Revenge at Bella Terra (37 page)

Lauren took the bouquet of calla lilies from Francesca into the bathroom.

“Tell Finnegan”—Chloë spoke quietly—“that I’ll recommend my agent read his manuscript. After that, he’s on his own.”

“I’ll tell him. That’ll make him feel better.” DuPey nodded. “Thank you.”

Lauren came back with the vase full of freshwater and a forbidding expression on her face. She cleared her throat. “If you don’t mind, Police Chief DuPey?”

With a dip of the head, DuPey left them.

When Eli heard the front door close behind him, he said to Lauren, “Thank you.”

“Of course. Anything for the newlyweds. Can I get you something?” Lauren hurried to Chloë’s side. “Sweetheart, do you need help going to the lavatory?”

“I wish I could say no.” Chloë tried to lift herself off the bed.

Eli slid his good hand behind her back.

Together Lauren and Eli helped Chloë sit up, and Lauren walked with her to the bathroom.

The broken breastbone had had to be stapled. Pain limited Chloë’s movements and made every breath laborious, and when Eli saw that, he wanted to throw Wyatt off the balcony all over again.

A few minutes later she was back in bed, her grumpy face slightly damp. “I’d kill for a shower.” Her voice was still scratchy, but not nearly as bad as they’d pretended to DuPey.

“You can have a shower when they let you out of all these bandages.” Lauren fussed with the covers and worriedly gazed at her daughter.

“She does look like an extra on the set of
The
Mummy,” Eli said.

Chloë laughed, then held her chest. “Don’t. It hurts.”

Would she ever laugh as freely again? Would the memory of her pain and fear ever completely leave her? Would the recollection of Wyatt kicking her, choking her, always drift through her nightmares?

Eli stroked his fingers along her jaw. He couldn’t stop touching her. Somehow he would bring the sunshine back into her face. When he thought how close he’d come to losing her . . .

Tamosso appeared in the doorway. “Eli! I wanted to talk to you.” He waved an expressive hand toward the bed. “I give my darling child into your care, and look what happens.”

Chloë groaned. “Papa . . .”

“I intend to do better in the future,” Eli promised.

“Good, because Lauren and I will have to leave you soon to go on our honeymoon.” Tamosso boomed his news, and beamed.

Eli almost choked in surprise.

“Good thing,” Chloë muttered.

Lauren’s eyes narrowed on Tamosso. “I was going to present the news more tactfully than that.”

“What? Tactful? Our marriage is not a thing to be tactful of!” Tamosso flung out his arms. “It’s a joyous occasion.”

“Perhaps we should ask Chloë what she thinks,” Lauren said primly.

“How many parents ask their daughter what she thinks before they get married for the first time?” Tamosso’s eyes twinkled, and he looked like a mad child born of a mischievous elf and the Godfather.

“I think it’s about time you did get married,” Chloë said, her voice almost normal.

“See?” Tamosso bustled to her side, kissed both her cheeks, and smiled. “She approves.”

“Do you really, darling?” Lauren pushed him aside and leaned over the bed. “Once we got together here, we worked out some of our issues—”

“I know, Mom. Really.” Chloë held up her hand to stop Lauren from talking. “Go get married before I have a little sister on the way.”

Eli kept a straight face.

Lauren’s eyes went wide with horror.

“That would be nice, eh?” Tamosso put his arm around Lauren. “We should at least try. We don’t want Chloë to be an only child. Only children are so lonely.”

Lauren transferred her horror to him. “Are you
kidding
?”

“No.” He led her from the room. “I like children. We should have more before we’re too old.”

Eli burst into laughter.

Chloë stared at him forbiddingly, then smiled, and finally chuckled. “Honestly. It’s not funny. You wouldn’t believe what I saw them doing.”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

“I’m scarred for life.”

Eli cackled. “Why do you think they were always shouting at each other? They were fighting the attraction.”

“I thought they hated each other.” Chloë stroked the fingers that stuck out from his cast. “I guess they hate each other like I hate you.”

He turned on his side and smiled at her. “Do you hate me?”

She sighed. “I couldn’t even hate you when I found out Papa had had to bribe you to marry me.”

