Betrayal (28 page)

Probably he was right. “Noah is mortified by his behavior when he lived with us,” she said coolly. “He doesn’t want the Di Lucas to know. And he made a proposal—if he can find the bottle and pass it to me, we’ll make sure the world knows it has passed out of Bella Terra and beyond their grasp.” She laughed contemptuously. “He wants his little town back to its safe, humble self.”

“How do you know he’s not lying?” Hendrik asked. “That bottle of wine is worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

Liesbeth heard the greed in his voice. She understood
it—she felt a similar greed, although her avarice was fired by a different motive.

He wanted to auction the wine, to drive the price up by revealing its intriguing history.

She wanted the rock-solid proof of the Propov family legend.

Years ago, she had done the research. She had spent hours and days and weeks in libraries and in newspaper archives. She knew what was inside that bottle. She yearned for the pink diamonds that had been stolen from her family. She lusted after them. And after all these years, she was close. So close. Her plans were coming to fruition at last. She would soon see the Beating Heart, and hold it in her hand.

“Why won’t Noah take the prize and run?” Hendrik repeated.

“I told you. He has morals.”

“You depend on his morals?” Hendrik scowled, leaned forward, and, leaning his hand on her knee, he squeezed hard with his strong fingers. “You’re getting soft, Liesbeth.”

“And you are a bad judge of character.” Hendrik bruised her, a bruise for each one of his five fingers, but she didn’t flinch. “I know Noah. I’ve watched him grow up in this safe environment. I’ve watched his Di Luca family coddle him. I know his loyalty to his family is rock-solid.” She smiled as she drew the long silk thread through the canvas. “Just in case I am wrong about his morals, last week I watched him click the lock on the necklace Grieta made him.”

Grieta looked up with a grin and gave Liesbeth a thumbs-up. “I’m working on fixing the microphone. I mean, if scientists can repair the Hubble telescope from
earth, then I can repair a microphone from a few miles away.”

“Fix the camera while you’re at it,” Hendrik said.

Grieta scowled at him. “Forget that. The camera works fine, but he popped off the lens, and I can’t replace it without getting my hands on the collar.”

Hendrik grunted.

“If Noah doesn’t come through, he’s going to die. He knows it. You know it.” Liesbeth smiled now without humor, smiled full into Hendrik’s face, teeth bared, eyes savage. “I, too, am loyal to my family, Hendrik, as long as they are loyal to me.” She clamped her hand over his, holding it in place on her knee. “But please remember—I am the descendant of Ivan the Terrible, and I would not hesitate to destroy anyone who tried to overthrow me.” So saying, she drove her bright, sharp needle through his hand.

He screamed in surprise and pain, and jerked away. Lifting his hand before his eyes, he stared at the needle protruding from his palm, at the long strand of mustard gold thread that dangled from the back of his hand, and screamed again, this time in rage.

“Back it out of the wound,” she advised. “Otherwise you’ll have to pull the thread through your flesh.”

He stared at her, poised on the razor-thin edge of violence.

Calmly, she indicated the small but widening pool of blood on her knee. “The needle went all the way through. I am wounded, too. When I hurt you, I hurt myself. We bleed together. We rise together. We fall together. Remember that, Hendrik, as you plot to replace me as the head of this family.”

Chapter 42

W
hen Wednesday morning came around, Penelope rose at seven, showered and dressed, and headed downtown to the Rhodes Café for breakfast.

She felt fine. Today was just another day.

She met Brooke, who was nibbling on a bagel.

Penelope ordered only toast and tea, not because this day signified any momentous occasion in her life, but because she didn’t feel as hungry as usual, and because she’d found the runner she wanted to use on the grand stairway that led from the entry to the upstairs landing. She showed it to Brooke on the new computer tablet she’d purchased with her advance on her design fee.

Penelope was pleased when Brooke clasped her hands and sighed in delight. The runner was plain, almost Spartan in design, but rich with reds and golds. Brooke declared it was exactly what she had envisioned.

Then she had to run to the ladies’ room.

Morning sickness.

