by Tara Lain
“Yes. Yes, it is.” He gripped the phone so tightly his fingers were getting numb. But his mind roiled. “We’ll talk soon, Sage.”
“Thank you for making me feel a little better.”
Bo clicked off and stared into space.
Blaise said, “Anything important?”
Bo clenched his teeth. “Llewellyn, ask me that question again, about how I’d find Jeremy.”
“H-how would you—”
His head snapped up, and every word felt like a bullet shooting from his mouth. “I’d find that pipsqueak, twink, asshole, Christian, who worked for Jeremy, and wring it out of him. I’ve always felt he knows more than he says about the whole Ottersen mess. I think I just got confirmation that it’s true.”
Blaise said, “Christian?”
Bo nodded.
Llewellyn nodded. “I th-think you should d-do that. Find him.”
Blaise raised a golden eyebrow that reminded Bo of Jeremy. “Maybe not too much wringing. We don’t want another visit from the police.”
“W-we’ll query our c-contacts as w-well.”
Bo stood. He needed to move or he’d start screaming. Mafia. Holy shit.
“If you l-learn anything, d-do not act on it. Not alone. D-do you understand?”
He nodded once. “I need to get over there.” He walked the few steps to the couch and hugged Llewellyn, then Blaise.
Blaise grinned. “So congratulations on coming out.”
“Oh, I haven’t really. You’re the first to know, aside from Jeremy, of course.”
“Glad to hear that part.” He looked at Llewellyn like he was staring at the sun. “I highly recommend life with the man you love.”
Llewellyn blushed, and Bo felt kinship. Also envy. He had to find Jeremy, make sure he was safe, and persuade him that their future was together, growing wine and making love. “Gotta find him first.”
“C-call us. Thank y-you for the w-wine.”
“And cheese.” Blaise took a big bite on a cracker and shoved the last bit in his mouth with his finger.
That finally squeezed a smile from Bo, who blew a kiss and ran out the door.
The drive back to the wine country felt like forever, but Bo stared at the road. He’d start at Hill Top. Somebody had to know where that pretty little turd lived.
He almost missed the turn, he was thinking so hard, but he squealed the tires and drove up the hill. Hill Top, oddly, wasn’t quite as high as Marchand but still commanded a great vista. Bo slammed to a stop and pushed into the tasting room. A bunch of people stood at the tasting bar and behind it—Well, step up and call me fucking flabbergasted. Christian. The idiot held forth at the bar, laughing and pouring wine.
Chapter Twenty-six
BO STORMED across the Hill Top tasting room. As he rounded the bar, Christian looked up, must have seen Bo’s face, and started moving in the opposite direction. Bo was faster and way bigger. He grabbed Christian’s arm and nearly yanked him off his feet.
“Let go of me, you maniac.”
“Not a chance, sugah.” He raised his voice and laughed loudly. “I caught you, you cute little devil. You know you can’t escape your daddykins.” The people at the bar, who’d been looking shocked, smiled, giggled, and went back to their wine. Bo made eye contact with a girl who worked for Jeremy part-time. He jerked his head toward the patrons. “Can you help them out while I talk to Christian?”
“Sure. Love to.”
“Call the police, Tiffany.” Christian wriggled in Bo’s grasp.
Bo just shook his head and got a nod from Tiffany. He dragged Christian through the door to the administrative area and into Jeremy’s office.
Just the subtle scent of Jeremy in the room made his heart hurt. He shoved Christian toward a chair, locked the door, and stood in front of it. Christian caught himself against the arm of the guest chair, then looked around frantically, likely for escape.
Bo crossed his arms. “What are you doing here?”
Wheels clearly turned in Christian’s head. “I knew poor Jeremy was in jail, so I volunteered to come in and cover for him.”
“You know full well that Jeremy’s not in jail. Furthermore, you know where he is and who took him there. You’re not leaving here until you tell me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. How would I know if Jeremy’s somewhere besides jail?” He huddled in the chair and wrapped his arms around himself.
