“She says she’s leaving town. But look at what happened with Olivia.”
Remembering Olivia was like a bucket of ice water dumped down Noah’s neck. He wanted Penelope to stay, but she was right: Death stalked this town. Death stalked him. And he feared for everyone who stood too close.
Rafe sighed. “I don’t believe anybody anymore.”
Noah snorted. “I didn’t know that you suffered from an overabundance of trust, anyway.”
“I failed to protect Nonna. I failed to protect Brooke. I’m not letting some female from your past wander into town and get hired by my wife—”
“Penelope’s not taking the job,” Noah repeated.
“—without making damned good and sure she is who she says she is. Especially since you talked her into visiting Nonna.”
“I agree. Investigate Penelope. Makes sense.” Investigate her, even though the sight of her calmed his mind, her scent lingered in his senses, and the desire for her burned as strongly as ever… not that he could do anything about that desire. Last time he’d been too weak to turn away from his feelings for her. This time he was older, wiser, no longer a boy half out of his mind with rage and hormones. This time, he was in control.
Although, when it came to Penelope, he didn’t care to be tested.
“If you would tell me what you know about the diamonds and the people who are after them…” Rafe slowed down for the light, glanced at Noah, and his plea was sincere and warm. “If you tell me what you know, I could help you. No matter what it is, I have the expertise either through my employees or myself to handle this.”
“Interestingly enough, there’s no one who can handle this except me. I know it goes against your grain, Rafe, but this time, you’re going to have to trust your baby brother.” Noah pointed to an empty space at the curb. “Drop me off there by the Black Bean.”
Rafe whipped his car into the tight spot with an expertise that clearly showed he’d learned at a rigorous technical driving school. “Noah,” he said sternly. “It’s not that we don’t trust you. It’s that this thing is too big for any one of us.”
Noah popped the door open without saying another word.
Rafe caught his arm. Again. “Noah, listen to me.”
Noah turned to him in exasperation. “Figure it out. I’m not telling you.”
“I know. I got that. But listen.” Rafe tried to smile, tried to sound light, but his blue eyes were earnest, anxious… affectionate. “No matter what it is. No matter how much trouble you’re in. You’re my brother, and I love you. Just promise… promise that if I can do anything, you’ll call me. I’m on your side, man, no matter what.”
Noah stared at his bossy, annoying, pigheaded older sibling, and a warmth uncoiled in his gut. “I know. I love you, too.”
“Promise.” Rafe couldn’t stand to have Noah keep secrets from him.
But those secrets would kill them all… if Noah didn’t choose the right course.
If Noah did choose the right course… then only he would die.
That was the good news.
So Noah lied. “Sure. If I think you can help me, I will call. Now, Rafe—I gotta get my coffee and get back to work.”
“Okay. See you around.” Rafe lifted his hand in farewell.
Noah slammed the door, waved him off, and, when he was sure Rafe was really gone, he strolled through the open courtyard, past the cast-iron patio tables filled with people using the free Wi-Fi and sipping from massive paper cups, past a tall blond older woman who sat waiting for someone, and into the Black Bean’s open door. He walked up to the counter and smiled winsomely at Mandy. “I’ll take the usual. And… a spare. To go.”
Mandy smiled back.
How come winsome worked on her and not on Penelope?
“You’re late today,” she said as she prepared two lattes.
“Rafe and Brooke wanted me to look over their house.” He glanced out the door as two of the tables emptied. “You’re busy today.”
“We’ve got tourists in for the vine-grafting festival.”
“The city fathers should be proud of thinking that one up,” Noah muttered.
“Don’t I know it. But it’s good for business, and it’s not as if any of the tourists actually want to graft vines.”
The two of them chuckled softly.
Mandy put the cups on the counter. “So Rafe and Brooke bought the old gold-digger place?”
“That’s it. It’s going to take some work to get it ready in time.”
“Before Brooke has her baby, you mean?”