Being with Brooke during her first trimester was difficult, but only because Penelope considered Brooke a friend, and seeing her suffer like this, even in such a joyous pursuit, was difficult to watch. Other than that, Penelope felt fine.

When Brooke returned, Penelope suggested they go to the house.

Noise assaulted them as soon as they stepped in the door.

The contractor had three men working in the kitchen to strip it bare; linoleum, appliances, cabinets, wallpaper, and plaster were coming down, and the screech of power tools drove Penelope and Brooke upstairs to the master bedroom. There Rafe had installed a desk and two chairs, and a recliner for those moments when Brooke needed to put her feet up.

He was a devoted husband. Penelope admired him for that.

Brooke wanted to talk about the design for the baby’s room.

Not that it mattered to Penelope whether they talked about the baby’s room—she felt fine—but they needed to finish the kitchen design ASAP. They’d already ordered the cabinets, in bird’s-eye maple, and picked out the tile for the floor. Now they used a bare-bones room drawn with the correct dimensions to arrange and rearrange the six-burner stovetop, the microwave, the two ovens, and the huge refrigerator. Penelope suggested that rather than a kitchen island, Brooke might consider a family-size table in the middle of the room, pointing out that Nonna’s family practically lived in the kitchen, and Penelope guessed that Brooke’s family would, too.

Brooke agreed ecstatically.

The two women went to lunch.

Brooke ate heartily; her morning sickness seemed to be easing.

Penelope ordered a salad, but although she felt fine, she only picked at it. Too much dressing, she told Brooke.

Then they drove to the massive design warehouse in Santa Rosa and picked out appliances. Penelope felt competent doing that; discussing the merits of convection versus regular-bake, gas versus electric, and, most important, stainless steel versus a colored enamel… that was so real, so prosaic, so
solid
, she really did feel fine.

Then, while she was collecting stats sheets from the salesman, Brooke wandered away, and when Penelope went in search of her friend, she found Brooke looking at wallpaper and fabric swatches… for the baby’s room.

Of course. It only made sense. This was Brooke’s first child, and she was obsessed with getting the baby’s room finished.

Penelope felt fine. She breathed deeply, and she felt fine. And she stared fixedly at Brooke’s hands as she fondled the wallpaper.

“We aren’t going to find out the baby’s sex,” Brooke said, “so I think something like this in a cheerful yellow would be perfect.”

“Perfect,” Penelope repeated.

“I know it’s possibly a little masculine, but girls like cars, too, right? I know it’s not politically correct to be concerned with gender issues, but I’m pregnant and you have to give me a pass.” Brooke laughed.

Penelope smiled, but her lips seemed stiff.

“I like this material for the curtains, very plain, and I
was thinking of using something like this”—Brooke slid a soft chenille out from under the pile of fabric—“for a throw. I want a nice, snuggly comforter to fling over the back of the rocking chair, so I can wrap my baby up and sing to him.” She laughed again. “Listen to me; I’ve already decided it’s a him!”

A low buzzing started in Penelope’s ears.

“Mostly I want the room to be a happy place.” Brooke slid her hand across her tummy. “A place where he can play and sleep and learn and love.”

Black and red splotches swarmed over Penelope’s vision, and she couldn’t quite see the table, or the wallpaper, or the fabric.… In some safe, distant part of her mind, she knew she should go and find some carpet samples to match Brooke’s design, but she couldn’t move; she couldn’t breathe; she couldn’t—

Brooke grabbed Penelope’s arm in a firm grasp.

The contact made Penelope look up. Her vision cleared.

She was here. She was here now. She had to pull herself together.

Brooke’s face was distressed, her eyes anxious. “Penelope, you look awful. Are you all right?”

Penelope wanted to be. But—

“No. No. I’m not. I’m
not
fine.” She pulled away from Brooke and stood in the middle of the huge room, her hands clasped in her hair. “I’m not fine,” she repeated. “I’m going home.”

She walked fast, away from Brooke calling her name, seeking refuge, going home.…

But when she got out to her car, she realized she didn’t have a home to go to.

So she just… drove.

