Revenge at Bella Terra (3 page)

Now Eli had a decision to make, and he had to make it . . . soon.

Chapter 2

N
oah finished spraying the chicken and opened the oven. He waved his hand inside. “Damn it! I forgot to turn it on.”

His brothers chortled.

“Like you guys could do any better.” Noah shut the oven and flipped the temp to four hundred.

“I turned
mine
on.” Rafe indicated Nonna’s much-loved second oven.

“If God had meant me to cook he wouldn’t have made me the manager of a resort with a five-star restaurant,” Noah snapped.

“That’s not helping you now.” Eli headed back down the hall to the front door, and as he passed the front room, the women were groaning—apparently a football player had bruised his tushie.

Kathy was offering to rub it for him.

He shook his head, walked out onto the wide, white-painted front porch, and stopped to take in the view.

Nonna’s house sat on the crest of a hillside, and dated from the late nineteenth century, when Ippolito Di Luca arrived in central California, bought land all around long, narrow Bella Valley, and planted his first acres with the grapes he had brought from the old country. Nonna said Ippolito, a legendary vintner, had nursed his cuttings through the sea voyage from Italy, and within ten years his winemaking talents allowed him to buy this piece of ground. Here he had built this stylish farmhouse with tall ceilings, narrow windows, and ornate trim. Here he had brought his bride. Here they had started the Di Luca dynasty.

Of course, she had brought land and vineyards as her dowry.

So really, this marriage of convenience Eli was contemplating was nothing new. It was practically a family tradition.

Except, of course, the first Di Luca bride knew all the facts. Stories about Allegra Di Luca said that she took pride in providing her share of the income, that she ran the home and the farm while Ippolito created his wines. Would Chloë Robinson be that kind of help to Eli?

Who the hell knew?

For the first time, Eli had felt sympathy for the poor kid. Her traditional Italian father was brokering a deal to marry her off. He didn’t get the joke when Eli asked about her teeth as if she were a horse he was considering for purchase. And Tamosso had investigated her love life.

Not really. What Eli wanted was to pick his own wife, make sure she was calm, quiet, attractive, desired the same things he did, was willing to support him in his endeavors. . . .

He’d said all that once to Nonna. She’d suggested he buy a yellow Lab.

Women. They stuck together.

But he wanted a helpmate; he sure as hell didn’t need a young prima donna with a career that took her into the limelight.

If only he were willing to ask his family for help.

But when he had taken control of Di Luca Wines, he had sworn he would create a place for himself in this world, in Bella Valley. He had vowed he would elevate the family fortunes—and to his great pride, he had been doing just that.

He had no modesty about his gift for creating wines that sang on the tongue. The gift was God-given, but he had gone to school, worked hard, learned how to cultivate his senses and when to trust his instincts. He was good at what he did. He won awards. His wines always rated at the top of the lists. He was everything Nonna (and Tamosso Conte) believed—one of the world’s finest vintners.

Until his accountant, his
friend
Owen Slovak, had fled to South America, leaving Eli to discover that the bank account was clean and the taxes were in arrears. If Eli didn’t lay hands on a small fortune soon, the IRS was going to foreclose on the winery.

What a fool he had been to trust anyone outside of his family. To trust anyone at all . . .

So why not ask his family for help? They would give it willingly and without mockery.

But he couldn’t stand to look in their faces and know he had failed them.

He could not bear to know he had broken his own vow.

Eli gazed at the silver ribbon of the Bella River that wound through the verdant bottomlands, at the plum orchards where falling blossoms swirled like pink snow on the wind, at the grapevines that dug their roots into the tough, shallow soil that rimmed the basin.

From here, he could make out the resort that had carried the family through Prohibition and the Depression and lifted them on a tidal wave of prosperity from the twentieth century and into the twenty-first. The main building was nestled among luxuriant landscaping and the vineyards that he tended so carefully. The town surrounded it, taking sustenance from the tourists and their dollars. North and south, east and west, the long valley was embraced by richly wooded mountains.

His brothers thought Eli loved nothing and no one, but that wasn’t true. Here was the place his heart called home.

He descended the steep steps to the drive and to his truck, a powerful extended-cab F-250 with a Power Stroke diesel engine, a six-speed manual transmission, and massive tires with tread that chewed up the ground.

He drove it, so Noah said, like an old lady.

Nonna objected, saying she was an old lady and she drove her ’67 Mustang convertible faster than Eli drove his F-250.

Eli didn’t care what they said. He knew what he had under the hood, and he knew he could go anywhere in his truck. If he had to, he could climb a sequoia.

As he pulled the case of champagne out of the backseat, he saw Bao watching him from the window, saw Nonna and Brooke join her and wave enthusiastically. He showed them a bottle and smiled when they stood at attention.

Yes, everyone was ready to celebrate.

This would be a great day . . . if only he weren’t keeping things from his family. If he knew which move to make.

The phone rang in his pocket.

He put the case back in the truck, checked the phone number, and winced.

It was Conte.

Eli’s moment of decision had arrived.

Chapter 3

“
I
want an answer.” Conte’s Italian accent sounded heavier, more
G
odfather
-esque, on the phone.

