His car was parked in the sun, and heat whooshed out as he opened the door. The leather was hot under his butt. The steering wheel burned his hands. But a few minutes running with the windows wide-open brought the temp down to bearable levels, and the breeze blew the cobwebs out of his mind, if not his hair.
He drove in the opposite direction from Rafe and Brooke’s fancy Victorian, toward the small bungalows built in the 1950s. His home was smaller than most in the neighborhood: one bedroom, one bath, eight hundred square feet on the main level, with a tiny, bare, concrete basement underneath built for God knew what reason. Perhaps it was supposed to eventually become a rumpus room, but no one had ever even tried to finish it, and so he kept his projects down there.
Or rather, his project—a decent-size bomb built to strap around his waist and detonate at the same time as the necklace around his throat. The plans for such a contraption were easy to find on the Internet, and he intended to be close to Liesbeth and her gang at the moment of explosion, so they could all descend into hell together.
For Noah, that was heaven enough.
He parked in the tumbledown single-car garage and headed toward the back door. He got out his key, reached out to put it in the lock—and saw that the door was already open about an inch. He hesitated, then pushed it wide.
The scent of fresh-brewed coffee wafted out.
That figured.
He walked into the kitchen. “Hello, Mother.”
Chapter 45
Liesbeth turned away from Noah’s coffeemaker and smiled fondly. “I can’t surprise you, can I?”
“Nothing you do surprises me.” He strolled into the tiny kitchen.
But apparently he had surprised her, for she viewed him with a frown and said, “Son, you look like a coal miner.”
“That’s what happens when I spend days underground searching for Nonno’s bottle of wine with the aim of giving it to you… and saving my miserable, puny, vacuum cleaner–filled life.”
“You and your vacuum cleaners!” she huffed. “I can offer you a better life than that.”
“Goody. A proposition. Give me a minute. I need to wash up. And then… we can talk.” He smiled unpleasantly and headed into the bathroom.
It took him fifteen minutes to shower, change into jeans, his favorite old shrunken white turtleneck T-shirt—he thought it would annoy Liesbeth—and a shabby pair of running shoes, and wander back out to the kitchen.
He caught his mother rummaging through the cupboards as if searching for something, anything of interest. “Find what you’re looking for?” he asked.
Had she been in his basement?
The stairway down, and the door, were outside, as worn as the rest of the house, and although Noah had been working down there every night, he had taken care to assure it looked unused.
Yet Liesbeth noticed everything.
“Why do you live in such a tiny, unkempt hovel?” She gestured around at the worn countertops, the aging appliances. “If you don’t want to care for a home, why not live at your resort? Or at your grandmother’s?”
Would Liesbeth believe every inch of his home was worth investigating?
Or did she believe he was so scared of dying he would do her bidding… and no more?
“Nonna deserves to live as she wishes in her own home. I have to get away from the resort occasionally or I am always working. And ever since I visited you in Europe, I have known that my days on earth were limited. So why should I marry?” he asked. “Why have children? Why waste my time on creating a beautiful home when I know I’ll leave it too soon?”
“You are a practical man. That is much to be admired. I despise my prey all the more when it begs. It’s so dispiriting.” She spread her hands as if helpless. “I hated to invade your privacy by searching your cupboards, but have you got sugar? And cream?”
“I can see digging through my personal belongings would offend your code of ethics,” he said with fine-tuned irony. He fetched the sugar canister off the counter and the skim milk out of the refrigerator, and two spoons. He placed them on his tiny, drop-leaf table, and gestured. “Have a seat?”
As Liesbeth walked toward him, he noted that she listed a little to one side. “You’re hurt?” he asked.
She rubbed her leg right above her knee. “I had a run-in with a tapestry needle.”
Hendrik must be challenging her more and more. “Be careful. A woman your age doesn’t always heal well.”
“Yes. That’s why I came to you.” She sank down in the chair.
He looked her over. Liesbeth was still tall, fit, healthy. She dressed neatly, and her blond hair was coiled at the nape of her neck. But for the first time in his memory, she had bags beneath her eyes, a sallow tint to her skin, and she too plainly watched the window over the sink and the door. “Not sleeping well, Mother? Afraid to close your eyes for fear one of your beloved family will take you out?” he asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous, dear; it’s you that I’m worried about. Half of your allotted time is gone.”
“I promise you, no one knows that more than me.” He sat down opposite her.
“You look haggard.” Reaching across the table, she grasped his hand. “I’m fond of you. You’re my son, and I have my hopes pinned on you.”
“You’re fond of me as long as I do what you wish.”
“I’m fond of you regardless. If I weren’t, would I bother to come here to urge you to save your own life?”
He didn’t relax, didn’t indicate in any way that she had relieved his mind. But if she had seen the makings of the bomb downstairs, she would have flaunted her knowledge. His mother enjoyed nothing so much as being a know-it-all.
No, she hadn’t been in the basement… yet. “If I knew how to save my own life, do you think I wouldn’t?”
“But you can.” She squeezed his hand. “I want to talk to you about just that.”
“About killing Hendrik and taking over his position as heir apparent?”
