Secrets of Bella Terra

by Christina Dodd

  “What do you think?” he whispered against her mouth.

  “Huh?”

  “Will you marry me?”

  He was irritating her. Talking to her and distracting her at the same time. “I told you—I’m going to Sweden.”

  “I like Sweden.”

  She put her hand flat on his chest and shoved him away. “You can’t be serious.”

  He slid his arm around her shoulders, pushed her back against the pillows, tilted her head back, and smudged chocolate into the hollow of her throat. With his lips and tongue, he cleaned it off, slowly, thoroughly, his chest rubbing hers, his breath sweeping her skin. . . .“I have offices all over the world. I can work anywhere,” he murmured.

  She struggled to figure out what he was talking about. “I don’t need you.”

  “I know. But I need you—desperately.” He dropped his head onto the pillow beside hers and looked at her. “I can’t keep living like this, Brooke, leaving you here, wandering the world alone, getting in tough spots and resolving to come back and get you, then not doing it because I know you’re happy in Bella Valley. Because you’re comfortable in Bella Valley. This time, you were in danger right here. You were almost killed—twice.”

  The cake was fun. The whipped cream was cute. The strawberries and grapes were silly. But he was serious, his blue eyes almost gray with earnestness.

  “I’m fine.” She smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “You don’t need to propose marriage because you got a little scared.”

  Typical Rafe, he paid no attention to her. “While you’re with me, I’ll keep you safe. And when the kids start coming, we’ll come back so Nonna and your mom can enjoy them.”

  Kids. He was ahead of her there.

  That reminded her . . . “My mom said . . . she cursed me, actually, put a mom-curse on me. She said she hoped the next time I had sex, the condom would break.”

  “Did she?” A smile played around his mouth.

  “The next time I had sex, we didn’t even use a condom.”

  “I didn’t have one on me.” Because they were in the shower, he meant. “And I bet your mom didn’t want the next time to be with me.”

  “That’s the trouble with curses. You have to be really specific.”

  “You could be pregnant.” When he saw the way Brooke was watching him, he tried to tone down his exultant expression. “I swear I didn’t do it on purpose. I wasn’t thinking. I was feeling, and what I felt in that shower was the desperate desire to make you happy.”

  She believed him. He had been desperate. So had she, desperate with grief and horror and needing an affirmation of life.

  He continued. “If you’re going to have a baby . . . that would be wonderful. We’d be great parents. We’ve both seen how not to raise children, and we’ve both seen how to. And we’re smart people with a lot of love to give.”

  “You’ve thought this through.”

  “A thousand times.”

  He made her want to laugh—except really, nothing had changed. “Why should I marry you, Rafe? What possible reason do I have for marrying you?” She put her finger in his face. “And don’t you dare say because I might be pregnant.”

  “Of course not! You should marry me because you love me.”

  “Yes, that hasn’t changed.”

  “And I love you.”

  “I believe you.” All the warmth was fading. “But that doesn’t change anything, either.”

  “I believe in the sanctity of marriage.” A funny thing to hear Rafe say, but clearly he meant it. “I watched my father and my mother fight and separate and get divorced and I swore I wouldn’t do that. Because if I got married, I wanted to stay married forever. You and me—the first couple of times around, probably we couldn’t have made a marriage work. We loved each other, but we didn’t talk about what we wanted in life, about our goals. If we had, we would have known we wanted different things in life. That would have saved a lot of heartache.”

  She swallowed, almost in tears with the memories and the hopelessness.

  “No, don’t cry for us. Now we’re older, smarter, more mature. This time I know that when we get married, it will be forever. Our lives don’t have to be all what I want or all what you want. I want to share your life, whatever life you choose, wherever you choose to have it, and have you share mine. I always liked to listen to you—now I’ve figured out I need to talk to you, too.” He smiled, a sudden beam of light. “For instance, right now—I’m doing a pretty good job, aren’t I?”

