The Case of the Voracious Vintner

by Tara Lain

  Nonno seemed to be well ensconced in a niche in the wall and was letting his bodyguards take most of the risks. If Jeremy could take him down—or out—the others wouldn’t stop fighting, but they’d lose motivation. He crept forward another couple of feet, then stopped so as not to attract attention in their well-trained peripheral vision. Sadly, the made man and the lethal Donna appeared to be better shots than most of the FBI guys. Crème de la crème, the best of Nonno’s people, probably. Loyal to the death.

  He just needed to get the right angle. If he missed, he was dead and O’Hara wouldn’t have a shot.

  Another foot forward. One more. Nonno didn’t see him. The feds kept his grandfather pinned, and he was relying on the protection of his loyal subjects.

  If Jeremy took another step, at least one of the feds would be able to see him. Will they know who I am or shoot anyone they see? No choice. He still had to do it.

  One more foot. Significant parts of Nonno’s body came into view. Jeremy slowly raised his hands. Took a breath—

  A door down the hall opened, a person stepped through. Jeremy caught his breath. Well, shit! It was Bo.

  Jeremy’s heart slowed to a thud echoing in his chest in slow motion.

  Bo made eye contact with Jeremy. Everything on his face went stunned, then burst into full panic. Shit.

  Bo screamed, “Stop! Don’t shoot him!”

  Donna began to turn her head toward the spot where Bo’s eyes were riveted, aka Jeremy’s body. Jeremy squeezed the gun as the huge blast went off from Nonno’s weapon. Bo stumbled backward, his hand clutching his chest, and fell to the ground.

  “Bo!” Every cell in Jeremy’s heart and particle of his soul exploded in pain and loss. He could barely stand the agony. Everything that had made sense shifted. Gone. All gone.

  He pitched forward toward the polished stone floor, drowning in welcome darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  “JEREMY. WAKE up.”

  Like a tiny match lit in a vast stadium of blackness, Jeremy considered consciousness. Some piece of his brain said I’m not dead. Surprising. A memory filtered in. Bo’s beautiful face contorted in pain. Right. No reason to live. He swallowed another mouthful of oblivion.

  “Damn it, Jeremy. Open your eyes. We need to talk to you.”

  Who is that? O’Hara? Go away. He drifted.

  Noise, voices, conversations. Shit. Hell was just like life. Stupid people who wanted stuff all the time.

  “Jeremy.” Someone shook him.

  “Don’t hurt him.”

  Thanks, whoever you are. Just leave me alone.

  “He’s not hurt. He passed out from shock.”

  What? No. I died.

  “Some kind of mental breakdown, do you think?” That was a female voice.

  “Come on, he’s the son and grandson of organized crime leaders. You think he hasn’t seen a little murder here and there?”

  Not. Like. This.

  “Hey, O’Hara. He’s here.”

  “Thank crap. What have they been doing, admiring his beautiful teeth? Get him the fuck over here.”

  Rustling, thumping, people moving.

  Leave me alone!

  “Sweetheart?”

  What?

  “Darlin’?”

  Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. No, wait, some trick of hell.

  “Jeremy.” Lips touched his cheek, then his mouth.

  Another voice—O’Hara?—said, “Did you two really think anyone believed you were just friends?”

  “Well, of course, since for a time we really were.”

  “Yeah, well, news flash. Everyone else knew before you did, then.”

  A chuckle, like music to Jeremy’s soul. His eyes opened and he feasted. Bo was turned toward O’Hara, laughing, his dimples like perfect little crevasses, and his teeth as white as—okay, asshole if you say snow, you’ve totally given up all grasp on life and deserve to die.

  Bo looked down and the smiled increased. “Hi.”

  “Do you know you’ve turned me into a poetry-reciting, simpering sap, but the poetry appears to be Mary Had a Little Lamb?”

  Bo flashed a quizzical half smile. “Hold that thought and explain later.” His mouth descended.

  Okay, I was wrong about the hell part. This is clearly heaven. He wrapped his arms around Bo’s neck and accepted the best kind of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

  “You guys get a room. Hell, get a whole hotel.”