She withdrew her hand. She ladled two teaspoons of sugar into her mug, then topped off the coffee with milk until it was a smooth, pale tan. “It would take a bit of ruthlessness to step into my place. But without the ruthlessness, you’re not capable of filling my shoes.” She sipped.
Reaching across the table, he pulled her mug toward him and pushed his toward her. When she looked startled, he said, “Yes, Mother, you taught me to be cautious of any cup you give me.”
“I would not poison you.” Her indignation sounded real. “That would be counterproductive to my goals.”
“Poison me? No. Drug me? I think so.” He took a sip of her sweet brew, then with a shudder pushed it back toward her. “Such a shame Hendrik doesn’t know the real reason you brought the gang to town.”
Liesbeth lifted her brows with assumed innocence. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’ve been trying to remember how and when I discovered you had traced the Propov diamonds to Bella Terra.”
She played with her spoon. “It was while you visited us in Europe.”
“I know that. But at first, I don’t think anyone said anything about the diamonds. At first, you had told me I was to watch my grandfather’s bottle of wine, to make sure it was safe.” He remembered her sitting while he stood, making clear for the first time the inescapable control she now exerted over his life. “You said when it was time, you would come and get the wine.”
“Give me the wine and I’ll go.”
“My grandfather hid it.”
“So you say.”
“You believe me, I think.”
“I don’t know if I believe you,” she admitted. “I do know if you’d watched over the bottle as you should, we wouldn’t be in this mess.” She smacked her spoon on the table, then used it to scoop more sugar into her coffee. Or rather… his coffee.
“Very true,” he said patiently. “I never anticipated my grandfather would hide the bottle before he died. But, Mother—I feel as if you don’t want to discuss how I ca
me to realize there were diamonds in that bottle. I don’t think you told me. I seem to remember an aha moment when I realized your devotion to the legend of the Propov pink diamonds was exactly the same devotion you paid to Nonno’s wine.”
Liesbeth stared at him, her mouth pursed. Then she relaxed back in her chair and chuckled. “Yes. Yes.” She nodded repeatedly, proudly. “You are a fit heir to me. To observe me so closely, to draw that conclusion with accuracy—such cunning, such intelligence!”
“I also seem to remember you hustling me away from my cousins before I could say anything in front of them.”
Liesbeth stopped chuckling, stopped nodding.
Noah now reached across and clasped her hand, holding her in place. “My cousins do not know the truth, do they? Hendrik knows you’re here after a rare and expensive bottle of wine, he knows you’re using me, but he doesn’t know what treasure is in the bottle. He thinks it’s all about the wine. He thinks he’s going to make a fortune auctioning off the wine.”
“Hendrik is a boy.” Liesbeth smiled scornfully. “He doesn’t need to know everything.”
“You don’t trust him. Wise move, Mother.”
And for the first time, Liesbeth eyed Noah with some trepidation. As she should. If he chose to talk, he could make a bargain with his cousins, a bargain to save his own life and end hers or, at the very least, end her dream of owning an important part of her heritage—the Beating Heart.
The balance of power had shifted. “So when you get your hands on the diamonds, what do you intend to do?”
“I told you. I will have them reset in platinum and keep them in a safe location, where I can see them whenever I want.” Her eyes softened in longing.
“Yes, you told me. But I think the reason you aren’t worried about Hendrik killing you is because… you don’t intend to stay with the family.”
Her shocked gaze flew to Noah’s.
“This is your last job, Mother,” he said. “You’re retiring.”
“You really are very smart.” It was no compliment.
“And you are not as smart as you imagined.” Noah weighed his bomb, then dropped it. “Did you know that on Sunday, Hendrik came to visit my grandmother’s property?”
Her smile disappeared. “Stupid boy. He could ruin everything.”
“The cops are looking for him. My brothers know about him now.”
With a scornful wave of her hand, she dismissed law enforcement and Noah’s brothers. “What did Hendrik want?”
“He wanted me to introduce him to my family.”
Liesbeth grew pale with terror, then red with rage. “I will kill him.”
“I’m fine with that.”
She clenched her fist, visibly struggled for control. “But not yet. Not—”
“Until you have the diamonds? You’re skating on thin ice. He wants to oust you anyway, and when he discovers the truth about the bottle, he’ll kill you and claim he was justified. And who will debate his claim?”
She leaned toward him, her green eyes aflame. “Make sure he doesn’t discover the truth about the bottle. Take his place as my successor, and I will personally take the bomb off your neck and you’ll live.”
“As attractive as that sounds—” Noah’s phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at it in puzzlement.
The beaver inn. What was the Beaver Inn doing calling him?
“As attractive as that sounds, I’ve got to take this call,” he said, and answered.
Primo’s deep voice rumbled in his ear. “Listen, Noah, I’ve got a situation at the bar.”
What the hell…? “And you need me because…?”
“It’s Penelope. She’s in here, getting drunk, and she’s scaring me to death.”
Noah clicked the phone shut.
“What is it?” Liesbeth asked.
“I’ve got to go.” He headed out the door.
Chapter 46
The Beaver Inn smelled like disinfectant, which meant one of two things—last night someone had tossed his cookies (and there were unexplained splotches on the linoleum), or there had been a fight with a lot of blood spilled (and there were unexplained splotches on the walls). So probably a little of both.