He paused, hand halfway to his wallet. “What, am I the only person in town who didn’t know?”
Mandy laughed. “No, I wasn’t sure until just now, but my sister-in-law Brittany is Dr. Jacobs’s receptionist, and when Brooke called in for the exam she figured something was up. We were speculating what the likely choices were, and since she was just married…”
“The grapevine in this town is the stuff of legend,” Noah said wryly.
“Just among us old-timers. I can’t keep track of all the new people moving in and out.”
“Me, neither.” Noah picked up his cups. “Thanks, Mandy. See you tomorrow.”
“You bet, Noah.”
Turning away from the counter, he strolled out the door and into the courtyard, up to the table occupied by the tall, fit blond woman in her sixties. Pulling up a chair, he sat down, placed one cup in front of her, popped the top on his, and said, “I was wondering when I’d see you again… Mother.”
Chapter 18
T he first time Noah met his mother, he was fifteen years old, going into the Black Bean for one of their iced mocha cappuccinos.
As he passed the woman sitting at one of the patio tables, he noticed her. How could he not? She was the kind of female everyone noticed: tall, blond, glowing with good health, not pretty, but handsome in an older-woman, strong-faced way. She was the kind of female people remembered, too, so he knew he’d never seen her around town. But that didn’t mean anything. As Bella Valley’s reputation for fine wines grew, so did the tourist industry and the number of visitors who came to taste the wines and stayed to enjoy the heat, the orchards, the vines, and the gently changing seasons.
What was different about this woman was that she watched him with a half smile. Like she knew him. Like she was proud of him. And that was just weird.
When he got inside the Black Bean, Jennifer Brisquet was working behind the counter, and as he flirted with the barista, he forgot the tall woman. For any guy of fifteen, an old woman of fifty lost out to an eighteen-year-old with perky tits every time.
But when he came out of the coffee shop, walking backward and smiling at Jennifer, the older woman spoke. “Noah.”
That was all. Just his name, but at the sound of her voice, the hair rose on the back of his neck. He didn’t know how to define that eerie feeling, but it felt like he should never turn his back on that female. He spun to face her. “Do I know you?”
“No, but I know you. I’ve watched you for years.”
Watched him for years? What was she, a generation-jumping sexual predator? A white slaver?
Warily, he looked around.
It was broad daylight. The Black Bean was located on Bella Terra’s busy Main Street. Tourists and people he’d known since he was a kid were walking past. A couple of them waved. He glanced back into the door of the Black Bean. Jennifer wiggled her fingers and smiled.
So if the tall woman was a white slaver, she’d picked a lousy time for her kidnapping attempt.
Besides… what kind of weirdo would watch him for years?
He should have relaxed, but still that prickly sensation made him think something horrible was about to happen. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“I observed from a distance.” She leaned forward, put her elbow on the table, cupped her chin in her hand, and stared insistently into his eyes. “Don’t you know who I am, Noah?”
That voice… her voice did seem fam
iliar, although he didn’t know why. It was like all his life he’d been hearing it in his head. And her eyes… such a strange color. Green with flecks of—
Oh, God.
He saw those eyes every morning in the mirror.
His mother. This was his mother.
She was older than he thought she would be. Not as beautiful as his father’s other women. But she had strength and presence, and everyone knew—everyone knew—how easily his dad was seduced.…
Who else could she be but his mother?
And if she was, he wanted nothing to do with her.
Without a word, he turned and walked away.
And at every step, he felt the gaze from those unique green eyes burning a hole into his spine.
Noah said nothing to Nonno and Nonna about the encounter. Nonna was anxious enough; Nonno had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and was slowly, inexorably slipping away. She didn’t need anything else to worry about.
Noah briefly considered telling his brothers, but… his brothers had always known who their mothers were: two different beautiful, exotic women who were lousy parents. But at least their mothers had cared enough to hang around more than five minutes after the umbilical cord was cut. Noah’s mother couldn’t wait to get away from him. It was humiliating.
