“Do you really, darling?” Lauren pushed him aside and leaned over the bed. “Once we got together here, we worked out some of our issues—”
“I know, Mom. Really.” Chloë held up her hand to stop Lauren from talking. “Go get married before I have a little sister on the way.”
Eli kept a straight face.
Lauren’s eyes went wide with horror.
“That would be nice, eh?” Tamosso put his arm around Lauren. “We should at least try. We don’t want Chloë to be an only child. Only children are so lonely.”
Lauren transferred her horror to him. “Are you kidding ?”
“No.” He led her from the room. “I like children. We should have more before we’re too old.”
Eli burst into laughter.
Chloë stared at him forbiddingly, then smiled, and finally chuckled. “Honestly. It’s not funny. You wouldn’t believe what I saw them doing.”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
“I’m scarred for life.”
Eli cackled. “Why do you think they were always shouting at each other? They were fighting the attraction.”
“I thought they hated each other.” Chloë stroked the fingers that stuck out from his cast. “I guess they hate each other like I hate you.”
He turned on his side and smiled at her. “Do you hate me?”
She sighed. “I couldn’t even hate you when I found out Papa had had to bribe you to marry me.”
He dragged his broken foot a little closer to her, got up on one elbow and leaned on his cast, and tried to mend the difficulties between them. All he had were words, and the truth, and so much love he only hoped that somehow she’d hear it in his voice. “I did court you with the cold intention of marrying you for the money. I promised myself I’d be a good husband. And once I got to know you a little, I realized that wouldn’t be too hard.”
“There’s a compliment to treasure.” Chloë sounded sarcastic. She looked amused.
“But I swear to you, that night—”
“That night?” she mocked.
“The night when you found Abuela’s letter. That night.”
She nodded. “I remember some things about that night.”
“That night, I wasn’t thinking of your father’s money. I wasn’t thinking at all. You’d dug around inside me and turned me inside out. You brought all the ugliness to the surface, and once it was out, I didn’t know what to do. I was so frantic . . . and then there you were, so fresh, so beautiful”—he stroked her cheek—“a living, breathing miracle. So I grabbed you and took you. I was like a stupid, clumsy adolescent.”
A wicked smile curved one side of her mouth. “It’s one of my favorite memories.”
“I don’t know why.” When he remembered that impetuous outburst of lust and emotion, he was still embarrassed. And humiliated. And horny.
“Are you kidding? I liked you before, but you had such a stick up your rear. I figured you ate sawdust and drank control-ade. But that night.” She took a long, worshipful breath; her eyes glowed like stars, and color rose in her cheeks. “You were passionate. You were real. No man has ever shared himself like that. No man has ever wanted me like that. I remember every minute. I always will.” She put her hand to her chest as if to contain her delight. “After that night, I knew you, Eli Di Luca. Why else do you think I agreed to marry you?”
“Because you love me.”
“I do. I know you, and I like what I know.” She smirked. “Even better, I know you love me.”
He scooted a little closer. His heart beat a little faster. “Do you believe that?”
“If you like, you can take the time to convince me yourself, but actually . . .” She drew out the suspense. “Wyatt told me.”
“Wyatt?” Eli drew back in surprise.
“That monster was good for one thing.” She watched him as if weighing his reaction. “He told me you drove through the vineyard to rescue me.”
“Oh. That.” Eli shrugged and dismissed it. “The emergency vehicles had me blocked in. I had no choice.”
“You’re taking it well.” A smile played around her mouth. “How many rows did you take out?”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty rows exactly.” The smile took a firmer hold. “The trellises are connected, so you didn’t merely destroy the part you drove over. You pulled other vines and wires and stakes out of the ground all the way down the rows. How many feet went down?”
“Thirty feet per row, more or less.”
“How many vines gone?”
“One hundred and twenty.”
“A hundred and twenty grapevines planted in . . . what year?”
“Nineteen seventy-four.”
