Revenge at Bella Terra (16 page)

“Foolproof,” Eli said. “Except when it wasn’t.”

“Somebody somewhere figured out he was the diamond thief. Somebody caught him and tortured him to death trying to find out where he’d hidden the gems.” The cellar grew suddenly colder. “But he didn’t confess.”

Without pause, Eli followed her logic. “Because if he had confessed, there would have been a wave of crime as the men who wanted those diamonds acquired every bottle of Massimo’s wine by whatever means necessary.”

“Massimo was your grandmother’s Robin Hood to the very end—and Joseph Bianchin is a troll.” Chloë had never even met the man and she hated his guts.

“The question is—why now? Why after all these years is Joseph Bianchin after that bottle of wine?” Eli met her eyes across the width of the cellar. “Because he’s an old man and this is his last chance?”

“Or because he figured out there were diamonds in the bottle?” The cellar air was cool in her lungs, and she felt so alive she was almost sparkling.

“We know he collects Massimo’s wines and has for years.”

“So
he’s
the one with more money than sense,” she said.

Eli half smiled, and nodded. “Yes, he’s the one. As I said, he’s old. He’s eighty-one. He’s had some health problems. So let’s assume when he gets a bottle, he drinks it.”

“In one bottle, he found a stash of diamonds. Not the big diamond. But diamonds of enough value to pique his interest.” Eli and Chloë knocked ideas back and forth like tennis balls, and with such a grim subject, she hated to say she was having fun . . . but she was.

“More important—they were pink diamonds, and those are rare enough to give him the lead he needs,” Eli added.

“Sure. If I can do the research and find out about the Beating Heart, so could he—and he did. Once he figured out the way Massimo worked and what was probably in Massimo’s last bottle of wine—the bottle of wine Massimo gave to the Di Lucas as a baby gift—Bianchin wanted it.” She waved her arms in emphasis. “He’ll stop at nothing to get it!” She felt like Sherlock Holmes. Or maybe Watson, since she really couldn’t imagine Eli playing the supporting role.

“I think we’ve got it.” He sounded quietly appreciative, and looked at her as if he thought she were a miracle.

The only other person who had ever looked at her that way was her father. To him, as his only child, she was.

Down here in the cellar, when she was alone with Eli, the atmosphere swirled with currents of mystery and desire, and she didn’t know whether to fling herself at him or run away.

She settled for a joke. “Have I got chocolate-chip cookie crumbs on my face?”

He smiled, slow and warm, catching her gaze with his . . . and she couldn’t look away. “You look beautiful, and I was thinking . . . having my own private mystery writer to figure out all the angles is an immense amount of help.”

“Not if I can’t help you find the bottle of wine.” But his compliment pleased her a little too much.

He paced toward her. “I thought when you came to Bella Terra you’d be a moody, spoiled princess whose muse needed her own room.”

Chloë laughed nervously and backed toward the stairs. “No. No muse. The bitch never sticks around when I need her.”

“Instead you’re strong and smart.” He stalked after her. “You smell like ripe berries and warm spice.”

She laughed again, all too aware that they were alone, her halter dress was short, and his brown eyes flattered and desired. “Isn’t that the way you describe wine?”

“Yes, and I want to drink you in. Chloë . . .”

“You guys!” Olivia called down the stairs. “Nonna wants to see you before you leave.”

The mood broke.

For one moment, Chloë saw naked frustration on his face.

He looked down, took a breath, looked up. “All right, we’ll be right up!” he called. In a voice both calm and reasonable, he said, “It’s probably for the best. It was getting a little heated in here.”

“We can’t have that. Bad for the wine.” Bad for her, too, to get so involved with a man she barely knew, a man who made her back away from that danger he projected.

But she was still bitterly disappointed to leave that heated moment.

She started up the stairs.

The trouble was . . . she’d begun to be more interested in the enigmatic Eli Di Luca than in the baffling bottle of wine.

Behind that calm facade, what secrets did he hide?

Chapter 20

E
li watched Chloë climb the cellar stairs ahead of him.

