by Nora Roberts
"No, I chose him, and that's worse. But I wasn't responsible for what he did. He was. If there was responsibility on my part, it was for allowing him to do what he did to me, and to Sophia." She brought the tea to the desk, set the cup down. "Giambelli is more than wine."
"Hah. You think I need to be told that?"
"I think you need to be told it now. I think you need to be reminded of all it's done, all the good. The millions of dollars to charity the family has dispersed over the years. The countless families who've made their livings through the company. Field workers, winemakers, bottlers, distributors, factory workers, clerks. Every one of them depends on us, and what do we do, Mama."
She sat on the side of the desk, saw with satisfaction that she had her mother's full attention. "We work, worry, and we gamble every season on the weather. We do our best, and we hold faith. That hasn't changed. It never will."
"Was I unfair to him, Pilar. To Donato?"
"You'd question yourself? Now I see why Eli's worried. If I tell you the truth, will you believe me?"
Tired, Tereza got up from the desk, walked to the window. She couldn't see the vineyards in the dark. But she saw them in her mind. "You don't lie. Why wouldn't I believe you?"
"You can be hard. It's frightening sometimes. When I was little, I'd see you striding out along the rows and I'd think you were like a general out of one of my history books. Straight and stem. Then you might stop, study the vine, speak with one of the workers. You always knew their names."
"A good general knows her troops."
"No, Mama, most don't. They're faceless, nameless pawns. Have to be for the general to so ruthlessly send them to battle. You always knew their names, because it always mattered to you who they were. Sophia knows, too. That was your gift to her."
"God, you comfort me."
"I hope I do. You've never been unfair. Not to Donato. Not to anyone. And you aren't responsible for the acts of greed or cruelty or selfishness of those who only see faceless pawns."
"Pilar." Tereza laid her forehead on the window glass, such a rare gesture of fatigue that Pilar rose quickly to go to her. "Signore Baptista. He haunts me."
"Mama. He'd never blame you. He'd never blame La Signora. And I think he'd be disappointed in you if you blamed yourself."
"I hope you're right. Maybe I will have tea." She turned, touched Pilar's cheek. "You have a good, strong heart. I always knew that. But you have clearer vision than I once gave you credit for."
"Broader, I think. It took me a long time to work up the courage to take the blinders off. It's changed my life."
"For the good. I'll think about what you said."
She started to sit, then saw the flash of stones on Pilar's finger. Tereza's hand whipped out, snake-fast, and grabbed.
"So, what is this?"
"It's a ring."
"I see it's a ring," Tereza said dryly. "But not, I think, another you've bought to replace what you once wore there."
"No, I didn't buy it. And it's not a replacement. Your tea's getting cold."
"You weren't wearing such a ring when you left to pick up David, to take him home."
"Nothing wrong with your eyesight, even when you're brooding. All right. I just wanted to call Sophia first, to… Mama, David asked me to marry him. I said yes."
"I see."
"That's it? That's all you have to say?"
"I'm not finished." Tereza tugged Pilar's hand under the desk light, examined the ring, the stones. She, too, recognized symbols. And valued such things.
"He gave you a family to wear on your hand."
"Yes. His and mine. Ours."
"Difficult for a woman with your heart to refuse such a gesture." Her fingers curled tight into Pilar's. "You told me what you thought about something in my heart. Now I'll tell you. Once a man asked you to marry him. You said yes. Ah!" She lifted a finger before Pilar could speak. "You were a girl then. You're a woman now, and you've chosen a better man. Cara." Tereza framed Pilar's face, kissed both her cheeks. "I'm happy for you. Now I have a question."
"All right."
"Why did you send him home, then bring me tea? Why didn't you bring him in to ask my blessing, and Eli's and drink champagne, as is proper? Never mind." She waved it away. "Call him now. Tell them all to come."
"Mama. He's tired, not well."
"Not so tired, and well enough to have mussed your hair and kissed the lipstick off your mouth. Call," she ordered in a tone that cut off any argument. "This needs to be done properly, with family. We'll go down, open our best vintage and call Sophia at the castello. I approve of his children," she added, turning to the desk to close her logbook and return it to its place. "The girl will have my mother's seed pearls, and the boy my father's silver cuff links."
"Thank you, Mama."
