Revenge at Bella Terra (34 page)

“He’s been borrowing the department’s fourwheeler on a regular basis.” Robin had changed from a disgruntled woman to an officer on the verge of action.

Eli shot a glance at DuPey.

The police chief was still shaking his head in disbelief.

Now was the time for Eli to tell the truth. “That might explain how last night someone ran Chloë off the road in a big truck. She survived, but it was a close call.” When Eli pulled out a copy of Chloë’s publicity picture with a bull’s-eye drawn on it in pink Magic Marker, he showed it to DuPey. “What do you say about your wife’s nephew now?”

“I don’t,” DuPey said. “I don’t understand it, but I
swear
that kid is innocent of anything but souvenir shopping.”

Eli stood, folder in hand. “We’ve got to find him before he does any more damage.” Pulling out his cell phone, he said, “I’ll tell Chloë to keep an eye out. He’s obviously been doing his research. He apparently has unexpected, deadly skills.”

Eli called his home phone. It rang, but no one answered. He left a message on the answering machine.

He called Chloë’s cell. Same thing.

Terry appeared in the doorway, no longer deadpan but grim and angry. “We’ve got a call in from the Marinos’ Sweet Dreams Hotel out on the highway. A maid found Finnegan in one of the guest rooms. He’s been beaten up and shot. He’s unconscious, and the EMTs are giving him less than a fifty percent chance of recovery.”

“He’s got an accomplice”—Eli kept leafing through the photos—“and the accomplice turned on him.”

“No. I’m right about him.” DuPey turned to Terry. “Who checked into the room?”

Terry checked the paper in his hand. “Some guy named Proctor N. Gamble . . . Oh, shit. Fake name.”

“What a surprise,” Robin said.

“Description?” DuPey snapped.

“White. Tall. Well built. Blond hair, blue eyes, light tan.”

“Sounds like a million guys in Bella Valley,” Robin said.

“I know him,” Terry said. “Sounds like—”

“Wyatt Vincent,” Eli said—and held out a photo of Wyatt inside the cottage, setting the explosive he intended for Chloë.

Chapter 47

W
hen Chloë woke up, she was in their bed—no, Eli’s bed—still heavy with exhaustion and sore as hell, but awake and aware, last night’s ordeal almost a dream, or more correctly, completely a nightmare.

By the look of the sun, it was afternoon. The clock said four o’clock. She was pretty sure it was the same day.

She rubbed her eyes and noticed . . . the wedding band.

The platinum circled her finger. The diamonds glittered seductively.

When had Eli placed that on her finger . . . for a second time? Did he really think she was going to wear it as if nothing had happened?

He’d placed the pink diamond engagement ring on the nightstand, where she’d be sure to notice it.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
It sparkled at her insistently, using all its allure to degrade her resolve.

No. She was not wearing those rings. She was taking her wedding band off
right now
.

But first, she needed to figure out what was happening in the house.

She swung her legs off the bed. She was wearing Eli’s shirt and her panties. Her jeans were off. Eli had done that, she supposed, too.

Cocky bastard.

He had also left a note on the end table.

He was so bossy. He irritated her like a bad rash.

Then she noticed she was holding the note to her heart like a Victorian maiden. Fiercely, she crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash.

She headed into the bathroom, turned, and marched back to the trash. She dug out the note, smoothed it out, carried it into the bathroom with her, and propped it tenderly up against the backsplash. The wedding band on her finger caught her attention again. She smoothed it, marveling at the silky platinum and flashes of pure color deep in the white diamond.

As soon as she got finished in here, she was putting it back with the engagement ring, but for right now . . . she’d had a tough couple of days. If she wanted to be a Victorian maiden, then by God, she would be a Victorian maiden.

Stripping off her clothes, she climbed into the shower.

