Revenge at Bella Terra (6 page)

Juvenile. So juvenile. Surely this wasn’t Chloë.

But the face was right: cheeks sweetly rounded, big brown eyes, and a warm smile. Her picture hadn’t lied. She was very attractive.

She was two weeks late with no explanation, her father was bribing him to marry her, and she looked younger than he’d expected, which made Eli feel like an even worse cad and bigger lecher.

And she was smiling
?
She had
guts.

He stopped six feet away. Planted his feet. And demanded, “What happened to your hair?”

The smile disappeared. Temper flared in her eyes. “What happened to your
face
?”

She had the slightest traces of a slow Southern accent. She looked like the fragile type of woman who dissolved at a single cross word.

Apparently he’d read her wrong.

He rubbed his cheek. “My face? What’s wrong with it?”

Taking his arm, she pushed him over to her car and pointed at his reflection in the side-view mirror.

Okay. She had a point. He wore jeans and rubber boots caked with dirt; a denim shirt soaked in sweat, sunscreen, and grease; and his oldest hat. He had grease smeared up one side of his nose and over his forehead; the hair that had escaped from under his hat had been styled with thick, rich, black mud.

This was not the way he’d planned their meeting. He’d planned to dress nicely, comb his hair, and, most of all, bathe.

Damn the woman. They weren’t even married and already she was making him worry about the way he looked.

He turned to see her carrying two of her bags up onto the small stoop of the cottage. She inserted a key into the lock—he’d sent the key to her, along with a stern admonition that it was for the cottage door only and not to try the house—and opened the door. At her first glimpse inside, she gave an exclamation of surprise and pleasure . . . and he almost smiled.

He’d spared no expense in the cottage, using a studio floor plan from the Bella Terra resort. Because he wanted to live alone, but he wanted his guests to be comfortable. Not that he ever invited any guests, but he knew someday he would be called on to house the overflow from a family event . . . like his marriage to Chloë.

She disappeared inside.

He picked up her big suitcase.

He gasped.

The son of a bitch was heavy. Very heavy. The airlines would charge extra for this one. Good thing she drove. He lugged it up the steps onto the porch. He toed off his boots, then walked through the door and found Chloë looking around the generous, lush living space with a sitting area, a fireplace, and a queen-size bed.

He had had a desk brought in, French provincial in a high-gloss black finish with hand-painted gold accents on the edges of its top, apron, and drawers and down the gracefully curved legs. He’d draped one of Nonna’s antique lace shawls over the top and, in anticipation of Chloë’s arrival, he’d sprinkled the surface with fresh rose petals
every damned day.
Now he was glad, because with the antique mother-of-pearl lamp and the bouquet of pink roses in the Tiffany crystal vase, her work area looked romantic and writerly.

With awesome patience, he put the suitcase against the wall. “What’s in there?”

“Research books.” She examined the tiny kitchen, opened the fully stocked utility drawers, checked out the microwave, the oven, the refrigerator, the sink. “My mom and I call that the suitcase of death.”

“I survived.”

“You do look healthy enough.”

It didn’t sound like a compliment.

She headed into the warmly decorated bathroom complete with a shower, soaking tub, and heated towel bar, and came out nodding enthusiastically. “This is fabulous. It’s comfortable. It’s roomy. My God. This is better than I could have ever imagined. Thank you for allowing me to stay here. Thank you!” Walking to the French doors, she flung them open and stepped onto the deck.

He followed, wanting to see her see the view.

She paced toward the railing, grasped it with both hands, and leaned forward, sunshine on her face, lips softly open, eyes wide.

On this side of the cottage, the ground dropped away, lending the illusion that the deck hovered in midair. The panorama cut across Bella Valley rather than down its length, over the lazy loops of river that wound through orchards and vineyards. Here and there, a farmhouse dotted the landscape, but from this deck’s view, the town might not have existed. On the other side of the valley, the hills rose, terraced with vines, and behind them the mountains stood densely wooded, cool and shadowy.

