Revenge at Bella Terra

by Christina Dodd

  Truthfully, she wanted him to blot the last twenty-four hours from her mind as if they had never been. As he kissed his way down her body, she knew she could depend on him to do just that.

  He used his fingers in long, slow, firm strokes from her shoulders down her arms to her fingertips, then again from her chest down to her belly. He lingered over the bruises that marked her in splotches of blue and purple, and lifted her thighs and kissed her lightly between her legs. She caressed his hair, brittle and broken from the heat of the explosion, and sighed with the twin pleasures of the heat of the sun and the heat of desire.

  Lifting her, he turned her onto her belly and stroked her shoulders again, pressing and kneading them until the tension she hadn’t even recognized dissipated. He massaged her lower back, strung kisses along her spine, nuzzled a bruise on her hip and one on her ankle.

  She lay with her cheek pressed to the blanket, at peace, yet alive with passion, knowing nothing so wonderful could ever happen again, wanting to hold each moment even as it slipped away.

  He touched, caressed, loved every inch of her body, then turned her again, and while she was relaxed and quiescent, he opened her, entered her, took her in gradual increments.

  Even as the rhythm increased, tranquility clung to her, wrapping her in a golden daze of light and bliss.

  Then he shifted, rose on his knees, and lifted her with him, and like a magician he whipped away her tranquility and revealed the hunger that beat like a drum in her veins.

  She strained against him time and again, seeking . . . seeking. Every time she got close to climax, every time she shuddered and coiled her legs around him, he slowed, brought her back to the beginning. But never the same beginning. Each time she started a little higher, a little faster, with a little more desperation and a lot more need.

  At last he leaned close to her, chest to chest, and pressed deep, so deep. Orgasm swept her, starting in the center of her being and spreading along each nerve, a climax composed of sky and earth, of memories and the moment, of Eli and Chloë.

  Holding his body in her arms, she whimpered with joy as her spirit soared with his.

  She had asked him to make her feel alive again.

  He had fulfilled his promise.

  As the motion slowed at last, as the two of them ceased to be one and once more became Eli and Chloë, separate and complete, tears rose in her eyes again.

  He noticed at once. “What’s wrong?” he whispered as he wiped them away.

  The same thing that was wrong yesterday. You betrayed me in every way possible, and I’m leaving you.

  But now wasn’t the time, so she shook her head. “I’m exhausted, I’m hurt, and I’m in shock.”

  “We shouldn’t have—”

  “Yes, we should.” Of that she was firmly convinced. “It was sweet and good, and now I’ve got a memory to . . .” She really was tired, because she’d said too much.

  “A memory to cherish when we’re no longer together?” He was no fool. His eyes grew sharp. “You should be more careful, Chloë.”

  “Careful . . . because I’m thoughtless?”

  “Careful because your thoughtlessness could cost you everything. Think, Chloë. The cottage blew up after I predicted it would. A big truck like mine chased you off the road.” His voice was reasonable, but his eyes were angry. “There’s nobody you should be more suspicious of than me. And here we are, alone in the middle of an abandoned vineyard miles from where I found you. If I wanted to kill you, I could do it here and now and no one would ever find your body.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Eli. I could never be afraid of you.” She smoothed his short, burned hair off his forehead, and she ached with sorrow. “I trust you with my life. I just don’t trust you with my heart.”

  Chapter 43

  It was early afternoon as Eli and Chloë drove toward his house. The silence sat between them like a living thing, giving weight to the air, making it difficult for Chloë to breathe.

  Not that they didn’t speak. They did, but politely, like strangers recently introduced.

  He asked if she thought she should go to the hospital.

  She said no, she was sure she had no serious injuries, and she completely understood that it would be better if everyone, including her potential killer, believed she was dead.

  He told her he had rescued her computer from her car.

  She graciously thanked him, more pleased than she could say but restrained by this awful awkwardness between them from going into raptures.