“So a hundred and twenty vines planted in 1974, years of grape maturity you can never get back, and you drove over them with your big tires”—she wiggled her fingers as she described the scene—“crunching them, uprooting them, obliterating them—”
“All right. All right.” He put his hand on his chest. “Stop!” She was killing him.
She settled back with a silent laugh. “Don’t tell me it didn’t mean anything. That’s not a stick you’ve got up your rear; that’s a grapevine.”
“You think you’re so funny. I ought to teach you a lesson.” He leaned down to her, his lips hovering over hers, her breath on his mouth . . . and someone tapped on the door.
Chapter 51
Chloë saw a ferocious impatience settle over Eli.
“Who is it?” he snapped.
“It’s Nonna!” Sarah chirped.
“How can you be annoyed with Nonna?” Chloë whispered.
“I’m not annoyed with Nonna,” he said between his teeth. “I’m annoyed at the interruption.”
Chloë shared his exasperation, but she flattered herself she was a little more practical. She touched the cut under his chin, and his black eye, and said, “I’m only available for a kiss, anyway. You have to keep your foot elevated. I can’t move without hurting my chest or my shoulder. And we’re both still on pain medication.”
“I know. I know. But . . .” He writhed with frustration as he flung himself back on his pillows and called out, “Come in, Nonna.”
Nonna walked in carrying a vase of daffodils and tulips. “The girls got these out of my yard. I thought they would cheer you.” Her gaze swept the arrangements that decorated the room. “Although, Eli, it seems someone else thought your austere bedroom needed some brightening.”
“I have everything I need to brighten my bedroom right here in bed with me.” He smiled hopefully at Chloë.
Chloë patted his arm and pretended to sympathize with his dilemma, but the poor guy was fighting a losing battle. Somehow Nonna’s lace shawl and Chloë’s collection of glass perfume bottles had already found their way onto the chest of drawers. His stark masculine bedroom was a thing of the past.
Maybe if she got a new skull for the end table, the place would feel cozier. . . .
“Thank you, Nonna.” Chloë indicated the bathroom. “Those flowers will look glorious on the counter.”
“They will, won’t they? With all the browns and golds in there, they’ll be just right.” She took them in and returned, and seated herself in the chair DuPey had vacated, the one beside the bed. “How are you two doing?”
“We’re better,” Eli said.
“Of course you are, dear, or I wouldn’t be interrupting your kissing. I always seem to be doing that.” Nonna was ostensibly talking to them both, but she was scrutinizing Eli. “Dear boy, you look so different, so . . .”
“Bruised?” he suggested.
“Happy. Ever since you returned from Chile, I have been so afraid I would never meet that strong, loving little man you had been when you were eight. I feared I would never see the day when I could look into your face and view real emotions. And now . . . here you are, in love with Chloë and willing to show the world. I called you out for marrying her for such a wicked reason as money.” Nonna turned to Chloë.
“I truly did, dear. I was angry with him. I don’t want you to think otherwise.”
“I know, Nonna,” Chloë said soothingly. “And I appreciate that.”
Nonna turned back to Eli. “You’re a whole person now, Eli. I am so proud of you for facing your pain, taking the chance, and becoming the man I always knew you could be.”
He held out his good arm to her.
She leaned in and hugged him.
Tears prickled at Chloë’s eyes. She loved Nonna. And she loved Eli. And she’d never imagined a day when the two of them could get closer and be more devoted—and yet, here they were.
She had a hand in that. She was proud of them all.
Nonna straightened. “While you were in the hospital, Eli, I found out just how far you’d come on your return to the human race. I got a phone call and . . . well. I brought you a little surprise.” She walked over to the door and stood beside it.
An elderly woman stepped into the room.
“Here we are,” Nonna said. “Your surprise visitor. She was such a pleasure for me to meet. I hope you’re glad to see her, too.”
Eli sat straight up, his spine vertical, his shoulders rigid, and the expression on his face . . .
