The Villa

by Nora Roberts

  out of your life. If I had my way, he'd be out of the business as well. Completely out. And I suspect that's what's going to happen within the next year."

  "He's good at his job."

  "Others will be equally as good, and won't give me indigestion. Your mother's had her reasons for keeping him on. But those reasons aren't as important as they once were. Let him go," Eli said, kissing her forehead. "He'll sink or he'll swim. Either way, it's no longer your problem."

  From the terrace below, Tony listened, and his mouth hardened. He was still stinging from what he continually told himself had been a completely uncalled-for and inappropriate attack by his own daughter. He'd have been able to shrug it off, but it had been in public. In public at a business event.

  And business, he thought, wasn't what it had been.

  He didn't believe, not really, that the Giambellis would cut him loose. But they were going to make his life difficult.

  They thought he was stupid, that he was careless. But they were wrong. He already had a plan in place to ensure his financial security held. God knew he needed money, and plenty of it. Rene was already draining the resources he had.

  Of course he'd been unwise to become involved with Kris. He was doing his best to break that off, delicately. So far that had been a bit more problematic than he'd anticipated. It was flattering, really, that a lovely young woman like Kris would be so attached, so reluctant to part ways. And angry, he recalled, angry enough to call Rene in the middle of the night.

  Still, he'd handled that. Rene had assumed the caller was Pilar, and he hadn't corrected her. Why should he have?

  He sipped his wine, enjoyed the starlight and, as was his way, began to put trouble aside before it could take root.

  He was handling Kris as well, he decided. Promising to help her move into Sophia's position with Giambelli had stemmed that flood, just as a nice little bauble generally stemmed floods from Rene.

  It was all, he thought, knowing your quarry's weakness.

  And knowing it, using it, maintained the status quo.

  He intended to continue living his life as he believed he deserved. It was time to tap his sources, a little more here, a little more there. And look toward the future.

  Sophia moved through her circle of friends and did her best to avoid her cousin Gina. The woman was becoming more than a pest. She'd moved up the scale to embarrassment. Not only was she dressed in what appeared to be a Christmas-red tent with fifty pounds of sequins, but she was busily chirping to anyone she could corner about her husband's brilliance.

  Don, Sophia noted, was keeping very close to the bar. He was easily half-drunk and trying to make himself invisible.

  "Your mother all right?"

  Sophia stopped to smile at Helen. "Last time I saw her. Hello, Uncle James." She turned to give Helen's husband a hard hug. James Moore had been one of the constants in her life, and often more a father to her than her own.

  He'd let himself go pudgy, had lost more hair than he'd kept, but behind his silver wire glasses, his eyes twinkled green at her. He looked like everyone's favorite uncle and was one of the top, and most devious, criminal defense attorneys in California.

  "Prettiest girl in the room, isn't she, Helen?"

  "Always."

  "You haven't been by to see me in weeks."

  "I'll make up for it." She gave his cheek a second kiss. "La Signora has been keeping me busy."

  "So I hear. We brought you a present."

  "I love presents. Gimme."

  "It's over there, making time with that redhead."

  Sophia glanced over and gave a quick yip of pleasure as she spotted Lincoln Moore. "I thought Linc was still in Sacramento."

  "He'll fill you in," James told her. "Go on over. Talk him into marrying you this time."

  "James." Helen arched a brow. "We're going to find Pilar. Go enjoy yourself."

  Lincoln Moore was tall, dark and handsome. He was also the closest thing Sophia had to a brother. At various stages of their lives, her two-month seniority had been used to advantage—by both of them. Their mothers' friendship had been a bond that had ensured they'd grow up together. Because of it, neither of them had ever felt like an only child.

  She walked up behind him, slid an arm through the crook of his and asked the redhead, "Is this guy coming on to you?"

  "Sophie." With a laugh, he picked her off the floor, gave her a quick turn. "My surrogate sister," he told the redhead. "Sophia Giambelli, Andrea Wainwright. My date. Be nice."

  "Andrea." Sophia offered a hand. "We'll talk."

  "No, you won't. She lies about me. It's a hobby."

  "It's nice to meet you. Line's told me a lot about you."

  "He lies, too. Did you both come in from Sacramento?"

  "No, actually, I'm an intern at Saint Francis, the emergency-medicine rotation."