“Amazing,” she whispered. She sniffed the air, turned to him, and grinned. “It’s so perfect it looks like a cheap painting. How you must love living up here!”

“I do.” And he liked that she appreciated what he had and was vocal about telling him.

She turned back to the vista. “How much of it is yours?”

“The view is all mine.”

She chuckled softly.

He might as well tell her. As a Di Luca bride, she had the right to know. “What with marriages and mergers, the Di Lucas own their share of the valley. Bella Terra resort is ours and sits on the street downtown, with seventy acres of grapes stretching behind it into the hills. The rest of the winery land is in parcels here and there, scattered across the landscape and up into the hills. Altogether I manage about four hundred twenty acres.”

She whistled softly. “Those
are
valuable holdings.” A lot of women had thought so. A lot of women had tried to convince him that marriage without a prenup would prove his love. A lot of women had miscalculated . . . for he hadn’t loved any of them.

Now Chloë’s voice changed, became speculative. “I’ll bet your ancestors did anything necessary to get this land and hold it.”

Startled at the direction of her thinking, he asked, “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m a writer. I like to know what people do, and why.”

He thought of all the years and all the threats to the Di Luca dominion, and thought, too, how close he teetered to losing everything his family had fought to possess. “You’re right. My ancestors did whatever it took to keep their land.”

“How about you? What would
you
do to keep your land?”

He stared at her profile. The breeze ruffled her sheared head and carried a hint of spicy, feminine scent to his nose. The sun kissed her pale complexion and made the rusty freckles that decorated her nose and cheeks glow. Her gaze was steady, her lips faintly smiling.

Did she know about the trouble he was in? The contract he’d signed? Was she acting on a suspicion, or was she clueless?

Regardless of what she knew or suspected, he saw no point in lying. Any one of his acquaintances would bust that story wide-open. “If there was a threat, I’d protect my family first, then my land, because . . . what’s mine is mine.”

“So it’s not about the money?”

“I don’t value the money for money’s sake, but for what it gives me.”

“What’s that?”

“Security.”

She waited as if expecting him to say more. She looked at him, saw he was through speaking, laughed, and nodded. “I’ve always thought that people who say money doesn’t buy happiness have never been without.”

He had, he thought, passed some kind of test.

She pushed the conversation back on track. “Is all your acreage planted in grapes?”

“We’ve got a few old orchards around Nonna’s house, but yes, four hundred and ten acres are vineyards, mostly red, mostly zinfandel and Sangiovese, with some other varieties mixed in. We even grow a few whites.” He knew pride rang in his voice.

“Are whites more difficult than reds?”

“I create unique wines. Whites are more difficult to make worthy of note.”

“I understand. But I like cabernet,” she said mildly.

“I do, too, but they grow better in the next valley over, so when I make cab, I buy those grapes.” She wasn’t looking at the view now; she was looking at him, eyes sharply attentive, and he realized he’d started telling her about his family, his lands, his expertise, trying to get her attention, strutting like a peacock.

It was all very well for him to tell himself he wasn’t interested in anything but her dowry.

Apparently his biological directive said otherwise. Perhaps Conte had seen something in him Eli had not recognized. Maybe like a grape Eli had reached the peak of maturity, and it was time for him to marry and reproduce.

What a mental image.

But whatever magic made him want to follow her around seeking the source of that warm, female scent . . . it seemed to have no effect on her. She wasn’t staring up at him adoringly. She had returned her gaze to the vista, her eyes narrowed on the horizon as if she were deep in thought.

Then, turning on her heel, she walked inside. “Thank you for allowing me to use your cottage. I’m sure I can finish my book here.” She laughed over her shoulder. “Or not. You should worry that I won’t finish so I can stay right here!”

She looked so pleased, so enthused, so pretty . . . and so oblivious about the ignominious contract that had led her here that Eli grunted in ill-tempered dismay. He followed her in, veered away, and headed toward the front door.

“Wait!” She ran after him, grabbed his arm, and yanked him to a halt.