Bo walked over and dragged a straight-backed chair in front of Christian so their knees almost touched. “Look at me.”
Christian looked up, scowling. “You can’t keep me here.”
“Yes, I can. And to answer your question, the way you’d know is because someone paid you to spy on Jeremy.”
The shocked look in his eyes confirmed what had been a wildass guess. Okay, one answer. How about another one? “And they paid you to help Ottersen, right?”
Strike two. Christian turned white.
“You told Jeremy’s clients Hill Top was in trouble.”
Christian frowned murderously.
Bo leaned forward until his nose practically touched Christian’s. “Right?”
“Okay, yes.”
“And you gave Ottersen Jeremy’s blends?”
Christian shrugged. “He should have protected them. What a trusting idiot.”
Bo clenched his fists and let Christian see them. He might not believe Jeremy killed Ottersen, but Bo might kill Christian on the spot. “Christian, you better start talking, or I’ll show the police you were directly involved in murder.”
“Like hell! I had nothing to do with that murder. Nothing. And I don’t know who did. I was just hired to make life difficult for Jeremy by giving his business to Ottersen.”
“Who hired you?”
He shrugged. “Just a name on the phone and a whole lot of money in my bank account.”
“What name?”
He stuck out his jaw and his chest, not an altogether impressive posture, but a good try. “First, I want to say I haven’t done anything illegal. Everyone does a bit of espionage. When Jeremy hired me, I was already working for these other dudes, so I wasn’t even being immoral.”
“If you have a very fluid moral code.”
Christian, the asshole, shrugged.
Bo narrowed his eyes. “And I’ll remind you that murder’s illegal.”
“As far as I know, Jeremy did it.”
“You know that’s ridiculous.”
Another shrug.
“I can prove I didn’t.” He didn’t look sure of that.
“So can Jeremy.”
Christian sneered but looked worried. “How? By you? Are you going to tell the police you two are lovers? Because I know you are. That should compromise any alibi you give him.” He crossed his arms. “Besides, Jeremy’s gone.”
Damn. Don’t let him see you sweat. “I’ll happily tell the police everything you’ve been doing to undermine Jeremy and suggest that Ottersen found out, confronted you, and you got angry and killed him to protect yourself. It might be disproved, but for all I know, you did do it.”
His worried look turned to panic. “And you won’t tell the cops what I did if I give you what I know? It’s not much.”
“I may have to tell them about the dirty tricks, but I won’t suggest you killed him. I’m sure they’re investigating you as it is.”
Christian nodded and stared at the floor.
“So what was the name?”
“I get the feeling this guy on the phone could cause a lot of trouble for me.”
“So can I. And tell me why you think that.”
“He just sounded like someone with, you know, power. Like he was used to always getting his way.” He shook his head.
Bo picked up the legs of the chair and crashed them down. Christian jumped.
“Okay. He called himself Sam, but I heard someone who talked to him while he was on the phone call him Mario or Mark or something like that.”
“Last name?”
; “No idea.”
“Signature on your checks?”
“No checks. Just direct deposits from a bank account in the Caymans.”
“Phone number?”
“Always a different number.
“Does he still owe you money?”
“No.”
“Tell me what else you know.”
He sighed like this was a great inconvenience, which it would be when Bo slugged him in the jaw. Bo’s face must have conveyed Christian’s peril, because he said, “The man had an accent, and he knew everything there is to know about wine.”
“What kind of accent?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a little bit of New York or Jersey and something like European. Spanish, Italian?”
“So he knows wine.”
“Yeah. A real lot.”
Bo leaned back, his stomach churning. “Why do you think he wanted you to do this?”
“I didn’t get the feeling he hates Jeremy. He just wanted him out of business.”
“So you got paid.” Another guess. “And you take over Jeremy’s winery? Is that part of the deal?”
He drew himself up in a tight little cylinder. “Not necessarily. But if Jeremy’s gone, someone has to run the place. Why not me?”