The answer was yes, of course. Yes. Eli agreed to Conte’s deal. He had only to say it. Say it!

But Conte had lost his patience. “I had not thought you would be so obstinate about what is really a simple plan. Perhaps I have picked the wrong man. I have an alternative choice, of course. I’ll make him an offer.”

“Wait! No, I . . . want to be sure of the terms.” Eli drew a breath. “You said we would sign a contract and the terms would be clear. I’m to court your daughter, marry her, and you will pay my debt.”

“That’s right.”

“All of my debt.”

“The tax bills the accountant did not pay, the penalties, and the interest, and the United States government will no longer be threatening to foreclose on your winery. Plus I’ll pay whatever bills your accountant left unpaid when he fled to South America. I’ll put you back on your feet, Eli Di Luca, although I will ask that you not trust anyone so blindly ever again. Not even for my grandchildren would I bail you out again.”

“I can promise I’ll never put that much trust in anyone ever again. Despite evidence to the contrary, I’m not the trusting sort.” Eli remembered the photo of Chloë, then recalled Conte’s heavy features. She was an author, ambitious, flighty, probably nuts. She’d have a muse . . . hopefully the muse didn’t want to sleep in the bed between them.

He smiled acidly at his own joke.

Yes, he was receiving the money, but he was binding himself to a woman of unknown character. He was shelling out, too. “When the debt is paid, I’ll once more be in complete control of Di Luca Wines.”

“I don’t want your winery.” Conte seemed to mean it.

Nevertheless, Eli would examine every word of the contract. “How do I convince your daughter that she loves me?”

“I don’t care. You’re a handsome young man. I suggest you feign love for her.”

“You don’t care if I actually love her?” Not that he would, but Conte seemed to dote on her.

“A man who loves a woman is weak.” Conte’s voice was sharply bitter. “Besides, do
you
want to love? I would have thought not—after all, your parents were grand lovers, and look what happened when your mother discovered your father was having an affair.”

The guy was ice-cold in his analysis of Eli’s past, Eli’s family, Eli’s prospects.

And he was right. Eli might as well marry this Chloë Robinson. With his parents as an example, he knew he had as good a chance for happiness here as anyone who wed. “No. I don’t want to love. But I don’t intend to have a broken marriage, either.”

“Then make sure she has no reason to stray. She’s only a woman, Eli Di Luca, and you’re a smart man. Treat her like one of your wines, and your marriage will be solid.”

Good advice from a man who had been married so many times.

“All right. It’s a deal. Have your lawyer contact my lawyer. I assume you know who that is?” Since he knew everything else, Eli meant.

“The contracts are already in his office.”

“You bastard.” Conte had never had any doubt he would accept.

“He’ll look them over today. You can sign them tomorrow.” Conte’s businesslike tone changed. “Enjoy your family celebration. They are one of the reasons you won the chance to marry my daughter, Eli Di Luca. Your family . . . they are good people.”

“Yes.” Eli glanced up at the window again.

Nonna stood watching him, wearing a worried expression.

He pantomimed exasperation and sent her a reassuring smile. “My family and I will do everything to make your daughter one of us.”

“Chloë,” Conte said. “Her name is Chloë.”

“I know.”

“Say it.”

Conte was right. This resistance to using her name, as if that would make her real . . . it was stupid. “Chloë. We’ll make Chloë part of our family.”

“Thank you, Eli Di Luca. You’re a man of honor, and I am glad to give my daughter into your keeping.”

Eli shut his phone and stood for a moment breathing. Just breathing.

Good. That was done. Now all he had to do was court the girl.

Not a problem. He knew how to make a woman happy, and this woman was young, easily dazzled, without subtlety. He would turn her head with his attentions.

How very simple this courtship would be.

Picking up the case of champagne, he went around the house again and in the back door. He was pretty proud of how natural he looked and sounded as he stacked the champagne in the refrigerator and said, “Our Italian ancestors—the male ones, anyway—would be horrified at how pussy-whipped we are.”

Noah slid the chicken breasts into the now-hot oven. Turning back to face the kitchen, he said, “Pussy-whipped? You want to talk pussy-whipped? Rafe’s trying to convince Brooke they shouldn’t drive
back
to Reno and get a divorce.”

“That’s truer than you know.” Clearly Rafe was torn between amusement and terror. “Every once in a while I look at her and she has that I’m-bolting-now expression. Scares me to death.”

“I always thought if you two got together, it would be because
she
hog-tied
you
.” Eli could hardly contain his amusement.

“No such luck. She doesn’t trust me yet. There’s too much water under the bridge or over the dam or wherever the hell the water goes.” Stepping back from the casserole, Rafe examined it. “Does that look right to you?”

“It’ll be great,” Noah said.

Rafe opened the second oven and thrust the pan inside, then turned back to his brothers. “Listen—you guys are no spring chickens. You need to get married before you’re too old to get it up.”

Noah laughed.

Eli did not.

Both brothers looked at him in concern.

“I was kidding,” Rafe said, “but if you’re really having trouble getting it up, there are pills that help. Not that I would personally know . . .”

“Eli
is
the oldest,” Noah said. “Once a guy passes thirty, they say the angle of the dangle points toward the toes. Not that I would personally know . . .”