"You've given me—all of us—something to celebrate. Tell them to hurry up," she ordered, and strode out, straight and slim, calling for Maria to bring the wine.
Part Four
The Fruit
Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week?
Or sells eternity to get a toy?
For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy?
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
~•~
Chapter Twenty-Five
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Tyler was filthy, his back carried a nagging ache dead center, and he had a nasty scrape, poorly bandaged, across the knuckles of his left hand.
He was in heaven.
The mountains here weren't so different from the jagged outcroppings of his own Vacas. Where his soil was gravelly, this was rocky, but still high in the pH that would produce a soft wine.
He could understand why Cezare Giambelli had put the roots of his dream here, had fought his plow through this rocky soil. There was a rough beauty in the shadow of these hills that called to certain men, that challenged them. It wasn't a matter of taming it, Ty reflected, but of accepting it for what it was, and all it could be.
If he had to spend time away from his own vineyards, this was the place to do it. The weather was perfect, the days long and sweet and the castello operator more than willing to use the time and skill of another vintner.
And the muscle of one, Tyler thought as he strolled back through the rows toward the great house. He'd spent a good part of his days helping the crew install new pipelines from the reservoir to the young plantings. It was a good system, well planned, and the hours he'd spent with the crew had given him a chance to have a hand in this arm of the company.
And to casually question the men about Donato.
The language barrier wasn't as much of a problem as he'd anticipated. Those who didn't speak English were still willing to talk. With hand signals, facial expressions and the generous assistance of various interpreters, Tyler got a clear enough picture.
There wasn't a man in the fields who considered Donato Giambelli more than a joke.
Now, with the shadows lengthening toward evening, Tyler considered that opinion. He moved from field to garden where hydrangeas bloomed big as basketballs and rivers of pale pink impatiens wound a trail up a slope toward a grotto. Water spewed there in a fountain guarded by Poseidon.
The Italians, he thought, were big on their gods, and their fountains and flowers. Cezare Giambelli had certainly used them all here in this pretty palace tucked in the hills.
A very rich little palace, Tyler mused, setting his hands on his hips as he turned a slow circle. The kind of place an ambitious man with a demanding wife would covet.
Personally, he thought it was a nice place to visit, but how could anyone live there, with all those rooms, all those servants. The grounds alone, with the gardens, the lawns, the trees, the pools and statuary, would require a small army to maintain.
Then again, some men liked to have little armies at their disposal.
He passed between the mosaic walls with their bas-relief figures of well-endowed nymphs, walked down the steps circling yet another pool swimming with li
ly pads. From there he couldn't see the fields, the heart of the realm. More accurately, he decided, those who worked the fields couldn't see whoever lingered here. He supposed Cezare had wanted some privacy in certain corners of his empire.
What could be seen, beyond the flowers, the sprawl of terraces, was the swimming pool. And rising out of it, like Venus, was Sophia.
She wore a simple black suit that sleeked over her body like the water that streamed from it. Her hair was slicked back, and he could see the glint of something, probably diamonds, fire at her ears. Who but Sophia would swim wearing diamonds?
Watching her, he felt an uncomfortable combination of lust and longing.
She was perfect—elegant, lusty and clever. He wondered, as his belly tightened at the sight of her, if there was anything more unsettling to a man than perfection in a woman.
One thing, he decided, as he started toward her. Loving that woman to the point of stupidity.
"Water must be cold."
She went still, the towel she'd picked up concealing her face for another instant. "It was. I wanted it cold." Casually, she laid the towel aside and took her time slipping into a terry-cloth robe.
She knew he looked at her, studied her in that thorough and patient way of his. She wanted him to. Every time she'd passed a window that day, she looked toward the fields, picked him out among the men.
She'd studied him.
"You're filthy."
"Yeah."
"And pleased to be so," she decided. Filthy, she thought, sweaty. And gorgeous in a primitive way that shouldn't be so damned appealing. "What did you do to your hand?"
"Scraped several layers of skin off, that's all." He turned it over, glancing at it. "I could use a drink."
"Honey, you could use a shower."
"Both. Why don't I clean up? I'll meet you in the center courtyard in an hour."
"Why?"
"We'll open a bottle of wine and tell each other all about our day. Couple things I want to run by you."