  They finally pulled apart, smiling. Jeremy sighed. “With pleasure.” Then he frowned, staring at Bo. “I saw you get shot. I thought you were dead.”

  “You saw me get two cracked ribs when your grandfather’s damned bullet hit me in the bulletproof vest I’d been wearing since I walked into the room where they were holding you.” He grimaced and rubbed his side. “Smarts. It knocked me off my feet and unconscious for a few minutes.”

  “How in hell did you get here?”

  “That’s a long and complicated story, my friend—”

  “Which we don’t have time for, because the FBI are about to pee their pants wanting to talk to you.” O’Hara pulled on Bo’s arm. “So get up and let’s go give them what they want, so we can go home and I can have my crack at you.”

  Jeremy drew his eyebrows together. “Am I still a murder suspect?”

  “Not while you continue to have an alibi—which we all know is fictional, but, hopefully I can’t prove that because I don’t think you did it.”

  “How about Nonno, I mean, my grandfather?”

  “He’d never dirty his hands.”

  Jeremy waved a hand as he sat up. “Of course not. But he has lots of men he could send.”

  Bo shook his head. “I doubt that, but we better get to the FBI before we start trying to solve the murder of the vintner.”

  “The voracious vintner?” Jeremy felt the edges of his lips turn up.

  O’Hara said, “What the hell are you two talking about?”

  “Later. Let’s go see the feds.”

  Three hours later he’d explained every detail of his abduction, from going to the bar, Sean trying to pick him up, getting drugged, and on and on. He explained all he knew as best he could figure it out to a room full of federal agents. “So with this you can get him on kidnapping?”

  Agent McAllister, a small guy with sparkly eyes, said, “As long as you and Mr. Marchand testify, I think we’ve got him. But we’re hoping you can give us more to convict him on murder, racketeering?” He spread his hands. “You tell me.”

  Jeremy shook his head. “Sadly, he hid everything from me. Don’t misunderstand, I knew he’d been a mafia don, but he presented himself to me as retired. He said he’d passed everything over to my father, and anything that happened, he blamed on Angelo.” Jeremy wiped a hand over his eyes. “For the last year, since I ran away, I’ve been feeding him information about my life that he used to find me. I trusted him—somewhat. At least I thought he loved me.” He felt himself flinch at those words and saw a flash of compassion on McAllister’s face. “Anyway, I believed him. My father was a meanass son of a bitch, and any chance I got, I’d run up here to be with kindly old Nonno.” God. His hands curled into fists. “I didn’t realize I was doing exactly what they wanted. What he wanted.” Slowly exhaling, Jeremy said, “I realize now that he was constantly surrounded by made men. People came to see him for help. I was a kid. He told me they were visiting a lonely old man. As I got older, I knew these men around him were thugs, but since he’d been the head of the clan, the family, so to speak, I reasoned it away.”

  McAllister leaned in. “Did you ever see anything incriminating? Even small details could be helpful.”

  “Sure. People showed up who were really scared. So much so, one time I ran in my room and hid my head, a man was so terrified. But I have no idea who these people were or what happened to them. His bodyguards never talked around me. He’d send me to the wine processing buildings when I wanted to chatter. You can try some of those people. They might have
more information than I do.”

  “Yes, we will. We are.” McAllister jotted a note. “What about at your parents’ home.”

  Jeremy shrugged. “A lot of yelling and hitting, loud men who sometimes acted like they were drunk. I was always afraid. But I never knew what happened behind all those closed doors.” A big inhale felt good, and Bo squeezed his hand and didn’t seem to mind if the FBI saw it. “Maybe my grandfather originally intended to allow me to go straight, maybe run his winery or start my own, so he protected me from any business dealings. Then, after my mother left me the money, he wanted me back. Well, he wanted the money back. Apparently he was my mother’s lover. He had a soft spot for her but required that she leave her inheritance to him. She appeared to comply, somehow, but then must have changed it at the last minute. After the will was read, the money disappeared. I thought Angelo took it. He did, but it was for Nonno. I never knew that. Later, I found where Angelo hid it. I stole it. Well, it was mine.”

