Secrets of Bella Terra: A Scarlet Deception Novel

by Christina Dodd

  Still in a fury, he pulled her to her feet and shoved her spine against the wall. “Spread your legs,” he said, but he didn’t wait for her to comply. He pushed them apart, then bent until he could fit his body to hers. He pushed. He slipped inside her, the lubrication easing the way, then thrust, fast, hard . . . but again an inch. Or four. Not even halfway.

  He was dividing her, but barely, and all the while, deep inside, her need was growing.

  She grasped his hips and tried to force him to fill her.

  He laughed and pulled out. “Not yet,” he said. “You’re not ready yet.”

  Grabbing a handful of his hair, she pulled his face close to hers and glared. “I know when I am ready!”

  He shook her off, spun her around, and bent her over the seat. With his hand on her neck, he held her down. Using two fingers of his other hand, he pressed inside her. “Does that satisfy you?”

  “No!” She tried to fight him, and summarily discovered an unassailable truth.

  He was bigger than her. He was stronger than her. He was a warrior, and he controlled her easily. “Come anyway,” he said, and all of a sudden he was on his knees behind her, shoving his tongue inside her, using his fingers to create friction against her clit.

  At his command, she came, bucking against his grip, her whole body in spasm, and behind her closed eyes, she saw gold and yellow fireworks, felt the explosions slide up her nerves, her spinal column, and take over her brain.

  When she calmed, when she was shuddering and sighing, he stood. Holding her hips, he eased inside her.

  She’d forgotten how large he was, how bold. She came again, a long, brutal flow of unimaginable passion. Opening her legs wide, she pressed back toward him, trying to impale herself completely, to bring on the ultimate orgasm that would finish her.

  He had other plans.

  He pushed her thighs together, tightening her body’s hold on his cock. Then, at the deepest point of her, he pressed and flexed, so deep inside she writhed and whimpered—and came some more.

  Would she even recognize the ultimate orgasm when it came? Or would this go on forever, an ever-increasing storm of sensation?

  He flexed and flexed, and when she flexed back, he whispered, “That’s right. That’s good.” He rewarded her with another slow thrust of his cock, and another, and another, until she was sobbing with the release that took her and the release that was still building.

  He pulled out too soon, and not soon enough.

  Her legs were trembling. She was glad he was finished. Yet she was still reaching for that ultimate orgasm, and she wished . . . wished . . .

  He gently pushed her onto the seat and looked into her wide, amazed eyes. “How much hot water do we have?” he asked.

  “What?” What kind of question was that?

  “How much hot water do we have?” he repeated.

  “Um . . .” She shook her head in confusion, tried to think. “There’s no tank. It’s an on-demand water heater. It never empties.”

  “That’s good. I’d hate to run out.” He pulled her off the seat, onto the tiled floor, and eased her onto her back. He kissed her breast, then took her nipple into his mouth and suckled.

  She arched her back, and sensation streaked up every nerve on the surface of her body. “What are you doing?”

  He pressed his erection between her legs and swiftly, smoothly filled her. “You didn’t imagine we were finished, did you?”

  Chapter 30

  That evening, by ten o’clock, Brooke was finally asleep, sprawled naked on her bed, exhausted by the traumatic events of the day and by the nonstop sex Rafe had used to put a halt to her thoughts. Tenderly he tucked her under the covers. Leaving the bedside light on, he went in search of his pants—his cell phone was in his pocket—and checked for messages.

  Nothing from Kyrgyzstan.

  Yet almost as good—a text from DuPey. The sheriff wanted to talk to Rafe. To fill him in, he said.

  Thank God. Rafe was afraid he’d have to pry details out of DuPey—or direct Darren to hack into the sheriff’s department computer. But as soon as he called, DuPey said, “I’m on the grounds. I’ll be there in five minutes.” Rafe heard a man’s voice, and DuPey added, “We’ll be there in five minutes.”

  Rafe made an educated guess. “Noah’s with you?”

  “He seems to think he ought to know what’s going on,” DuPey answered.