Chloë worked herself into a sitting position and examined their caller.
The woman was small, barely five feet, and old, with a brown face wrinkled by the sun. Her long, dark, gray-streaked hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and she wore black from head to toe: black skirt, black shirt, black stockings, black shoes. She carried a large black purse, and if Chloë had seen her on the street, she would have thought she was a nun. Except there was a look about her, one that reminded Chloë of Eli. Oh, my God. It was . . .
“Abuela,” he said.
“Eli,” the old woman replied.
The brief conversation came to a halt as they examined each other.
He inclined his head. “Welcome to my home. Mi casa es tu casa.”
At his words of hospitality, Chloë let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.
Nonna met her eyes and nodded, and tiptoed out of the room.
“Thank you.” Abuela’s voice was heavy with a Spanish accent and rough with years of smoking. “Your home is beautiful.”
“Thank you. Please sit down.” He indicated the chair that had seen so many visitors this morning.
She came to the bed, smelling of cigars, and sat stiffly, with an unbending spine that never touched the back of the chair.
Chloë helped Eli pull his pillows into an upright position.
Another pause.
“You tried to call me,” Abuela said.
Chloë jerked her head around so hard to look at Eli that she hurt her shoulder.
“I did,” he admitted.
“The connection must have been bad. We weren’t able to speak.”
Chloë interpreted Abuela’s words; Eli had made the attempt to call and changed his mind.
“So I traveled here,” Abuela said, “many thousands of miles, leaving my country for the first time in my long life, to speak with my most beloved grandson.”
“I am honored,” he replied, and with his cast, he gestured to Chloë. “Please allow me to introduce you to my adored esposa, Chloë Di Luca.”
Abuela’s gaze moved to her, and although Chloë knew she’d always been aware of her, she gave her the same extensive examination she’d given Eli. “Welcome to my family.”
“Thank you. It’s an honor to be Eli’s wife and your granddaughter.” Everything about this conversation was stilted, but Chloë recognized what was going on under the surface. Much was being said, all without words.
Only Abuela’s eyes moved as she looked again at Eli. “Many months ago, I wrote you a letter.”
“I received it.” Obviously, he wasn’t going to apologize for not answering.
“The doctors say next spring the grass will turn green over my grave.” When Chloë would have spoken her sympathy, Abuela waved her to silence. “I’ve had a long life. There have been struggles and hardships, but there have been moments of great joy, too. This is one of those moments of joy.”
Clearly, Abuela did not show emotion.
So that was where Eli had learned that trick. Abuela continued. “But before I leave this life, I want to make amends where needed. Your family in Chile, Eli, are doing well. Your cousins send their greetings.”
“I remember them in return,” Eli said.
Obviously, whatever newfound forgiveness he felt for Abuela did not extend to his cousins.
“Of course, my will gives all to them. They have stayed with me all these years”—a reproach, skillfully delivered—“and one, young Salazar, is almost as talented as you when it comes to blending the wines.”
“I’ve heard of him as a winemaker,” Eli said. “He is very good.”
Another surprise. Eli was full of them today.
Something that passed for a smile crossed Abuela’s face. “Yes. I am proud of the boy. Yet when I heard the doctor’s verdict, I looked for a way to give you something as a remembrance of me.” She leaned down and picked up her purse.
Chloë expected her to pull out a knickknack or a piece of jewelry or something etched with the Silva family escutcheon.
She underestimated Abuela.
“It came to my attention that Owen Slovak, your accountant and friend, stole your fortune and the wealth of your winery and fled to South America.” Those dark, expressionless eyes grew icy. “I don’t like thieves, especially not thieves who steal from my grandson and, by extension, from me.”
So many revelations for Chloë. Eli had gotten a lot of his traits from his maternal grandmother, including this stiff-necked protectiveness about his possessions and his family.
“As you know,” Abuela continued, “I have some influence with the authorities.”
