Or maybe she was guilty.
Or maybe she knew his grandmother’s wishes better than he liked to admit.
“Make yourself happy,” he said, and made a tour of the kitchen, studying everything. The condition of the back door—it had been forcefully yanked open, so the guy was definitely fleeing. The faucet—it was centered on the sink, and Nonna was a tyrant about that. And finally, most important, the area around the cellar door—still no footprints, no dirt from the flower beds. “So the perp was wearing latex gloves and maybe shoe protection,” Rafe mused aloud. He would have to follow the trail out the back door, to the bushes where the guy had stashed the motorcycle, and photograph the marks left by the tires. If they were original to the bike, the tread could be traced to a specific manufacturer, and then Rafe could check public records for everyone who owned that kind of motorcycle. But first . . . “Are you done? C’mon. I’m going down to the cellar. I could use your keen eye.”
“No. No, when I finish here, I’m going outside.” Going to the sink, she wet a dish towel. “I’ll meet you there.”
He watched her as she returned to the table and swabbed the sticky ice cream away, then knelt on the floor and did it again. “That’s right. You don’t like the basement.”
She didn’t answer for a long moment. Then, “No. No, I don’t like the basement. It’s silly, I know. No good reason for it, and I do go down, because every time Nonna goes to get potatoes or garlic or a bottle of wine, I worry. To tell you the truth, that was the phone call I was afraid to get—that she’d fallen down those steps and broken her arm or—” Brooke took a quavering breath. “I didn’t expect her to get mugged in her own house. That’s all.”
“You’re upset.”
“This is the first time I’ve been back since I was here with the ambulance.” Pale with cold sweat, she sat down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs.
Opening a drawer, he pulled out a kitchen towel, ran it under the cool water, and laid it around her neck. “Do you know where Nonna’s flashlight is?”
She didn’t ask why he needed it, simply pressed the towel closer and gestured toward the cupboard beside the sink.
“Better to put your head between your knees than to fall on the floor,” he instructed, then opened the cupboard.
The flashlight was the one he’d given Nonna for Christmas, with three LEDs that gave a strong, white, directed light. Remembering her enthusiasm, and satisfied he’d given her a cool gift that she could truly use, he took it and headed down the stairs into the cellar.
The cellar probably looked like every other cellar constructed in the late nineteenth century—a hole in the ground, twenty by thirty, with a high ceiling, rough cement walls, tiny windows up at ground level covered by outdoor vegetation and indoor grime. Not even Nonna, who so carefully tended her home, would climb up to wash those windows.
Sometime in the early twentieth century, someone had run an electric wire to a bare bulb in the middle of the room, turned on and off by a good long stretch and a chain. Not long after her grandsons arrived, Nonna had an electrician in to bring the electricity up to code. A fluorescent fixture replaced the bulb, which still dangled, useless, from the ceiling.
Rafe flipped the switch, and with a flicker, blaring white light illuminated the cellar.
A slow, constant shower of dust from the ceiling coated the floor. A couple of paths ran through it, created by his grandmother as she trekked to the shelves where she kept her winter vegetables and to the wall filled with wines.
Men’s footprints tracked across the floor, not too many, all with their own tread.
The cops had been down here, of course.
But none of those footprints matched the motorcyclist’s, and none had that distinctive lack of tread that shoe covers would have provided.
So Nonna’s attacker had been down here looking at the same stuff she did. The vegetables? Not likely. The wine? For sure. She had some valuable bottles, but hell, who came all this way to steal a few bottles of wine when half the households in Bella Valley had great wine sitting around in unprotected wine cellars? Add that to the fact that no similar break-ins or attacks had happened, the candles were out of the wine bottles on the table, and there were no fingerprints, and Rafe had a mystery on his hands.
Turning off the fluorescent lights, he flicked on the flashlight and shone it around the basement, using its bright focused illumination to spot anything out of place. There was nothing. Except . . . He shone it in the slots where the bottles of wine rested. The dust in each slot had been disturbed and—he pulled out the bottles one by one—the labels had been wiped off. For a better look?
Yes, the perp had been searching for something specific, and doing it with subtlety. If Nonna hadn’t come home and interrupted him, she would never have known he was there.
On the other hand, she’d said he hit her with a tire iron, and she had the broken arm to prove it. So the perp had come prepared for trouble.
Rafe put the bottles back and shone the flashlight around one last time, then turned it off.
What bottle was the perp searching for? Did Nonna know? Did she hide a secret?
And why had the trouble started now?
Chapter 9
Rafe came around the house to the front to find Brooke reclined on the stairs, her feet braced against the bottommost step, her long legs stretched out straight, her head and shoulders resting on the porch. Her eyes were closed. Her face was turned up to the sun.
She had her father’s fair skin. “You’ll burn,” he said.
“SPF forty at all times,” she answered, and never stirred a muscle.
He nodded, climbed the stairs, and sat down on the top step, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped loosely between his legs. “You killed a man.”
Still she didn’t open her eyes. Or move. “It didn’t take long for you to garner that information.”