He liked this sundress. It bared her back and arms, displaying long, sleek muscles and a lithe, catlike movement that made him want to pet her. Her legs were good, too, really good, and in that skirt and from this angle, he could see a lot of them.

He really, really did like this sundress.

He probably should feel ashamed of himself for leering at an unsuspecting woman. In normal circumstances, he was sure he would.

But these were not normal circumstances. He was going to marry Chloë.

Besides, she wasn’t what he expected. When Conte had proposed the deal, Eli had thought he’d be stuck with a girl without personality or wisdom, someone whose primary ambition in life was to perch on the back of a Jaguar convertible while Eli drove her through the center of town during the annual Wine Crush Parade.

Instead, she drove a blue Ford Focus.

’Nuff said.

Olivia waited for them in the kitchen. “She insisted on staying awake to say good-bye.”

“We’ll get in and get out, I promise. Thanks, Olivia!” Chloë flashed a happy smile and hurried down the hall.

Okay.
There was that, too.

Chloë adored his grandmother.

With every new moment, Chloë created layers of interest in him. First she was fascinated by his tales of early Bella Valley. It was as if she felt his passion for this place. Then she mourned over Massimo as if he were a relative, and thirsted to avenge his death. Then she showed the complexity of her mind as she puzzled through the mystery of why Massimo was murdered.

Tamosso Conte was right: His daughter was smart. And while Eli knew a lot of guys didn’t admire a woman with brains, Eli had lived with and admired his grandmother—and she was the smartest woman he knew.

“Children, come in.” Nonna waved them into her bedroom.

Chloë rushed to the bedside.

He followed.

Nonna was propped up on her pillows, and Chloë leaned in to hug her. “Thank you for sharing so much of your family’s history with me. I’ve enjoyed every minute of today.”

“You will come back to visit?” Nonna put her hands on Chloë’s cheeks and smiled into her face.

“I would love to, and I’ll bring you the first copy of my next book. If not for you and Eli, I’m afraid I would never have had the inspiration to finish it. As it is now, I can honestly say second-book syndrome is nonsense.” Over her shoulder, Chloë flashed him a mischievous smile.

“I’ll hold you to that promise,” Nonna said.

Yes, Chloë adored Nonna, and Nonna returned her affection.

Not that Nonna was ever critical, but she could spot a phony a mile away, and through every moment of lunch and their talk afterward, she had been listening to Chloë as if weighing the young woman’s words . . . and now she genuinely liked her.

As he moved to Nonna’s side, Chloë patted his shoulder. “Sarah, you have a fabulous, caring grandson. You must be so proud.”

“I am proud of all my grandsons.” Nonna took Eli’s hand. “I think this one is going to turn out all right.”

As Eli leaned over and kissed her cheek, she murmured, “Promise you’ll bring her back.”

“I promise.”

This marriage of convenience, as Conte so quaintly called it, was exactly that—convenient. Eli didn’t have time to find a wife; he’d had one delivered to him on a platter.

But conscience jabbed him, cold and sharp. It wasn’t
right.

He could not do this. He couldn’t marry Chloë for money.

He couldn’t stand the thought of what his grandmother would say if she knew.

No matter how much he tried to ignore them, his own morals wouldn’t allow it.

Yet he had no choice. . . .

But he did.

He could take the route his pride had refused—he could tell his brothers the truth. He would tell them he got too busy and trusted the wrong man.

Noah would point out that he’d been saying for years that Eli tried to do too much.

Rafe would agree, and add that he’d told Eli to leave the growing of the grapes to Royson and concentrate on his winemaking.

They would both ask—in suggestive tones—whether Eli was trying to compensate for some small deficiency.

When he told them about the loss of the cash and the staggering debts he owed, they would give him a bad time. They might even be pissed. But they were his brothers. They wouldn’t judge him harshly. Together they’d get an equity loan on the resort. Probably Noah and Rafe would liquidate some of their personal holdings. Financial juggling like that would take some time, but he would make this work without Conte’s proposed marriage of convenience.

He didn’t even have to wonder why he’d had such a change of heart.

He could see the reasons right here in this old-fashioned bedroom.