As spare as Eli’s bedroom was, his bathroom was the opposite, a Roman bacchanal of warm browns and ambers accented by copper sinks and copper accent tiles shining with subtle beauty. His shower slid from a gentle rainlike downpour to a pounding massage, easing the worst of the pain in her muscles, and she stood there, working her shoulders, examining the bruises she couldn’t recall getting, enjoying the luxury of endless warm water and scented steam. As she washed away the grime, Eli’s soap smelled so very much like him that she was both aroused and irked.

She was leaving this guy. Would she never be able to smell warm spices, cool citrus, and that deep, dark, sexual scent without remembering him?

That thought got her out of the shower in a hurry.

When she knew she was going to leave Eli, she had packed everything—her clothes, her books, her computer, her backup for her book—and stowed them in her car. Except for her computer, which Eli had rescued—she refused to be overly grateful—her belongings were still up there on the mountain, which would make dressing herself a challenge.

But she dried herself on a towel, found one of Eli’s button-down shirts in the closet, put it on, rolled up the sleeves, stuck his note in the pocket over her heart, and went looking for some kind of pants.

She found them draped over a chair in the bedroom: a pair of jeans that looked like they belonged to her mother.

She tried them on and decided she was right—they were too high in the waist and she had to roll up the legs. Definitely her mother’s.

The new In and Out Gas and Food T-shirt awaited Chloë, too, but with her shoulder ache, she could never get it over her head. Eli’s shirt might be too big, but she would stick with it. Besides . . . there was that pocket where she could keep his note.

Obviously, she wasn’t finished being a Victorian maiden yet.

She glanced at the pink diamond ring on the nightstand, sparkling enticingly.
Blink. Blink. Blink.

Gorgeous ring.

Stupid ring.

Stupid Chloë for wanting to put it on. Her trembling fingers hovered over it. That ring, and the one on her finger, were symbols of Eli’s betrayal, and she was
not
going to give in to temptation and wear them.

Pulling her hand back, she worked the wedding band off and firmly placed it beside the engagement ring. She took the note out of her pocket and slapped it down beside them.

There. She was free.

Her tennis shoes rested on the floor.

She stared down at them. Someone had washed them, but one had a huge slice through the vinyl at the toe, and the other one was no longer gray, but camouflage or some other color that couldn’t be described in polite society. “I am not wearing those,” she muttered. So she wandered barefoot through the house in search of her parents.

They weren’t hard to find. As Eli had predicted, they were still fighting, although they’d moved to the lower level.

Chloë tiptoed down the stairs and peeked into a bedroom—her father’s, from the look of the shaving kit Tamosso was getting out of the suitcase.

Her mother blocked his way. “Chloë is too young to be married.”

“Chloë
is
married,” her father said smugly, and walked around Lauren and into the bathroom. “To a good man,” he called.

Lauren followed him and stood in the bathroom door. “It will never last. She’s an intelligent woman, not someone to be taken in by some money-grubber you’ve dug out of your pocket.”

Ugliness
. Chloë backed away and walked toward the stairway.

“You give me no credit at all. He’s not a money-grubber. He didn’t want to take the money. He didn’t want to marry my darling Chloë.”

Chloë stopped. She didn’t want to hear this, yet suddenly she couldn’t tear herself away.

Papa said, “But Eli was a man desperate to save his winery, so he had no choice.”

Chloë nodded and grimaced. She had that one figured out.

“What kind of husband did you think he would be when you had to blackmail him into marriage?” Lauren asked indignantly.

“A good one. He’s driven away demons I don’t understand to protect his family above all else.”

Unable to resist the lure of the real story as told by her father, Chloë slowly eased her aching body down onto a step and cupped her chin in her hand.

Papa’s booming voice continued. “Once my darling Chloë was part of his family, I knew he would give his life for her.”

Chloë knew that, too.

“He doesn’t love her,” her mother said flatly.

“No. He doesn’t love her.” Tamosso sounded angry. “He will never love her.”

