Revenge at Bella Terra

by Christina Dodd

  He stood.

  He had to go out to her. He had to talk to her, explain . . . something.

  But how? He had no excuse for what he’d done. Nonna said so. Noah said so. Eli knew it. He’d always known it.

  He had thought he would die of shame and loss if he lost the winery. The winery had been better than any living human being because the winery was a thing that could not die.

  Never had he realized that it couldn’t love him back. It couldn’t laugh with him or tease him or wrench his guts with its sorrow.

  If he had to crawl on his knees, he would bring Chloë back. And when he got her back, he would crawl every day if she demanded it.

  Because reading her story, hearing her words, had shown him one unalterable truth—he did love her.

  He simply hadn’t recognized the emotion.

  Picking up the book, he flipped through it again, seeking inspiration or maybe courage. He got his keys, because he knew she wasn’t going to let him in the door. Still holding the book, he walked downstairs and out the door.

  The cottage was right across the yard, the windows lit by the warm glow that signified that Chloë was within.

  His heart pounded as he walked along the path, and he wished he could do everything over again.

  He wished he could go back to being the man he was before, without feelings or needs.

  He wished he didn’t ache like this, didn’t want to fix things with Chloë so desperately he could think of nothing else.

  The cottage loomed before him.

  He wished he weren’t in love.

  And he exalted in the knowledge that he had fallen for the one woman he could love forever.

  As he approached the porch, he fumbled with the keys, finding the right one by the feel of its teeth.

  He still didn’t know what he was going to say, what he was going to do. He knew only that he had to make Chloë understand that—

  Boom!

  The explosion rocked the ground, lifted him off his feet, threw him twenty feet, and slammed him onto the pavement.

  A fireball rose thirty feet in the air.

  Heat singed his face, his hair, sucked the oxygen from his lungs.

  He blacked out. Fought his way back to consciousness.

  Then he was up, running toward the cottage.

  The heat drove him back. He could hear screaming; it was his.

  Chloë. Chloë! She was in there.

  No. Pieces of the roof, of the walls, were scattered around, burning in small imitations of the massive fire at the cottage.

  Chloë wasn’t in there. She was gone, blown to pieces.

  The flames roared and laughed.

  Eli found himself staring at the fire, so bright that it burned itself onto his retinas. He was clutching the book again. Still.

  He knew he had done this. He’d lied to Chloë. He’d told her someone had sabotaged the cottage to lure her into the house with him.

  It had come true.

  Somehow, this was his fault.

  He heard screaming again, but it wasn’t him this time. Sirens. It was sirens.

  Red lights flashed. The fire engine whipped by him, got so close to the cottage he thought the engine would ignite. Firemen leaped out, hooked onto the hydrant, and started spraying the area. Not the cottage. The cottage was a loss. They wanted to contain the flames, not let them spread to the vines, because . . . because the winery was important to the local economy. Because they thought he cared.

  More sirens behind him. And blue and red lights.

  Someone, a man, shouted in Eli’s ear, “Come over here. The EMTs want to check you out.”

  Eli didn’t really hear. He couldn’t comprehend . . . this.

  “Eli Di Luca!” A man spoke his name in a firm tone. “You don’t have any eyebrows left. Come over to the ambulance. They think you need oxygen.”

  Eli turned his head and looked at Wyatt Vincent.

  “Come on, man. You’re in the way.” Wyatt gestured toward the cottage.

  It was already burning with less intensity. Most of the flammable material had been blasted away.

  “Let me do my investigation,” Wyatt said. “You’re going to want to know who did this thing.”

  Eli touched his forehead. The skin felt parched. Wyatt was right; Eli had no eyebrows, and the first inch of his hair broke off in seared, brittle chunks. With a nod, he walked to the ambulance. The other EMTs had fanned out over his yard. One female remained.

  She told him to sit down.

  He sat.

  She handed him a mask.

