The Villa

by Nora Roberts

  call them tonight? I'll make it about six your time."

  "All right. I guess you don't know when you might be coming home?"

  "Not yet. There are some complications. I miss you, Pilar."

  "I miss you, too. Do me a favor?"

  "You've got it."

  "Just sit there awhile. Drink your wine, listen to the music, watch the light change. I'll think of you there."

  "I'll think of you here, too. Bye."

  When he hung up, he lingered over the wine. It had been an experience to talk to a woman—to her—about his children that way. To someone who understood them, appreciated them. It connected them in a way that made them almost like family. And that, he realized, was what he wanted. He wanted a family again. All the links that made the circle.

  On an unsteady breath, he set down his wine. He wanted a wife. He wanted Pilar to be his wife.

  Too fast? he wondered. Too much?

  No. No, it wasn't. Any way he looked at it, it was exactly right. They were grown-ups with half their lives behind them. Why should they waste the rest of it inching along in stages?

  He got to his feet, tossed some lire on the table.

  Why should he waste another minute? What better place to buy a ring for the woman he loved than Venice? When he turned, and the first window to catch his eye was a jeweler's, David considered it a sign.

  It wasn't as easy as he assumed it would be. He didn't want a diamond. It occurred to him that Avano had probably given her one, and he discovered in himself a deep-seated aversion to giving Pilar anything Avano had.

  He wanted something that spoke to the two of them, something that showed her he understood her as no one else had. Or could.

  Competitive, he supposed as he wandered into yet another shop. And so what?

  He climbed the stairs on the jammed Rialto bridge, where the stores were shoved cheek by jowl on that rise above the water. Eager shoppers elbowed and shoved their way through as if terrified the last souvenir would be snatched away before they could buy it.

  He bumped his way past the stalls offering leather goods, T-shirts and trinkets and tried to focus on the shop windows. Each one ran like rivers with gold, gems. A dazzle that confused the eye. Discouraged, annoyed, tired from the long hike, he nearly called it a night. He could wait, ask his Venice assistant for a recommendation.

  Then he turned, looked into one more window. And saw it.

  The ring was set with five stones, all in delicate heart shapes that made a quiet stream of color. Like her flowers, he thought. Five stones, he thought, stepping closer. One for each of them and each of their children. He imagined the blue was sapphire, the red ruby, the green emerald. The purple and the gold stones he wasn't as sure of. What did it matter? It was perfect.

  Thirty minutes later he walked out. He had the description of the ring—amethyst and citrine for the last two stones, he reminded himself—in his pocket. The ring was tucked in his pocket as well. He'd had it engraved with the date he'd bought it.

  He wanted her to know, always, that he'd found it on the evening he'd sat in Campo San Marco while the light went soft, talking to her.

  His steps were lighter than they had been as he left the bridge. He wandered the narrow streets now, giving himself the treat of an aimless walk. The crowds were thinning as night fell and turned the canals a glossy black. Now and then he could hear the echo of his own footsteps or the lap of water against a bridge.

  He decided not to go back to his apartment, but ducked under the awning of a sidewalk trattoria. If he went back, he'd work and spoil the pleasure, the anticipation of the evening. He ordered the turbot, a half carafe of the house white.

  He idled his way through the meal, smiling sentimentally at a couple obviously honeymooning, enjoying the little boy who escaped from his parents to charm the waiters. It was, he supposed, a typical reaction of a man in love that he'd find everyone and everything a simple delight.

  He lingered over coffee and thought of what he would say, how he would say it, when he offered the ring to Pilar.

  Most of the squares were empty as he headed back across the city. The shops were shut down and the sidewalk grifters had long since packed up their wares.

  Now and then he saw the little beam of light from a gondola carrying tourists down a side canal or heard a voice rise and carry over the water, but for the most part, he was—at last—alone in the city.

  Enjoying himself, he took his time, walked off the meal and let the stress of the day drain while he absorbed Venice after dark.

  He crossed another bridge, walked through the shadows of another twisting street. He glanced up when light poured out of a window above him, and smiled as a young woman began to draw in the wash that fluttered faintly in the breeze. Her hair was dark and tumbled around her shoulders. Her arms were long and slim, with a flash of gold at her wrist. She was singing, and the cheerful bell of her voice rang into the empty street.

  The moment etched itself on his brain.

  The dark-haired woman who was late bringing in the day's wash but singing nonetheless, the scent of her supper that wafted down. She caught his eye, laughed, a sound full of fun and flirtation.

  David stopped, turned, intending to call a greeting up to her. And doing so, likely saved his own life.