“I didn’t garner that information.” He’d forgotten how irritating she could be. “It was given to me by my brothers as a reason why I should catch the perp and get out of town.”
“They were trying to scare you away?”
“They were telling me I shouldn’t screw with you.”
She smirked. “Because I would kill you, too?”
“No, because you’re fragile from your ordeal.”
Her smile disappeared. “I’m really not.”
“So you killed that guy and haven’t thought twice about it?”
“He deserved it.”
The silence stretched. Usually when he saw Brooke, she was dressed in a black suit with a skirt and heels. Usually she had her hair carefully controlled and her cosmetics were perfectly applied.
He liked to look at her like this, in faded denim jeans and an oversize white button-up shirt tucked into the waistband. Her pink running shoes were scuffed, her hair had been styled by the wind as they drove, and if she was wearing makeup, it was damned little.
Right now, the way she looked reminded him of high school. High school and first love . . . “Where did the crime occur?” he asked.
“My crime, or his?” Still cool. Still calm.
“Where did he find you?”
“In building A, in the housekeeping closet on the north end of the property. He trapped me there, so I shot him.”
“You just happened to have a gun on you.” He put hard disbelief in his tone.
“I had been uneasy for several days. My people had reported a man skulking on the grounds, and Noah made it clear that if I found myself in a situation, I should defend myself.” Her voice didn’t rise in volume or tone. Her eyes never bothered to open, not even a flicker.
“How did you know this skulking man was a threat?”
“Didn’t your brothers tell you? The guy pulled a knife.”
“And you shot him.”
“I shot him.”
“Because he pulled a knife.”
“The leather, the boots, the tats, and the piercings seemed less than r
eassuring, too.” Still not a twinge of guilt or distress in her voice.
“So you shot him,” Rafe repeated, trying to make her react the way he knew she should. “Once? Twice?”
“I emptied the gun.”
“Six shots?” He hadn’t expected that. “Surely one shot brought him down.”
“I didn’t hit him the first time.”
“But you were defending yourself, and you were trained to shoot.”
She opened her eyes. She pushed herself up on her elbows. She looked up at him in annoyance. “If you know everything, why are you questioning me?”
“When two acts of violence occur so closely together, both of them concerning people I care about, I want to know all the details.”
Brooke sighed and sat all the way up. “I was supervising one of the maids. Madelyn is fairly new, so I’m keeping an eye on her. She was cleaning the rooms and I was following behind her, checking her performance and giving her corrections, and she ran out of wood soap. So I went to the supply room to get her some, and he followed me in. He was grinning and holding a knife. I tried talking to him, but he lunged at me. So I shot him.”
“What happened when you missed the first time?”
“I panicked. I shot again. And again. I shot him until I knew he was dead and I had no more bullets.”
Rafe didn’t believe a word of it. Not a word. Not with that calm recital. But he nodded as if he did. “You must have nightmares.”
“Nightmares?” For the first time, she seemed to realize she should be not merely telling the story, but displaying some emotion—the kind of emotion she’d shown in the kitchen when she once more faced the crime scene where Nonna had been attacked.
“The first time I killed a man . . . well. I can still see his face at the moment of his death.” Rafe scooted down to sit beside her. “The blood spurting from his chest, his neck, splashing me as he collapsed, knowing he would never stand on this earth again . . .”
“Better him than you,” she said. “And better this guy than me.”
“Of course. But for all that your parents are soldiers, you are not.” He slid his arm along the step behind her back, lifted her to him, brought her close. Leaning back against the steps, he placed her body across his. “When you think about committing bloody murder, no matter how justified—you need comfort.”
“Sure.” She tugged against him, but halfheartedly as if she didn’t quite know how to react. “But not yours.”
“Mine more than anyone’s. Mine because I know you better than any man on earth.” He was trying to tell her he knew she was lying.
Did she comprehend?
He thought so, because she looked into his eyes and her blue gaze weighed him and her next move.
No. None of that.
He pulled her as close as he could, wrapped one hand on the back of her head, and held her still for his kiss.
A cautious press to the corner of her mouth. To the other corner. Then full on, opening her with his tongue and tasting her for the first time and knowing this was homecoming.
Yeah. Homecoming.
Brooke was the woman he dreamed of every day of his life.
Brooke was the woman he denied himself for her own good, because she wanted Bella Terra and he wanted the world.
But for his own good, he had to kiss her. Because touching her brought back memories of necking at the far end of the orchard alongside an irrigation canal. And because she smelled like wine flowers and fertile earth, and youth and passion and true love.
“Rafe . . .” she murmured against his lips. Lifting her head, she tried to push away.
Yes, because this Brooke was cooler. Calmer. With none of the hero worship she’d shown him in high school. And none of the helpless compassion that had moved her in college. She was in face and form still Brooke . . . but she wasn’t his Brooke. Not anymore.
And he, like the beast he was, wanted to break through her serenity and see for himself whether the young, exuberant Brooke still existed beneath the mask . . . or if she had become the woman she pretended to be.