Bo leaned forward and stared in Christian’s twinky blue eyes like a mongoose riveting a snake. “Because I’ll see that you’re never welcome in the wine country again and that you’ll be tarred and feathered or lynched if you come back.” Christian’s eyes were huge blue moons of horror. Bo smiled as evilly as he could muster. “They do that where I come from. So if I were you, I’d lay low before you have to hire a lawyer to defend yourself against a murder charge—darlin’.”
Christian’s expression warred between scared and pissed. Scared won. “Okay.”
“So you’ve got no idea where they’ve taken Jeremy?”
“No, honest. Sam never said anything about taking Jeremy anywhere. I didn’t know he was gone until you told me.”
“Okay, you can leave.”
He frowned. “Who’ll run the winery?”
“You mean now that you’re not undermining the business and giving it to Ottersen?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Bo stood to his full and considerable height. “I will. Now get out. But don’t leave the area until I say you can go. If I call you to provide information to the police, you better be available. Understood? There’s no place in the world far enough for you to run from me.”
Christian nodded and scampered out the door like the weasel he was.
Bo watched him go. He now knew more than he had—but what did it add up to?
RIP VAN Winkle, baby. Waking up sure you’ve missed a fuckload of your life.
Jeremy let himself groan. After all, a log sure as hell lay on his head, and his mouth tasted like a new definition of shit. He tried to lick his lips. God, what is that? Why does this keep happening?
“Sorry, nipote, they had to drug you. You were just too much of a handful.” The familiar voice ended in a chuckle—of pride, apparently.
“Where the hell am I?” He tried to sit up and regretted the move instantly. Pain seared his head.
His grandfather’s voice sounded worried. “They hit you much too hard and will pay for that. The doctor says you may have a slight concussion, but nothing to worry about.”
“Nothing for you to worry about. Fuck, Nonno, what have you done to me?”
“Saved you, I hope. You were playing into his hands. I had to get you away from him and bring you home.”
“How did I get here?”
His grandfather shrugged. “My plane, of course.”
What the hell? Very, very slowly, Jeremy opened his eyes and raised his head. Oooh, terrible idea, but he had to see. His grandfather, noticeably older, his white hair a bit thinner, the sunbaked lines on his face deeper, sat across from where Jeremy lay on the couch in his big den. The den in upstate New York. Jeremy glanced around. God, he’d spent most of his few happy hours in this room. “So you’re the one who had me kidnapped?”
“Not kidnapped. Taken into protective custody.” He laughed that familiar sound Jeremy remembered from his childhood. Reeling from his father’s harsh, uncaring discipline, he’d escape to his grandfather’s winery and get to actually laugh. Nonno frowned. “You were about to be accused of murder. Did you do it?”
“Of course not! Did you?”
His grandfather spread his hands and shrugged in that classic Italian gesture. “Why would I? I know little of this man except to hear of his grasping greed, but then all those California types are perverse, aren’t they? It’s good you’re away from them.”
Jeremy almost snorted. Away from the perverse California types and home with my family of thieves, murderers, and drug smugglers. Much better. But his grandfather truly didn’t see the family that way. He somehow found their lifestyle in no conflict with his traditional Catholic values.
Jeremy laid his head back down. “So why? What’s he up to?”
Leaning his elbows on his knees, his grandfather gazed intently at Jeremy. “He’s having some financial issues. Life-threatening ones.” Right. That meant he’d borrowed from nasty dudes who collected with guns and knives. Nonno said, “He’s determined to find what’s left of your mother’s money. He’s got men out all over the country. Even some in France and Italy. He figured you’d choose the wine industry, which is uncomfortably close to home.”
“Couldn’t you have just called me?” He rubbed the bump on his head.
“Sorry, my boy. I didn’t know they’d be so violent. But I could clearly see that you didn’t want to involve me in your troubles, and I was sure you’d run again. He’s bound to find you, nipote. That wouldn’t be desirable.”
“But surely this is the first place he’ll look.” He managed to swing his legs closer to the edge of the couch seat and eased his way to a sitting position.
“No. He’s looked here many, many times. I think he believes that you’ve cut me from your life.” His voice sounded sad.
