Revenge at Bella Terra (24 page)

And Chloë wasn’t right about Abuela exactly. He wouldn’t go that far. But the stuff she’d said had merit.

She wants to see you. She says there’s no one else.
And,
You shared something, the two of you.

They had indeed. Long nights of lessons. Her blunt impatience with any confusion. That stern, wrinkled face with those big, dark eyes staring at him, and her sharp, thin voice saying,
Don’t tell me you can’t. You’re my hope for this family. You will do it.

Abuela had not been kind, and she had been determined to keep him in the Silva family. What was hers, she kept.... Hmm.

He might have gotten that from her.

But through long evenings spent in her suite of rooms, she’d taught him about wines. Not merely taught him—she had seared her knowledge of wines into his memory as if graven in stone. She knew things no other teacher had taught him, and as he created his Di Luca wines, he’d put her knowledge to work time and again.

He walked through the Bella Terra lobby, ignoring the greetings, and into the Luna Grande Lounge.

The bar was empty; Tom Chan was nowhere in sight.

Eli pulled out his phone and looked at the screen.

Last night, he’d programmed in Abuela’s number.

He didn’t know what he was thinking, or why he’d done it. It had been a stupid impulse, like this one to give her a call.

But in his head, he heard Chloë’s voice.

He touched the screen and watched it dial. Country code, phone number. He could make this call and . . .

And say what?

The phone was ringing.

“Hello?” It was her. Abuela.

His fingers went cold. He recognized the tobacco-roughened voice.

How could he ever forget?

He cut the connection and put the phone back in his pocket.

No. He would not speak to her. Not now. Not ever. Irritated at himself for imagining Abuela needed him, he checked the time.

Where was Tom? Where was Victor?

He heard them talking as they crossed the lobby, his friend who tended the bar and Victor, newly anointed as the lead concierge for Bella Terra.

Distractions, both of them, and he was glad to see them walk through the door. He said, “I’ve called on you two because I need something put together, something very special for me, and I know you both have the skills and the know-how to do this in a hurry. I wouldn’t trust this to anyone else.”

Chapter 33

W
hen someone rapped on the office door, Chloë jumped and gasped, grabbed the arms of the chair, and stared, wide-eyed, at Eli.

He’d pulled her out of a murder scene in Maine, and her heart raced in alarm.

“Sorry.” Eli looked almost as surprised as she felt, and gestured behind him. “I made noise when I was coming up the stairs.”

“It’s okay. I was scared. Hannah realized her patient had been murdered and she had been set up as the perp.” Chloë leaped to her feet. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.” Not the most romantic thing to say to your new husband, but she’d been sitting at that desk for hours without a break, and now that he’d interrupted her she realized . . . she really had to go.

While she was washing her hands, she looked at herself in the mirror.

Hair standing up on
half
of her head.

No makeup.

Still in her pajamas.

He was truly getting to see her at her worst.

She walked out, barefoot and feeling like a bumpkin.

He, of course, looked the same as always, in jeans, shirt, work boots, and a darkly handsome austerity. He said, “So, seeing the water tower, the still, and the body helped you with your writing.”

“It’s added a historical edge to the story that . . . Never mind.” She glanced at the bookshelf. He didn’t care about her writing. He didn’t read fiction.

No wonder he seldom smiled. When he woke up in the morning, he had nothing to look forward to all day long except real life . . . although the way he was looking at her right now, all smoky-watchful, told her he was pretty pleased with his life.

She ought to point out that she looked like hell.

No, she ought to keep her mouth shut.

“I’ve got something for you,” he said.

“About time,” she breathed.

“No, not that.” He strolled across the office, his gait reminding her he was dangerous, a man of depths and secrets. Delving into his pocket, he pulled out a Tiffany blue box tied with their signature white satin bow.

Her breath caught.

He went down on one knee, slid the bow off the box, opened it, and brought out another, smaller black velvet box.

“Oh,” she whispered.

He popped that box, showed her the black satin interior with Tiffany & Co. embossed on the top part of the inner satin cover . . . and the glittering rings within.

The platinum wedding band was set with white diamonds separated by platinum crosses. Beautiful . . . but Chloë had trouble focusing on the band. It was the engagement ring, and the size and color of the center stone, that commanded all her attention.

“It’s a one-point-seven-two-carat pink diamond,” he said. “Set with two white diamonds on the side. I thought it was beautiful and symbolic of our courtship.”

Tears rose in her eyes. Silly tears . . . why should his gesture affect her like this?

“Courtship?” She half laughed. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

But the fact was—they were already married. He didn’t have to do this. And yet here he was, this strong and wonderful man, on his knee before her, fulfilling her girlhood dream of the perfect man at the perfect time with the perfect ring.

“Maybe for you it wasn’t a courtship. I always knew what I wanted.”

More tears in her eyes, and one that escaped. Hastily she wiped it away.

“Last time I proposed, I wasn’t on my knees,” he said.

“Last time you proposed, it wasn’t a proposal.” Her voice wobbled, and she steadied it. “It was a demand.”

“Last time I proposed, I was angry at myself for being so precipitous. Now I want to ask you—would you spend the rest of your life with me?” He looked so serious, as if her answer mattered . . . as if he loved her.

She knew he didn’t. He’d never said the words, and if he had, she wouldn’t have believed him anyway. He was too damaged for love.