He glared down at her.

She stared up at him. “Look. You don’t have to be so pissy.”

“Pissy?”
Pissy?
He was not pissy.

“It’s okay.” She patted his arm comfortingly. “I know what my father’s up to.”

Chapter 7

E
li considered Chloë. Considered what to say. His first thought—
You know I’ve committed to a marriage of convenience with you?
—was promptly rejected.

“You know what your father’s up to?” he repeated warily.

“You don’t have to feel self-conscious. Papa wants me to get married. He makes no bones about it. So he parades young men in front of me like it was breeding day for his prize mare.” She grinned, but painfully, as if someone had given her a wedgie and she was trying to be a good sport about it.

She didn’t know about the contract. Eli relaxed.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’m not interested in you.”

He tensed.
That
was blunt. And surprisingly exasperating.

Chloë stood with her feet planted firmly on the hardwood floor, crossed her arms, and looked him right in the eyes. “I’ve got a job. I’ve got ambitions. I’ve got a deadline. I’ve got a mother who warned me about my father and his schemes before I even met him, and she’s been right about everything except . . . well, he’s cooler than she led me to believe.”

Apparently when Conte talked to Eli, he had left out a few pertinent details about his relationship with Chloë. “When did you meet your father?” Eli asked.

“Last year. No, the year before. My parents never married.”

Eli hadn’t thought to ask Conte why his daughter was an American. Now he discovered he was sharply curious. “Your father abandoned your mother?” Conte didn’t seem the type to dump his daughter, no matter what he thought of the mother.

“No! Not at all. My mother worked for my father. They had an affair. . . . Well, you’ve met him, right?”

“Yes, I’ve met him.” On one of the darkest days of his life.

“So you know he’s overbearing and pushy and an Italian mogul down to his bones. He believes he should always get his way, and my mother knew that was no way to raise a child. So when she discovered she was pregnant, she left without telling him.”

“Pardon me, but that seems . . .” He hesitated. Chloë seemed fond of her mother—and that woman was going to be his mother-in-law.

“Like a shabby way for her to treat him.” Chloë nodded. “Yes, she and I have had words about that.”

“She supported you well?”

“Very well. My mom is from Boston. Both her parents are alive. She had a degree when she worked for my father, returned to the States, got a position in the Italian department at the University of Texas in Austin, became a tenured professor. I was never without.”

“Except you didn’t have a father.”

“I didn’t feel the lack. Not at the time. But the things Papa said when he found out about me . . . He was so mad. And hurt, I think. But my mother still thinks she made the right decision, and knowing him as I now do, I have to at least partly agree.” The desk caught her eye. She wandered close and with one finger gently touched one of the rose petals scattered over the lace. “You know he’s got money?”

“I figured.” An understatement.

“Lots of money. He’s always at work, he’s got guards all over his estate, and if anyone knew I was his daughter, I’d be kidnapped and worse. But he’s been married so many times and had so many hugely public affairs, everyone assumed I was his girlfriend. We let them. It was easier. Safer.” As Eli eyed her, she said, “It’s not like I resemble him.”

“True.” Eli didn’t have a lot of good opinions about parents; his own had been such shits. But he knew most people had reasons, good ones, to love their parents, and he still really didn’t understand Chloë’s situation. “After all those years of silence, why did your mother suddenly tell you about your father?”

“I asked her.”

“Why didn’t you ask sooner? I mean, didn’t you have curiosity before you were—”

“Twenty-one. I did ask, but she always acted like”—Chloë thrust her hand through her hair, then looked at her palm as if the length surprised her—“like talking about him pained her. The first few times, I didn’t insist. Finally I did. I think she loved him, but didn’t trust him. That’s got to suck.”

“Yes.” He remembered his mother and the pain that had driven her from one despair to another.

Then he remembered what he intended for Chloë: a loveless marriage with no chance of reprieve.

But she
would
trust him, and
never
know he felt nothing for her. That was best for them both.