  He put it on. He coughed as oxygen drove the smoke from his lungs, and remained motionless while she bandaged his ear. Apparently it was bleeding from a cut.

  She checked his head and put an ice pack on the bump forming on the back of his head. She spoke to him, waved a flashlight in his eyes, asked him his name.

  Eli looked at the light, answered the questions.

  A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. DuPey asked, “Was someone in there?”

  Eli nodded.

  DuPey’s hand tightened. “Chloë?”

  Eli flipped the book over in his hand. He looked at her photo. He nodded.

  “Jesus have mercy.” DuPey crossed himself, then turned away and started shouting at his men. “Where’s Wyatt? Get him over here. He said he was going to do the investigation. Get him over here!”

  Uniformed figures appeared silhouetted against the flames. Terry. Finnegan. Some others. Nameless, faceless shapes moving and shouting . . . while Chloë was no more.

  No. It wasn’t true. It could not be true. If she was gone, Eli should know.

  Police drove up the driveway.

  Police drove down the driveway.

  The firemen put out hot spots around the yard. They sprayed the cottage itself.

  Eli sat numb and blank, unthinking, unfeeling, waiting for some great bleak wave to break over him.

  Then something . . . something caught his attention.

  Something was wrong. Something was off. Something didn’t make sense here.

  He started examining the vehicles in the drive.

  Where . . .? Where was the blue Ford Focus? Where was Chloë’s car? Where . . . ?

  Who had taken Chloë’s car?

  In his pocket against his leg, his phone vibrated. And vibrated.

  He didn’t care.

  Where was her car? Had it burned, too? Had the firemen pushed it out of the way?

  No, and no.

  Where was Chloë’s car?

  The cell phone’s vibration stopped, and started again.

  He stood, searching the area for a visual, and as he did, he pulled out his phone and glanced at the caller ID.

  Chloë Robinson.

  Chloë was phoning him.

  He answered, barely catching the call before it went to voice mail. “Chloë?”

  “Eli. Listen, Eli.” It was her voice. Her voice, high-pitched and frightened. “He’s trying to drive me off the road.”

  “Who?” For the first time since the explosion, his brain clicked on.

  Someone had blown up the cottage. Someone had tried to kill Chloë. Who?

  “I don’t know. Big pickup. Big tires. Behind me.” She sounded frantic. “It’s dark out here, totally black, but he tried to pass on an inside corner and push me off the road.”

  Someone realized she was still alive. Someone was chasing her.

  Eli cupped his hand over the phone, spoke quietly and rapidly. “If you see a spot that looks safe, drive off fast into the bushes, jump out and—”

  “Here he comes again!” she shrieked.

  The connection went dead.

  “Chloë!” he yelled.

  The EMT took his arm. “Mr. Di Luca, I understand you just got married, but she’s gone. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Eli glanced at the woman, and with a jolt realized he had to shut up, get away quietly, save Chloë. Because . . .

  She was alive. Chloë was alive.


  Where? Where was she?

  The EMT tried to move him. “Mr. Di Luca, you’ve had a shock. You should sit down again.”

  He had to think. How could he find Chloë?

  This woman really looked concerned about him. He needed a distraction. “Is that one of the firemen who’s hurt?” Eli pointed toward the vineyard, toward a place where no one stood.

  “What?” She looked around.

  “Yes. I saw him go down. No one’s close. I’m fine, really.” He sat down again. “You should go and check on him.”

  With a glance at him, she picked up her bag and hurried away.

  Eli surveyed the area.

  The firemen were busy.

  DuPey was directing the investigation. Policemen were scouring the grounds. He recognized Terry’s patrol car, but he couldn’t see Terry anywhere.

  Exactly what he needed.

  Standing, he strolled over, projecting confidence with every stride. Opening the door, he slid inside.

  GPS. GPS. All he had to do was locate the GPS for Chloë’s phone.

  Picking up the mike, he called Patricia. Terry wasn’t hard to imitate; Eli lowered his voice and spoke with Terry’s deadpan delivery. “Can you get me a location on a cell phone?”

