by Nora Roberts
"Nonna." She glanced toward the three angels. All was as it should be. "Just doing some repairs. I'll be right back up."
Tereza closed the doors behind her. "I saw you go out after Tyler."
"Mmm." Keeping it at that, Sophia carefully painted her lips.
"Do you think, because I'm old, I don't recognize the look in your eye?"
"What look is that, Nonna?"
"Hot blood."
Sophia gave a little shrug, recapped her lipstick. "We had an argument."
"An argument didn't require you to replace your lipstick."
Laughing now, Sophia turned. "What sharp eyes you have, Grandma. We did have an argument, and I solved it my way. It's both legal and moral for me to kiss Ty, Nonna. We're not blood kin."
"I love you, Sophia. And I love Tyler."
Sophia softened. The words came rarely from Tereza. "I know."
"I didn't put the two of you together so you would hurt each other."
"Why did you put us together?"
"For the good of the family." Because the day had been long, Tereza gave in and sat. "Hot blood can cloud the judgment. This is a pivotal year, and already before it begins, we have upheaval. You're a beautiful young woman."
"Some say I look like my grandmother."
Tereza allowed herself a small smile. She, too, glanced toward the three carved figures, and her eyes softened. "A little, perhaps. But more you favor your grandfather. He was beautiful, like a painting. I married for duty, but it wasn't a hardship. And he was kind. Beauty is a weapon, cam. Take care how you use it, for without that kindness, it will turn and strike back at you."
Sophia sat. "Am I… hard, Nonna?"
"Yes." Tereza reached over, touched her hand lightly to Sophia's. "That's not a bad thing. A soft woman is too easily molded, and too easily bruised. Your mother's been both. She's my daughter, Sophia," she added coolly, when Sophia stiffened. "I will speak my mind there. You're not soft, and you go your own way. I'm pleased with you. I say only that hard can become brittle, without care. Take care."
"Are you pleased with me, Nonna, because in going my own way, I go yours?"
"Perhaps. You're Giambelli. Blood tells."
"I'm also Avano."
Tereza inclined her head, her voice turned fierce. "You're proof, aren't you, of which line is stronger? Your father's in you. He's a sly man, and you can be sly. He's ambitious, and so are you. But his weaknesses have never been yours. His lack of heart has ruined him as much as his lack of courage. You have both heart and courage, and so you can be hard and not brittle."
"I know you hate him," Sophia said softly. "Tonight, so do I."
"'Hate' is a strong word. You shouldn't use it against your father, whatever he is, whatever he's done. I have no hate for Anthony Avano." Tereza got to her feet again. "I have no feelings toward him now. He's made his last choice that concerns me. We'll deal with each other one final time, then he'll no longer exist for me."
"You mean to cut him loose."
"He made his choice," Tereza repeated. "Now he'll deal with the consequences of it. It's not for you to worry over." She held out a hand. "Come, you should be at the party. We'll find your mother and show them three generations of Giambelli women."
It was very late when Tony let himself into the apartment. He wondered if anyone knew he had the key, after all this time.
He'd brought his own bottle of wine, a choice from his personal cellar. The Barolo would keep things civilized. Business discussions, and the word blackmail never entered his mind, should always be conducted in a civilized manner.
He uncorked the bottle in the kitchen, left the wine on the counter to breathe and selected two glasses. Though he was disappointed not to find fresh fruit in the refrigerator, he made do with the wheel of Brie.
Even at three in the morning, presentation mattered.
It was lucky he'd made the appointment so late. It had taken quite some doing to wind Rene down. She'd spent over an hour, even after the drive back to the city, haranguing him about the Giambellis, their treatment of her, his future with the company. And money.
Money was the main matter, of course.
He could hardly blame her for it.
Their lifestyle required a great deal of money. Unlike Pilar, Rene didn't bring unlimited funds to the table. And unlike Pilar, Rene went through money like it would shortly become unfashionable to have any in your pocket.
No matter, he thought, arranging crackers with the cheese. It would be a simple and civilized matter to increase their cash flow.
The Giambellis intended to cut him loose. He was certain of that now. Neither Pilar nor Sophia would stand up for him. He'd known that was a possibility, but had chosen to ignore it and hope for the best. Or rather, he admitted here, in private, he'd allowed Rene to push him into a corner.
