“Close enough.” No one knew. No one. How did Conte find out?
The very available lady who had been hoping for so much in the ballroom stepped out, spotted Eli and started over. She was weaving. She was smiling. She got within five steps of them and the sense of crisis between the two men stopped her in her tracks. Her eyes grew large and frightened; she swerved away and walked out the door as if she’d always been headed for the restrooms.
Conte waited until she was gone; then he continued. “You might have been able to sell some of those valuable bottles of wine from your bar in your resort. But the vandal destroyed them.”
Eli spoke between his teeth. “Did you have a hand in that?”
“No. That was luck for me.”
Eli stared, trying to see the truth about Conte.
Conte stared back, inviting him to read his character. “I am always lucky, Eli Di Luca. It is something to remember.”
Eli wanted to bring this guy down. “My family is not without resources. I can ask my brothers for help.”
“But you won’t. The winery and everything concerning it is your responsibility.”
How did the old man know that? Eli never told anyone his feelings.
As if he’d asked, Conte said, “I went looking for a good Italian boy to wed my daughter. Your name came up. I studied you. I know more about you than you know about yourself.”
“No.” About that, Eli was certain. “You don’t.”
“I know you’ve been trying to figure a way out of this mess, but you don’t know what you’re going to do.” Conte spoke the classic line: “So—I’ll make you an offer.”
“At least I knew that was coming.” An odd relief, to guess right about at least one thing.
“I help you. You help me,” Conte said.
Eli wet his lips. “What kind of deal are you offering? Because I’m not putting the winery up as collateral—”
Conte chuckled. “No, you have the wrong impression. Deliberately? Or because you’re an American and really don’t understand? I don’t know, but I don’t want your winery.” As if it were nothing, he waved off the one thing that Eli loved with all his heart. “I told you—it’s about my daughter. I want her to wed. I want her to have children. If she had been raised like a proper Italian girl, I would tell her who to marry. But her mother raised her to be an independent woman. An American woman. So she has to fall in love. I want this to happen soon.” The man whom Eli had marked as being shrewd, shallow, driven by greed, suddenly became a man overwhelmed by the need for family, for affection.
“I get all that.” Eli had caught the drift of the proposal, but he really needed this spelled out. “What has this to do with me?”
The shrewd businessman returned. “It’s easy. We sign a contract. The terms are clear. You court my daughter. You convince her she loves you. You wed her. And in return, I solve all your financial problems, the winery is on its feet again, and you are in complete control.”
“About the wedding—you’re joking.” Conte had to be joking.
“Not at all.” Conte pulled out the photo and again waved it at Eli. “I’m proposing what the English call a marriage of convenience.”
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New York Times bestselling author Christina Dodd delivers a seductive series about an ancient rivalry that lives in the world today. Read on for a sneak peek of the first book in the Chosen Ones series,
STORM OF VISIONS
Available from Signet.
Jacqueline pulled her backpack out of her locker and headed out the rear door to her car, parked under the broad branches of the two-hundred-year-old blue oak that had given the winery its name. The little Civic started right up, and she headed south on Highway 29, the windows wide-open and the wind ripping through her hair.
The color was like the shimmer of moonlight . . . or so she’d been told. She realized now she should have cut it, and dyed it black, or brown, or purple, or any color besides this freakish platinum. The blond was too distinctive, too easy to spot. More than once she glanced behind her, watching for a strange vehicle with the strange guy in it, but everything seemed normal. All she saw were SUVs full of tourists and faded farm trucks packed with workers. Then, as she pulled into San Michael, she spotted a black Mercedes SL550 with darktinted windows, and that chill rippled through her.
Was it him? Not necessarily. There was money here, and a lot of people who drove expensive cars.
But if it was . . . she couldn’t outrun him. She had to outsmart him.
Rather than going to her apartment, she drove until she found a parking spot beside the old-fashioned town square. It was crowded here, part of the downtown renaissance. Quaint shops faced out on the park filled with grand live oaks and benches where tourists lolled in the shade. Directly across the way stood an old redbrick courthouse complete with white trim and a cupola. Jacqueline loved the courthouse; she liked to look at it, to feel the tug of the past in its ornate styling. She liked to imagine what this town, this wine-producing valley had been like a hundred years ago. When she talked about her decision to live in San Michael, she said the courthouse architecture and the styling of the town were the main reasons she’d chosen to stay in San Michael.
