by Nora Roberts
not much inside, for that matter. But she's knocked back by it. They all are—the Giambelli women."
"Product tampering—"
"It's not just that. That's the business end. This is personal. They went over for the funeral when he died. I guess Sophia thought of him as a kind of mascot. Said he used to sneak her candy. Poor old bastard."
David hunched forward, holding the thermos cup of coffee between his knees. "I've been thinking on it, trying to find the real connection. Probably a waste of time since I'm a corporate suit, not a detective."
Tyler studied him over his coffee. "From what I've seen so far you're not much of a time-waster. And you're not so bad, for a suit."
With a half-laugh, David lifted his own coffee. Steam from it rose and merged with the mist. "Coming from you, that's a hell of a kudo."
"Damn right."
"Well. From what I can tell, Margaret never even met Baptista. He was dead before she took over Avano's accounts and started the travel to Italy."
"Doesn't matter if they were random victims."
David shook his head. "It matters if they're not."
"Yeah, I've been thinking that, too." Tyler got up to stretch his legs, and they began to walk the rows together.
Somewhere along the way, he realized, he'd lost his resentment of David. Just as well, he thought. It took so much damn energy to hold a grudge. And it was a waste of that energy and valuable time when both of them were on the same page in any case.
"They both worked for Giambelli, both knew the family." Ty paused. "Both knew Avano."
"He was dead before Margaret uncorked the bottle. Still, we don't know how long she had it. He'd have had plenty of reason to want her out of the way."
"Avano was an asshole," Tyler said flatly. "He was a prick on top of it. But I can't see him as a killer. Too much thought, too much effort and not enough guts."
"Did anybody like him?"
"Sophie." Tyler shrugged and wished he could keep her out of his mind for more than ten minutes at a time. "At least she tried to. And yeah, actually, plenty did, and not just women."
It was the first time David had been offered a straight and uncensored picture of Anthony Avano. "Because?"
"He had a good line, put on a good show. Slick. I'd've said grease through a goose slick, but he got away with it." As his own father did, Ty mused. "Some people, they just slither through life, knocking over bystanders with, you know, impunity. He was one of them."
"La Signora kept him on."
"For Pilar, for Sophia. That's the family end. On the business front, well, he knew how to keep the accounts happy."
"Yeah, his expense account shows just how much he put into that effort. So with Margaret leapfrogging over him, he was losing his opportunities to wine and dine on Giambelli's tab. Had to piss him off. At the company, at the family, at her."
"His style would've been to try to fuck her, not kill her."
Tyler stopped, his breath streaming out as he looked over the rows, scanned them line after line. It was colder now. His internal farmer's gauge told him it was edging down toward thirty degrees.
"I'm not a corporate suit, but I've got to figure all this trouble is costing the company plenty in profit and in appearances, which can translate to the same thing. If somebody wanted to cause the family trouble, they found an inventive and nasty way to do it."
"Between the recall, immediate public panic and long-term consumer distrust in the label, it's going to cost millions. It's going to affect profit across the board, and that includes what's yours."
"Yeah." He'd already faced the grim reality of that. "I figure Sophia's smart enough to take the edge off that long-term distrust."
"She's going to have to be more than smart. She'll have to be brilliant."
"She is. That's what makes her a pain in the ass."
"Stuck on her, are you?" David waved the comment away. "Sorry. Too personal."
"I was wondering if you were asking as a corporate suit, an associate or as the guy who's dating her mother."
"I was aiming toward friend."
Tyler thought about it a moment, then nodded. "Okay, that works for me. I guess you could say I've been stuck on her on and off since I was twenty. Sophie at sixteen," he remembered. "Christ. She was like a lightning bolt. And she knew it. Irritated the hell out of me."
For a moment, while the misting water sizzled and froze, David was silent. "There was a girl when I was in college." He was pleasantly surprised when Tyler tugged a flask from his pocket and offered it. "Marcella Roux. French. Legs up to her ears, and this sexy little overbite."
"An overbite." Ty settled into the image. "That's a good one."
"Oh yeah." David drank, letting the brandy punch into his system. "God, Marcella Roux. She scared the hell out of me."
"A woman who looks like that, who is like that, just wears you out." Tyler took the flask, drank. "Me, I figured if you had to be stuck on a woman, which is an annoyance itself, you might as well get stuck on one who's easy to be around and doesn't make you jumpy half the time. I put considerable effort into that theory the last ten years. Didn't do me a damn bit of good."