  “You bet, Terry. What’s the number?”

  Eli recited each numeral slowly and clearly, the way Terry would, then sat waiting, mouth dry, heart pounding, until Patricia came back and said, “Current location is Browena Road almost at the summit. You at the fire? What happe—”

  Eli clicked off. He slid out of the car, looked down at his hands.

  The book was gone. He must have left it by the ambulance.

  He patted his pockets. His keys were gone.

  He’d had them when he came out. He needed them now. He had to get his truck out of here. He had to go after Chloë.

  He ran inside. Got his spare keys. Ran back out. He climbed in his truck, maneuvered it around. “Hey!” he shouted at one of the young patrolmen. “Move your car. You’re blocking my way!”

  The boy looked at Eli. Recognized him. Said, “Now, Mr. Di Luca, I can’t do that. You’re in no shape to drive.”

  Eli looked around.

  DuPey was headed in his direction.

  The EMT was running toward him.

  This was why Eli owned this truck. With a shrug, he put it in gear, turned toward the vineyard, and drove over the Di Luca family’s 1974 planting of zinfandel grapes, his grille and bumper knocking over the trellises, his huge tires crunching the vines as he headed for the main road, leaving the fire and the grief and the chaos behind.

  He was going to rescue Chloë.

  Chapter 40

  Chloë drove the night-ridden, winding mountain road in a frenzy of fear, taking the corners too fast. Trees and road signs flashed past. Her tires skidded on the dry pavement. She heard the roar of a powerful pickup as the driver accelerated for another shot at her, and in her rearview mirror, the wide-set headlights blinded her.

  On the left, the mountain climbed. On her right, a precipice dropped into darkness. She had no idea how far or how fast it descended. She knew only that she was near the top of the mountain leading out of Bella Valley, and if the truck behind shoved her over the edge, she would roll and roll. And die.

  She held the steering wheel too tightly, her palms sweaty. She accelerated, prayed for a clear road, and drove the white line, blocking him, keeping him back.

  But her puny engine was no match for his. He caught her on an outside curve, moved into place beside her. She caught the flash of looming steel; then metal crunched as he slammed his pickup into the side of her car, driving her toward the edge. Her tires dropped off the pavement onto the shoulder. She shrieked. She was going over—

  Headlights flashed toward them. Oncoming car.

  Beside her, brakes screamed. The truck disappeared from the edge of her vision, moved back behind her, and the car drove past them, flashing its headlights.

  This was her chance. She put her foot to the accelerator, shot ahead of the pickup, used her car’s smaller size and her own skill to drive the curves, pulling in tight, then racing ahead.

  On a straight stretch, he caught her again. She braced for him to race up beside her. Instead he tailgated her, so close and tall his headlights shone through chrome bars and over the top of her car. If he didn’t back off, he was going to hit—

  He slammed into her from behind, his souped-up vehicle pushing her Focus ahead of him like the high school bully shoving the class shrimp.

  Chloë tried to outrun him.

  But he had the bigger engine. He had control.

  She was locked with him, sobbing, terrified, as they took corners too fast, as he wove from side to side, pushing her, tormenting her. Laughing at her. Here and there a metal barrier flashed past, a mockery of safety. The pickup backed off for a moment; then his engine roared again, and he came up for the kill.

  In the dark, she saw the flash of a country road, maybe a driveway.

  She didn’t hesitate.

  This was her only chance.

  She turned the wheel fast and hard. Skidded sideways. Saw the truck’s lights headed right for her door panel. Her tires caught; she hit the gas—and was airborne.

  The road was nothing but a turnout that dropped straight off into nothingness.

  She screamed, “Eli!”

  The car flew through the air, branches smacking the windshield. It hit the ground, the impact knocking the breath out of her. She slid frontward, then sideways, then backward. Trees battered the fenders, the bumpers. One headlight shattered. The seat belt bruised her. The air bag inflated in her face. The car flipped, then flipped again and hit a tree—and stopped. Stopped hard. Stopped fast.