“I just don’t feel right making you choose between us, Nonno. He’s your son.”
“Yes, but his grasping greed has gotten the better of him. I’m ashamed to call him il mio figlio.”
“I’m so sorry we’ve put you in this position.”
He shrugged elaborately. “It happens. Families are no guarantee.” He stood, and those strong hands that used to be so steady shook a little. “Why don’t I help you to your room, where you can rest? Later, if you feel like eating, you can join me for dinner.”
He leaned down, put an arm around Jeremy’s shoulders, and helped steady him as Jeremy managed a clumsy rise to his feet. Once he was balanced, they made slow progress from the study, down the hall to the bright room that Jeremy had occupied in his boyhood. He smiled. “Wow. It looks the same but smaller.”
“Because you are bigger, nipote.”
Jeremy flopped on the double bed, which felt really small next to his own king, and his grandfather pulled an afghan up around his neck. “Sleep now. I must chastise the men who hit you.”
That gave Jeremy a shiver. “It’s hard to knock someone out. You know that.”
“Yes, but I was clear in my desire you not be hurt.”
“Go easy on them.” “Chastise” in his family’s terms could be a very bad word.
“Of course.” Nonno smiled and left the room, closing the door after him.
Moving slowly, Jeremy dragged himself off the bed and to the attached bathroom, sat down to pee since his legs were so shaky, and dropped his head in a hand. Well, shit. He really hadn’t counted on his grandfather’s well-meaning interference in this mess. Having two Andrettis combing the world for him was at least one too many to escape, obviously. Of course, Nonno had insider information. He knew Jeremy was in the US and involved in wine somehow, so there were only so many options. Hell, who knew how many clues Jeremy had given the old man over the last year? And Nonno didn’t kill Ottersen. Do
es that mean my father did? No way. If Angelo Andretti knew where Jeremy was, he wouldn’t have sent any warnings. So who?
Slowly he rose from the john, washed up, and returned to his supine position on the bed, pulling up the throw against the chill of the AC.
Half his brain only wanted to think about Bo. God, he must be frantic. This was exactly what he was afraid of…. Maybe he thinks I ran—from him. Of course, I was planning to. Letting my father anywhere near Bo would top the mile-high pile of craptastic ideas.
Jeremy dropped an arm over his eyes. He desperately wanted to let Bo know he was safe, but that was also on that craptastic pile. Bo equaled Angelo in tenacity and perseverance. He’d find a way to uncover Jeremy’s hiding place, no matter what it took.
No, Nonno’s kidnapping might have been a blessing. It removed the decision to leave Bo from Jeremy’s hands—a decision Jeremy might never have been able to make.
So I’m here. What next? He had to persuade his grandfather to let him hide somewhere else. No matter how many times Angelo had been here, he had to know Jeremy loved Nonno and vice versa. He’d always come back for another check.
Unless Jeremy could convince his father that he had no more money. Would Angelo let him go if he knew that? Or would he want revenge for what he perceived as Jeremy’s theft of the money, despite the fact that it had been left to Jeremy in the will?
Since there was no way he could sleep, he got up, took a shaky shower, shaved with the conveniently provided razor, and dressed in his own clothes from his getaway bag that were hanging in the bedroom closet. The sweatshirt and jeans wouldn’t fall on the top of Nonno’s sartorial favorites, but so be it. He crossed to the dresser and looked—and looked. Huh, no phone. Maybe Nonno has it.
He walked down the long tiled hall toward the dining room. Good smells greeted him, and he glanced in the kitchen to see old Donna Ana cooking as she had in his youth, and two other servants, a young woman and an older big man, helping. The guy looked more like a bodyguard than a butler, and probably was.
Jeremy kept walking to the high-ceilinged living room. Nonno sat in his big comfy recliner, glass of red wine in hand, La Traviata playing on the sound system, and two guys with the steely eyes and coat bulges of made men sitting near him, leaning in and talking. If Francis Ford Coppola had staged the scene, he couldn’t have done it fucking better.