Chapter 43

L
iesbeth sat at the desk in the study, doing what she did every day: going through Joseph Bianchin’s mail. Bills, a few catalogs, an offer from some old-people’s organization… but nothing personal. No notes from friends, no birthday cards, no females expressing their sincere desire to meet him for a cup of coffee. With his age and his money, Liesbeth knew women should be swarming around, trying to get into his pants and into his wallet. So her first assessment of him was correct: He was a very unpleasant man, so unpleasant that not even desperate widows would have anything to do with him.

She almost didn’t open the brown manila envelope; it looked like junk mail. But the return address caught her eye. Either this was a scam, or Joseph Bianchin was receiving information from a genetic testing laboratory.

Interesting.

She used Bianchin’s letter opener to slice open the envelope and viewed the contents.

Even more interesting.

According to the lab, Bianchin had screwed up somewhere along the line, because he had a daughter.

But whom?

The answer came easily enough.

The girl who had arrived at the gate and stood there for ten minutes, waiting for someone to allow her in.

Why, the old fox. He must have known all along why the girl was visiting, and he’d lied to protect her.

Of course, he’d insisted on a paternity test, too, so he didn’t trust her.

Could this new wrinkle in the scheme of things be turned to Liesbeth’s advantage?

Perhaps. And perhaps it could be used to keep an ever-more restless Hendrik busy.

She put her head out of the study and called him.

He didn’t respond.

So she walked to the library and found him, alone and looking bored, playing Zombie Zombat on his computer.

Yes. Of course. He was trying to regain his masculine pride after she had used her tapestry needle to stab him.

But to see him lolling around, defying her… she wanted to stab him again, with something larger.

She had to face facts: Hendrik was too old to take over the successful direction of the gang. He had been under her management for too long. He had no drive and little ambition. And he was out of shape and cared nothing for improvement.

It was time to once again make her offer to Noah. Hendrik had left her no choice.

Keeping her voice even, she asked, “Didn’t you hear me call, Hendrik?”

“Yeah, I heard you.” He remained slumped in his chair.

“Where are the others?”

“Working out in the gym.”

“Good. You should try that.”

He didn’t even glance up. He only sighed, deeply, like a teenager taken to task by his parent.

He tested her patience, for he was not her son. Her son was better than this. “Come on. I have a task for you.”

“Doing what? What am I going to do with a hole in my hand?” He held up his bandaged left hand.

“That tiny thing!” Then she reined herself in. She needed him… for now. “I was stabbed, too, and I’m not complaining. You’ll enjoy this job. Come to the study. I want you to follow someone for me.”

“Who?”

“A girl.”

He looked up at last, and his green eyes gleamed. “Is she pretty?”

“I think you’ll like her.”

He tossed his tablet aside. “Sounds like fun.”

Chapter 44

D
eath visited some men in the whistle of a bullet.

Death visited some men in the slow drip of an IV.

Death visited some men in the creaking loneliness of old age.

Noah stared death in the face on a Wednesday, almost halfway through his two allotted weeks, at the end of a tunnel beneath Bella Terra resort… for nowhere in the cellars was Massimo’s jewel-laden bottle of wine.

Turning, he walked along the wide, dim corridor lit by the occasional bare lightbulb toward the stairs that would take him up to sunshine and fresh air, to his resort full of happy tourists and busy staff.

He told himself he wasn’t disappointed about the bottle, or even surprised. After all, his optimism had faded as, day after day, he searched in the dim, dusty graveyard of hopes.

He almost hated to climb the stairs—these days,
someone who cared for him always lingered nearby, waiting to ask him how the search was going and give encouraging reports of the still-futile exploration of the shed and garage. He hated having to smile, to nod, to pretend he had faith in their chances of success when they didn’t have a clue where to search next.

At the bottom of the stairs, he turned and looked down the long, dark hallways, and in grim humor, he told himself that spending time in the underworld had prepared him for the next stage of his existence.

Gad, he was getting too depressing for even him to be around.

He trudged up the stairs.

After the trouble Rafe and Brooke had down here, Noah had had the huge old-fashioned wooden door replaced with a self-closing steel door with digital locks, one on each side, and different codes for getting in and getting out. That way if someone managed to get in—say, Hendrik—he wouldn’t easily leave.