  Rafe heard Noah shout, “On my own property, damn it!”

  Rafe laughed and hung up. He glanced into the bedroom at the still-sleeping Brooke, then slipped into the bathroom and dressed.

  He hoped DuPey was keeping him in the loop not because he was going to ask Rafe where he’d been last night when the body had been dumped, but because he wanted advice. Sure, Rafe knew he was a suspect—they were all suspects—but DuPey was turning out to be a better sheriff than Rafe ever imagined. The son of a bitch had no experience with this type of crime, but he had either done some study or had a knack, because he was learning fast.

  Rafe walked outside, carefully shut the screen door to keep out the insects, and stood waiting on Brooke’s tiny front porch. From here he could see the subtle lighting that illuminated the winding path, and the artfully placed plants and trees that created the illusion the cottage was located in the country. Yet downtown Bella Terra was close; faintly Rafe heard music from the bars on the main street, and lights from the lobby washed the light of the stars from the sky. Rafe recognized Bella Terra for what it was: a beautiful location, a clever fantasy, and one of the cornerstones of his family’s fortune. Noah held the reins, and he fiercely protected his property. Of course he wanted to know everything about DuPey’s investigation.

  When DuPey and Noah drove up in one of the resort’s golf carts, Rafe walked out to the white picket fence.

  “How’s Brooke doing?” Noah looked as if it had been a long, exhausting, far-too-revealing day.

  Rafe turned his head and listened. He heard no sound from the cottage. “Asleep.”

  “If she has nightmares, we can get a doctor in here to give her a sleeping pill. Or an antianxiety drug,” Noah said.

  Did Noah consider Brooke his to protect?

  Perhaps. But from the interaction Rafe had observed, Noah’s attitude originated in his protectiveness for the property he tended. Brooke was an important part of that property.

  “All drugs do is postpone the inevitable.” Rafe knew what he was talking about here. “Don’t worry. I’ll help her get through this.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” Noah stepped through the gate into the yard. “Who’s going to help her get over you? Who’s going to be at her side when you get called to one of your save-the-world projects?”

  Rafe wanted to say the rest of the world didn’t matter, but it wasn’t true. His firm had calls coming in every day, and every day he dispatched security assignments to movie stars, athletes, the wealthy, and those who had something to hide. He had individuals and teams trained to handle every crisis. Right now, he had a squad somewhere in Kyrgyzstan, dead or dying or holed up in a cave and freezing to death . . . and God only knew whether they’d completed their mission.

  So he did want to save the world. And his grandmother. And he wanted to be here with Brooke.

  He couldn’t have it all. He knew he couldn’t. But his gut burned, and when he glared at Noah, Noah nodded. “Yeah. You owe her more than the occasional drive-by fucking, don’t you?”

  “I pay my debts,” Rafe said.

  Like a laconic Old West sheriff, DuPey leaned against the fence and watched the interplay between the brothers.

  His attitude royally annoyed Rafe—because after all, DuPey had admitted he’d let Brooke get away with murder. Or rather, he’d let someone get away with murder and let Brooke take the blame . . . or the credit. Rafe snapped, “Can we agree the attack on Nonna and the body in the Dumpster are somehow linked?”

  “Why?” Noah asked. “How?”

  Rafe filled the
m in. “According to Brooke, she was first on the scene when Nonna was attacked because she spoke to Luis Hernández. He gave off enough guilty vibes to send her flying up to the home ranch. When she went looking for him later, he was gone, and she figured he’d run away to avoid being questioned.”

  DuPey’s eyes narrowed. “Whoever did attack her thought Hernández knew too much and eliminated him.”

  “Yes, fine,” Noah said impatiently. “So now we know why Hernández was killed. But what’s the motive for the attack on Nonna?”

  “I don’t have enough facts. I can’t as yet discern a pattern.” Rafe looked between DuPey and Noah. “The question is—was the killing Brooke committed also somehow connected?”

  As if that were a new thought, DuPey jerked slightly.

  “Two bodies and an attack, all in the space of a month and all somehow related to the Di Lucas,” Rafe reminded him.