  No motion around her.

  But she was still alive. Still alive.

  She was right side up on a slope so steep only the seat belt held her in place.

  The motor was racing.

  Her head hurt.

  Her heart was pounding.

  The killer was still up there.

  Get out. Hide.

  She shoved the deflating air bag aside, killed the motor and the lights.

  The silence was immediate, black, oppressive . . . dangerous.

  High above, she heard the distinctive roar of that massive truck.

  In a panic, she fought her way out of her car. Her shoulder ached. Beneath her, pine needles slipped and slid on the precipitous incline. She got the door shut—if he could see the car, she didn’t want him to know she had escaped—and headed downhill, feeling her way through a forest so dark and deep she thought she had fallen into another century. She moved as fast as she dared on the steep incline, groping through underbrush, running into trees, panic moving her.

  Far above, a searchlight flashed on.

  She froze, ducked, crept behind the trunk of a tree. And watched.

  The wide searchlight scoured the folds of the earth, looking for her. It touched on her car, lingered there, splashed into a stream, and headed for the tree where she hid. She crouched, pulled her feet in tight, pressing her back against the trunk, praying that he couldn’t see her.

  He couldn’t. Could he?

  Not unless he came down here. Or unless she panicked and ran.

  She wouldn’t do that. He’d tried to murder her. If he saw her now . . . Did he have a gun? Would he shoot her, leave her body for the animals to consume? If she died here, would Eli ever find her? Would he search? Would he even care?

  She muffled a hysterical laugh.

  Of course he would search. He was searching now. No matter what, he would find her, save her, and if that wasn’t possible, if she died tonight, he would get his vengeance on the man who had killed her.

  Knowing that made her feel better. Not a lot better. But better.

  The light clicked off.

  She lifted her head and listened.

  The pickup door slammed. The engine started, rumbling low and deep. He made a three-
point turn. She heard it: backward, forward, backward, onto the road.

  And he was gone.

  She leaned back against the trunk, exhausted, trembling, still afraid to move for fear he’d left someone at the top of the turnout to wait her out.

  She was pretty sure that wasn’t the case. He had seen nothing when he flashed her car except a crumpled mass of metal.

  Against all odds, she had survived.

  But the night was so thick it pressed on her eyeballs. Sounds rustled in the brush. And she was still so frightened her teeth were chattering.

  Her heroines would never be so cowardly. But she was cold, scared, hurt in ways she’d never imagined she could be hurt, broken in body and soul.

  Eli. She had been going to stay in the cottage. She really meant to. Yet she couldn’t stand being so close to him, knowing he was waiting until morning to talk to her again. Knowing her love for him made her weak. She wanted to forgive him. She wanted to forget he’d used her. But her mother taught her to think logically, and Chloë knew that when a man based a whole relationship on one gigantic lie, she could never trust him again.

  So she’d run from him, wanting to get away from his betrayal.

  And someone had tried to kill her.

  Why? Was it some guy on a drug-fueled rampage, out to kill any person he saw?

  Or was he after her?

  Why would anyone be after her?

  Because he hated her father? Because he’d found out about the pink diamond?

  Because he didn’t like her book?

  The idea wasn’t as stupid as it sounded. Some of the e-mails she’d received were nothing short of crazy.

  She could stay here, try to sleep, wait until morning . . . but what if that guy was after her? He would come back in his pickup and come down to make sure he’d finished the job.

  Oh, God. Oh, God. What had she done to deserve this? She was a writer, someone who imagined adventures, not someone who lived them.

  She had to get up. She had to get away, go downhill, hope she found shelter or . . . No, wait.

  She could call Eli. Or 911. Or . . .

  Where was her phone?

  It was in the car.

  But she had to get her phone. The phone was her only chance to live through this night . . . because on her own, she would never be able to escape alive.