  He felt the pain, a sudden, horrendous fire in the shoulder. Heard, dimly, a kind of muffled explosion even as the woman's face blurred.

  Then he was falling, falling slowly and forever to the sounds of screams and running feet until he lay bleeding and unconscious on the cool cobbles of the Venetian street.

  He wasn't out for long. There was a moment when his world seemed washed with red, and through that dull mist voices rose and fell. The Italian slipped incomprehensibly through his numb brain.

  He felt heat more than pain, as if someone held him over the licking flames of a fire. And he thought, quite clearly: I've been shot.

  Someone tugged at him, stirred his body so that pain woke and cut through the fire like a silver sword. He tried to speak, to protest, to defend himself, but managed little more than a moan as his vision grayed.

  When it cleared again, he found himself staring up into the face of the young woman he'd watched pulling in her wash.

  "You must've worked late tonight." The words came clear in his head, slurred through his lips.

  "Signore, per piacere. Sta zitto. Riposta. L'aiuto sta venendo."

  He listened solemnly, translating the Italian as slowly, as painstakingly as a first-year student. She wanted him to be quiet, to rest. That was nice of her, he thought dimly. Help was coming. Help for what?

  Oh, that's right. He'd been shot.

  He told her so, first in English, then in Italian. "I need to call my children. I need to tell them I'm all right. Do you have a phone?"

  And with his head cradled in her lap, he went back under.

  "You're a very lucky man, Mr. Cutter."

  David tried to focus on the man's face. Whatever drugs the doctors had pumped into him were high-test. He wasn't feeling any pain, but he was hard-pressed to feel anything. "It's hard to agree with you at the moment. I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name."

  "DeMarco. I'm Lieutenant DeMarco. Your doctor says you need rest, of course. But I have just a few questions. Perhaps if you tell me what you remember?"

  He remembered a pretty woman drawing in the wash, and the way the lights glimmered on the water, on the stones. "I was walking," he began, then struggled to sit up. "Pilar's ring. I'd just bought a ring."

  "I have it. Calm yourself. I have the ring, your wallet, your watch. They'll be safe."

  The police, David remembered. People called the police when someone got shot on the street. This one looked like a cop, not as slick as the detective back in San Francisco. DeMarco was a little dumpy, a little bald. He made up for both with a luxurious black moustache that flowed over his upper lip. His English was precise and correct.

  "I was walking back to my apartment—wander
ing a little. I'd done some shopping—the ring—after work. Had some dinner. It was a nice evening and I'd been shut up in an office all day. I saw a woman in a window. She was pulling in her wash. She made a picture. She was singing. I stopped to look up. Then I hit the street. I felt…" Gingerly, he lifted an arm to his shoulder. "I knew I'd been shot."

  "You've been shot before?"

  "No." David grimaced. "It felt just like you think it would. I must've passed out. The woman was there with me when I came to. She ran down, I guess, when she saw what happened."

  "And did you see who shot you?"

  "I didn't see anything but the cobbles rushing up at me."

  "Why do you think, Mr. Cutter, that someone would shoot you?"

  "I don't know. Robbery, I guess."

  "Yet your valuables were not taken. What is your business in Venice?"

  "I'm chief operating officer for Giambelli-MacMillan. I had meetings."

  "Ah. You work for La Signora."

  "I do."

  "There is some trouble, yes, for La Signora in America?"

  "There has been, but I don't see what it has to do with my getting mugged in Venice. I need to call my children."

  "Yes, yes, this will be arranged. Do you know anyone in Venice who might wish you harm, Mr. Cutter?"

  "No." As soon as he denied it, he thought of Donato. "No," he repeated. "I don't know anyone who'd shoot me down on the street. You said you had my valuables, Lieutenant. The ring I bought, my wallet, my watch. My briefcase."

  "No briefcase was found." DeMarco sat back. The woman who'd witnessed the shooting had claimed the victim was carrying a briefcase. She had described him very well. "What were the contents of this briefcase?"

  "Papers from the office," David said. "Just paperwork."

  It was difficult, Tereza thought, to stand up under so many blows. Under such constant assault, the spirit began to wilt. She kept her spine straight as she walked with Eli into the family parlor. She knew the children were there, waiting for the call from their father.

  Innocence, she mused as she looked in to see Maddy sprawled on the sofa with her nose in a book, Theo banging away on the piano. Why did innocence have to be stolen this way, and so quickly?

  She gave Eli's arm a squeeze. To reassure him, to brace herself, then stepped inside.

  Pilar glanced up from her needlework. One look at her mother and her heart froze. The embroidery hoop slid out of her hands as she got slowly to her feet. "Mama?"

