’s see what we can do for you.”
The Di Luca brothers wandered up to the bar and ordered shots: Maker’s Mark for Rafe, Stolichnaya for Noah, Hornitos for Eli.
The bartender, a burly, unshaven guy with that sneer that mocked their clean clothes and white teeth, said, “You gotta pay first.”
“Of course we do.” Rafe grinned back at him, knowing full well the nasty little prick recognized them. “First round’s on me.” Getting out his wallet, he put the bills down.
The bartender lined the drinks up in front of them.
The brothers clinked the glasses, slammed down the shots.
Rafe coughed.
Behind them, someone seated at a table laughed.
Rafe coughed again, a high little sound as if he’d just swallowed his first liquor, and whimpered.
Eli turned to him. In a voice meant to carry, he said, “Don’t worry; you’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t know. That tasted really harsh,” Rafe answered.
More laughter behind them.
The three brothers swapped grins.
The bartender picked up the phone and made a call, glancing at them occasionally as he spoke.
The Di Lucas settled down to continue the conversation cut short at the resort.
“I’ve found a home nurse for Nonna,” Noah said.
“Who is she?” Eli asked in his normal tone. “Does Nonna know her?”
“No, but that’s a good thing.” Noah indicated that they needed another round. “Olivia’s not from here, got nothing invested in the case or impressing one of us. She’ll be all about Nonna.”
Rafe and Eli nodded.
“She’s got great refs as a nurse,” Noah continued, “plus she’s got some creds in self-defense.”
“I already had my man install a security system in the house,” Rafe told them, “and when Nonna goes home, the place will have guards, but I’m always in favor of everyone having a little knowledge of self-defense.”
“But will Nonna like her?” Eli asked.
“I think so.” A smile tugged at Noah’s mouth. “She’s smart and funny, knows a lot about history, and isn’t afraid to live up there alone with Nonna.”
The smile tripped an alarm in Rafe.
Maybe in Eli, too,
because he asked, “How did you find her?”
“She was in the hospital cafeteria, filling out an application, and her pen went dry. She asked me if she could borrow one, and we got to talking.” Noah wore a fond and distant expression.
An expression Rafe didn’t trust. “Why Bella Valley?”
“What?” Noah stared at him.
“If she’s not from here, why is she moving to Bella Valley?” Rafe asked.
That snapped Noah out of his stupor. “Are you suspicious of everything? Bella Valley has a good rep among people looking for a more laid-back lifestyle.”
“She’s young and pretty—and she craves a laid-back lifestyle?” Rafe insisted.
“I didn’t say she was young and pretty,” Noah answered quickly.
“You didn’t have to,” Rafe said.
“Why don’t you investigate her?” Noah’s brown eyes grew icy. “I mean, my God, if you don’t trust Brooke, you don’t trust anyone. Have you had Eli and me investigated?”
“Not yet.” Rafe’s irritation rose to meet Noah’s. “But you haven’t told me everything that happened when Nonna was attacked. How the hell do you expect me to find Nonna’s attacker when you haven’t told me everything?”
Noah looked him right in the eyes. “We called you because we thought Nonna might die and she’d want to see you first. We didn’t call you so you could fix all our problems, turn us all into the perfect example of humanity you are.”
“Sarcasm’s not going to bring Nonna’s attacker to justice.” By some miracle, Rafe kept his voice down.
“I don’t know what it is we’re supposed to tell you that’s going to lead you to some revelation about the vagrant who broke into her house, attacked her, and ran away.” Eli put his hand on Noah’s shoulder, but Noah shrugged it off.
Rafe could not shrug off his responsibilities; nor could he let Noah get away with his offenses and his resistance. “Did you know whoever it was drove a motorcycle up there and hid it in the bushes?”
Noah’s expression changed from resentment to suspicion to wary curiosity. “DuPey didn’t mention that.”
“Did you know this guy wore shoe coverings as well as gloves?” Rafe demanded.
Eli got it. “So he planned it. It wasn’t a random thing.”
Noah got it, too, but he didn’t like it. “Are you sure?”
“Did you know he went into the dining room and lifted the candles out of the wine bottles on the table?” Rafe drove his point home with words like bullets.
Noah’s color rose. “Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. I just know the more we find out, the better chance we have of catching him.” Rafe was breathing hard.
So was Noah. They faced each other like boxers in the ring, brothers who should have been allies and found themselves at odds.
Rafe wanted to rage with frustration. At these small-town cops with their small-town minds, at his brothers, so determined to believe them, at his father for being out of touch, at his mother for being here. At this crime that had hurt Nonna and pulled any sense of security out from underneath him.
If something didn’t happen soon to relieve the tension, there was going to be a—
Someone flung the bar door open. A man’s voice called, “Hey, look. It’s the three Di Luca boys. Eliseo the winemaker, young Genoah, and our movie star, Raffaello.” Stefano Marino sauntered in, hands on his hips, grinning in challenging amusement.
His brother, Greg, stood beside him. Their cousin, Primo, six-foot-seven, two hundred and fifty pounds, and a former running back for UCLA, stood behind and towered over them both.
Each of them was one year younger than each of the Di Luca brothers. It was almost as if, Eli had once said, it never occurred to any of the Marino parents to screw unless someone else proved they’d done it first.
“We are so honored.” Primo’s voice was a deep rumble.
“Slumming, boys?” Greg’s smirk was as insulting as Stefano’s.
“We thought we’d come down to the Beaver Inn for a little beaver.” Eli pretended to look around. “Hey, Primo, is your sister here?”