"I can beat that," David said after a moment. "Yeah, I can beat it. I had a wife, and we had a couple kids—good kids—and I figured we were chasing the American dream. Well, that went into the toilet. But I had the kids. Maybe I screwed up there a few times, but that's part of the job. And my focus was on the goal. Give them a decent life, be a good father. Women, well, being a good father doesn't mean being a monk. But you keep that area down on the list of priorities. No serious relationships, not again. No sir, who needs it. Then Pilar opens the door, and she's holding flowers. There are all kinds of lightning bolts."
"Maybe. They still fry your brain."
They walked the rows in the coldest hour before dawn, while the sprinklers hissed and the vines glittered, iced silver, and safe.
Two hundred and fifty guests, a seven-course dinner, each with appropriate wines, followed by a concert in the ballroom and ending with dancing.
It had been a feat to pull off, and Sophia gave her mother full marks for helping to perfect each detail. She added a pat on the back for herself for carefully salting the guests with recognizable names and faces from all over the globe.
The UN, she thought as she sat with every appearance of serenity through the aria by the Italian soprano, had nothing on the Giambellis.
The quarter million raised for charity would not only do good work, it was damn good PR. Particularly good since all members of the family were in attendance, including her great-uncle the priest, who'd agreed to make the trip after a personal, and insistent, call from his sister.
Unity, solidarity, responsibility and tradition. Those were the key words she was pounding into the media. And with words went images. The gracious villa opening its doors for the sake of charity. The family, four generations, bound together by blood and wine, and one man's vision.
Oh yes, she was using Cezare Giambelli, the simple farmer who'd built an empire on sweat and dreams. It was irresistible. And while she didn't expect it to turn the tide of adversity, it had stemmed it.
The only irritant in the evening was Kris Drake.
Missed a step there, Sophia decided. She'd issued an invitation to Jeremy DeMorney quite purposefully. Inviting a handful of important competitors illustrated Giambelli's openness, and again a sense of community. It hadn't occurred to her Jerry would bring a former Giambelli employee as his date.
Should have, she reminded herself. It was clever, sneaky and slyly amusing on his part. And just like him.
On top of that she had to give Kris credit for sheer balls. Brass ones.
Scored off me this round, she admitted. But felt she'd got back her own by being flawlessly gracious to both of them. "You're not paying attention." Tyler gave her a quick elbow jab. "If I have to, you have to."
She leaned toward him slightly. "I hear every note. And I can write mental copy
at the same time. Two different parts of the brain."
"Your brain has too many parts. How long does this last?"
The pure, rich notes throbbed on the air. "She's magnificent. And nearly finished. She's singing of tragedy, of heartbreak."
"I thought it was supposed to be about love."
"Same thing."
He glanced toward her, saw the sheen of tears, the single drop that spilled from those dark, deep eyes and clung perfectly to her lashes. "Are those real, or for the crowd?"
"You're such a peasant. Quiet." She linked her fingers with his, allowed herself to think of nothing, to feel nothing but the music for the final moments.
When the last note shimmered into silence, she rose, along with the others, into thunderous applause.
"Can we get out of here for five minutes now?" Ty whispered in her ear.
"Worse than a peasant, a barbarian. Brava!" she called out. "You go ahead," she added under her breath. "I need to play hostess. You should grab Uncle James, who looks as miserable as you do. Go out and have a drink and a cigar and be men."
"If you don't think it took a man to sit here, and stay awake, during nearly an hour of opera, baby, you better think again."
She watched him escape, then moved forward, hands extended to the diva. "Signora, bellissima!"
Pilar did her duty as well, but her mind wasn't full of music or publicity copy. It was reeling with details and timing. The chairs had to be removed, quickly and smoothly, to clear the ballroom for dancing. The terrace doors would be flung open at precisely the right minute and the orchestra set up there would begin to play. But not before the diva had been allowed her moment of adulation. She waited while Tereza and Eli presented the singer with roses, then signaled David, Helen and a few hand-chosen friends to add their congratulations and praise.
As others followed suit, she nodded at the waiting staff. Then frowned when she saw her aunt Francesca still sitting, and obviously sound asleep. Sedated herself again, Pilar thought, winding her way through guests.
"Don." She squeezed her cousin's arm, smiling an apology to the couple he'd been speaking with. "Your mother isn't well," she said quietly. "Could you help me take her to her room?"
"Sure. I'm sorry, Pilar," he continued as they moved aside. "I should've kept a closer eye on her." He scanned the crowd, looking for his wife. "I thought Gina was with her."
"It's all right. Zia Francesca?" Pilar leaned down, spoke quietly, soothingly in Italian as she and Don helped the woman to her feet.