  “Might be coincidence,” DuPey said.

  “If Brooke didn’t actually pull the trigger on that gun, who did?” Rafe asked.

  “Do you really think Brooke Petersson would protect a ruthless murderer?” DuPey shot back.

  Now Noah watched the interplay. “Wait. Brooke didn’t kill that guy?”

  DuPey turned to him. “As far as I know, there is no reason to doubt Brooke’s account of the incident. Just because she reacted to the sight of a rotting body with horror and took the shooting in stride is no reason to believe she’s a conspirator.”

  “I don’t think that.” As far as Rafe was concerned, Brooke had proved her innocence . . . and besides, he hadn’t really thought she’d done it in the first place. Suspecting everyone was part of his job, and suspecting her . . . Well, when he first arrived, keeping a wall between them had seemed like a good idea.

  They’d effectively demolished that wall today. “I do want to know who actually shot Cruz Flores. It might matter.”

  “Yeah.” DuPey sighed. “It might. Do you want to talk to her about it?”

  “No. Right now, she’s feeling safe with me, and after today, that’s important. You give it a shot, see what you can get her to say.” Rafe had made his point. Now he asked, “What have you found out while I was otherwise occupied?”

  DuPey gave his report with stoic unflappability. “The body has been tentatively identified as Luis Hernández.”

  “Who IDed him?” Rafe looked at Noah. “Did you?”

  “He was one of my gardeners. Brooke knew him, not me.” Noah shook his head. “Zachary gave an ID based on the clothes and jewelry.”

  “His mother’s on her way. We’ll get DNA and a positive ID, but I’d bet that it’s Hernández. The coroner confirmed that the body had been buried for some time, at least a week, and then dug up and deposited in the Dumpster.” DuPey’s hangdog face never changed expression, but Rafe thought he was pleased with the results of his investigation. “I say the body was buried somewhere close.”

  “Because otherwise, why bring it back here?” Rafe looked between the two men. “But why not leave the body where it was?”

  “It’s spring,” Noah reminded him. “The vintners are plowing around the vines.”

  “Right.” Rafe followed the logic to the next fact. “The killer figured the body would come to light. He was better off if everyone thought Hernández had merely quit.”

  “The good news is”—DuPey didn’t quite grin, but he looked damned pleased—“all the vineyards test their soils all the time for information on the best nutrients to use to maximize the grape yield.”

  This was better news than Rafe could have anticipated. “So you should be able to figure out where the body was buried by testing the dirt clinging to the flesh.”

  “Exactly,” DuPey said.

  Rafe knew how difficult it was to haul a body, especially a decomposing body. “So possibly the vineyard on resort grounds.”

  “Probably.” Noah sounded disgusted and perturbed. “This is bad for business. I’ve already got guests checking out because they’re freaked by—”

  “Shh!” Rafe held up his hand and looked toward the house. He heard it again, a call muffled by fear and distance, and plunged toward the cottage.

  As he ran, he heard DuPey say, “I dunno, Noah. I’d say he’s going to pay his debt one way or the other.”

  Chapter 31

  Brooke was sitting up, eyes wide, covers pulled up to her chest.

  Rafe walked into the room, making enough noise to alert her to his presence, making sure nothing seemed weird or supernatural. “Hey, there, Brooke.” He kept his voice low and soothing. “You’re awake. Do you need to go to the bathroom? How about a drink of water?”

  She watched him suspiciously, as if she’d never seen him before.

  Going to the bed, he presented his palm.

  He had hoped to ground her with his touch, to take her away from the shadows of night and death and bring her back to the mundane and bearable.

  She considered him, then placed her hand in his.

  And when her fingers wrapped trustingly around his, he found her touch worked on him, too, that she took him away from his worries about his team and the mysteries that haunted his visit to Bella Terra and pulled him into some kind of normal all-American middle-class life.

  Some people would call that life a nightmare.

  He knew better. That life was everything a weary, disillusioned warrior could ever desire.