  “You are.” She smoothed his hair again. She had always loved his hair, the way it held the warmth from his body, the way it sprang back against her touch. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. I’ll go to Sweden. You go off to wherever you need to go next. And we’ll think about this. After the excitement of Jenna’s little stunt has faded, my swelling has gone down, and you’re not worried about me anymore, we’ll talk about marriage again.”

  “So you aren’t intrinsically opposed to marriage to me?”

  “No. But I think we should wait to make sure—”

  “That I’m not having a weird fit?” A grin flitted around his mouth. “A return of PTSD?”

  “When you talk this much, I do worry.”

  He hid his face against her head, but his laughter was a rumble in her ear and against her chest. “It just so happens the next place I need to go is Sweden.” Leaning back, he pushed his fingers into her hair and held her for his kiss, long and slow, deep and wet. “Darling, I’m a grown man. I don’t propose marriage because I’m feeling wobbly. I propose because I know what I want.”

  Now she was feeling wobbly. “I still think a waiting period would be good.”

  “Sure. We’ll wait as long as you want.”

  “Really?” He had given up very easily.

  “Sure.”

  So she was right. This marriage proposal was nothing more than a knee-jerk reaction to the recent danger.

  Good thing she’d been wary and insisted on caution.

  She sighed deeply. If only she didn’t love him quite so much . . .

  Sitting up, he slathered frosting on his finger and put it to her mouth. He smiled as she licked it, as the rich frosting slid down her throat, warming her like dark, sumptuous lava.

  She had him figured out now. “You’re seducing me with chocolate. You think you can feed me a strawberry, then have your way with me!”

  He looked down at her.

  Her robe had fallen open; her bent knee revealed her long, naked thigh.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He smoothed his palm up her leg, baring her to her waist.

  “It’s not going to work,” she said. “I’m not so easily swayed.” She hoped.

  Because he wore that expression again, the one that made her heart beat more quickly, made her want to shift and moan. That particular look of his made chocolate superfluous.

  Hooking his arm under her knee, he spread her legs, and, taking one of the grapes, he slid it inside her.

  She gasped, which was silly, and asked, “What are you doing?” Which was sillier.

  Leaning down, he used his tongue to manipulate the grape in and out, up and down. . . .It was slick and cool, then slick and warm. Then it seemed to disappear completely, and there were only his lips, suckling softly on her clit until she had come more times than she could count.

  When he lifted his head, he murmured, “Negotiating.”

  “What?” What was he talking about?

  “I told you we’d wait as long as you want to get married.” He picked up a red, ripe strawberry, placing it on the concave part of her stomach, and smiled at her. “I’m negotiating the waiting period.”

  By morning, the cake was gone. The strawberries were gone. The whipped cream was gone.

  And they were in Reno being married by a justice of the peace.

  Chapter 52

  Eli spoke to his friends and relatives—he knew or was related to almost everyone in the giant ballroom. He comp
limented the women dressed in fringe and feathers, teased the men in double-breasted suits with spats and gangster hats. He listened as voices rose and laughter grew boisterous, sure signs that the wine tasting was successful. He looked appropriately modest as his compatriots congratulated him on the rare and coveted ninety-five rating on his Teardrop Aglianico. He ignored the subtle hints and blatant demands for information on the unrest at Bella Terra and the loss of so much fine wine.

  The carnage in Bella Terra’s bar was no one’s damned business except his. His and his brothers’, but because of the wine . . . mostly his.

  In a few minutes the charity auction would start, and, lubricated by alcohol, the guests would bid exorbitantly on posh wine dinners and long wine weekends, raising money to send low-income kids to college. The winemakers’ committee would congratulate themselves, announce the totals; then everyone would troop into dinner.

  And at some point that elderly Italian guy who looked like the Godfather would corner him and make him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  He didn’t know who the guy was, or why he was studying Eli, or what offer he would make, but this kind of thing had happened before. So many people wanted to partner with an upcoming winemaker to market him and his product, or to show him how to increase his yields, or to export him under a different label. . . .In his time, Eli had heard it all.

  Never had he been forced to take the offer. He wasn’t likely to start now.

