Revenge at Bella Terra (27 page)

“Have you?” It had happened before. Her mother always knew when something was up with Chloë.

“Is your book going well?” Lauren had that faintly anxious tone in her voice.

“Really well. Eli Di Luca took me around Bella Valley and shared the history with me, and I’ve been able to incorporate some of the ideas into the story.” The best part, Chloë thought, was seeing the resemblance between the photo of Massimo alive and the corpse in the water tower. They’d solved the dusty mystery of Massimo’s disappearance, and that thrilled her no end. Now if only they could trace his murderers . . .

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Mr. Di Luca?” Lauren asked carefully.

“A lot of time, yes. I like him, Mom. He’s a really interesting guy.” Chloë was wildly aware that she sounded like a used-car salesman closing a deal.

A slight hang of hesitation, then warm amusement. “So your father finally found a suitor who’s not a dud?”

“He’s different from the usual guys. He’s amazingly successful. He comes from money. His family is great, really supportive, and normal.”

Another pause. “Why are you selling him to me?” The amusement was gone.

Chloë took the plunge. “We got married four days ago.”

“What?” Chloë heard a thump as her mother’s chair hit the wall. Lauren was on her feet. “No!”

Chloë came to her feet, too. “We really did.”

“How? Why?”

Now came the tough part. “I fell in love.” Chloë waited, expecting her mother to point out her foolishness.

Instead Lauren said, “I’m going to
kill
your father.”

Reaching out to Bacchus, Chloë stroked the cool, heavy marble, trying to ground herself and calm her anxiety. “I already told you, Mom. Papa may have tried to convince Eli to court me, but Eli didn’t go for it. For the first two weeks, the only time I saw Eli he was a total jerk. Then he came over and we started talking, and one thing led to another, and now . . .”

“Bullshit!” Chloë could imagine Lauren pacing her small office at the university. “I recognize your father’s fine hand in this. He probably helped this Di Luca plot how to get under your skin.”

Chloë strove for patience. “Mom, don’t you think that’s a little paranoid?”

“Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after me. My God, Chloë, think!” Lauren shot words at Chloë. “First this Eli ignored you, disarmed you, told you that he didn’t need your father’s money. Then he showed you around and enticed you with mysteries and murders. He rescued you from something—from falling? From a fight? From some nonsense he’d set up? Then he gave you some sob story about his dark past.”

Chloë clutched Bacchus so tightly, his uplifted cup cut into her palm.

“I’m spot-on, aren’t I?” Her mother drove her point home. “He has a dark past, doesn’t he?”

“He had a rough childhood,” Chloë conceded.

“So he told you all about it. Then what? He seduced you?”

Chloë didn’t answer. Couldn’t. When her mother said it like that, it sounded so logical.

“Oh, Chloë,” her mother said in despair. “Haven’t I taught you better than this? Didn’t I teach you to always question it when these guys start telling you what you want to hear?”

“Yes, Mom, but the fact is, two people can have a lot in common without money changing hands.”

“Not when your father’s involved. Look around. Think with your
brain
. I’ll bet you’ll find out fast enough that this Di Luca fellow needed money for some reason or another.”

“He bought me a gorgeous ring.” Looking down at the sparkling pink diamond, Chloë smiled, her heart lifting.

“An expensive ring?”

“Very expensive.” She’d looked it up on the Tiffany Web site.
Very
expensive.

“Whose money did he use?”

Chloë lost her temper. “Mom, there’s no reasoning with you.”

“It was a guilt ring. Or a bribe.”

“When you’re over the shock, I’ll talk to you again.”

“I’m going to kill your father,” Lauren repeated.

“I love you, Mom. Talk to you soon.” Chloë hung up with a little more force than needed. Leaning her elbows on the desk, she glared at Bacchus.

Why did dealing with her mother always have to be so hard? Did she always have to rain on Chloë’s parade? Chloë hadn’t put these last few weeks together the way her mother had. Because it wasn’t true. Eli hadn’t collected money from her father from marrying her. The whole idea was absurd. He owned a winery. He was one of the most successful vintners in the world. He was part of a wealthy family . . . .