  One of the other agents said, “How did you steal it?”

  “I broke into the Cayman bank and extracted my funds.”

  “What?”

  Jeremy laughed. “Sorry. He actually hid the money in his house. Weird, right? But I think he wanted to be sure Angelo never found it. I saw him hide a suitcase. Of course, I thought he was hiding it for my father. I sneaked back and took it. But all I found was three million of the total of ten she left me. I don’t know, maybe that wasn’t my money. Maybe it was from something else and he hid the ten mil offshore, although he acted like he had no idea where it was and that’s why he kidnapped me. Anyway, I used that up starting the winery and then dealing with Ottersen’s dirty tricks.” He glanced at O’Hara, who sat back in the pack of people, listening.

  Bo said, “Your grandfather’s dirty tricks, actually.”

  “What?”

  “Marco hired Christian the twit to undermine you and give your business to Ottersen.”

  “When?”

  “Before you hired him.”

  “Well, shit.”

  “He may be a twit, but he’s a smart twit, and he immediately identified Ottersen as a capable and very ambitious man who wouldn’t mind taking out a competitor if offered an opportunity. A seemingly legal opportunity, by the way. Ottersen didn’t know he was ruining you. Christian would call your customers and lie to them, say you were unable to produce and deliver. Then he’d suggest Ottersen as a viable alternative. Your customers would call Ottersen and offer the business. So he wasn’t lying when he said they contacted him. He was, however, willing to steal your blends when they were offered to him.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, we can talk about that later.”

  McAllister, who’d been watching their conversation with interest, nodded. “So keep thinking of any facts we could use to broaden our case against Marco Andretti now that we have him.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “I’m sure you’re anxious to get home.”

  “Hell yes, especially now that I know my customers don’t hate me.” He smiled and squeezed Bo’s hand. “And other new things.”

  “We ask that you inform us if you go anywhere besides your homes and make yourselves available to testify.”

  Jeremy stood tentatively. He still felt shaky. “Count on it. No one wants to see the kidnapper go down more than I do, since the kidnappee was me.”

  Bo put his arm around Jeremy and took some of his weight. Jeremy looked up. Bo was sure working hard to prove he meant what he said about their being together. Man, that was a flat-out thrill, since Jeremy’s most intense memory in life was his will not to live in a world in which Bo didn’t exist.

  It took a few more minutes, but Jeremy finally walked out of the building with Bo and O’Hara into the morning light. Exhausted. He looked up at Bo. “You must be tired.”

  “I’ve pulled a couple of all-nighters lately.” He kissed Jeremy’s temple.

  “I can’t wait to be awake enough to hear the whole story.”

  O’Hara beeped what looked like an official-issue car. “You two get in the back and sleep while I drive us to the airport.”

  He didn’t remember much of anything except taking staggering steps between the car and the plane, and then into another car where he curled up in the back seat as they headed from San Francisco toward the central coast. Oh boy, home.

  There was some jostling, the sensation of flying, and then—he opened his eyes to sunshine and the warmth of a strong body next to him. Home in bed with Bo.

  If he had to have his life and future hanging in the balance, this seemed like a perfect outcome.

  He breathed in the enormity of the moment. His father was dead, may he rest in whatever peace there is for people like that. There was a chance that Nonno’s influence on his life—one he didn’t even fully comprehend until now—could be over. Jeremy had an opportunity to restore the well-being of his business without someone undermining it.

  He turned his head and watched the slow rise and fall of Bo’s big shoulders as he breathed…. And then there’s Bo. Jeremy didn’t know all the things that had fed into Bo’s decision to include Jeremy in his life. When he’d tried to share his feelings, Jeremy had shut him down. Hell, I bet that hurt the shit out of him, not to have his monumental life decision respected. Damn. I never told him I care.

  Wait? Care? He gazed at the ceiling like it might open and reveal the secrets of the universe. If I was willing to die over the loss of Bo, does it mean I just care for him? Hell, I care about my staff, but I’m not sure I’d die without them.