But for all the bar’s raucous reputation, tonight the atmosphere was subdued, the vineyard workers staring into their beers rather than at the slender female figure sitting on a barstool, arguing with the bartender.
Probably the customers were frightened; no one argued with Primo, or at least no one who wanted to remain in one piece. Primo was notorious for his extraordinary strength and fearsome fighting skills, and speaking as someone who’d been on the receiving end of his punches, Noah could attest that Primo’s fame was well deserved.
In fact, Noah knew the sound and the sight and the smell of the Beaver Inn—in his time, he had tipped back more than a few shots and kicked more than a little ass there. And had his ass kicked, too.
Which was why having Primo look so desperately relieved to see him was more than a little funny. Penelope had the big guy terrified.
As Noah slipped into the seat next to Penelope, he nodded at Primo. “I’ll have a banana daiquiri,” he said.
Primo put his elbows on the bar and glared.
Hey, just because Noah was here to rescue Primo didn’t mean he had to make it easy. “A nice light chardonnay?” he questioned. “Maybe a frozen strawberry margarita with a little sombrero on top?”
Now Penelope turned and glared, too, through brown eyes so deep and pooled with sorrow that Noah’s breath caught on a shared shard of pain.
Had something terrible happened since he’d seen her at Nonna’s? What had occurred to make her look as if she viewed the world from behind a dark veil, where no light or happiness could penetrate? Was it the loss of her husband? The loss of her mother? Or did she hide secrets that shredded the fabric of her soul…?
Was she more like him than he had ever imagined?
He must have stared too long, seen too much, for she lifted her chin and turned away.
No wonder Primo was rattled. No wonder the customers were quiet. No one wanted to see that kind of anguish staring out from the mirror over the bar. Her pain, so palpably obvious, reminded a man of his own mortality.
Noah glanced at Primo, his eyebrows raised.
PMS? Primo mouthed silently.
Noah shook his head.
Primo shook his, too.
Primo tilted his head toward the door.
Noah nodded.
He had to get Penelope out of here.
He scrambled to get back to his lighthearted teasing, to change the mood, to ease her away from the gaping darkness. “What?” He punched her lightly on the arm. “Can’t a man order a drink around here?”
“You can, but the big oaf across the bar doesn’t put any liquor in the drinks, so what difference does it make?” Her voice sounded absolutely normal. Snappish, but normal.
“Look.” Primo took her glass away. “I’ll make you a whole new drink. You can watch me. Ice and straight gin. How’s that?”
“How about straight gin, no ice?” she countered.
“I’m telling you, we don’t serve your fancy-ass girly gin in here. The only kind of gin we have is pure rotgut. It doesn’t taste like juniper; it tastes like the whole pine forest.” Primo pulled a steaming-hot glass out of the under-the-counter dishwasher. “Just let me put a little ice in the glass to take the edge off. Your ulcer will thank me for it.”
“You never care about my ulcer like that,” Noah said.
“I don’t care if you suffer.” Primo ladled ice into the glass and swirled it around. The ice was melting, pooling at the bottom. “The sooner the crap you drink kills you, the happier I am.”
Penelope made a whimpering sound.
Both men turned in time to see her cover her mouth for a telling moment.
They froze. What was wrong? What had they said?
Kills you. It was death that made her cringe.
“He didn
’t mean it,” Noah said comfortingly. “We’re frenemies.”
“Yeah,” Primo said. “We’ve known each other our whole lives, and we take care of our own. The stuff we say to each other—it’s just talk.”
They waited on tenterhooks to see whether she would cry or collapse or… or tell them what was wrong.
Instead she pulled her hand away from her face and tapped the bar. “Hurry up with the drink.” She was finished with that brief, revealing moment.
“All right.” Primo pulled a bottle of gin out of the freezer, slapped the glass in front of her, and poured. “Straight gin with a little ice mixer. That’ll get you properly toasted.”
She sat up straight, said, “Thanks,” and took a long swallow.
Noah and Primo exchanged glances. Even with the melted ice, it was powerful stuff, and she sucked it right down.
“For me—tequila. Salt. Lime.” Noah turned to look over the big, cavernous room, where fluorescent beer signs turned the peeling paint orange and pink and bilious green. “So how’s business here at the Beaver Inn?”
“We’re busy. It’s a good night when the farmworkers leave their knives at home.” Primo lined up the ingredients on the bar. “How’s business at the resort?”
“Okay. We spend more time screening the guests, trying to figure out whether they’re media or tourists or cold-blooded murderers.” From the corner of his eyes, Noah kept track of Penelope. For a self-professed coward, she didn’t flinch or even seem to notice his talk of crime. She simply kept drinking.
Noah had to get her alone, to a place where she could cry or scream or… just tell him what had happened.
“Any luck with that famous bottle of wine?” Primo asked.
Noah swung to face him. “What do you know about the bottle of wine?”
“Exactly what my aunt told me I could know,” Primo answered. “Did you think you could keep info like that away from Aunt Arianna?”
“No. Of course not.” Noah glanced at his watch.
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