  He apologized for not getting her clothes out of the trunk, but explained that he had feared to spend the time prying her trunk open.

  She agreed, and said she’d make do somehow.

  “There’s a country store ahead,” he said. “I’d like to stop and get us something to drink. You’re no doubt dehydrated, and I’m . . . dehydrated, too.”

  “That would be pleasant,” she said, and winced. That would be pleasant? What was wrong with, Yeah, thanks?

  “I realize it’s an unusual request, but would you duck down? With that hair and the publicity you’ve had, I’m afraid you’re pretty recognizable.”

  “Good plan.” There. That sounded a little more natural.

  He glanced at her as he turned into the In and Out Gas and Food.

  Pulling the blanket over her head, she slid to the floor.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  He was, with bottles of water, two iced teas, and two sandwiches in a plastic bag—and a gray T-shirt.

  As he drove away, he handed her the shirt.

  “Thank you.” She held it up. It said, IN AND OUT GAS AND FOOD, across the chest.

  “It seemed the least I could do after cutting off the other one. I got a ladies’ small. Is that the right size?”

  She usually bought a medium, but he sounded anxious, so she said, “Sure.” Her stomach growled. She slid back onto the seat, tucked the shirt into the door pocket, and said, “It’s been so long since I’ve eaten I’m probably an extra-small.”

  “Really?” He glanced at her worriedly.

  “No. This will be perfect. Thank you.” Right now, she didn’t care about the T-shirt. Picking up a sandwich, she unwrapped it.

  “I got turkey and ham,” he said. “I didn’t know which one you’d prefer—”

  “I don’t care.” She took a bite.

  He pulled into the almost empty parking lot of a dilapidated bar, and stopped. Opening the other sandwich, he took half and left half between them on the seat.

  They both stared straight ahead through the windshield, and that oppressive silence returned until every time she chewed she could hear it in her ears. She placed the sandwich—it was ham—on the paper, careful not to make too much noise. “How long do you think I have to play dead?”

  “Let me talk to Rafe. He’s the expert. He’s probably freaking out anyway.” Eli replaced the battery in his cell phone and turned it on, glancing at the call list. “Yeah, I’ve received about a hundred calls, and he’s ten of them.” The phone started to ring, and Eli flipped off the sound. “He’s going to ask questions. Tell me, when you went to the cottage, was the alarm set?”

  “Yes. I remember deactivating it. I was so angry I had trouble hitting the right buttons, and it took me three times. I was afraid the alarm would go off and you’d come and I . . .”

  “Didn’t want to see me again. I know.” As he opened it, the cap on his iced tea popped loudly. “Did you set it when you went in?”

  “Oh, yes.” Because she’d wanted warning if he tried to visit her. “And I set it when I left.” Because she hadn’t wanted to give him any reason to complain when he discovered she was gone.

  “As soon as we get back to the house, I’ll have Rafe send out someone to guard the place and check security at the house. If I know my brother, he’s already looked over the blast site.”

  Wistfully, she thought it must be nice to automatically have that aid, and knew she was turning her back on her
chance to be part of exactly the kind of family who gave that support. “What are you hoping he found?”

  “Something that pinpoints the villain: who he is, where he stood, how he pulled this off.” Eli’s face was cold and distant, thoughtful as he concentrated on figuring out what had happened and how. “What bothers me is that everyone in Bella Valley knows we’re married. They should have assumed we were both in the house. I don’t understand how our killer knew you were back in the cottage.”

  “Maybe it’s not me he’s after.”

  Eli looked at her.

  Remembering the chase up that dark road the night before, she broke into a sweat. “I know. Wishful thinking.”

  “Someone’s watching the house. Or watching you.”

  Now that they were talking, she could eat again. She took another bite of the sandwich and followed it with a long drink of peach tea. “How did he know he didn’t kill me in the explosion?”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “I decided I couldn’t stand to stay.” Well, he had asked.

  “You did it quickly, on a whim, without calling anybody or letting anyone know?”