  Usually Eli enjoyed these functions, but this time . . . this time he wanted nothing so much as to escape, to be alone and try to figure out how in the hell he’d managed to get himself into this mess and how he was going to get himself out. Sure, he could talk to his family, tell them what had happened, and they’d pull together to solve his problem.

  But it was his problem, his responsibility, and after all that had happened in his childhood, he had sworn never to depend on another person. Never. Not even his grandmother, not even his brothers. Anguish always followed.

  Normally he would have ignored the vibration of his phone, but so desperate was he to escape, he pulled it out of his pocket to look.

  A text from Rafe.

  Congratulate me. Married today.

  Eli stared, then broke into a smile. “Excuse me,” he said to the flirtatious, nubile, clearly available lady at his side. “I’ve got to call my brother.” He strode out of the ballroom into the large, almost empty antechamber, picked a quiet corner, and dialed Rafe. When Rafe answered, Eli turned his shoulder to the room and asked, “Has poor Brooke sobered up enough yet to realize what a mistake she’s made?”

  Rafe sounded relaxed and happier than Eli had ever heard him. “I’ll have you know she was totally sober when she said ‘I do.’”

  “But the pain pills helped!” Brooke yelled toward the phone.

  Eli snorted. “I knew there had to be a reason why a sensible girl like Brooke would marry a sfigato like you. Well, congratulations! I’m glad someone managed to get something good out of the trouble at Bella Terra.”

  “You sound bitter, brother. Wanna tell me about it?” Rafe’s voice had changed, become thoughtful and probing.

  Eli should have remembered that both Rafe and Brooke had majored in perspicacity. “Nothing I can’t handle.” Firmly, he turned the subject to Rafe’s impending problems. “Running off to get married! You two are in so much trouble with Nonna.”

  “And my mom and Brooke’s mom.” Now Rafe didn’t sound quite so pleased with himself.

  “What did Nonna say when you told her?”

  “She had just got home from the hospital,” Rafe said.

  “They released her?” For one blessed moment, every muscle in Eli’s tense body relaxed.

  “She has to return to rehab every other day, but yeah, she’s out.” Rafe sounded as pleased as Eli felt. “She said congratulations to us and asked when we were planning our real wedding.”

  For the first time in weeks, Eli laughed out loud.

  Rafe continued. “So tomorrow I’m driving Brooke back to Bella Terra to face Nonna, my mom, and Kathy.”

  “Kathy Petersson hates your guts!” Thoroughly enjoying himself, Eli leaned against the table piled with brochures from all the wineries represented inside. “What did she say?”

  “She said if I didn’t take care of her little girl, she’d shoot me and no one would ever find the body.”

  Eli laughed again, then sobered. “Wait. She could probably do that.”

  “I intend to take care of Brooke, anyway,” Rafe said. “I would die for this woman.”

  “I know you would.” Eli bitterly envied his brother. At the same time, he couldn’t help it, but he thought him a fool.

  Brooke must have taken the phone away from Rafe, because her voice was suddenly right in Eli’s ear. “You know Nonna, Mom, and Francesca are going to want a big wedding at the resort.” Unlike Rafe, she sounded sullen. “I hate big weddings. I wanted to go to Sweden!”

  Rafe retrieved his phone, and Eli heard him saying in a soothing tone, “We’ll go to Sweden. Those women don’t need us to plan a wedding. In fact, I’m pretty sure we’ll be in the way.”

  Eli removed his black fedora, dropped it on the table, and pushed his fingers through his hair. “Listen, yesterday, Nonna told me the details about Massimo’s bottle. Has anybody ever figured out why Bianchin suddenly decided he had to have it? Is he dying or something?”

  “We don’t know why, and frankly, if he’s dying, he can’t go fast enough. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve been through Nonna’s cellar and it’s not in there, and she swears Nonno hid it before he died.”