But a voice in her head taunted her.
You don’t know anything about his finances. You haven’t asked. He hasn’t volunteered.

He doesn’t know anything about mine, either.
Quite the reasonable response, she thought.

The voice was relentless.
You’ve got no responsibilities. If you fall on hard times, you’ve got only yourself to support. If he falls on hard times, he could lose everything. And you know the pride he feels for his wines.

Her gaze fell on the locked desk drawer.

She was a mystery writer. She’d done her research; she knew how to open a simple lock. With her nail file and her credit card, she went to work.

Chapter 38

E
li drove up to the house and got out of his truck with a grimace. He needed a shower.

He’d spent the morning in the cellar blending wines. He’d spent the afternoon in the fields with Royson surveying the developing grapes, kneeling in the dirt, arguing about the pruning, getting grubby.

He’d enjoyed every minute.

If all went well, if the rain and the sun cooperated, this looked like a good year for the crop.

No, it looked like a great year for the crop.

For the first time since he could remember, he looked to the future with something besides dread. With Chloë beside him, he could handle anything. With Chloë beside him, he was the luckiest guy in the world.

He pulled a book out from under the seat—her book,
Die Trying
, the mystery that had made her famous. He’d managed to hunt it down at the grocery store and slip through self-checkout and buy it without anyone in town noticing. He hadn’t read any of it yet—he really was too busy—but somehow owning a copy eased his guilt. And he would read it. He really would. Someday.

Running up the stairs to the main level of the house, he got out his key.

All he had to do was learn to live with this niggling fear that his grandmother and Noah were right, and that somehow, Chloë would discover the deal he’d made with her father.

She wouldn’t. How could she? He wasn’t going to tell her.

Conte sure as hell wasn’t going to spill the beans.

Nonna and Noah had picked at him until he coughed up the information, but no matter what they thought of him and his reprehensible behavior, they were his family. They would never betray him.

And he was doing everything right with Chloë, treating her with fastidious care, never making the mistake he’d made the first night: losing his temper, using her with an impetuous lack of control. Every moment of their lovemaking, he had been so careful with her body and her passions, learning where to touch, how to kiss.... She was so responsive, so beautiful . . . she made him yearn. She made him live....

He let himself into the house. Put the book down on the table beside the door. Made his plans. Shower, shave, dinner, and then . . .

Chloë stood in the kitchen, head down, staring at something on the counter. On the breakfast bar, her skull grinned at him, the small pink diamond they had found stuck jauntily between its teeth.

“How are you doing?” He smiled, happy to see her waiting for him. “Did you get a lot of writing done today?”

Several things happened at once.

She looked up, her eyes as flat and desolate as the Mojave Desert.

She held up her hand to stop him, and her rings were gone from her finger.

And he noticed the suitcase of death, packed and sitting by the door.

He halted in his tracks. “What happened? What’s wrong?” Stupidly, the truth never occurred to him. “Is your mother ill?”

“Not at all. I spoke with her today.” Bitterly, Chloë said, “She’s in prime form.”

He should have relaxed. At least she hadn’t talked to her father.

But something was
very
wrong. She looked casual in a white T-shirt and blue jeans, but her light khaki jacket looked like travel gear. “What did your mother say?”

“I told her we were married.” As Chloë spoke, her face never changed expression. The lovely, animated woman was still, stiff, and cold. “She said my father had set it up.”

“Yes, well . . . you knew he was matchmaking.” Eli was feeling his way through a minefield.

“But I didn’t know my exact value. Now I do. Four hundred and fifty million dollars.”

That was the exact amount Conte had given Eli as a bailout.

His heart stopped.
She knew.

“I’m impressed,” she said. “I never imagined I was worth so much.”

“Chloë . . .” He started toward her.

She lifted some papers off the counter and, as if to ward him off, she waved them at him. “Better not come too close. I snooped into your file. You know how angry that makes you.”