  “Yes.”

  “So if the guy who planted the bomb didn’t see you go—”

  A thought hit her. “Could it have been a gas explosion?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry. The cottage is all electric.”

  “Damn.”

  “So if the guy who planted the bomb didn’t see you go,” he repeated, “he would have blown it with the assumption that you were in there. What time did you leave?”

  “About eight, eight thirty.”

  “I came out about nine.” Eli was reconstructing the time line while she listened. “Where did you go when you left the house? Tell me every place you stopped.”

  “I drove past the art-glass shop downtown to see if it was open. I wanted to get something for my mom, a peace offering for ignoring her advice. It wasn’t open. I hadn’t eaten all day, so I was starved.” That reminded her that she was still starved, and she took another bite, and chewed and swallowed. “I swung through the drive-through window at Boomers and got a burger. I stopped at the gas station and filled up the tank.”

  “People in Bella Terra saw you?”

  “Definitely. No one I recognized, though.”

  “Do you figure you got on the highway about the time the cottage blew up?”

  “Actually . . . no, after.” As she realized the truth, she blinked at him. “I saw the fire engines go shrieking past while I was gassing up. It never occurred to me they were going to your house.”

  Eli’s brown eyes narrowed as he thought. “The question is, did someone follow you out of town to try to run you off the road, or did someone come up to the fire with the police, figure out you weren’t there, and go after you then? You called me between ten and ten thirty, so the time line works either way.”

  That didn’t make sense to her. “If it was someone who arrived with the police, how would they know where I was going?”

  “The same way I did: by using the GPS on your phone to locate you. And that would probably make him someone in law enforcement. Not necessarily.”

  “But probably. I get it. This sucks so much.” She pushed the sandwich away. “I’ll never feel safe again.”

  “Try the turkey. It’s good.” He nudged his second half closer to her. “We’ve got to get this thing solved. I can’t love you if you’re not alive.”

  Love you. He knew she’d left him. And she’d made it clear she didn’t intend to return for the long run. So how was she supposed to reply to that?

  “Let me talk to DuPey,” he said.

  “Do you trust him?” Eli was right. The turkey was good, on wheat-berry bread.

  “Right now, I don’t trust anybody, but I don’t intend to tell him you’re alive, and I do intend to intimidate him into giving up whatever information he gleaned last night at the explosion.” Eli faced her. “Meanwhile, when you feel up to it, I’d like you to search the Internet for anything concerning you.”

  “Have the authorities announced my death?” Which would have made it a little easier for her to hide . . . but a lot tougher to get another book contract.

  “Probably. Ignore that and look for threats posted before.”

  “As an author, I’ve had some pretty scary e-mails. I turned them over to the cyber unit of the FBI.”

  “Good for you.” He sounded surprised and pleased. “Did they come up with anything?”

  “This woman in an asylum in Michigan was writing them all.” She put down the sandwich. “But you know what? I don’t think that’s it. What I’ll look for first is information on Massimo and the pink diamonds. If someone is searching for the pink diamonds, my ring—”

  He caught his breath.

  “—was a clue. Don’t freak, Eli. How were we to know that someone in Bella Valley would make that connection?”

  “That is our best evidence.” Opening the console, he dug out an envelope, flipped it over, and found a pen. “Who was at the dinner?”

  “Your family. I think we can acquit them.”

  “I don’t know. Nonna can be a pretty tough character.” He didn’t look as if he were joking.

  “Bao. Olivia. Tom Chan. Victor saw the ring. We saw Wyatt Vincent’s party, and that included Police Chief DuPey, his wife, Finnegan Balfour, Terry Gonzales, Wyatt himself.”

  Eli jotted down the names.

  Chloë continued. “Francesca and Brooke were admiring it in the ladies’ room, and DuPey’s wife and her friends joined in.”

  That brought his head up. “In the bathroom?” “What do you think we do in there when we go in together?”

  “Talk about men?”