  “I want that damned bottle of wine. It’s ours, our inheritance. I want to pour it, taste it, flaunt our glasses in front of Joseph Bianchin, and make damned good and sure it doesn’t cause us any more trouble.” He hunched his shoulders as he remembered the wreckage of the Luna Grande, of his grandmother, battered and bruised in her hospital bed. Even the memory gave him the shivers.

  “Amen, brother.” Rafe sounded as riled as Eli felt.

  No, wait. That prickling along his spine was caused by more than a memory. Someone was watching him. He glanced around the room.

  The elderly man had stepped through the doorway of the ballroom and once again stood watching him, the sort of summing-up of one acute businessman for another.

  It felt odd to be scrutinized so closely, so knowingly. Did Eli have this all wrong? Was this guy some old friend of the family? Was he from Eli’s desolate past? “Rafe, I’ve got to go. Good for you on catching the villain, and even better on catching Brooke. You don’t deserve her.”

  “I know it.” Once again Rafe showed his knowledge of Eli and his reactions. “You sound stressed again. You okay? Need backup? I could get someone there in less than fifteen minutes.”

  The Italian was maybe sixty, with iron gray hair, sagging jowls, a droopy nose, and, by God, he was no more than five feet, six inches tall, with a dockworker’s figure. But those eyes . . . He was shrewd. Yes, Eli’s first reading of him was correct. This man was the Godfather incarnate.

  “I don’t think I’m in danger, but I am going to get off the phone.” He straightened away from the table. “Congrats, Rafe. Condolences to Brooke. I’ll see you back at Bella Terra before you leave, right?”

  “Right.” It was Brooke on the phone again. “You be careful, Eli. I’ve never had a brother before, and I don’t want to lose you now.”

  “No chance of that,” Eli said, and hung up. To the Godfather, he said, “Can I help you?”

  The man walked up and offered his hand. “Tamosso Conte. I am glad to meet you, Eli Di Luca.” Conte spoke English with a decidedly Italian accent and the harsh notes of the city in his voice.

  Eli shook his hand solemnly. “You’re from Rome?”

  “Milan. I’m in leather goods.”

  Sure. And Eli was in fruit production. “I hope you’re enjoying your visit to the United States.”

  “It is always a pleasure to visit. I�
�m here on behalf of my daughter—she’s half American and amazingly independent.”

  “American girls are like that.”

  “Yes.” Conte put down his wineglass and reached into his pocket.

  Not that Eli was worried he was going to pull out a gun, but it was a relief when he brought forth his wallet.

  Conte pulled out a worn picture of a young woman seated at a desk, smiling brilliantly at the camera. “Pretty, isn’t she?”

  Eli barely glanced at her. “Very pretty.” As tattered as the photo was, she was probably ten years older and twenty pounds heavier.

  Conte beamed. “I worry about her. . . .She’s an author, you know? She wrote a mystery, hit the New York Times first time out.”

  “You must be very proud.” Obviously he was. Not many men showed off photos of their adult daughters at the drop of a hat.

  “Proud? Yes, but concerned.” Conte gazed at the picture as if he couldn’t get over the fact he even had a daughter; then he tucked it back in his wallet. “A girl like that, she doesn’t need a man, or so she thinks. A father worries.”

  “I can see that you would.” Eli had no idea where this was going, but he knew he didn’t give a damn about this man’s kid. Not when he was drowning in his own problems.

  Conte got down to business. “Listen. You and me, we can do each other favors. Solve each other’s dilemmas.”

  Ah, here it came. The ridiculous offer. And who knew? From this guy, maybe a threat. “What dilemmas are those?”

  “Mine—I want grandchildren while I’m young enough to enjoy them. You”—Conte stepped in front of Eli and stared into his eyes—“you want enough money so that you don’t lose your family’s winery.”

  Eli stepped back fast and hard, and slammed his hip into the corner of a table. It hurt. He knew it did. But right now, he couldn’t feel it. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.” Conte’s eyes were dark, determined, pitiless. “You were busy growing grapes, making wines, getting awards. You left the business in the hands of a dear old friend. He embezzled how many millions of dollars and fled to South America, leaving you in . . . How do Americans say it? Shit shape?”