Yesterday, Chloë would have agreed. Today . . . She didn’t know what to think about that casually thrown-out comment in the truck.
I loved your book and I love you.
Really? Since when?

“A man in love is weak,” Tamosso said. “I know that better than anyone. But I have faith in Eli Di Luca. He’ll make Chloë happy. It’s too bad you didn’t have the same faith in me.”

Oh
. Chloë leaned forward. Now it was getting good.

“I left Italy to avoid the restrictions your money brings, like your bodyguard out there.” Chloë could almost see her mother waving a well-manicured hand. “More than that, I left to avoid your manipulations.”

“I do not manipulate.”

Chloë snorted, then covered her mouth. She didn’t want to interrupt this conversation.

“You tried to manipulate me all the time,” Lauren said, “just the way you manipulate Chloë. If I hadn’t left you, I wouldn’t have had a life to call my own.”

“If you hadn’t left me, I wouldn’t have lost the chance to be a father to my only child.” Papa’s voice was low and deep and angry. “You destroyed our lives because you didn’t love or trust me enough to stay.”

“I did love you. I never married, but I’m proud that I realized you would never remain faithful.”

“I was always faithful to you,” Papa said fiercely.

“Through five marriages?” Lauren mocked.

“I am not Eli Di Luca. I
am
weak. I do love. I fell in love with you the first time I saw you, and I never faltered.” Papa’s Italian accent grew strong and proud. “If you had stayed with me, I would have never betrayed you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I know. Your great fault is your cynicism. You wrap yourself in it to protect yourself from hurt, and you never live. You only exist.”

Chloë totally agreed with that.

He continued. “You took my child, the child you cradled in your womb. You hid her from me, and you left me alone. I assuaged my loneliness with women, but none of them meant anything. Every one of them looked like you. Every night in bed, I turned off the light and loved them, and pretended they were you. But the sun always rose, and I saw them, and they weren’t you.” Papa’s avowal brought tears to Chloë’s eyes. “I would have married you,” he concluded.

“I know, but what makes you think our marriage would have lasted? You have a wandering eye, Tamosso.” In her way, Lauren sounded as hurt as Papa. “I saw you looking at other women.”

“Looking? What is looking? I’m a man. As long as I still live, I will look. But why would I shop for a wallet in Venice when the finest leather goods are in my home in Milan? Why would I drink cheap wine in a tavern when I have champagne in my own cellar?” His voice grew deep with yearning. “Why,
bella mia
, would I taste another woman when I have you?”

“Tamosso . . .” Her mother’s voice ached with longing.

Chloë waited to hear what would happen next.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally she held the handrail to help her to her feet, tiptoed forward, and peeked in the door.

She leaped back.

Oh, no. She should never have seen her parents doing
that
.

As quietly as she could, she hurried upstairs—not that they were going to hear her, as involved as they were—and turned on Eli’s stereo. Grabbing a Coca-Cola out of the refrigerator, she took a drink, hoping to block out those images seared on her retinas.

Her parents. Together again. Locked in a passionate embrace.

Chloë took another swig of Coke.

Her mother was only forty-two.

Chloë hoped they used protection.

She was
not
going back downstairs.

Going over to the stereo, she turned it up. Louder. She didn’t want to hear
anything
from downstairs.

As a distraction, she collected her battered computer case from the master bedroom.

Those two broke her heart.

There was a lesson there, but right now, she didn’t want to think about it too deeply.

She flung the strap from the case over her shoulder, turned—and there on the nightstand, the two rings blinked insistently, as if they were speaking to her.

If her parents had stayed together, they might have been miserable . . . but for sure they were miserable apart.

What could Chloë learn from them?

To take a chance? To believe Eli when he said he loved her?

She paced over and stared at her rings, the rings he had given her.

Eli’s avowal was
so
conveniently timed, and yet she couldn’t imagine that that man, who had been terrorized and isolated as a youth, could look at her with clear eyes and show her his emotions . . . unless he was telling the truth.