  "Basketball injury." Linc held up his right hand, showed off the splint on his right finger. "Dislocated it trying to jam. Andy took a look at it, fixed me up. Then I hit on her."

  "Actually, he hit on me before I fixed him up. But since I couldn't dislocate the rest of his fingers, here I am. And it is a great party."

  "I'm living in San Francisco again," Linc told Sophia. "I decided to take my father up on a job with his firm. I want some real law experience before I get too deep in the political thing. I'm a glorified law clerk, and not that glorified, but it's going to give me what I want until I pass the bar."

  "That's great! Linc, that's fabulous. I know your parents must be thrilled to have you home again. We'll make time to catch up, okay?"

  "Absolutely. I heard you've got your hands full right now."

  "Never too full. When do you take the bar?"

  "Next month."

  "He's brilliant, you know," she told Andy. "It can be a real pain in the butt."

  "Don't start, Sophie."

  "Enjoy yourselves." She spotted Ty coming in, looking miserable. "Duty calls. Don't sneak out without seeing my mother. You know she dotes on you." Sophia brushed at his jacket. "God knows why."

  "I won't. I'll call you."

  "You'd better. Nice meeting you, Andrea."

  "You, too." Andy glanced up at Linc. "So, are you brilliant?"

  "Yeah. It's a curse." Grinning, he drew her onto the dance floor.

  "Smile, MacMillan."

  Ty looked down at Sophia. "Why?"

  "Because you're going to dance with me."

  "Why?" He bit back a sigh as she took his hand. "Sorry. Been hanging around with Maddy Cutter too long. The kid never stops asking questions."

  "The two of you seemed to be hitting it off. We'd dance better if you actually touched me."

  "Right." He laid a hand at her waist. "She's an interesting kid, and bright. Have you seen my grandfather?"

  "Not for a bit. Why?"

  "I want to see him, and La Signora. Then I figure I'm done with this and can go home."

  "You're such a party animal." She slid her hand over his shoulder and tugged playfully at his hair. There was so much of it, she thought. All thick and unruly. "Live a little, Ty. It's Christmas."

  "Not yet. There's still a lot of work to be done before Christmas, and to be done after."

  "Hey." She tugged his hair again so that he stopped scanning the crowd for his grandfather and looked at her. "There's no work to be done tonight, and I still owe you for coming to my rescue."

  "You weren't in trouble. Everyone else was." It wasn't gratitude he was looking for, but distance. A safe distance. She was always dangerous, but pressed up against a man, she was lethal. "And I have some charts and some grafts I want to go over. Why is that funny?" he demanded when she chuckled.

  "I was just wondering what you'd be like if you ever loosened up. I bet you're a wild man, MacMillan."

  "I get loose," he muttered.

  "Tell me something." She skimmed her fingers down the nape of his neck, enjoyed the way those lake-blue eyes flared with annoyance. "Something that has nothing to do wi
th wine or work."

  "What else is there?"

  "Art, literature, an amusing childhood experience, a secret fantasy or desire."

  "My current fantasy is to get out of here."

  "Do better. Come on. The first thing that pops into your head."

  "Peeling that dress off you, and seeing if you taste like you smell." He waited a beat. "Good, that shut you up."

  "Only momentarily, and only because I'm assessing my reaction. I find myself a great deal more intrigued by the image than expected." She tipped her head back to study his face. Oh yes, she liked his eyes, especially now, when there were sparks of heat in them. "Why do you suppose that is?"

  "I've answered enough questions for one night." He started to step back, but she clamped her hand on his shoulder.

  "Why don't we fulfill our duty here, then go to your place?"

  "Is it that easy for you?"

  "It can be."

  "Not for me, but thanks." His tone turned careless and cold as he looked away from her again and around the room. "But I'd say you've got plenty of alternates here if you're up for a quick one-night stand. I'm going home."

  He stepped back, walked away.

  It took her nearly ten seconds before she had her wind back, and another three before the fury spurted up and scored her throat. The delay allowed him to get out of the room and down the first flight of stairs before she came after him.

  "No, you don't." She hissed it under her breath, then stalked past him. "In here." She strode into the family parlor, banged the pocket doors closed.

  "Cazzo! Culo! You son of a bitch." Even now her voice was quiet, controlled. He couldn't know how much that cost her.

  "You're right." He cut her off before she could spew all the venom. "That was out of line, and I'm sorry."