So he didn’t tell his family. He didn’t want them to know.
He didn’t even want it to be true. All this time, his mother had ignored his existence, and now, when he was an adult, or damned near, she thought she could stroll in and create a relationship?
Not even.
Probably she wasn’t really his mother. She didn’t look like him at all.
Well, except for her eyes.
No one in the family had ever had eyes the color of Noah’s, a peculiar clear green with yellow flecks that his brothers said looked like mashed peas with butternut squash, and Jennifer said looked like a clear, still, shaded mountain lake. These eyes had come from somewhere, and since asking his father for information made Gavino snap like a junkyard dog, everyone tacitly agreed they probably came from his mother, whoever she was.
Noah put the incident at the Black Bean out of his mind. After all, he’d made himself clear, hadn’t he?
He should have known the woman wasn’t going to drop her pursuit; she had that kind of aggressive look to her. But he never thought to hear her voice four days later, when he was at home, flat on his back under his grandmother’s Mustang, in the parking area, changing the oil.
He never heard that woman’s arrival. Just, “Hello, son.”
He jumped so hard he smacked his head on the exhaust pipe. He flopped back, saw stars, cursed, and slithered out so fast his T-shirt crawled up his spine and gravel scraped his skin.
She stood over him, smiling, as he scrambled to his feet, rubbing his bruised forehead.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded harshly. He was furious, but he kept his voice down and glanced toward the house in a series of desperate, guilty checks.
She was calm. She was cool. The way she acted, she didn’t care whether she met the whole family. “You wouldn’t talk to me in public, so I came here to see you. You know who I am, don’t you?”
“Since you called me ‘son,’ I guess I do.” She was exactly his height, which he hated. Her shoulders were broad—not as broad as his, thank God—her arms were long; her hands were big. Yet she had a woman’s figure, which she displayed in expensive boot-cut jeans, a crisp white shirt belted at the waist, and a hot-shit pair of Italian loafers.
He didn’t know what she did for a living, but apparently she had managed to accumulate some bucks.
Yeah, he could see his father getting into the challenge of making her fall for him. What he couldn’t see was her putting up with Gavino without a damned good reason. “What do you want?” He yanked the rag off his belt and wiped his greasy hands.
“To get to know you. I’ve watched you from a distance for a long time and—”
“You’ve watched me from a distance? Wow, there’s an unwanted benefit to having you for a mother. I’ve got a stalker.”
In a patient, aggrieved voice, she said, “It isn’t possible for us to be together. With my job, I couldn’t have a child at my side. It would make me vulnerable to outside influences and—”
“Let me make myself clear. I don’t want to know you. Why would I? You abandoned me. And I don’t care what excuses you have about why you abandoned me. You’ve never cared for me. What kind of mother abandons her newborn son?” The words came rolling out as if he’d rehearsed them his whole life, yet if anyone had ever asked, he would have sworn he never thought about his mother, never cared one way or another whether she was alive or dead.
Apparently he did.
“It’s not like that. There are forces larger than us both, and I had to be careful not to let anyone know that I could care for someone as much as I care for you.” She clasped her fist to her chest.
“What, you’re like a spy?”
“Something like that.”
She must really consider him an idiot. “Oh, for shit’s sake, Mother, give me a break.”
“Why else would I be here now? You’re old enough—barely old enough—to take care of yourself. Son, come and talk to me. You’re my closest living relative and I… If you don’t like me, you can tell me to go away. But give me a chance to explain who I am and what I do and…” She started toward the house. “I was trying to keep them out of this, but I could introduce myself to your grandparents if that makes it better.”
“No!” He leaped toward her and grabbed her arm.
“I won’t hurt them,” she said, and she sounded hurt, as if he’d accused her of dreadful crimes.
