The Villa

by Nora Roberts

  "Even if she did, he's responsible for his own choices, his own actions. Anyway, it's not that. I just can't stand her. Just can't. I'm a horrible person. But enough about me."

  She waved that away, picked up a small hunk of bread to nibble and tear at while she paced. "It's assumed that Don had funds stashed, funds he bled from the company. Enough to run on for a while, I suppose, but to be frank with you, he's just not smart enough to stay underground."

  "I agree with you. He had help in all of this."

  "My father."

  "To a point," David said, watching her. "And after he died, maybe Margaret. Their take in this, if they had one, was minimal. Not enough to convince me that either of them had a starring role."

  She paused. "You think they were used, rather than users?"

  "I think your father might have simply looked the other way. As for Margaret, she was just finding her rhythm."

  "Then she was killed," Sophia said quietly. "My father was killed. It could all circle back to this. Somehow."

  "Possibly. Still, Don isn't coolheaded enough, isn't long-thinking enough to have set up the kind of scam that slipped by the Giambelli accountants for several years. He was the inside man, with the connections. But somebody drew the blueprint. Maybe the mistress," he added with a shrug.

  "Maybe. They'll find him. Either sunning himself by the surf on some tropical beach or floating facedown in it. While they look, we put the pieces back together."

  She came back, sat. "Donato could have tampered with or hired someone to tamper with the wine."

  "I know."

  "I'm having trouble with the reason. Revenge? Why damage the reputation, and thereby the fiscal security, of the company that feeds you? And kill to do it?"

  She paused, studied his bandaged arm. "Well, I guess he's shown he has no real problem with that area. He could have done it all." She pressed her fingers to her temples. "Killed my father. Rene's a high-maintenance woman, and Dad needed plenty of money. He knew he was being phased out of Giambelli. He'd burned his bridges with Mama, and I'd let him know he'd set the ones between us smoldering."

  "He was responsible for his own choices, Sophia." David used her words. "His own actions."

  "I'm resigned to that. Or very nearly. And I can imagine what those choices might have been. He could have pressured Don for more, a bigger cut, whatever. It wouldn't have been out of character for him to have threatened blackmail, in a civilized way, of course. He might have known about the tampering, about poor Signore Baptista. Then Margaret because she wanted more, or because he was afraid she'd find out about the embezzlement. You because he realized there was no way out."

  "Why steal the paperwork?"

  "I don't know, David. He couldn't have been thinking rationally. I suppose he thought you'd be dead, he'd have the files and that would be that. But you weren't dead, and it must have gotten through his head the files weren't going to hang him. He'd already hanged himself. Meanwhile, we have another public relations nightmare to get through. Ever think about ditching us and running back to La Coeur?"

  "Nope. Sophia, why don't you try eating that bread instead of shredding it?"

  "Yes, Daddy." She winced at the petulant sound in her own voice. "Sorry. Jet lag and general nastiness. Why don't I go deal with that packing for you? Since you insist on leaving rather than staying in my sparkling company, you've got a very early flight tomorrow."

  He was sweating like a pig. The terrace doors were wide open, and the cool air rising off Lake Como swept into the room. It didn't stop the sweat. Only turned it to ice.

  He'd waited until his lover was asleep before he'd crept out of bed and into the adjoining parlor. He hadn't been able to perform, but she'd pretended it hadn't mattered. How could a man maintain an erection at such a time?

  Perhaps it didn't matter, really. She'd been thrilled with the trip, with his sweeping her away to the elegant resort on the lake, something he'd promised dozens of times in the past and had never fulfilled. He'd made a game of it, given her a ridiculous amount of cash so she could charge the room to her card. He wasn't known there, he told her. He wanted it to stay that way. What would he do if someone mentioned seeing him there with a woman other than his wife?

  He thought that had been clever. Very clever. He had almost believed it a game himself. Until he'd seen the news report. Seen his own face. He could only be grateful his mistress had been in the salon. He could easily keep her away from newspapers, from the television.

  But they couldn't stay. Someone would see him, recognize him.

  He needed help, and knew only one source.

  His hands shook horribly as he dialed New York. "It's Donato."

  "I expected it would be." Jerry glanced at his watch, calculated. Giambelli had the three A.M. sweats, he thought. "You've been a very busy boy, Don."

  "They think I shot David Cutter."

  "Yes, I know. What were you thinking?"