But she knew she was healing him, civilizing him, and maybe someday soon his soul would open and touch hers.

When she didn’t reply right away, he took her hand. “We have a lot of talking to do, about what we want in our lives, but I swear I’ll take care of you, Chloë. I’ll support you in your writing. You’ve done so much for me, and I’ll do everything in my power to make you happy.”

“I would like to spend the rest of my life with you”—she stroked her fingers through the dark warmth of his hair, and her voice was wobbling again—“and I promise to take care of you, too, and do everything in my power to make you happy.”

“Thank you.” He pressed a kiss on her fingers, and his voice vibrated a little, too. “Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “Listen, Tiffany’s was really nice about the rings and told me to bring you back so you could pick out the one
you
want. Because if you want a different ring, I’m fine with that.”

“No! I can’t imagine a better choice than this set.” She grinned. “I’ll get a pink highlight in my hair to match.”

He surprised her when he grinned back. “You do that.” Taking the diamond-encrusted wedding band out of the box, he brought it to the end of her finger. “You’re sure this is the one?”

“I’m sure.”

He slowly placed it on her finger.

The cool metal warmed quickly as she flexed her hand.

“Is it the right size?” he asked.

“It seems perfect.”

“I measured your finger last night while you were asleep,” he said smugly.

“Of course you did.” She couldn’t imagine Eli leaving anything so important to chance.

Next he plucked the engagement ring from its nest and slowly slid it on next to the wedding band. The pink diamond’s emerald cut flashed with glorious color. Its clarity was like looking into a deep, sunlit pool in a fantasy world. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she whispered.

“Not even close.” He stood and took her in his arms, and held her as if she were more precious than any diamond. “Would you like to go out tonight?” he asked, his voice slow and warm and deep.

No. I want you to show me a reason to stay in.
“If you like.”

“I thought we’d go down to the resort and celebrate.” He smiled crookedly down at her.

Smile at me like that, and I’ll go anywhere and do anything.
“I guess this all means the marriage is still on?”

She expected him to laugh, not kiss her until she remembered, in slow, meticulous detail, every moment of last evening . . . or at least the part leading up to their leaving for Reno.

“The marriage is definitely still on.” He sounded almost hoarse, as if the effort of keeping himself in check were wearing on his resolve. “It will never be over.”

“Then why don’t we stay in?” she whispered.

“Let me take you out to dinner. Let me do one thing right.”

“You’re obsessed with doing one thing right. You need to realize—you definitely do one thing right.” She rubbed her hand down his spine.

He looked down at her, all dark-eyed smoky passion, and stroked her hair off her forehead. “You’re a miracle,” he said.

She didn’t feel like a miracle. She felt like a woman driven by frustration and uncertainty, and the need for a shower.

He acted like a man who desperately wanted her . . . but what did she know? Apparently nothing.

Taking her by the shoulders, he turned her toward the door. “Go put on some clothes. Put on something pretty . . . like your dress yesterday. I promise you’ll enjoy the evening.”

When Eli and Chloë walked into the Luna Grande Lounge, she came to a halt.

A long, white cloth–covered table was set with eleven old-fashioned blue-and-white plates and heavy silverware and filled with people: Nonna, Olivia, Bao, and a lot of people she didn’t recognize. As inquiring faces turned their way, she asked, “Eli?”

“I invited my family.”

“What’s up, Eli?” A handsome man—he had to be Eli’s brother—lounged at the far end of the table. “What’s making you suddenly social?”

“I’d like you all to meet Chloë.” Taking her hand, Eli lifted it and showed her rings to the room. “My wife.”

Chapter 34

T
he roar that went up from Eli’s family and friends made Chloë catch her breath and take a step back.

They were on their feet, all of them, rushing in an incredulous tidal wave to shake Eli’s hand and hug her, or hug them both, and all of them were laughing and talking at once.

Eli pulled Chloë in close, and in that quiet way of his, he said, “Calm down. Calm down! You’re scaring Chloë.”

Still laughing, the crowd backed off a little.

Eli introduced them.

Nonna, of course, pink cheeked and smiling, with Olivia off to her side and Bao standing back, arms crossed, watching the whole group and everything around it.

Eli’s brother Rafe and his new wife, Brooke—they were pleased, yet at the same time, so involved with each other they saw Eli’s marriage as a logical extension of their own love story.

Francesca Pastore, easily recognizable as one of the most beautiful women in the world, and Kathy Petersson, former air force officer, now forced by rheumatoid arthritis to use a walker. Proud mothers-in-law of Rafe and Brooke, both loved the excitement.

Francesca demanded to see the ring, appraised it with a shrewd eye, and in her exotically accented voice said to Eli, “Spectacular,
caro
. I never expected to see such a gesture from you. It must be love.”

Eli laughed softly. “The stones are beautiful, but nothing to compare with my wife.”

Francesca tapped him on the cheek and turned to accept a flute of champagne from Tom Chan.

Noah, the youngest Di Luca brother and blessed with the family’s good looks and charm, hugged Chloë hard, kissed the top of her head, and said, “I don’t know what you see in my oldest brother, but if you really want to tie yourself to that old man—well, welcome to the family.”

Tom Chan grinned broadly, poured champagne for everyone, and proclaimed himself the matchmaker who brought them together.