But of course, that wasn’t true. The main reason she’d chosen to stay in San Michael was because it was as far away from New York City in culture and distance as she could be and still be in the continental United States.
Now she scanned the park, looking for Mr. Aggressive.
She saw nothing.
Plucking her cell out of her backpack, she called the winery.
Michelle picked up on the first ring. “Blue Oak Winery. Where the hell are you, Jacquie?”
“I didn’t like that guy, and you did, so I left.”
“Like I need you to leave before I have a chance with him?” Michelle was always crabby, and never more so than when she was offended.
“You got a date with him?”
“No. About the time I realized you hadn’t come back from the back room, he put the glass down and walked out.”
No wonder Michelle was offended.
Michelle continued. “All he did was ask questions about you, and he didn’t even finish his tasting. Twenty dollars and he didn’t take his second glass. What a loser.”
“Loser” was not the term Jacqueline would slap on that guy. “Okay. Thank you.” She hung up while Michelle was sputtering.
She got out of the car. Locked the doors. Slung her backpack over her shoulder. And started walking.
In Hills’s sales window, a pair of red satin heels with diamond buckles caught her attention. She stopped, stared, and wondered if she could ever afford shoes like that again—and at that moment, she caught her first glimpse of him, a dark reflection in the glass. The other people on the sidewalk hurried past, but he stood still, a little to the side, and when she glanced at him, the way you do in a crowd, without really looking at him—he was watching her.
Tall. Lanky. Dark-haired. Pale blue eyes with the chilling look of a hunter.
She had seen that look before.
Turning away from the window, she hurried down the street, that cold draft on the back of her neck.
Okay. So this wasn’t some kind of bizarre coincidence. He wasn’t here on vacation. He had followed her. He was there, part of the impersonal crowd that gathered by the crosswalk. No one else was looking at her. Just him.
The light changed. The crowd surged forward. She surged with them.
The heat rose from the sidewalk and through the soles of her running shoes, and in the odor of the hot asphalt, she could almost smell the flames of hell.
Hell ...
For a moment, the colors around her faded, turned pale and sepia-tinted, and inside her head, she heard a faint, constant sound of water dripping . . . dripping. . . .
She staggered and went down on one knee, and the pain brought her back.
Thank God. She couldn’t afford to
do this now. She would not allow herself to do this now.
Bending her head, she pretended to tie her shoe, and when she stood, Mr. Aggressive had moved on. Darting into the quilting shop, she walked swiftly toward the back.
With a smile, the lone, elderly clerk said, “Hi, I’m Bernice. May I help you with your quilting needs?”
“I’m just passing through.” Jacqueline paused, her attention captured by the long row of scissors hanging from hooks on the Peg-Board wall. “How much are those?”
“The scissors? It depends on the size and the quality, and what you intend to do with them.” Bernice bustled forward, ready to have a long, involved conversation.
Jacqueline scanned the selection, grabbed an eight-inch, fifteen-dollar pair, and flung it on the counter.
“That pair is good as all-around scissors, but if you’re going to be cutting much material, you’d be happier with the slightly more expensive, chromeplated Heritage Razor Sharpe shears.”
Jacqueline dug out her wallet and flung a twenty on top of the scissors. “I’m going to stab somebody with them.” The plan gave her a fierce satisfaction.
Bernice tittered; then as she stared into Jacqueline’s face, her smile faded. “Well . . . then . . . I suppose they’ll do.”
She backed toward the cash register so slowly, Jacqueline knew she couldn’t wait to be rung up. She had about a minute before Mr. Aggressive realized he’d lost her, retraced his steps, and picked up her trail again. Grabbing the scissors, she said, “Keep the change,” and swerved around the sales counter and into the back room.
“Hey!” Bernice called. “You can’t do that. You can’t do that!”
“Watch me,” Jacqueline muttered. She slipped the scissors in her pocket, and was out the back door and into the alley before Bernice had a chance to say anything more.