  Chloë smirked. “Don’t flatter yourself. We talk about things that are important to us.”

  “The news of that ring would have spread all over town in seconds.”

  “Not a doubt. It’s a great ring.” She smiled without amusement. “Most of the people who looked at it assumed, like Mrs. DuPey, that it was a pink sapphire. I didn’t correct them—the whole speculation was tacky. But the killer knows it wasn’t a pink sapphire, because to him, the symbolism of your choice of a pink diamond as my engagement ring is all too obvious. So I believe our suspicions should at least start with the people who actually saw the ring that night.”

  “Agreed.” Leaning forward, he kissed her on the forehead. “We’ll get this figured out. Between the two of us, that bastard hasn’t got a chance.”

  She finished her iced tea, then crumpled up the garbage and put it in the plastic bag. “What did you go out for?”

  “What?”

  “Why did you go out to the cottage?” Her question was really nothing but idle curiosity. He’d come out to check on his investment, of course.

  “To tell you that I loved your book, and I love you.” He said it so casually, as if it were a fact she already knew.

  He took her breath away.

  “Then the cottage exploded and I thought I was too late. I thought I’d never see you again.” His voice quavered, and, picking up her hand, he squeezed it as if he needed that brief moment of contact.

  For the first time, she realized the truth. “If you’d come out a few minutes earlier, you’d have been in there. As it was, you’ve got no eyebrows, a hairline that’s suddenly receding, and a bump on the back of your head.” He could have been dead. At the thought, her chest grew tight and her heart hurt.

  “Good thing you didn’t make your book a few pages shorter.” He smiled.

  She did not. “Eli, if I were the cause of your death, I would never forgive myself.”

  “I’m fine, and you’re fine, and we’re going to stay fine. I was wondering”—he gestured toward the sign that announced the name of this seedy bar—“do you want me to get you a T-shirt here, too?”

  She glanced at the sign.

  THE BEAVER INN.

  “No,” she said. “Thank you.”

  Chapter 44<
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  The washboard gravel road on the driveway to Eli’s house jarred Chloë awake, and for the first time since they had made love, she spoke without thinking. “I know you’re antisocial, but this is stupid. You need to get this fixed.”

  “All right,” he said.

  She frowned. Maybe she was still dreaming, because Eli sounded so . . . agreeable. Turning, she studied him, noted his drawn cheeks, the bags under his eyes.

  Agreeable? No, he was merely tired—and still so damned handsome, with a quiet charisma that made her want to forget his betrayal and live with him forever . . . or until he betrayed her again.

  No, she couldn’t stay with him. But at least she could look at him and enjoy the view.

  The truck reached the paved area, the ride smoothed out, and she looked out at the vineyard and in horror asked, “Eli! What happened to your grapes?”

  He glanced out where twenty trellised rows had been knocked over, ground into the dirt and destroyed. “I had fire trucks and police cars and the ambulance here last night. Somebody was blocked in and they wanted out.”

  “I hope you plan to sue them!” She’d been hanging around Eli long enough to mourn the destruction of his beloved vines.

  “Shit happens.”

  Obviously the last twenty-four hours had made Eli run mad. The Eli she knew would never so casually dismiss the death of so many aged vines.

  They reached the parking area, and the cottage—or lack of it—came into view.

  Chloë gasped. “Oh, no. Oh, no.” The blast had dug a blackened crater deep in the ground, burned the lawn around it, and thrown debris into the vineyard, the bushes, and onto the house. “I know you said . . . but I didn’t expect . . . It looks like an F-five tornado wiped out the cottage.”

  “I know.” He stopped the truck and looked at the destruction. “But at least I didn’t lose what is important to me—” Stopping midsentence, he gestured toward the two vehicles parked by the house. “Do you recognize the cars?”

  “No. But I don’t like the looks of that one.” She pointed at the Mercedes CL600.

  Eli looked at her as if she were crazy. “It’s a great car.”