“So the perp wore gloves. That’s not your usual drug addict, ‘I’ve got to get enough cash for my next fix’ thief.” Rafe looked at his brothers, who were both slouched against the wall and grimacing about the coffee.
He took a sip and reflected that it wasn’t so bad. Bitter and grainy, but at least it was hot.
But what did he know? Kyrgyzstan didn’t boast a lot of Starbucks.
“What if Bryan is right? What if it was just a vagrant?” Noah sounded relaxed, and looked as if he’d been worried every minute of the last two days.
“Then Nonna wouldn’t be troubled about us.” Rafe remembered what she’d said: They have knives. They have guns. Even after all these years, he’s so angry. “Who’s so angry? The Marinos?”
“They’re wild men, but even they draw the line at beating up old ladies,” Noah said. “Joseph Bianchin is a mean old bully, but he’s the last of his line, and I don’t know why he’d start a gang now.”
“Then who’s she talking about?” Rafe insisted.
Chapter 5
“Nonna’s got a concussion. She’s . . . been rambling.” Eli threw his unfinished coffee in the garbage.
Rafe’s chest grew tight. “She is going to be okay, right?”
“Yeah. Sure.” But Eli didn’t look at him.
And Rafe knew about concussions. He’d seen enough of them in combat; he probably knew as much as the doctors. Touchy things. He didn’t even know why he was asking except that he desperately needed reassurance. Desperately needed to know his grandmother would be back in her place on the home ranch, there to welcome him when he came home. “Have there been any other attacks like this one? Any attacks in Bella Valley or Sonoma or Napa?” he asked.
Both Rafe’s brothers shook their heads.
“All right.” So it was probably a targeted attack. “What details does Nonna give about the attack?”
“She isn’t talking much about what happened this week.” Noah sat on one of the plastic chairs. “But she’s crystal clear about what happened fifty-nine years ago.”
“What happened fifty-nine years ago?” Rafe asked.
“She got married.” Noah stretched out his legs.
“Got pregnant on her wedding night. Worse luck,” Rafe said.
“Nine months later produced our father.” Eli had that look on his face, the one he got when he tasted bad wine.
“Any other disasters you know of?” Rafe asked.
His two brothers shook their heads.
Noah said what they were all thinking. “Isn’t that enough?”
Gavino Di Luca was Nonna’s only son, and at fifty-eight still too handsome for his own good.
The questions had to be asked, so Rafe asked them. “Where is the old man? Why isn’t he here?”
“He’s filming in Thailand. He was on the phone all the time until she was out of danger, but he can’t come home because of the schedule.” Noah’s cynicism felt like shards of glass. “Also, he’s got a new—”
“Wife?” Rafe snapped.
“Girlfriend,” Noah said.
With a cynicism to match Noah’s, Rafe said, “Let me guess. She’s twenty.”
“No, this is an older woman. She’s twenty-seven.” Noah smiled without humor. “He puts the dys in dysfunctional.”
“Don’t we all,” Rafe muttered.
“Exactly.” Noah spoke firmly—Rafe’s younger brother didn’t lack for confidence. “The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree. We’re the proof of that.”
“Speak for yourself,” Eli said. “I keep my affairs private and I never get in over my head.”
“You’re the sensible one, all right,” Noah allowed. By that he meant Rafe was not.
So Rafe changed the subject. “Has the Di Luca family thought about donating one of those fancy ‘make everything’ coffeemakers to the hospital?”
“It has to go through the hospital board first,” Eli said ominously.
“So?” Rafe wasn’t following.
“One of the Marinos heads the hospital board, and Joseph Bianchin’s involved, so . . .” Eli shrugged.
The rivalry between the three families had originated long ago, and the three families had stubbornly carried it to America and through more than a century.
“Why isn’t Joseph Bianchin dead yet?” Rafe asked.
“If life was fair, he would be, but the old fart is still puttering along in his mansion, yelling at the kids when they steal his oranges.” Noah had been one of those kids, and Nonna had received a nasty phone call about that.