He dragged his broken foot a little closer to her, got up on one elbow and leaned on his cast, and tried to mend the difficulties between them. All he had were words, and the truth, and so much love he only hoped that somehow she’d hear it in his voice. “I did court you with the cold intention of marrying you for the money. I promised myself I’d be a good husband. And once I got to know you a little, I realized that wouldn’t be too hard.”

“There’s a compliment to treasure.” Chloë sounded sarcastic. She looked amused.

“But I swear to you, that night—”

“That night?” she mocked.

“The night when you found Abuela’s letter.
That
night.”

She nodded. “I remember some things about that night.”

“That night, I wasn’t thinking of your father’s money. I wasn’t thinking at all. You’d dug around inside me and turned me inside out. You brought all the ugliness to the surface, and once it was out, I didn’t know what to do. I was so frantic . . . and then there you were, so fresh, so beautiful”—he stroked her cheek—“a living, breathing miracle. So I grabbed you and took you. I was like a stupid, clumsy adolescent.”

A wicked smile curved one side of her mouth. “It’s one of my favorite memories.”

“I don’t know why.” When he remembered that impetuous outburst of lust and emotion, he was still embarrassed. And humiliated. And horny.

“Are you kidding? I liked you before, but you had such a stick up your rear. I figured you ate sawdust and drank control-ade. But that night.” She took a long, worshipful breath; her eyes glowed like stars, and color rose in her cheeks. “You were passionate. You were real. No man has ever shared himself like that. No man has ever wanted me like that. I remember every minute. I always will.” She put her hand to her chest as if to contain her delight. “After that night, I knew you, Eli Di Luca. Why else do you think I agreed to marry you?”

“Because you love me.”

“I do. I know you, and I like what I know.” She smirked. “Even better, I know you love me.”

He scooted a little closer. His heart beat a little faster. “Do you believe that?”

“If you like, you can take the time to convince me yourself, but actually . . .” She drew out the suspense. “Wyatt told me.”

“Wyatt?” Eli drew back in surprise.

“That monster was good for one thing.” She watched him as if weighing his reaction. “He told me you drove through the vineyard to rescue me.”

“Oh. That.” Eli shrugged and dismissed it. “The emergency vehicles had me blocked in. I had no choice.”

“You’re taking it well.” A smile played around her mouth. “How many rows did you take out?”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty rows exactly.” The smile took a firmer hold. “The trellises are connected, so you didn’t merely destroy the part you drove over. You pulled other vines and wires and stakes out of the ground all the way down the rows. How many feet went down?”

“Thirty feet per row, more or less.”

“How many vines gone?”

“One hundred and twenty.”

“A hundred and twenty grapevines planted in . . . what year?”

“Nineteen seventy-four.”

“So a hundred and twenty vines planted in 1974, years of grape maturity you can never get back, and you drove over them with your big tires”—she wiggled her fingers as she described the scene—“crunching them, uprooting them, obliterating them—”

“All right. All right.” He put his hand on his chest. “Stop!” She was killing him.

She settled back with a silent laugh. “Don’t tell me it didn’t mean anything. That’s not a stick you’ve got up your rear; that’s a grapevine.”

“You think you’re so funny. I ought to teach you a lesson.” He leaned down to her, his lips hovering over hers, her breath on his mouth . . . and someone tapped on the door.

Chapter 51

C
hloë saw a ferocious impatience settle over Eli.

“Who is it?” he snapped.

“It’s Nonna!” Sarah chirped.

“How can you be annoyed with Nonna?” Chloë whispered.

“I’m not annoyed with Nonna,” he said between his teeth. “I’m annoyed at the interruption.”

Chloë shared his exasperation, but she flattered herself she was a little more practical. She touched the cut under his chin, and his black eye, and said, “I’m only available for a kiss, anyway. You have to keep your foot elevated. I can’t move without hurting my chest or my shoulder. And we’re both still on pain medication.”

“I know. I know. But . . .” He writhed with frustration as he flung himself back on his pillows and called out, “Come in, Nonna.”

