The Villa

by Nora Roberts

  Chapter Eighteen

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  It was a war, waged on several fronts. Sophia fought her battles on the airwaves, in print and on the telephone. She spent hours updating press releases, giving interviews, reassuring accounts.

  And every day she started over, beating back rumor, innuendo and speculation. Until the crisis passed, her time in the vineyards was over. That was Tyler's battlefield. She found herself resenting not being able to soldier there as well. To take part in the disking, the frost vigils, in the careful guarding of the emerging buds.

  She worried about her grandparents, forging their front on the Italian line. Every day the reports came in. The recall was being implemented. And soon, bottle by bottle, the wine would be tested.

  She couldn't think about the cost, short- or long-term. That, she left in David's hands.

  When she needed to step back from the hype and spin, she stood at her office window and watched men with harrows work the earth. It would be a year of rare vintage, she promised herself.

  They only had to survive it.

  She jumped at the next ring of her phone, and buried the very real need to ignore it.

  "Sophia Giambelli."

  Ten minutes later she hung up, then released pent-up rage with a vicious stream of Italian curses.

  "Does that help?" Pilar asked as she stood by the doorway.

  "Not enough." Sophia pressed her fingers to her temples and wondered how best to handle this next stage of combat. "I'm glad you're here. Can you come in, sit down a minute."

  "Fifteen, actually. I've just finished up another tour." Pilar settled into a chair. "They're coming in droves. Curiosity seekers for the most part now. Some reporters, though that's down to a trickle since your press conference."

  "It's likely to build again. I just got off the phone with a producer of The Larry Mann Show."

  "Larry Mann." Pilar wrinkled her nose. "Trash television, at its worst. You aren't going to give them anything."

  "They've already got something. They've got Rene." Unable to sit still, Sophia shoved away from her desk. "She's going to tape a show tomorrow revealing family secrets, supposedly, telling the true story of Dad's death. We're invited to participate. They want either you or me, or both of us, on the show to give our side of it."

  "It won't do, Sophie. As satisfying as it might be to slap her back in public, it isn't the way. And that isn't the forum."

  "Why do you think I was cursing?" She snatched up her frog paperweight, passed it restlessly from hand to hand. "We'll take the high road and ignore her. But God, how I'd love to wrestle in the mud with that bitch. She's been giving interviews right and left, and she's good enough at them to do considerable damage. I've talked to both Aunt Helen and Uncle James about legal action."

  "Don't."

  "She can't be allowed to use the family, to slander." Sophia scowled down at the frog. His cheerfully silly face usually lightened her mood. "I can't get down and dirty with her, which is a crying shame. But I can slap her back legally."

  "Listen to me first," Pilar said, leaning forward. "I'm not being soft. I'm not being manipulated. Taking legal action, at least right now when we've so many other battles to fight, only gives some credence to her and what she's saying. I know your instincts are to fight, and mine are generally to retreat, but maybe, this time, we do neither. We just stand in place."

  "I've thought of that. I've thought of it from both angles. But when it comes down to it, you fight fire with fire."

  "Not always, honey. Sometimes you just drown it. We'll just drown her out, with good Giambelli wine."

  Sophia inhaled, exhaled slowly as she sat back. She set the paperweight down again, turning it around and around while she considered. Behind her, the fax beeped and whined, but she ignored it while she figured the angles.

  "That's good." Nodding, she looked at her mother again. "That's very good. Drown the flames with one good flood. We're going to have a party. Spring ball, black tie. How much time do you need to put it together?"

  To her credit Pilar only blinked. "Three weeks."

  "Good. Work up the guest list. Once we've got invitations out, I'll plant some items with reporters. Rene opts for trash, we'll opt for elegance."

  "A party?" Tyler raised his voice over the rumble of disking. "Ever hear of Nero and his fiddle?"

  "Rome's not burning. That's my point." Impatient, Sophia dragged him farther from the work. "Giambelli takes their responsibilities seriously, are cooperating with the authorities here and in Italy. Merda!" She swore as her cell phone rang. "Wait."

  She pulled the phone from her pocket. "Sophia Giambelli. Si. Va bene." With an absent signal to Ty she paced a few feet away.

  He stood, watched her move, issue what were undoubtedly orders in Italian.

  Around them, the disking progressed. The noisy, systematic turning of earth and cover crop. Warmth teased the vines to bud, even as the breeze that shivered down from the mountains promised a night of chills.

  In the middle of it all, in the center of the ageless cycle, was Sophia. The dynamo with the future at her fingertips.