“And the Marinos?” Rafe already knew the answer to that.
“They’re still stealing Bianchin’s oranges.” Eli shook his head, half in admiration and half in disgust. “They’re stealing our grapes. They’re having parties that only break up when the cops arrive. They’re drag racing on the county roads. And that’s just the parents.”
Rafe laughed, but Noah said, “It’s like having our own California Italian rednecks right next door.”
“At least they’re consistent,” Rafe said.
The Bianchins and the Di Lucas had been respectable families when they’d come across from the Old Country.
Not the Marinos. They had been tossed out by the Italian authorities. They still had a chip on their shoulders about that, and about the fact they’d made their money during Prohibition making moonshine, running the cathouses, and owning dive bars.
They still owned the bars. The other stuff had gone by the wayside. At least, as far as Rafe knew, it had.
Noah poured another cup of coffee, sipped again, and groaned pitifully.
“Maybe if we say we want to donate a coffee machine, they’ll do it?” Rafe suggested.
“Maybe. Right now, the Marinos are pissed because the Di Luca Miele Cabernet Port beat them out of the gold at all the wine festivals.” Noah grinned at Rafe, then at Eli.
“Nice.” Rafe nodded at Eli. “Been kicking ass, have you?”
“I’ve done okay.” The words were modest. Eli’s tone was smug.
“He’s been kicking ass all over California and Washington with his cabs and zins.” Noah didn’t mind bragging on his brother.
Rafe glanced again at the hospital room door.
It remained stubbornly closed.
He wondered if Brooke was stalling, not wanting to see him, talk to him.
But no. Not Brooke. Even as a scared kid that first day of school, she had set her chin and done what had to be done without flinching.
For her, he knew, he was a task to be faced without flinching.
Noah stepped right in front of Rafe. “So listen to me. About Brooke.”
Rafe wasn’t proud of himself, but he wanted to snarl like a wolf protecting his mate, a visceral reaction, unbidden and instinctual. “What about her?”
“She’s the best. She knows everybody in this town, everybody at the resort.” Noah met Rafe’s gaze headon. “But she works for me.”
“And?”
“I’ll let you use her to find the perp, but I don’t want you to mess with her.”
Noah was right. Rafe knew it. So he reined himself in, put on his civilized face, and said, “I’m not going to mess with her. All she’s got to do is cooperate and everything’ll be fine.”
If only she didn’t look like Brooke—five-foot-nine, tanned, with dark brown hair as sleek as sable and an athletic build that made him think of hard matches on a sunny tennis court, cold Cokes from the convenience store, and the slow bead of sweat sliding down her cleavage. . . .
“Cooperate with you? That doesn’t sound good.” Noah viewed him with suspicion.
“I mean cooperate in helping me find the perp,” Rafe said patiently. “Look. Brooke’s not a stupid woman. She’s not going to sleep with me again.” Unfortunately.
“I don’t care if she sleeps with you,” Noah said scornfully.
Good. Because that means you aren’t sleeping with her.
“I care whether she gets involved with you.” Noa
h came to his feet. “I remember the last time that happened. When you left, she looked like someone ripped out her heart.”
Eli joined Noah. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder facing their outcast brother, and Eli said, “With what happened this month, she’s not going to be able to deal with you and your prima donna ways.”
“A prima donna. For God’s sake, I just spent two weeks in the mountains in Kyrgyzstan freezing my gonads; how does that qualify me as a—Wait.” Rafe zeroed in on the important phrase, and repeated, “With what happened?”
Noah turned on Eli and glared.
“What happened?” Rafe insisted.
“He’s going to find out soon enough,” Eli said to Noah. “The gossip’s barely died down.”
Rafe damn well needed to have all the facts before he plunged into this investigation, even if they pertained to his former girlfriend. Especially if they pertained to his former girlfriend. “What gossip?” He could barely open his jaws, his teeth were clenched so hard.