Jacqueline took a left and ran hard for the next street. With a glance either direction, she caught another wave of the crowd and headed away from the courthouse. At an opportune moment, she dashed across traffic and ducked into another alley. She hid behind the first Dumpster, a hot, filthy metal bin that smelled like rotting Mexican food. She opened zippers and dug down to the bottom of her backpack, looking for her baseball cap. She found it, gave a sigh of relief as she tucked up her hair, and ran again, away from the crowds, and toward home.
Her apartment was two blocks away on the town’s formerly fashionable drive. If she could reach the old house, she’d be safe. Her stalker would be behind her. She’d have time to figure out what to do.
Call the police?
Not even. Men like Mr. Aggressive had connections that law enforcement respected.
Pack her bags and get out of town?
No way. She’d run before. She wasn’t doing it again.
Hide under the bed?
Yeah, maybe.
She turned onto her quiet street, with its massive oaks and shady yards, and slowed to a walk. She scanned the immediate area.
Mrs. Mallery’s little dog Nicki came out and yapped at her. Nosy, retired Mr. Thomas stopped killing his weeds long enough to ask, “Hot enough for you?”
“Sure is,” she said. “Have you seen anything interesting come down the street? Any strangers?”
Mr. Thomas leaned on his shovel. “No. Were you expecting someone?”
“Just asking!” She smiled at him.
His gaze dropped to her leather gloves. “Weird girl,” he muttered.
She didn’t care what he thought. She only cared that no man disturbed the even tenor of the neighborhood.
So she was hot and sweaty, but she was triumphant. Mr. Aggressive might be the world’s all-time best tracker, but she’d lost him. That would teach him to terrorize a young, single woman, to think that he had the right to show up in her life again after so many years.
She climbed the wooden steps onto the wide porch and checked her mailbox. A catalogue and a bill. She used her key to let herself in the side door and climbed the stairs to the second floor.
The old house had been divided into four apartments per floor, with a tiny kitchen and a living room, and a bedroom the size of a closet. She was one of the lucky ones; she had her own bathroom with a black-and-white ceramic tile floor, a pedestal sink, and a claw-foot tub.
Still cautious, she tried the knob; her apartment was locked.
She pulled the scissors out of her pocket and held them like a knife. She inserted her key, swung the door wide, and looked inside. The living room and kitchen were empty. Everything was as she had left it.
Damn him. He really did have her on edge.
But better safe than sorry. Quickly, she shut the door behind her. She slid the scissors back in her pocket, set the dead bolt and fastened the chain, then dropped her backpack and hat by the door. Pulling off her T-shirt, she headed for the bedroom. She kicked her shoes toward the closet, peeled off her gloves—and paused.
She could hear water running. No big deal, because the lavatory upstairs was right over her head and the pipes ran through the wall. But this was in her apartment. She walked through the door into the old-fashioned bathroom, and the steam hit her in the face.
She’d left the shower running.
Sure, this morning she’d been in a hurry, distracted by that sickening sepia world that hovered close to the edges of her consciousness, and the sound of water dripping . . . dripping. . . .
Now, for the briefest second, she closed her eyes and touched her marked palm to the place on her forehead between her eyes.
Her mind, her soul struggled to give birth to some . . . thing. . . .
She caught herself. Took her hand away.
She didn’t want to acknowledge the ache that plagued her there. If she could just ignore it, it would go away. It always had before. . . .
The shower. She’d left the shower running.
How could she have been so careless? She had her hand on the green plastic curtain when the word echoed in her mind.
Careless . . .
And she realized . . . someone was in there.
Flinging the plastic curtain open, he pulled her inside.
NOVELS BY CHRISTINA DODD
Danger in a Red Dress
Thigh High
Tongue in Chic
Trouble in High Heels
In Bed with the Duke
Taken by the Prince
THE DARKNESS CHOSEN SERIES
Scent of Darkness
Touch of Darkness
Into the Shadow
Into the Flame
THE CHOSEN ONES SERIES
Storm of Visions
Storm of Shadows
Chains of Ice
Chains of Fire
Read Eli's story, REVENGE AT BELLA TERRA, available on your e-reader September 6!
http://www.christinadodd.com/revenge_buypage.html
Christina Dodd, Secrets of Bella Terra
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