  The apology, quietly given, turned temper to tears, but she held them back by sheer raw will. "I'm a whore, in your opinion, because I think of sex the way a man does."

  "No. Jesus." He hadn't meant that, only to get under her skin the way she got under his. Then get the hell away from her. "I don't know what I think."

  "It would be all right, wouldn't it, if I pretended reluctance, if I let you seduce me. But because I'm honest, I'm cheap."

  "No." He gripped her arms now, hoping to steady them both. "You got me worked up. You always have. I shouldn't have said what I did. Anything that I did. For God's sake, don't cry."

  "I am not going to cry."

  "Good. Okay. Look, you're beautiful, outrageous and over my head. I've managed to keep my hands off you up till now, and I'm going to keep them off."

  "You've got them on me now."

  "Sorry." He dropped his arms to his sides. "Sorry."

  "You're saying you insulted me because you're a coward?"

  "Look, Sophie. I'm going home, soak my head. We'll get back to work tomorrow and forget this happened."

  "I don't think so. I get you worked up, do I?" She gave him a little shove, moving in, and he stepped back. "And your answer to that is to take a slap at me."

  "It was the wrong answer. I said I was sorry."

  "Not good enough. Try this."

  She was on him before he could act. All that was left was reaction.

  Her mouth was hot, and soft and very skilled. It fed ravenously on his. Her body was lush and smooth and very female. It pressed intimately against his.

  His mind blanked. He could admit that later—just snapped from on to off like a switch, giving him no shield against the panther leap of arousal. She tasted like she smelled; he learned that much.

  Dark and dangerous and female.

  He'd jerked her closer before he could stop himself, responded to the sharp nip of her teeth even as his system went to fast overload.

  One minute she was wrapped around him like some exotic, strangling vine, and the next he was cut loose with every ounce of blood drained from his head.

  "Deal with it." She ran a finger lightly over her own bottom lip, then turned to shove the doors open again.

  "Just a damn minute." He had her arm, spun her around. He wasn't sure what he planned to do, but he didn't plan for it to be pleasant.

  Then he saw the utter shock on her face. Before he could react she was shoving him aside, racing across the room to the refectory table.

  "Dio! Madonna, who would do such a thing?"

  He saw it then, the three Giambelli angels. Red ran down the carved faces like blood from slash wounds. Written across the chest of each, in that same violent hue, were vicious messages.

  BITCH #1

  BITCH #2

  BITCH #3

  "Sit down, Sophie. I'll get them out before your mother or grandmother sees them. Take them home, clean them up."

  "No, I'll do it. I think it's nail polish. A nasty girl trick." she said quietly. Temper would do no good, she thought as she gathered the three figures. And she couldn't find her anger under the sadness. "Rene, I suppose. Or Kris. They both hate the Giambelli women at the moment."

  "Let me take care of it for you." He laid his hands on her shoulders. "Whoever did it knew it would hurt you. I can get them cleaned up and put back before anyone notices."

  She wanted to push the angels into his big, strong hands, and herself along with them. Because she did, she stepped away from him. "I take care of my own, and you're in a hurry to go home."

  "Sophie."

  His tone was so patient, so kind, she sighed. "I need to do it myself. And I need to be angry with you a little while longer. So go away."

  He let her go, but once he was outside, he turned and climbed the stone steps to the ballroom. He'd hang around awhile, he decided. Just to be sure the only thing anyone hurt that night were wooden angels.

  In her room, Sophia carefully cleaned off the figures. It was, as she suspected, smears of bold red nail polish. A petty vandalism, and an ugly one, but not permanent.

  You can't destroy the Giambellis so easily, she thought. We're tougher than that. Tough enough, she thought, for her to ignore the nastiness of the act and leave the perpetrator of it disappointed.

  She took them back downstairs, replaced them and found that single act steadied her again.

  Easier, she realized, than steadying herself against what had passed between her and Tyler.

  Moron, she thought, wandering to an antique mirror to add a fresh dusting of powder to her nose. The moron could certainly kiss when he put some effort into it, but that didn't make him less of a moron. She hoped he suffered. She hoped he spent a long, sweaty, uncomfortable night. If he looked haggard and miserable the next day, she might, just might let him off the hook.

  Then again.

  She watched herself in the mirror as she traced a finger over her lips.

  Dropped her hand quickly to retrieve her lipstick when the doors opened.

  "Sophia."