He slid one hand down to her butt and one up to the back of her neck, and with his fingertips he stroked her ear.
She stilled.
She was the same, at least in that respect. A caress to her earlobe hypnotized her with pleasure.
He kissed her again, and the taste of her . . . ah, that blocked everything but the passion and sweetness and glory that was Brooke.
She was cautious. God, so cautious. In some rational part of his brain, he completely understood why she held back. But the lustful, animal part of his brain—okay, not his brain, his dick—didn’t care. He held her with his arm across her back, her body so close against his that the layers of clothing between them were nothing but a hindrance. He knew her shape, sensed the changes that seven years had wrought, exulted in them. He probed her mouth with his tongue, swept away her cool control, brought all their old, dusty feelings into the sunshine and the new day.
She was still motionless, as if waiting. . . .
But he knew he’d won when she slid her fingers into his hair and kissed him back, deftly giving him as much delight as he offered, amplifying his need for possession into a thing that relentlessly clawed at him, making him imagine all the ways he could take her, here, in the sunshine on his grandmother’s front steps overlooking Bella Terra.
He knew her so well.
But she knew him, too, and it didn’t take psychic ability to know where his mind had gone, not as close as they were.
So when she got her elbow between them close to his throat and pressed with increasing force, he knew no amount of ear rubbing was going to change her mind.
“My pager’s vibrating,” she said.
“Is that what that is?” He smiled at her. “I was hoping for something . . . different.”
“I’ll bet. If they’re paging me now, when I’ve told them not to, it’s important. So . . . ?” She was polite and unflustered, considering he had a hard-on approximately the height and girth of a sequoia pressed into her belly. Or maybe she was unimpressed.
“Sure.” He let her go.
He let her go. Again.
Chapter 10
Rafe on her heels, Brooke strode from the public parking lot, packed with springtime tourists, up the side street and past the cars stacked up under Bella Terra’s portico.
The resort’s main building had been constructed in the twenties in the old California Spanish style: thick golden stucco walls to keep out the summer’s heat, a clay tile roof, and green-painted shutters. The family had added on until it included three wings with one hundred guest rooms. Each generation had remodeled until the merest remnants remained of the original building, and within the last fifty years, cottages had been scattered throughout the vineyards and among the trees.
Always the Di Lucas had treasured the feel of California’s history, intertwined with theirs, the ups and downs, the grapes and the land, the heat and the glory.
The front door led onto First Street and the bustle of downtown. The back door of the main building led to the check-in area. There the valets took control of the cars, golf carts waited to take the guests to their cottages . . . and it was there Brooke headed. She nodded to the bellmen, young men and women casually dressed in dark golf shirts and khaki chinos, pushing carts of luggage toward the bell desk.
She paused and critically observed as the server for their winery of the day, Folderol Winery, poured for their incoming guests from their selection of four wines, discussed their merits, and handed out information.
The resort kept a large beverage server full of lemonade to offer to their guests; someone had spilled a glass on the polished concrete floor. One of their housekeepers was on her knees cleaning it up.
Brooke walked to her side and placed her hand on Madelyn’s shoulder.
Predictably, Madelyn jumped. She looked like a street fighter: short and thin, with blond hair shaved close to her head, a snake tattoo around o
ne wrist, and a scar on the side of her neck. The housekeeping staff complained that she was freaky, but because Madelyn worked hard, took their shifts if they wanted to slack off, and took double time if they were shorthanded, they usually forgave the freaky.
Brooke lifted a brow to the manager behind the desk and got a nod in return. Although the afternoon check-in rush was ongoing, he and his staff had everything under control.
She took her first deep breath since the moment Rafe had walked into Sarah’s hospital room, and felt herself relax. She was back in her element, in charge of making sure the visitors to Bella Terra Resort were happy, at ease, well fed, and entertained—and she had the personnel to handle that task.
Turning to the concierge desk, she waited while her second in command, Victor Ruíz, laid out a wine country map for an older couple and circled suggested destinations.
“How does he decide where to send them?” Rafe asked.
“If they know the kinds of wines they enjoy, we have something to go by. But a lot of the time people haven’t got a clue about whether they like cabernets or carignans, whites or reds, or if they like wine at all. Then it’s tricky. Restaurants are easier. Everyone knows what kind of food they like—although sometimes they lie about it so they sound sophisticated.” The line in front of the desk took a sudden jump as a group of four couples stepped up to the desk and a very young couple stepped off the elevator looking confused and concerned. “Will you excuse me?” she said to Rafe, but didn’t wait for a reply. At this time of the day, the staff all performed double duty, whatever needed to be done, and if that inconvenienced Rafe, well . . . good.
She got behind the desk and dealt with the couples first, setting them up on a wine country tour bus for the following day. She helped two elderly ladies get a reservation at Speak-Easy’s Cajun Restaurant, directed two already inebriated young men to the pool with instructions to introduce themselves to the female lifeguard, looked around for the confused young couple—and saw Rafe speaking with them. They were laughing and nodding, less concerned, more relaxed.
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