  The center of it, he thought again. Maybe she'd been there, always.

  She strode down the row, up again, then down, her voice rising, a kind of fascinating foreign music.

  He didn't bother to curse, didn't even bother to question when he felt that last lock snick open inside him.

  He'd been expecting that.

  He was crazy about her, he admitted. Gone. Over the line. And sooner or later, he'd have to figure out what to do about it.

  She jammed the phone back in her pocket, blew at her bangs. "Italian publicity branch," she said to Ty. "A few snags that needed picking loose. Sorry for the interruption. Now where…"

  She trailed off, staring up at him. "What are you grinning at?" she demanded.

  "Am I? Maybe it's because you're not so hard to look at, even in fast-forward."

  "Fast-forward's the only speed that works right now. Anyway, the party. We need to make a statement, and continue with the plans for the centennial. The first gala's midsummer. We do this more intimate gathering to show unity, responsibility and confidence."

  She began ticking points off with her fingers. "The recall was initiated voluntarily, and at considerable expense, before it was a legal issue. La Signora and Mr. MacMillan have traveled to Italy personally to offer any assistance in the investigation. However," she continued, "and we need to get to the however soon, Giambelli is confident the problem is under control. The family, and that's what we have to emphasize, remains gracious, hospitable and involved with the community. We show our polish, while Rene digs in the muck."

  "Polish." He studied the vines. He reminded himself to check the overhead sprinklers, again, should they be needed for frost protection overnight. "If we're going to be polished, how come I have to fool around with a TV crew and walk around in the mud?"

  "To illustrate the dedication and hard work that goes into every bottle of wine produced. Don't be cranky, MacMillan. The last few days have been vicious."

  "I'd be less cranky if outsiders would stay out of the way."

  "Does that include me?"

  He shifted his attention from the vines, looked at her beautiful face. "Doesn't seem to."

  "Then why haven't you come sneaking through my terrace doors in the night?"

  His lips quirked. "Thought about it."

  "Think harder." When she leaned into him, and he stepped back, she asked, "What? Got a headache?"

  "No, an audience. I'd as soon not advertise I'm sleeping with my co-operator."

  "Sleeping with me has nothing to do with business." Her voice chilled several degrees, just the kind of cold snap that wrought damage. "But if you're ashamed of it—" She shrugged, turned and walked away.

  He had to deal with the sting first, then the innate reluctance for public scenes. He caught up with her in five strides, grabbed her arm. "I'm not ashamed of anything. Just becaus
e I like keeping my personal life private—" Her sulky jerk back irritated him enough to tighten his grip and curl his fingers around her other arm. "There's enough gossip around here without adding to it. If I can't keep my mind on my work, I can't expect my men to. Ah, the hell with it."

  He lifted her to her toes, pressed his mouth hard to hers.

  There was a thrill in that, she thought. In that quick whip of strength and temper.

  "Okay?" he demanded and dropped her flat on her feet again.

  "Almost." She ran her hands up his chest, felt him tremble. A thrill, she thought, in knowing you were physically outmatched but still had power. She laid her lips on his, teasing until his hand took a fistful of the back of her sweater, until her hands were locked possessively around his neck and her own stomach muscles went loose.

  "That," she murmured, "was just fine."

  "Leave your terrace doors unlocked."

  "They have been."

  "I have to get back to work."

  "Me too."

  But they stayed as they were, mouths a breath apart. Something was happening inside her. A quivering, but not that lustful shiver in the belly. This was around her heart, and more ache than pleasure. Fascinated, she started to give in to it. And the phone in her pocket began to ring again.

  "Well," she said a little unsteadily as she eased away. "Round two. I'll see you later."

  She dragged her phone out as she hurried away. She'd think about Ty later. Think about a lot of things later. "Sophia Giambelli. Nonna, I'm glad you caught me. I tried to reach you earlier, but…"

  She trailed off, alerted by her grandmother's tone. She stopped walking, stood at the edge of the vineyard. Despite the wash of sunlight, her skin chilled.

  She was already running back as she broke the connection. "Ty!"

  Alarmed, he whirled back, caught her on the fly. "What is it? What happened?"

  "They found more. Two more bottles that were tainted."

  "Damn it. Well, we were expecting it. We knew there had to be tampering."

  "There's more. It could be worse. Nonna—she and Eli—" She had to stop, organize her thoughts. "There was an old man, he worked for Nonna's grandfather. Started in the vineyard when he was just a boy. He retired, technically, over a year ago. And late last year he died. He had a bad heart."

  He was already following her, already feeling the dread. "Go on."