“I’m aware of that.” Eli’s face was as impassive as Abuela’s.
Yet in the way he held himself, Chloë could see his wariness.
“Under my direction”—Abuela’s voice grew proud—“the authorities discovered a reason to arrest this traitor to my grandson. Apparently he had moved on to a new career—selling drugs.”
“Owen?” Eli was clearly surprised.
“Perhaps he was framed.” Abuela shrugged indifferently. “I don’t know. I don’t care. I only know Owen Slovak was quite surprised to discover drug lords are nasty when someone moves into their territory, and our justice system is not quite as . . . indulgent . . . as the one in America.”
“I can imagine with so many threats, he was frightened.” Eli’s gaze never left Abuela’s.
“I believe he was,” Abuela conceded. “A day of being intimidated by our drug lords, a few weeks in a foreign prison . . . they convinced him he would like to return your fortune.” She held up one gnarled finger. “With interest.”
“Wow,” Chloë whispered. Now, that was influence.
Abuela pulled a folder from her purse. “I have papers here, made up by my lawyers. I’ll leave them with you to peruse, and if they are written to your satisfaction, the fortune will be transferred back into your account and you’ll be a wealthy man once more.” She placed the folder on the table beside Eli.
“Thank you, Abuela.” Eli was pale with shock. “I am most grateful for your gift.”
She stood. “I’m tired from my trip, so I will go.”
“Wait!” Eli said. “What’s happened to Owen?”
“He’s living in Chile. He has no money. His reputation as a thief is well-known. No one will hire him as an accountant.” Abuela appeared to think. “I believe . . . Owen Slovak is working as a farmhand for Del Toro Wines.”
Chloë’s eyes widened. She would never want to anger this woman. “Abuela, we have room if you wish to stay here.”
Once again Abuela’s gaze examined her, and her eyes warmed ever so slightly. “Thank you, but I’m staying with Sarah. She is lovely. You are most fortunate, Eli, in your grandmother.”
&n
bsp; “In both my grandmothers.” Taking her gnarled hand, he kissed it. “Thank you, Abuela. Thank you for coming to visit me. Welcome to the United States. I look forward to seeing you again soon.”
Abuela squeezed his hand, and for the first time, Chloë saw a glimpse of the woman who loved her grandson enough to make these restitutions to him.
Turning slowly, she made her way to the door and into the living room, leaving a shocked silence behind.
Finally Chloë asked, “How old is she?”
“About a million.” Eli moved restlessly on the bed. “I remembered her as being a giant, but she’s so short.”
“And feeble.”
“I should have finished that call. I should have gone to her.” He turned to Chloë. “Please don’t say, ‘I told you so.’”
Chloë shut her mouth. Then she opened it again. “Okay, but can I say—if you’d written Abuela back when she first contacted you, do you realize this never would have happened? You would have never been in the position for my father to blackmail you. You would never have had to get married. You’d be single, heart-whole, and with no broken bones.”
“Thank God you didn’t say, ‘I told you so,’” he said with fine-tuned insincerity.
“Of course not,” she said righteously. “That would be mean.”
“If I had written her back and been saved from my financial difficulties . . . I wouldn’t have you.” Eli smiled at her, a sweet smile the likes of which she had never thought she would see from this austere man. “So everything is right with the world.”
“That’s true.” She lifted her hand and showed him her rings, glinting merrily. “Because if I didn’t have you, I wouldn’t know the joy of wearing your wedding band on my finger.”
He grew serious. “Chloë, I don’t need your father’s money now.”
“He won’t like that,” Chloë warned.
“If he were smart, he would make me pay him for the privilege of having his daughter as my wife.”
She laughed. “I want to hear that conversation.”
“I’ll return your father’s money, but I will never return your heart, and I’ll never let you return mine. Because all I need in this life . . . is you.” He kissed her hand with the rings. “Will you stay with me forever?”
Revenge at Bella Terra Page 29