  He helped her into her bathrobe—he’d found it, a short blue silk robe, hanging on a hook on the back of the door—then escorted her to the bathroom. He asked if she needed help, and when she shook her head, he left her alone and went into the kitchen.

  When she came out, he had food on a tray beside the bed: artfully arranged appetizers, fruits and vegetables cut into bite-size pieces, finger foods and dips. “The chef sent these over from the restaurant kitchen with a note hoping that you’re doing well.”

  “He’s a good guy.” She looked shaky, but her voice sounded surprisingly natural, and she seated herself on the bed and looked over the food with mild interest.

  “After a day like today, you need some fuel.” He kept chatting, treating the afternoon’s events casually, then moving on. Pointing to the radish roses, he said, “Check that out. How do they make them look like that?”

  “More important, why do they make them look like that?” A smile played at the edges of her lips. “I’ve always thought a vegetable that masquerades as a flower is faking it.”

  “Here. Let me put it out of its misery.” He popped the radish into his mouth.

  She chuckled and spread a cracker with pimento cheese. As she ate, he continued the smooth, bland, nonthreatening conversation until she abruptly leaned against the pillow and said, “That’s enough.”

  “Sure.” He handed her an open bottle of water. Picking up the tray, he headed back toward the kitchen.

  “Rafe!” she called, stopped him in the doorway. “Is Madelyn okay?”

  “I haven’t checked.” He’d been busy with other things. With her.

  She reached for the phone. “I’ll find out.”

  While he put the food in the fridge, he listened to her speaking to someone on the other end, and when silence fell, he went back in the bedroom and found her sitting on the bed, staring at the half-empty bottle in her hand.

  “Everything okay with Madelyn?” he asked.

  “I talked to Ebrillwen. She took Madelyn home and is staying with her and her daughter.”

  “Madelyn has a daughter?” That surprised him. Madelyn, with her tats and her shaved head, looked too young and tough to have a kid, especially a daughter.

  A daughter . . .

  “Nice girl. She’s been through a lot lately, too.” Brooke’s voice shook.

  He scrutinized her. The color rose and fell in her face, and her eyes were haunted. Not too much longer, and the memories would overwhelm her and she would be lost to the storm of emotion.

  Then she took a long breath and was calm once more.

&n
bsp; Yes, a storm of emotion hung ominously on the horizon. But not yet. Not yet.

  “Ready for bed?” he asked, and kicked off his shoes and peeled off his shirt.

  As he unbuckled his belt and dropped his pants, her eyes grew wide and startled.

  “How do you do that?” She stared at the erection that lifted his boxers. “You’ve been hard half the day, and here you are again.”

  “Happens every time I’m near you.”

  She pulled a long, disbelieving face.

  “You’re thinking you haven’t seen me walking around with the little general standing at attention. There’s a reason for that.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Since I got home, I’ve spent so much time in the shower trying to get rid of my permanent hard-on, my toes are wrinkled and pruney.”

  Brooke gave a spurt of laughter. “You mean you’ve been—”

  “Slapping the salami? Yeah.” He grinned at her. “Why do you think I have such a firm handshake?”

  She laughed harder. And harder.

  Abruptly the laughter turned to tears.

  He reached for her, pulled her into his arms, and she cried until she had sobbed herself into exhaustion.

  Chapter 32

  When the sun came in the window, Brooke woke. There was no comfortable, fuzzy moment of amnesia, no leisurely stretching or moment of sexual satisfaction. Instead, she remembered immediately: the Dumpster, the body, Rafe, DuPey, the shower, the sex, the laughter, the tears. Everything that had happened yesterday was branded into her mind, now an integral part of her character. But although the sorrow and horror still weighed on her, she was at peace. A little sore between the legs, but at peace.

  Yesterday and last night, Rafe had helped her. He had washed her, distracted her, fed her, entertained her . . . held her while she cried and while she slept.

  This morning, the monsters were gone. Maybe they would return; probably she’d have nightmares; certainly for all her life she would recall looking into a corpse’s eyes and knowing he had once been a man she had known and liked.