Nonna walked in carrying a vase of daffodils and tulips. “The girls got these out of my yard. I thought they would cheer you.” Her gaze swept the arrangements that decorated the room. “Although, Eli, it seems someone else thought your austere bedroom needed some brightening.”

“I have everything I need to brighten my bedroom right here in bed with me.” He smiled hopefully at Chloë.

Chloë patted his arm and pretended to sympathize with his dilemma, but the poor guy was fighting a losing battle. Somehow Nonna’s lace shawl and Chloë’s collection of glass perfume bottles had already found their way onto the chest of drawers. His stark masculine bedroom was a thing of the past.

Maybe if she got a new skull for the end table, the place would feel cozier. . . .

“Thank you, Nonna.” Chloë indicated the bathroom. “Those flowers will look glorious on the counter.”

“They will, won’t they? With all the browns and golds in there, they’ll be just right.” She took them in and returned, and seated herself in the chair DuPey had vacated, the one beside the bed. “How are you two doing?”

“We’re better,” Eli said.

“Of course you are, dear, or I wouldn’t be interrupting your kissing. I always seem to be doing that.” Nonna was ostensibly talking to them both, but she was scrutinizing Eli. “Dear boy, you look so different, so . . .”

“Bruised?” he suggested.

“Happy. Ever since you returned from Chile, I have been so afraid I would never meet that strong, loving little man you had been when you were eight. I feared I would never see the day when I could look into your face and view real emotions. And now . . . here you are, in love with Chloë and willing to show the world. I called you out for marrying her for such a wicked reason as money.” Nonna turned to Chloë. “I truly did, dear. I was angry with him. I don’t want you to think otherwise.”

“I know, Nonna,” Chloë said soothingly. “And I appreciate that.”

Nonna turned back to Eli. “You’re a whole person now, Eli. I am so proud of you for facing your pain, taking the chance, and becoming the man I always knew you could be.”

He held out his good arm to her.

She leaned in and hugged him.

Tears prickled at Chloë’s eyes. She loved Nonna. And she loved Eli. And she’d never imagined a day when the two of them could get closer and be more devoted—and yet, here they were.

She had a hand in that. She was proud of them all.

Nonna straightened. “While you were in the hospital, Eli, I found out just how far you’d come on your return to the human race. I got a phone call and . . . well. I brought you a little surprise.” She walked over to the door and stood beside it.

An elderly woman stepped into the room.

“Here we are,” Nonna said. “Your surprise visitor. She was such a pleasure for me to meet. I hope you’re glad to see her, too.”

Eli sat straight up, his spine vertical, his shoulders rigid, and the expression on his face . . .

Chloë worked herself into a sitting position and examined their caller.

The woman was small, barely five feet, and old, with a brown face wrinkled by the sun. Her long, dark, gray-streaked hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and she wore black from head to toe: black skirt, black shirt, black stockings, black shoes. She carried a large black purse, and if Chloë had seen her on the street, she would have thought she was a nun. Except there was a look about her, one that reminded Chloë of Eli. Oh, my God. It was . . .

“Abuela,” he said.

“Eli,” the old woman replied.

The brief conversation came to a halt as they examined each other.

He inclined his head. “Welcome to my home.
Mi casa es tu
casa.”

At his words of hospitality, Chloë let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

Nonna met her eyes and nodded, and tiptoed out of the room.

“Thank you.” Abuela’s voice was heavy with a Spanish accent and rough with years of smoking. “Your home is beautiful.”

“Thank you. Please sit down.” He indicated the chair that had seen so many visitors this morning.

She came to the bed, smelling of cigars, and sat stiffly, with an unbending spine that never touched the back of the chair.

Chloë helped Eli pull his pillows into an upright position.

Another pause.

“You tried to call me,” Abuela said.

Chloë jerked her head around so hard to look at Eli that she hurt her shoulder.

“I did,” he admitted.

“The connection must have been bad. We weren’t able to speak.”

Chloë interpreted Abuela’s words; Eli had made the attempt to call and changed his mind.

“So I traveled here,” Abuela said, “many thousands of miles, leaving my country for the first time in my long life, to speak with my most beloved grandson.”