Noah gestured at Eli: You started this, the gesture clearly said.
“Three weeks ago, she shot an intruder at the hotel.” Noah held up a hand as if to stop Rafe before he said a word. “Cruz Flores was an illegal immigrant, had served prison time in Mexico and in the U.S., and six months ago his wife and daughter disappeared. Their blood was all over their house. The cops believe Flores killed them and stashed the bodies somewhere. He posted bail, disappeared, then turned up at the resort, cornered Brooke, and she shot and killed him. End of story.”
“So tell me the rest of the story,” Rafe said.
“Brooke was completely exonerated.” Noah looked like he was ready to go toe-to-toe with Rafe.
Eli stepped between them. “Idiot or not, Bryan DuPey said it was a clear-cut case of self-defense. Flores had a knife in his hand and a Glock in his belt. He was coming at Brooke and she shot to kill. He’s dead. I’m glad.”
Rafe had traveled the world. He had seen the worst acts men could perform. He’d suffered torture. He’d seen bloody death. He thought nothing could shake him—but the idea of Brooke, in this safe little town, facing death, made his breath stop. “How did she learn to shoot?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Rafe. She’s the daughter of an Air Force pilot and a retired Air Force officer. How do you think she learned to shoot?” Noah barely kept his sarcasm under control. “It’s one of the reasons I hired her. On a resort that sprawls over twenty-five acres, with wealthy guests and two hundred and thirty employees, a familiarity with firearms is a valuable skill to have.”
Brooke should never have been threatened. If things had been different, Rafe would have been here to protect her.
If he had been strong enough, he would have been.
Then Nonna would never have been hurt either.
“When this manhunt is over, you’ll leave again, right?” Noah asked.
“My work isn’t here.” Obviously. And more obviously, Noah wanted him out of here. Why? Did Noah want to put a claim on Brooke?
It didn’t matter if he did. Rafe had no right to bellyache if she wanted another man, even if that man was his brother.
But saying that didn’t make it the truth.
“Quiet.” Eli indicated Nonna’s door.
Brooke came out in a rush, her face calm. But she held her purse like a shield, as if she’d been under attack.
“What’s wrong?” Rafe asked. “Is it Nonna?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Kayla says Nonna’s okay and going to get better.” She spoke to them all, then turned on Rafe. “Come on. I’m ready.”
“Nonna’s car is in the parking lot.” Eli tossed him the keys. “Figured you’d want to drive it.”
For the first time since he arrived, Rafe smiled with true humor. “Nothing says home like a titty-pink Mustang with a two eighty-nine V-eight. C’mon, Brooke. Let’s go check out the scene of the crime.”
Chapter 6
Brooke had known the Di Luca brothers since she’d arrived in Bella Terra. They were all extraordinary, all handsome, all so wounded by their careless actor father and his various wives that Brooke knew Sarah despaired that any of them would marry and give her the great-grandchildren she craved.
But although Brooke was friends with Noah and Eli, it was Rafe she understood. It was Rafe with whom she bonded.
She didn’t want to.
They just had so much in common: crummy fathers and enough childhood trauma that they had made it to adulthood only because they had found each other.
Then they had lost each other . . . found each other . . . lost each other. . . .
Their relationship had been a boomerang of exhilarating highs and ghastly lows, and looking back, all she could do was shake her head at her youthful self.
Never again.
Yet at times like these, as they sat side by side on the factory-original Mustang sport seats . . . she still knew Rafe Di Luca better than any person on earth. She knew that as they drove through Bella Terra’s busy streets, he would be on edge, relearning the feel of his grandmother’s Mustang, surveying the town where he’d spent his high school years, looking for changes, for old friends, for the perp. Then, as they reached the narrow, winding road that led to the home ranch, he would open up, punch the accelerator, drive the car as it was meant to be driven, quickly, smoothly.
He did all that. Of course he did.
As they blasted down the highway, she rolled down her window—the car lacked anything automatic, and that was fine with her—and the wind rushed in, blowing memories into her face.