But he had options. Any number of options. The first of which should be coming along any minute.
This first business deal would be a stopgap, buy him time. He had other avenues, and they could be widened if necessary. He had contacts, and prospects.
Tereza Giambelli would be very sorry she'd underestimated him. A great many people would be sorry.
In the end he would land on his feet, as he always had. He had no doubt of it.
The knock on the door made him smile. He poured two glasses of wine, set them and the bottle on a tray with the cheese and crackers. He set the tray on the coffee table in the living room.
He shot his cuffs, smoothed his hair, then walked to the door prepared to begin negotiations.
Part Two
The Growing
Not a having and a resting, but a growing and a becoming,
is the character of perfection as culture conceives it.
—MATTHEW ARNOLD
~•~
Chapter Nine
Contents - Prev | Next
"I don't know why we had to come back here."
"Because I needed a few more things." She could have put it off, Sophia admitted. But no reason to waste a trip into San Francisco without stopping by her apartment. Hadn't she taken pity on Ty and driven Eli's SUV instead of her convertible?
"Look," she continued. "I explained that at the beginning I'm going to have to spot-check the offices. Kris is going to continue to resist the new feeding chain. She needs to see you and me together, a team."
"Some team."
"I'm managing." She pulled into her parking slot, set the brake. "I think we should call a holiday truce. At the moment, Ty, I just don't have the time to fight with you."
She climbed out, slammed her door, jammed her keys in her briefcase.
"What's the problem?"
"I don't have a problem. You're the problem."
He walked around to her side, leaned on the fender. She'd been edgy for two days, he thought. Long enough for anybody to stew. He didn't think it was about their incident at the Christmas party. She'd come out on top of that one.
"A team, remember? Are you still upset about the angels?"
"No. I took care of them, didn't I? Good as new."
"Yeah, you deal, all right. So what's the problem now?"
"You want to know the problem? Fine. I hate getting up at the crack of dawn every day, tromping around the fields in the cold. But I'm doing it. Then I go back and do the work I'm trained to do. But I'm obliged to juggle it from the villa and the offices here, where I have a second-in-command who's not only slept with my father but is ready to mutiny."
"Fire her."
"Oh, that's an idea." She tapped a finger to her temple, while her voice dripped disdain. "Why hasn't that occurred to me? Could it be because we're weeks into a reorganization, in the middle of a huge and intense and vital promotional campaign and I have no one qualified to take over her work? Yes, you know, I think that might be the reason I haven't kicked her bitchy, cheating ass out."
"Look, brat, you got sand in your shoe, you shake it out."
"I don't have time," she snapped and,
to prove it, yanked out her Filofax. It bulged. "Would you like to take a look in here, see my schedule for the next six weeks?" She jammed it back in her briefcase.
"So you're pressed." He gave a little shrug. "Take the mornings off to do what you have to do. I'll carry you in the vineyard."
The look she gave him shot like a bullet.
"Nobody carries me, MacMillan. But you're damn right I'm pressed. I'm supposed to be training my mother, who has little to no interest in public relations. I've had to cancel three dates with three very interesting men because I'm buried in work. My social life is going down the toilet. I haven't been able to get through goddamn Rene for two days to contact my father, who hasn't been to his office. And it's imperative I speak with him about one of our top accounts within the next forty-eight hours as someone—who unfortunately won't be me—is going to need to fly to San Diego for a meeting in approximately forty-nine hours."
"What about Margaret? I thought she was taking over most of the major accounts."
"Do you think I didn't try that? Do I look stupid?" Tired, frustrated and fed up, she stalked to the garage elevator and stabbed the button. "She left for Italy yesterday afternoon. Neither she nor her office is fully updated on the Twiner account because it's always been my father's baby. Since I don't want the people at Twiner to know we've got a hole in the loop, I've been tap-dancing with them for days."
"Nobody carries you," Ty pointed out. "But you're carrying Avano."
"No, I'm through carrying him. But I'll carry Giambelli, and that's why I'm covering for him as long as I can. I don't like it, I'm pissed off and I have a stupid headache."
"Okay." He surprised them both by reaching up to rub her stiff shoulders when they stepped onto the elevator. "Take some aspirin, then we'll work it through a step at a time."