  "His granddaughter, the one who found him, says he'd been drinking our Merlot. She came to my grandmother after the news of the recall broke. They're having his body exhumed."

  "His name was Bernardo Baptista." Sophia had all the details in neatly typed notes, but she didn't need them. She had every word in her head. "He was seventy-three. He died in December from an apparent heart attack while sitting in front of his own fire after a simple meal and several glasses of Castello di Giambelli Merlot, '92."

  As Margaret Bowers had, David thought grimly. "You said Baptista had a weak heart."

  "He'd had some minor heart problems and was suffering from a lingering head cold at the time of his death. The cold adds another layer. Baptista was known for his nose. He'd worked wine for over sixty years. But as he was ill, it was unlikely he'd have detected any problem with the wine. His granddaughter swears he hadn't opened it before that night. She'd seen it that afternoon when she'd visited him. He kept it, and a few other gifts from the company, on display. He was very proud of his association with Giambelli."

  "The wine had been a gift."

  "According to his granddaughter, yes."

  "From?"

  "She doesn't know. He was given a retirement party, and as is customary, Giambelli presents an employee with parting gifts. I've checked, and that particular wine was not on the gift list. He'd have been presented with a Cabernet, a white and a sparkling. First label. However, it's not uncommon for an employee to be allowed to choose another selection, or to be given wine by other members of the company."

  "How soon will they know if the wine caused his death?" Pilar moved to the desk where Sophia sat, rubbed a hand over her daughter's shoulder.

  "A matter of days."

  "We do what we can to track the wine," David decided. "Meanwhile, we continue as we have been. I'm going to suggest to La Signora and Eli that we hire an outside investigator."

  "I'll work on a statement. It's best if we announce the new finds, and Giambelli's part in implementing the recall and the testing. I don't want to have to chase the release again."

  "Let me know what I can do to help," Pilar told her.

  "Get that guest list together."

  "Honey, you can't possibly want to hold a party now."

  "On the contrary." The worry, the sadness over an old man she remembered with affection hardened into determination. "We'll just twist the angle. We hold a gala here, for charity. We've done it before, and a great deal more for good causes. I want people to remember that. A thousand a plate. All food, wine and entertainment donated by Giambelli-MacMillan, with proceeds going to the homeless."

  She scribbled notes as she spoke, already drafting invitations, releases, responses in her head. "Our family wants to help yours be safe and secure. There are a lot of people who owe La Signora more than a grand for a fancy meal. If they need to be reminded of that, I'll see to it."

  She cocked her head, waiting for David's reaction.

  "You're the expert there," he said after a moment. "It's a shaky line to walk, but in my opinion, you have superior balance."

  "Thanks. Meanwhile, we have to pretend a cool disinterest in the press Rene is generating. There'll be fallout from that, and it'll be personal. What's personal to Giambelli will, naturally, touch on business."

  Pilar slid into a discreet chair at a quiet table in the bar at the Four Seasons. She was sure if she'd mentioned her intentions to anyone, she'd have been told she was making a mistake.

  She probably was.

  But this was something she had to do, something she should have done long ago. She ordered a mineral water and prepared to wait. She had no doubt Rene would be late. Just as she'd had no doubt Rene would meet her. She wouldn't have been able to resist making an entrance or having a confrontation with an enemy she perceived as weaker.

  Pilar nursed her drink and sat patiently. She had a lot of experience with waiting.

  Rene didn't disappoint. She swept in. She was, Pilar supposed, the kind of woman who liked to sweep into a room, trailing furs though the weather was too warm for them.

  She looked well—fit, rested, glowing. Too often in the past, Pilar admitted, she'd studied this stunning and younger woman and felt inadequate in comparison.

  A natural response, she imagined. But that didn't stop it from being foolish and useless.

  It was easy to see why Tony had been attracted. Easier to understand why he'd been caught. Rene was no empty-headed Barbie, but a tough-minded female who would have known just how to get what she wanted, and to keep it.

  "Pilar."

  "Rene. Thanks for meeting me."

  "Oh, how could I resist?" Rene dumped her fur and slid into her chair. "You're looking a little strained. Champagne cocktail," she told the waitress without glancing up.

  Pilar's stomach didn't clench as it once would have. "You're not. You had a few weeks in Europe early this year. It must have agreed with you."

  "Tony and I had planned on an extended vacation. He wouldn't have wanted me to sit home and brood." Rene angled herself, crossed long, silky legs. "That was always your job."

  "Rene, I was never the other woman, and neither were you. I was