  His heart slammed against his ribs, harder than when he realized he was a prisoner or thought he’d lost his freedom for life. With urgency he flipped on his side and pulled at Bo’s shoulder. “Bo. Wake up. Bo.” Some tiny particle of gray matter said Bo’s exhausted. Let him sleep, but this couldn’t wait. “Bo!” He leaned over and kissed every spot on Bo’s face.

  Bo’s hands came up like he was fending off a puppy, and he laughed as he tried to pry his eyes open. “I’m awake. I’m awake.”

  “Look at me, so I can tell you’re conscious.”

  He opened those big sea-glass eyes. “I’m always conscious of you, darlin’.”

  “I love you.”

  “What?” He looked confused but still smiled.

  “I’m so sorry I put you off and wouldn’t let you tell me you were coming out to be with me. I’m so terribly sorry. It’s the greatest gift anyone ever gave me, even including risking your damned life for me. I was afraid to accept the responsibility, but I want it, Bo. I’m a responsible man, all evidence to the contrary, and I want to prove that to you. That I can take care of your heart.”

  Bo’s eyes, which Jeremy was staring into so hard, filled with tears. One dripped down and slid into his ear. Bo swiped at it with the back of his hand. Jeremy giggled. “I think there’s an old song about getting tears in the ears.”

  Bo kissed his nose. “I love you too. In a new and different way that changes everything in my life, shifts it, and lets me see it brand-new. I’d like to be with you forever, if you’ll have me.”

  Squealing in a way totally unlike him, Jeremy hopped up and straddled Bo. “I can’t think of anything I want more.”

  “Okay, then we have a couple of priorities.” He held up a finger. “I need to come out to my family.”

  “Whew.”

  “Yes.”

  He flipped out the second finger. “We’ve got to solve a murder, fast.”

  “Why can’t we let O’Hara do that?”

  “I’ve got a pretty good idea that the police will soon be able to poke holes in my alibi. Once they start talking to my family and Christian, who already knew we were lovers so he was likely spying on you, somebody’s bound to say I never left the house that night.”

  “O’Hara doesn’t really think I did it.”

  “True, but lawyers are messy and time-consuming.” Bo pulled Jeremy’s head down to kissing range and pressed
soft lips to his. “And we have better things to do with our time.”

  “So true.”

  Jeremy nodded. “Before we set off on the accomplishment of those goals, we have a major priority.”

  “I know what one is.” Bo’s grin lit Jeremy up inside.

  “I’d also like to know how the hell you tracked me down.”

  “For another time. Right now we need to dress, eat breakfast, focus on priority one, and drive to my house.”

  “That’s a sure way to ruin my appetite.”

  “We’ll eat light.” Bo grabbed Jeremy’s shoulders, flipped him until he was lying flat on the bed, and covered him with his big, hot, irresistible, life-changing body.

  Chapter Thirty

  A BUSY, satisfying hour later, they’d both showered—separately, in deference to nerves and time—and dressed. Jeremy served yogurt, all he could find in his barren refrigerator. “Okay, give me a quick account of your daring exploits.”

  “Right. Maybe it’ll make me less nervous. It starts with Christian.”

  “Seriously?”

  When Bo finished telling Jeremy about how Christian had been working against him, undermining his business, he wanted to vomit. “Talk about being gullible.”

  “He made himself indispensable.” Bo grinned. “And he had a cute butt.”

  “Ha.”

  “Anyway, some of the things he told me was the man on the phone had an accent that sounded partly foreign and partly New York. He also said the man knew everything about wine, that he didn’t seem to hate you but just wanted you out of business. It occurred to me that this might be someone you knew from New York, and of course, I thought of the New York vineyards. I called a friend I know in one of the wine regions who’s also very active in the New York Vintners Association. I figured he’d know everyone. I described this person Christian had described—accent, powerful, used to getting his way, very knowledgeable, and with a name like Mario or Mark, which Christian had told me. He immediately said, ‘Marco?’