  "I wasn't—I didn't." His English was failing him. "Dio. You told me to get out of Venice right away when I told you what Cutter said. I did. I never even went home to my family. I can prove it," he whispered desperately. "I can prove I wasn't in Venice when he was shot."

  "Can you? I don't know what good that's going to do you, Don. The story I get is you hired a trigger."

  "Hired a… what is this? They say I hired someone to shoot him? For what reason? The damage was done. You said so yourself."

  "Here's how I look at it." Oh, it was getting better, Jerry thought. Better, sweeter than he'd ever imagined. "You killed two people, probably three with Avano. David Cutter," he continued, amused by Donato's panicked sputter. "What's one more? You're royally fucked, pal."

  "I need help. I have to get out of the country. I have money, but not enough. I need a—a—a passport. A new name, a change of my face."

  "That all sounds very reasonable, Don, but why tell me?"

  "You can get these things."

  "You overestimate my reach and my interest in you. Let's consider this conversation a severing of our business association."

  "You can't do this. If they take me, they take you."

  "Oh, I don't think so. There's no way to connect me to you. I've made sure of that. In fact, when I hang up the phone, I intend to call the police and tell them you contacted me, that I tried to convince you to turn yourself in. It shouldn't take them too long to trace this call back to you. That's fair warning, given our previous relationship. I'd hit the road and hit it fast."

  "None of this would've happened—It was your idea."

  "I'm just full of ideas." Serenely, Jerry examined his manicure. "But you'll note, I never killed anyone. Be smart, Don, if you can manage it. Keep running."

  He hung up, poured himself a glass of wine, lit a cigar for good measure. Then he picked up the phone and called the police.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

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  With a mixture of regret and relief, David watched Venice recede.

  "There's no reason for you to haul yourself out of bed and tag along to the airport this way," he told Tyler as the water taxi plowed its way through early-morning traffic. "I don't need a baby-sitter."

  "Yeah, I'm getting a lot of that lately." Tyler sipped his coffee and hunched his shoulders against the cool, damp air. "It's starting to piss me off."

  "I know how to get on a plane."

  "Here's the deal. I put you on at this end, they pick you up on the other end. Live with it."

  David took a closer look. Tyler's face was unshaven, his expression foul. For some reason it perked David up. "Rough night?"

  "I've had better."

  "You going to be able to get back okay? Your Italian's pretty limited, isn't it?"

  "Kiss ass."

  David laughed, gently shifted his shoulder. "There, I feel better now. Sophia giving you a hard time?"

  "She's been giving me a hard time for twenty years. It's stopped spoiling my day."

  "If I offer you some adv
ice, are you going to pitch me overboard? Remember, I'm wounded."

  "I don't need any advice where Sophia's concerned." Despite himself, Tyler frowned over at David. "What is it?"

  "Keep pushing. I don't think anyone's ever kept pushing her. Not the male of the species, anyway. If she doesn't kill you for it, she's yours."

  "Thanks, but maybe I don't want her."

  David settled back to enjoy the ride. "Oh yeah." He chuckled. "You do."

  Yeah, Tyler admitted. He did. Which was why he was risking her considerable wrath. She didn't like anyone touching her things. Didn't like being told what to do, even—no, he corrected as he packed up her little portable office, especially—when it was what was best.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  He glanced up, and there she was. Still damp from the shower and sending off sparks of temper. "Packing your saddlebags, partner. We're riding out."

  "Get your hands off my stuff." She rushed in, snatched back her laptop, pressing it against her like a beloved child. "I'm not going anywhere. I just got here."

  "I'm going back to the castello. Where I go, you go. Any reason you can't work there?"

  "Yes. Several."

  "And they are?"

  She hugged the computer tighter. "I'll think of them."

  "While you're thinking, pack the rest of your gear."

  "I just unpacked."

  "Then you should remember where everything goes." With this indisputable logic, he strolled out.

  It irritated her. He'd caught her off guard and when her brain was still mushy from a sleepless night. It annoyed because she'd been planning on making the drive north and spending at least a day or two working out of the castello.

  It irked as she recognized how petty it was for her to sulk in silence on the drive.

  And it added one more layer of temper that he seemed so sublimely unconcerned.

  "We're taking separate bedrooms," she announced. "It's time we put the brakes on that area of our relationship."

  "Okay."

  She'd already opened her mouth to skewer him and his carelessly agreeable response had it hanging slack. "Okay," she managed. "Fine."