"Ma che vuoi?" She seemed dazed as she slapped at Pilar's hand. "Lasciame in pace."
"We're just going to take you to bed, Mama." Don took a firmer grip. "You're tired."
"Si, si." She stopped struggling. "Vorrei del vino."
"You've already had enough wine," Don told her, but Pilar shook her head at him.
"I'll bring you some, once you're in your room."
"You're a good girl, Pilar." Docile as a lamb, Francesca shuffled out of the ballroom. "So much sweeter of nature than Gina. Don should have married you."
"We're cousins, Zia Francesca," Pilar reminded her.
"You are? Oh, of course. My mind is muddled. Traveling is very stressful."
"I know. You'll feel better when you're in your nightgown and in bed."
Mindful of the time, Pilar rang for a maid as soon as they'd carted Francesca to her room. Though she was sorry for it, she dumped the matter on Don and rushed back to take her place in the ballroom.
"Problem?" Sophia asked her.
"Aunt Francesca."
"Ah, that's always fun. Well, having a priest in the family should help cancel out the odd drunk. Are we ready?"
"We are." Pilar dimmed the lights. At the signal, the terrace doors were opened and music poured in. As Tereza and Eli led the first dance, Sophia slid an arm around her mother's waist.
"Perfect. Wonderful job."
"God bless us, everyone." She blew out a breath. "I could use a drink myself."
"When this is over, we'll kill a bottle of champagne apiece. Right now"—she gave Pilar a little nudge—"dance."
It looked like socializing, but it was work. Putting on the confident front, answering questions, some subtle, some not, on the situation from interested guests and the invited press. Expressing sorrow and outrage, both sincerely felt, while getting the intended message across.
Giambelli-MacMillan was alive and well and making wine.
"Sophia! Lovely, lovely event."
"Thank you, Mrs. Elliot. I'm so glad you could attend."
"Wouldn't have missed it. You know Blake and I are very active on behalf of the homeless. Our restaurant contributes generously to the shelters."
And your restaurant, Sophia thought as she made appropriate noises, canceled its standing order on all Giambelli and MacMillan labels at the first sign of trouble. "Perhaps at some point your business and ours could work together on a fund-raiser. Food and wine, after all, the perfect marriage."
"Mmm. Well."
"You've known my family since before I was born." To establish intimacy, Pilar took the woman's arm, walked with her away from the music. "I hope you know how much we value that association, and that friendship."
"Blake and I have nothing but the greatest respect for your grandmother, and for Eli. We couldn't be more sorry about your recent troubles."
"When friends have troubles, they look to other friends for support."
"On a personal level, you have it. But business is business, Sophia. We have to protect our clientele."
"As do we. Giambelli stands by its product. Any of us at any time can be the victim of tampering and sabotage. If we, and those who do business with us, allow the perpetrators of that to win, it only opens others up to the same risk."
"Be that as it may, Sophia, until we're assured the Giambelli label is clean, we can't and won't serve it. I'm sorry for it, and I'm impressed with the way you're handling your difficulties. Blake and I wouldn't be here tonight if we didn't support you and your family on a personal level. Our patrons expect fine food well served when they come to us, not to gamble on a glass of wine that may be tainted."
"Four bottles out of how many thousands," Sophia began.
"One is too many. I'm sorry, dear, but that's the reality. Excuse me."
Sophia marched directly to a waiter, took a glass of red and, after turning a slow circle in case anyone was watching, drank deeply.
"You look a little stressed." Kris sidled up beside her, chose a glass of champagne. "Must come from actually having to work for a living."
"You're mistaken." Her voice might have frosted the air between them. "I don't work for a living, but for love."
"Spoken like a princess." Pleased with herself, Kris sipped her wine. As far as she was concerned, she had one function to fulfill that evening: to dig under Sophia's skin. "Isn't that what Tony used to call you? His princess."
"Yes." Sophia braced for the rush of grief, but it never came. That, itself, was a sorrow. "He never understood me. Apparently neither do you."
"Oh, I understand you. And your family. You're in trouble. With Tony gone and you and farm boy in charge, your company's lost the edge. Now you're flaunting yourself in your evening gowns and your heirloom pearls to try to drum up business and cover up mistakes. Really, you're no different from the guy on the corner panhandling. At least he's honest about it."
Carefully, deliberately, Sophia set her wine aside and edged forward. Before she could speak, Jerry strode over, laid a hand on Kris's arm.
"Kris." There was warning in his tone. "This is inappropriate. Sophia, I'm sorry."
"I don't need anyone to apologize for me." Kris tossed back her