"She's got no right to block me from speaking to my own father. Not on a personal level or a business one."
"No, she doesn't." That, Ty assumed, was the real headache. "It's a power play. She won't get her kicks unless you let her know it steams you. Work around him."
"If I work around him, it makes him look like a… damn it. He is a fool. I'm so angry with him for putting me into this spot. If I don't clean it up by end of day—"
"You'll clean it up by end of day."
"Yeah." She let out a breath, stepped off the elevator on her floor. Turned to study him. "Why are you being nice to me?"
"It throws you off. Plus, Twiner is a big stake. I don't spend all my time in the fields," he said when she lifted her eyebrows at him. "If you'd told me you were trying to track down your father, I'd have given you a hand with it. You haven't gone to Cutter."
She pressed her lips together. "No. But I figure he knows something's up. He'll pinpoint the target soon enough."
"Then we'll just have to be faster. Teamwork, remember?"
"That's only because you dislike him more than you dislike me."
"And your point is?"
It made her laugh as she put the key in the lock. "As good a reason as any. I just need to grab a few things, including some old files I want my mother to study. And I think I might have some notes on Twiner that'll partially plug this hole. I'll have you back home by dinner."
She stopped, turned. "Unless," she said, adding a slow smile, "you'd like to order in and try out a different kind of teamwork."
"Cut it out."
"You liked kissing me."
"When I was a kid I liked green apples. I found out they're hell on the system."
"I'm ripe."
He reached past her to turn the knob. "You're telling me."
She gave his arm a friendly squeeze as she turned. "I'm starting to like you, MacMillan. What the hell will we do about that?" She pushed open the door, took one step inside, froze.
"Dad?"
She had a brief impression, no more than a blur, before Ty was shoving her out the door again. But that blurred image stayed in her mind, was all she could see.
Her father, slumped in her chair, the side of his face, the glinting silver at his temples, the front of his shirt all crusted and dark. And his eyes, his handsome, clever eyes, filmed over and staring.
"Dad. He's… I have to… My father."
She was pale as a sheet and already beginning to shudder when Ty pushed her against the wall outside her apartment. "Listen to me, Sophia. Listen. Use your cell phone. Call nine-one-one. Do it now."
"An ambulance." She fought her way through the fog that wanted to slither over her brain, and began to fight Tyler. "He needs an ambulance. I have to go to him."
"No." He gripped her arms, gave her one brisk shake. "You can't help him." He tabled the idea of going back in to check on Tony himself. Sophia couldn't be left alone. And he'd already seen enough to be certain there was nothing to be done.
He pulled Sophia to the floor, opened her briefcase himself and dug out her cell phone. "I need the police," he said.
Sophia lowered her head to her knees as Tyler gave the emergency operator the necessary information. She couldn't think. Wouldn't think yet. Somehow she had to steady herself and get through.
"I'm all right." Her voice was quiet, almost calm, even if her hands couldn't be. "I know he's dead. I have to go in to him."
"No." He settled down on the floor beside her and draped an arm over her shoulders as much in restraint as comfort. "You don't. You're not. I'm sorry, Sophia. There's nothing you can do."
"There's always something." She lifted her head. Her eyes were dry. Burning dry. "Someone killed my father, and there has to be something I can do. I know what he was." Her voice broke there, and the tears that were scalding her throat poured up and out. "He's still my father."
"I know it." He tightened his grip until she laid her head on his shoulder. There was something to do, he thought as she wept. Even if it was only to wait.
He didn't leave her. Sophia told herself to remember that whatever happened between them—or didn't—when things had been at their very worst, Tyler had stayed with her.
She sat on the sofa in the apartment across the hall from her own. She'd been to a couple of parties there, she recalled. The gay couple who lived there threw delightful parties. And Frankie, a graphic artist who often worked at home, had opened the apartment to her, and the police. And bless him, had discreetly closed himself in the bedroom to give them privacy.
No doubt the story would make its way like an electric fire through the building. But for now, he was being a pal. She'd remember that, too.
"I don't know what he was doing in my apartment," Sophia said, again. She tried to study the face of the man who questioned her. Like his name—Detective Lamont? Claremont?—his features kept slipping out of focus.
"Did your father, or anyone else, have a key?" The name was Claremont. Alexander Claremont.