  "Okay, fine. You know, we're weeks ahead in the growing season back home. Looks like they're just finishing up the new plantings. Talked to the operator yesterday. He tells me the weather's been good, no frosts for weeks, and they're seeing the beginnings of new bloom. Keeps up warm through the bloom, we'll get a normal set. Oh, that's the conversion of flower to grape."

  "I know what a normal set is," she said between her teeth.

  "Just making conversation."

  He turned off the highway and started the drive through the gentle hills. "It's pretty country. I guess it's been a few years since I made the trip over. Never seen it this early in the spring."

  She had, but had nearly forgotten. The quiet green of the hills, the pretty contrast of colorful houses, the long, sleek rows riding the slopes. Fields of sunflowers waiting for summer, and the shadow of far-off mountains that were a faint smudge against a blue sky.

  The crowds of Venice, the urbanity of Milan were more than highway miles from here. This was a little heart of Italy that pumped steadily, fed by the earth and rain.

  The vineyards here were the root of her destiny, had ordained it when Cezare Giambelli planted his first row. A simple dream, she thought, to grand plan. A humble enterprise to international empire.

  Now that it was threatened, was it any wonder she'd use whatever came to hand to defend it?

  She saw the winery, the original stone structure and its various additions. Her great-great-grandfather had placed the first stones. Then his son had added more, then his son's daughter. One day, she thought, she might place her own.

  On the rise, with the fields spreading out like skirts, the castello ruled. Gracious and grand with its colonnaded facade, its sweep of balconies, its high arching windows, it stood as a testament to one man's vision.

  He would have fought, she thought. Not just for the ledgers, not only for the profit. For the land. For the name. It struck her here, more deeply than in the fields at home, more than within the walls of her offices and meeting rooms. Here, where one man changed his life, and by doing so forged hers.

  Tyler stopped so the car faced the house, its entrance gardens in young bud. "Great place," he said simply and climbed out of the car.

  She got out more slowly, breathing in the sight of it as much as she breathed in the lightly scented air. Vines spilled over decorative mosaic walls. An old pear tree bloomed wildly, already shedding some of its petals like snow. She remembered suddenly the taste of the fruit, sweet and simple, and how when she'd been a child the juice trickled down her throat as she walked down the rows with her mother.

  "You wanted me to feel this," she stated, and with the hood of the car between them turned to him. "Did you think I didn't?" She pressed a closed fist to her heart. "Did you think I didn't feel it before?"

  "Sophie." He leaned on the hood, a friendly, companionable stance. "I think you feel all sorts of things. But I know some of them can get lost in the worry and the, well, the now. Focus too hard on the now, you lose sight of the big picture."

  "So you badgered me out of the penthouse in Venice so I'd see the big picture."

  "That's part of it. It's blooming time, Sophie. Whatever else is going on, it's blooming time. You don't want to miss it."

  He walked back to the trunk, popped it.

  "Is that a metaphor?" she asked as she joined him, reaching by to grab her laptop herself.

  "Me, I'm just a farmer. What do I know from metaphors?"

  "Just a farmer, my ass." She hitched the strap of the laptop on her shoulder, plucked out her briefcase.

  "Excuse me, but I'm no longer supposed to think about your ass." He pulled his suitcase out, then studied hers in disgust. "Why is your suitcase twice as big as mine, and three times as heavy? I'm bigger than you."

  "Because." She fluttered her lashes. "I'm a girl. I suppose I should apologize for being snotty to you."

  "Why?" He hauled her case out. "You wouldn't mean it."

  "I'd sort of mean it. Here, let me give you a hand." She reached in, picked up the little tote that held her cosmetics, then slowly strolled away.

  Pilar opened the door to the police. At least this time, she thought, she'd been expecting them. "Detective Claremont, Detective Maguire, thanks for coming."

  She stepped back in welcome, gestured to the parlor.

  "It's a beautiful day for a drive," she continued. "But I know you're both very busy, so I appreciate the time and trouble."

  She'd already arranged for coffee and biscotti, and moved to serve the moment the cops were seated. Claremont and Maguire exchanged looks behind her back, then Maguire shrugged.

  "What can we do for you, Ms. Giambelli?"

  "Reassure me, I hope. Which, I know, isn't your job." She passed out the coffee, impressing Maguire by remembering how each of them took it.

  "What reassurances are you looking for?" Claremont asked her.

  "I realize you, your department, is in contact with the Italian authorities." Pilar took her seat but didn't touch her coffee. She