“I know. There are troubles in the family now, and I don’t want to add to them.” He took a breath. Another. Thinking frantically, trying to figure out why she was here now. His adolescent brain could figure out no reason she would have arrived now at all, and so reluctantly he said, “Okay. We can talk. Tomorrow at the Black Bean. After school. Figure three thirty. But don’t expect anything. I’m not stupid, you know.”
The sad thing was… it turned out Noah was stupid. And innocent. And credulous.
Innocence was no excuse.
He never allowed himself to forget that.
So everything that happened after that… he knew it was all his fault.
Chapter 19
Now, today, at the Black Bean, Liesbeth smiled as if she were genuinely happy to see Noah. “I can’t surprise you at all, can I, son?”
“As soon as the cops accuse me of breaking some thug’s fingers with a tire iron, I know my mother and her family are in town.” He sipped his espresso. The familiar dark-roasted flavor slid down his throat, followed by the pale, cool touch of cream.
“Oh, come. You’re not being fair. You’ve lived your whole life in your beloved Bella Terra without a single sign of trouble. What more could you want?”
“That you should have dropped dead?” The caffeine percolated in his blood, keeping his mind alert, his body trembling on the edge of action.
“Now, dear.” She used the chiding tone of a falsely fond parent. “What good would that have done? Your cousins are as interested in recovering the legendary pink diamonds as I am.”
With great precision, he said, “No, Mother, they’re not.” He spun his cup on the table. “These particular pink diamonds—the ones you love so much—hold no special place in their hearts except as something they can sell for cash. A lot of cash.”
She seemed genuinely surprised and offended. “That’s not true, dear. Your cousins are Propovs. Just like you.”
“Maybe like you. Most definitely not like me.”
“Accept it or not, you’re my beloved son. Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.” She took the cup out of his fingers and took a sip, then pushed her cup toward him.
His gaze flicked between his coffee, now cradled in her hands, and the coffee he had originally given her, and he knew why she had
switched cups. “If you really believed that I was your beloved son, you wouldn’t suspect me of poisoning your coffee.”
“That’s simply caution and good sense.”
Yeah, right. “Your family is different from mine. We don’t poison each other.”
“My family is your family. I conceived you, I pushed you from my loins, and as you drew your first breath, I held you in my arms. The same aristocratic Russian blood that flows in my veins flows in yours.”
The shadows from the trees along the street dappled the glass tabletop. The metal chair was cool against his back. Yet the heat of anger—at her, at himself—set fire to his mind. “The same aristocratic, thieving blood.”
“We Propovs have not always been thieves. We were forced into it by poverty and hunger.” From the earnest tone in her voice and from her wide, green-eyed, intense gaze, it was obvious she believed what she said.
“The Propovs could always have tried to get a job,” he said.
Again she gave him that uncomprehending stare.
Helpfully he explained, “A job. It’s where you work for yourself, or even other people, and get paid by the hour. The government takes taxes; with what remains you buy a home and raise a family—”
She slashed the air with her hand. “A life for serfs!”
He thought of the way his family had worked the soil, here and in Italy, for generations. “Yes. But a life of honor.”
“Honest labor.” She almost spit the words. “It’s an oxymoron. There is no honor in toil from dawn to dusk until you die with a hoe in your hand.”
A reluctant grin split his face. “We modern serfs use machinery to do our labor. Eli is our vintner; he uses a harvester. Rafe is our warrior; he uses an automatic weapon. I run the resort; I use a vacuum cleaner.” He cackled at the revulsion that crossed her face.
But he knew she understood what he meant. What she didn’t understand was the idea of becoming a part of the country that had welcomed her family when they fled the Russian Revolution, while at the same time being proud of her heritage. She didn’t understand moving on. Almost a hundred years after the revolution, Liesbeth considered herself to be an exile from her home in Russia, a home where she had never lived, where all traces of her family had been erased, where even the regime that had overthrown them had been overthrown.
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