Chairs scraped across the linoleum as the barflies pushed their chairs back.
“Why?” Primo bunched his huge fists. “You want to get beat up by a girl?”
The bartender hurriedly took the liquor bottles off the shelf and stashed them below the counter.
“Not a problem. You’re here, girly-boy.” Rafe couldn’t believe he was talking like a teenager. And enjoying it.
“I hear your father’s getting married again,” Stefano mocked. “How old is this one?”
“Old enough to vote, but not old enough to drink, huh, Noah?” Greg swaggered forward.
Noah met him. For all that Noah looked like the ultimate smooth businessman, he was tough, with a whipcord speed that surprised the unwary bully who dared pick a fight. He’d had to be—he was the youngest.
Greg knew that, though. Starting in preschool, they’d kicked each other’s ass on a regular basis, and now they stood, ready to go at it again.
So to even the odds, Rafe kicked Primo’s legs out from under him.
Primo landed with a thud so jarring that empty glasses rattled and dust sifted out of the yellowed tile ceiling. Rafe jumped him while he was down—it was the only chance he had against Primo—and the fight was on.
Noah slammed Greg in the stomach with his head, driving him against the bar.
Barstools skittered and fell.
Stefano jabbed at Eli.
Eli ducked.
Stefano connected with Eli’s forehead.
Both men staggered back; Stefano gripped his fist, Eli his head.
Then Eli rammed Stefano with his shoulder and they smacked the wall.
Everywhere in the bar, fights broke out. It was a riot. A horse-ridin’, saddle-leather, no-bullshit John Wayne movie. Exactly what the Di Lucas had been looking for.
Primo rolled on Rafe, used his weight to pin him to the floor, and proceeded to pulverize him with his fists. Not that Rafe didn’t know a few moves that would have taken him out, but this was a friendly fight. That would be cheating.
Rafe thought he was dead until one of the bar customers flew through the air propelled by a punch, landed on Primo’s kidneys, and knocked him off Rafe. While the big guy was gasping, Rafe evened the score with a series of well-placed punches that broke Primo’s nose and bloodied his lip.
It couldn’t last, of course. Primo had him pound for pound, muscle for muscle, and pretty soon Primo picked Rafe up and held him against the wall.
Rafe braced for the impact.
Primo looked at him, his big brown puppy-dog eyes kind. “Hey, man, sorry about your grandmother.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Rafe answered, and kicked him in the ’nads.
Primo threw him across the room into the middle of another fight.
Rafe landed hard.
A knife flashed.
In one smooth move, Rafe flipped the guy and removed the blade from his hand. Standing, he held it aloft and shouted, “Next knife I see, I’ll use it to cut out your heart.”
Eli and Stefano stopped fighting, picked up the slasher, and threw him out the window.
Glass shattered, spraying the parking lot.
The guy landed on a car; the alarm went off.
Rafe threw the knife toward the bar. It stuck in the wall next to the cash register.
Someone hit him with an uppercut to the chin.
And the brawls started again.
In about two minutes, the floor was slippery with blood, sweat, and snot.
In about five minutes, Rafe’s ears were ringing.
No, wait. Those were sirens.
The cops were coming.
The evening had been, altogether, very satisfying.
Chapter 19
“I can’t believe I’m bailing my grown children out of jail.” Mrs. Arianna Marino, as broad as she was tall, stood haranguing her sons as she signed the papers
to free them. “Primo, do you know what your papa’s going to say when he finds out you broke your nose again after he paid to get it fixed last time?”
Primo cowered away from Mrs. Marino’s wagging finger.
Stefano and Greg eased out of her line of sight.
“And you.” She fixed her dark eyes and her loathing on Rafe and his brothers. “Why are you three standing there smirking? You think you’re anything but three overgrown thugs who come out and pick a fight while your poor grandmother is suffering in the hospital?”
Brooke stood at the counter in the police station, dressed in a black sweat suit, nodding her head in agreement as she signed papers to free the Di Luca brothers.
Mrs. Marino continued. “Poor Sarah Di Luca, attacked and beaten by a gangster! Then her own grandsons, who she raised out of the graciousness of her heart and by the sweat of her brow, dishonor her by getting drunk and looking for trouble. And finding it! Coming to my bar and picking a fight with my boys. Wait until I tell her what you’ve done. Just wait!”
Noah slid Brooke out of his way and smiled winsomely at Mrs. Marino. “Please don’t do that. Nonna’s still weak from the attack.”
Rafe remembered that Noah had always been Mrs. Marino’s favorite Di Luca. Then—
Mrs. Marino slapped Noah upside the head, right on the raised black-and-blue lump he’d earned when he tried to take out the bar with his skull.
He fell to his knees, groaning.
“You should have thought of that sooner!” she snarled.
Brooke laughed out loud, then returned to filling out the paperwork.
Rafe, in the wrong time zone and fortified with wine and whiskey, reached out to twirl Brooke’s dark hair around his finger.
She slapped his hand away.
He tried again. “Pretty,” he said, fascinated by the brown luster.
She turned on him, and for a moment, her expression mirrored Mrs. Marino’s frustration and anger. “Look! Today, you act all concerned about me and how I’m doing too much for your grandmother and at the resort, and I finally get to bed at a decent hour—and, buster, I was asleep—and you call me to spring you out of jail. And look at you! Split lip. Bruised throat. An ear half torn off. And for what? A fun little brawl?”
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