He recognized those pages. She’d found the bank transfer from Conte’s bank to his.

“I picked the lock on your desk.”

He should have moved the documents. What a fool he’d been—but it had never occurred to him that this author was handy enough to break into his desk.

She added reflectively, “Actually, after I saw the papers and realized what they meant, I slammed the drawer shut so hard it broke.... Sorry.”

She could not have sounded less sorry.

Right now, his violated privacy and his broken desk meant nothing. She’d gotten suspicious, she’d sought the truth, and she’d found it. Now he had no choice—he had to make her understand why he’d done what he’d done. “Chloë, let me explain.”

“Explain what? It’s easy enough.” Her voice rose. “You set me up every inch of the way.”

“I didn’t. I didn’t want to take your father’s money, but—”

“You had no choice. I know. Something to do with your beloved winery?” She smiled like a shark, with all her teeth.

“My accountant embezzled everything.” Lame. That sounded lame.

“I guessed right!” She threw back her head and laughed, a full-bodied, painful laugh. “So Di Luca Wines was in trouble, my father found you and made you a deal you couldn’t refuse, and you took it.”

“It wasn’t that easy.”

“Of course not. I’m sure you suffered every time you pulled me farther in. Looking back, I’m in awe of your strategy.” She took a step toward him. “Pretend to dislike me, offer me a mystery to solve complete with a body—did you know Massimo was there when you took me up to see the still?”

“No.”

She laughed again, quietly, chillingly. “I don’t even know why I’m asking. You’ve lied in every way possible. Why would you tell me the truth about this?”

“I’m not lying.”

“You introduced me to your grandmother and allowed her to charm me.” She swallowed. “Please tell me your grandmother isn’t in on this.”

“No! After we were married, she guessed.” And Nonna had been right. The whole debacle had hurt Chloë badly.
He
had hurt Chloë badly.

“She’s very perceptive.”

“She was angry.”

“I’ll bet she was.” Chloë took a breath and launched back into her tirade. “You used your connections with the police department to get more info about Massimo’s murder; you claimed someone broke into the cottage so that I had to live with you. . . . No one ever did break in, did they?”

“No.”

“And once I was here, you produced an absolutely
heartrending
version of your childhood.” Sarcasm etched every word with acid. “I must have had ‘sucker’ written across my forehead.”

She wasn’t being fair now, but he supposed he got what he deserved. “It wasn’t like that.”

“The sex was great, but then, boo-hoo, I had to marry you because seducing me hurt your already wounded soul and made you afraid you were like your mother’s relatives. We couldn’t have that, could we?” She closed her eyes. “And when we came back from Reno, you couldn’t sleep with me for fear you’d hurt me. . . .” She opened her eyes, and they were hot with rage. “No, wait. That was the cover story. You couldn’t sleep with me because you had a dowry to collect. Most men have sex on their wedding night. You were busy cashing a check.”

“It wasn’t like that,” he repeated.

She slapped her palm on the counter. “It was
exactly
like that. You had a party for us to announce our wedding—you wanted to make it hard for me to leave. You gave me these rings”—she picked them up, walked to him, put them in his hand, and curled his fingers around them—“bought with my father’s money.”

He caught her wrist and held her in place. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Hurt me? But that’s not what’s important here, is it? As long as
you’re
not hurt, everything’s okay.” She yanked at his grip, yanked so hard he was afraid she would bruise herself.

He let her go. “Give me a chance to prove myself to you. Chloë, please.”

“What’s the matter? Is the deal null and void if we’re not married a certain length of time?”

“The length of the marriage isn’t specified by the contract.”

She bit her lower lip hard enough to make it turn white. “A contract,” she whispered. “Of course. It was a business transaction. There had to be a contract.” Clearly she hadn’t expected that, and somehow, knowing that had made it worse for her.

“Please believe me,” he said. “It started out as a necessary evil and became so much more. I admire you so much. Stay with me.”