She’d arrived in Bella Terra on the eve of her thirteenth birthday. She had been used to first days and new schools . . .
But that day was different, because her mother had divorced Brooke’s father, quit the military, and declared Bella Terra would be their home for the rest of their lives.
And why? That was what Brooke hadn’t understood. Why?
Well. She’d sort of understood why her mother had divorced her father. He was an Air Force pilot, glamorous and handsome. Lots of women thought so. Lots of women.
When Brooke thought about him, and how he had another wife in Japan . . . it hurt too much. So she didn’t think about him.
Yet . . . Bella Terra. Geez. As far as Brooke could see, her mother’s choice was arbitrary, not close to Oklahoma or even Minnesota, where their families lived. Bella Terra was this random little town north of San Francisco and east of nowhere.
Everything Brooke knew had changed, and even her body had betrayed her, growing in the last year to a freakish height of five feet, nine inches. She was taller than every other kid in seventh grade. She hunched her shoulders and wouldn’t look at anyone, sure they were laughing at her.
For sure they were staring.
Until Rafe strolled in. He was taller than her, topping every boy by at least six inches. He was older than all of them, held back because his schooling had been hit-or-miss. He was darkly tanned, extravagantly handsome, with black curly hair, darkly lashed blue eyes, and the most amazingly effective sneer Brooke had ever seen. As he swaggered down the corridor, she stared—all the girls stared—mesmerized. The local girls told her he was from one of the premier families in the valley, the Di Lucas, and it was clear that meant more in this town than the fact that he had already been a movie star before the age of nine.
Brooke was impressed.
Man. What a fool she’d been. What a sucker she’d been.
Now, turning her head away from the open window, Brooke looked at Rafe: at his sharp profile silhouetted against the blue sky, the bold jawline, the black, curly hair swept back from his forehead, the broken, flattened nose so out of place on his noble face, the lips that every straight woman on the planet wanted to kiss. . . .
As she stared, she saw his expression shift from blissful thoughtlessness to sharp curiosity, and she didn’t like it . . . but once again she knew what his next move would be.
The Mustang slowed. Rafe’s attention moved from the road . .
. to his investigation. He pulled into a turnout, put the car in first gear, cut the engine.
Silently she counted down . . . Three, two, one.
He turned to face her, slung his arm over the back of her seat. “Who do you suspect attacked my grandmother?”
Good to see you again, Brooke. I dream about you every day I’m not holding you in my arms. “I don’t know,” she said.
“You know everyone in town. You must have some ideas.”
I’ve been remembering every moment we ever spent together. “I don’t suspect anyone and I’m not accusing someone simply for points with the local law enforcement—or you,” she said.
“So you agree with Bryan DuPey? You think it was a vagrant?”
You look better than ever, and I’ve missed you more than life itself. My darling, I’m so sorry for the horrible way I’ve treated you. I am nothing without you, and all I want is to come home . . . to you. “I don’t think anything. I don’t think Bryan DuPey is a moron. I don’t think it was a vagrant. I don’t think it was one of the winery workers or one of my employees. I’m as bewildered as anyone.” She focused on his chill, still expression. “Tell me who you think did it.”
He waved her question away. Obviously, he intended to do the interrogation. “Who discovered Nonna?”
She sighed. “Didn’t your brothers tell you?”
“No. Who got to her first?”
He wasn’t going to like this. “I did.”
Those lushly lashed eyes narrowed. “After she’d called emergency.”
“Yes.”
“But not much after.”
“I heard she was hurt and started up to the house ahead of the ambulance.”
“Where did you get that information?” He shot words at her like bullets.
“I didn’t exactly get the information. One of my gardeners looked miserable and when I asked him what was wrong, he told me how much he enjoyed working on old Mrs. Di Luca’s yard because she gave them lemonade in the summer and hot chocolate in the winter. . . .” She wanted to gesture nervously, but forced herself to remain motionless. “Part of my job is hearing what people aren’t saying.”