  "Please sit. Theo." She gestured to quiet him. "Maddy. First I must tell you, your father is all right."

  "What happened?" Maddy rolled off the couch. "Something happened to him. That's why he hasn't called. He's never late calling."

  "He was hurt, but he's all right. He's in the hospital."

  "An accident?" Pilar stepped up, laid a hand on Maddy's shoulder. When previously the girl would have shrugged her off, she merely clung tighter.

  "No, not an accident. He was shot."

  "Shot?" Theo shoved away from the piano. Terror coated his throat like bile. "That's wrong, that's a mistake. Dad doesn't go around getting shot."

  "He was taken right away to the hospital," Tereza continued. "I've spoken with the doctor who treated him. Your father's doing very well. He's already listed in good condition."

  "Listen to me." Eli moved forward, took Maddy's hand, then Theo's. "We wouldn't tell you he's all right if he wasn't. I know you're scared, and you're worried, and so are we. But the doctor was very clear. Your father's healthy and strong. He's going to make a full recovery."

  "I want him to come home." Maddy's lip trembled. "I want him to come home now."

  "He'll come home as soon as they release him from the hospital," Tereza told her. "I'm going to make the arrangements. Does your father love you, Madeline?"

  "Sure he does."

  "Do you know how worried he is about you right now? About you and your brother, and how this worry makes it harder for him to rest, to heal? He needs you to be strong for him."

  When the phone rang, Maddy whirled away, leaped on it. "Hello? Hello? Daddy!" Tears gushed out of her eyes, shook her body down to the toes. Still, she slapped at Theo when he tried to grab the phone. "It's okay." Her voice broke, and she turned to Tereza. "It's okay," she repeated, swiping a hand under her nose, breathing deep. "So, hey. Do you get to keep the bullet?"

  She listened to her father's voice, and watched La Signora nod at her.

  "Yeah, Theo's right here, shoving at me. Can I hit him? Too late," she responded. "I already did. Yeah, here he is."

  She passed the phone to her brother.

  "You're a strong young woman," Tereza told her. "Your father should be very proud."

  "Make him come home, okay? Just make him come home." She walked into Pilar's arms and felt better for crying there.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

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  Her bead throbbed like an open wound, but it was nothing compared to the ache in her heart. She ignored both and took her place behind her desk.

  Over Eli's and Pilar's objections, Tereza allowed the children to attend this emergency meeting. She was still head of the Giambelli family, and they had a right to know why she believed their father had been hurt.

  They had a right to know it fell to her blood.

  "I've spoken with David," she began, and smiled at his children. "Before his doctor came in and forced him to rest."

  "It's a good sign." Sophia ranged herself beside Theo. He looked so young, so defenseless. "Guys are such babies when they're hurt. They just can't stop talking about it."

  "Get out. We're like, stoic." Theo was trying to be, but his stomach kept pitching on him.

  "Be that as it may," Tereza continued. "With his doctor's approval, he'll fly home in just a few days. Meanwhile the police are investigating the incident. I've also talked to the man in charge of the investigation."

  And had, in short and ruthless order, researched his record. DeMarco would do. Tereza folded her hands on the lieutenant's file. "There were a number of witnesses. They have a description, though not a particularly good one, of the assailant. I don't know that they'll find him, or that he particularly matters."

  "How can you say that?" Maddy jerked up in her chair. "He shot my father."

  Approving the reaction, Tereza spoke to her as she would to an equal. "Because I believe he was hired to do so, as one buys and uses any tool. To take away papers in your father's possession. A misguided and despicable act of self-protection. There have been… discrepancies in a number of accounts. The details of that can wait. It became clear earlier today, through David's work, that my nephew has been funneling money from the company into a dummy account."

  "Donato." Sophia felt a sharp pinch in the heart. "Stealing from you?"

  "From us." That Tereza had already accepted and absorbed. "He met with David, on my orders, this afternoon in Venice and would have realized his actions would soon be uncovered. This was his response. My family's caused your pain," she said to Theo and Maddy. "I'm head of the family and responsible for that pain."

  "Dad works for you. He was doing his job." As his stomach continued to shudder, Theo clenched his teeth. "It's that bastard's fault, not yours. Is he in jail?"

  "No. They've yet to find him. It appears he's run." Disdain edged her voice. "Left his wife, his children and has run. I promise you he will be found; he will be punished. I'll see to it."

  "He'll need money. Resources," Ty put in.

  "You'll need someone in Venice to clear this up." Sophia rose. "I'll leave tonight."