Chloë was smart and funny. She made him feel warm, admired, part of a family, at home. Together with his grandmother, she alleviated the loneliness that had plagued him his whole life.

And who knew? If Chloë continued living in his cottage, and they saw each other occasionally, maybe . . .

His phone rang. Pulling it from his pocket, he saw the number—and frowned.

His accountant.

His
new
accountant, Val Mowbray, the one who hadn’t given him one good piece of news since she’d taken over the mess left by Eli’s treacherous buddy Owen Slovak.

“Let me get this,” he said to Nonna and Chloë, and headed out onto the front porch as fast as he could go. “What is it?” he asked Val.

He didn’t actually ask. He snapped.

Val didn’t snap back, but as always, she was brisk and efficient. “I just got a certified notice from the IRS. At noon on Monday, unless paid in full, they’re putting a lien on the winery.”

“What?” Eli leaped down the steps and walked into the yard, trying to put more distance between this news and the two women in the bedroom . . . as if that would shelter them from the truth. “How? Why? You said—”

“I know what I said. It’s the IRS. There are protocols. They’re skipping steps. I’ve never seen them move so quickly. I mean . . . they’re part of the government!”

Eli’s outrage heated to two thousand degrees. “Can’t you do anything?”

“I called. I talked. And talked. And talked. I’ve been talking for seven hours, on and off.”

“Why off?”

“Because they kept disconnecting me.” Eli could almost see Val putting air quotes around “disconnecting.” “I got nowhere. I couldn’t figure it out, because I’ve never seen anything like this drive to seize your lands. Finally I called my friend in the Washington office and asked him to check into it.”

Eli thought he already knew, but he said harshly, “Tell me.”

“He wouldn’t exactly tell me what was going on—couldn’t because he didn’t exactly know, I think—but I gather someone with contacts in high places is putting pressure on them to take the land ASAP.”

Familiar rage engulfed Eli. “Joseph Bianchin.”

“I don’t know.” Val sounded as frustrated as he felt. “I’ve never actually seen the IRS bend to outside pressure. If it’s him, he must have some nasty goods on someone with power.”

“That sounds exactly right.” Noah should have killed the old bastard instead of running him out of town.

As he always did, Eli pushed his fury down, hid it away, gained control. “Is there nothing we can do?”

“Hand them a check before Monday.”

“Five days. And part of that a weekend.” No time to tell his brothers. No time to marshal their financial forces. “All right. I’ll take care of it.”

“What are you going to do?” Val asked.

The screen door slammed.

Chloë—beautiful, smiling, euphoric—came out the door and clattered down the stairs.

Eli watched her, the pit of his belly cold as ice. “I’m going to get the money to pay them off.”

Chapter 21

C
hloë bubbled over with enthusiasm. “I had such a good time today. Thank you for taking me to meet your grandmother!”

Eli nodded and drove.

“She’s amazing. You must be awfully proud of her.”

“I am.”

“What a story she told—about Massimo and your grandfather’s bottle of wine and Joseph Bianchin. . . . He sounds like a nasty old villain. Someone should tell him it’s not politically correct to tie virgins to the railroad tracks. I mean, does he have a mustache that he curls?” She grinned spitefully.

“No.”

“I suppose that would be too good to be true. But someone needs to take him down.”

“Agreed.”

“We can do it. All we have to do is find that bottle of wine. I’ll bet those diamonds are in there. It certainly sounds like he believes it, too, or he wouldn’t have hired someone to attack your grandmother. Don’t you think so?”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

She froze. He’d snapped at her.

Not that that was so different; he’d been pretty much an ass the first time she’d met him. But after the last couple of days, she wasn’t expecting it. She’d grown used to being herself, saying what she thought without fearing his mockery or his scorn. And after their time in Nonna’s cellar, his impatience felt like sandpaper on her skin. “Are you okay?” She tried to remember when he’d grown quiet. “Was the phone call bad news?”

She thought for a moment that he was going to ignore her, pretend she hadn’t spoken. Then in a milder tone, he said, “Just accounting stuff. Math always puts me in a vile mood.”