"All right, that suits me. I have a few things of my own. Some of us can dig without ending up covered with dirt."
"Wear something pretty," he called after her and grinned when she glanced back over her shoulder. "Just because I'm not touching doesn't mean I don't like to look."
He picked up the damp towel when she went into the house, breathed in the scent of her. Beauty, he thought, was rough on a man. No, he didn't want to tame her any more than he wanted to tame the land. But by God, it was time for acceptance, on both sides.
She was going to give him plenty to look at. Plenty to wish for. She was, after all, an expert at packaging. She wore blue, the color of a lightning strike. The bodice dipped low, to frame the rising swell of her breasts; the skirt rose high to showcase the long, slim length of her thighs. She added a thin chain of diamonds with a single sapphire drop that lay cozily at her cleavage.
She slipped into ice-pick heels, dabbed scent in all the right places and considered herself ready.
And looked at herself in the mirror.
Why was she so unhappy? The turmoil around her was upsetting, it was challenging, but it wasn't the cause of this gut-deep unhappiness. She was all right when she was working, when she was focused on what had to be done and how best to do it. But the minute she stopped, the minute her mind drifted from the immediate task at hand, there it was. This dragging sadness, the flattening of spirit.
And with it, she admitted, an anger she couldn't identify. She didn't even know whom she was angry with anymore. Don, her father, herself. Ty.
What did it matter? She would do what needed to be done and worry about the rest later.
For now she'd have some wine and conversation, fill Tyler in on what she'd learned that day. And have the side benefit of putting him in a sexual spin. All in all, a fine way to spend the evening.
"God. I hate myself," she said aloud. "And I don't know why."
She kept him waiting, but he'd expected that. The fact was it gave him time to put everything in place. The tiled courtyard was shadowy with evening. Candlelight speared up from the table, from torcheres lanced in the circling garden, from luminaries tucked among the flowerpots.
He'd chosen the wine, a soft, young white, and had begged some canapés from the kitchen staff. The staff, he'd noted, who were devoted to Sophia and appreciated the flavor of romance.
A good thing, he decided, as they'd been the ones to scurry around setting up the candles, adding little bottles of spring flowers he'd never have thought of, even putting music on low through the outdoor speakers.
He could only hope he lived up to their expectations.
He heard the sound of her heels on the tiles but didn't get up. Sophia, he thought, was too used to men springing to attention in her presence. Or falling at her feet.
"What's all this?"
"The staff got into it." He gestured to the chair beside him. "Ask for a little wine and cheese around here, you get the royal treatment." He looked at her while he took the wine from the bucket. "Look what happens when I ask you to wear something pretty. Comes from being in a castle."
"Not your style, but you seem to be coping."
"Digging a few ditches today put me in a good mood." He handed her a glass, tapped his to it. "Salute."
"As I said, I did some digging of my own. The domestic staff's been very informative. I've learned Don made regular visits here, unreported visits. While he never stayed here alone, he rarely came with Gina."
"Ah, the love nest."
"Apparently. The mistress's name is Signorina Chezzo. She's young, blonde, silly and likes breakfast in bed. She's been a frequent guest for the last few years. Don insulted the staff by bribing them to keep her visits secret, but since no-one here has any love for Gina, they took his money and complied. They'd have been discreet without the money, of course."
"Of course. They tell you about his other visitors?"
"Yes. My father, but we'd already deduced that, and the woman my father came with once, who wasn't Rene. Kris."
Tyler frowned into his wine. "I didn't get that from the vineyard."
"Easier for me to nudge it out of the domestic staff. Anyway, it's hardly fresh news. It's fairly obvious he'd used my apartment for assignations when it suited him. Why not the castello."
"You don't want me to say I'm sorry, but I am."
"No, I don't mind you saying it. I'm sorry, too. It makes it that much more lovely that Mama's found someone who'll make her happy. Someone she can trust. Someone we can all trust. I say that knowing he once worked for Jerry DeMorney at La Coeur, and that Jerry's also been a guest here."
This time Tyler nodded. "I thought so. The crew could only give me a description, and that wasn't clear. They tend to pay more attention to women than men in suits. Ties it together, doesn't it?"
"Does it?" Restless, she rose, sipping her wine as she paced. "Jerry hated my father. A civilized sort of loathing, I'd always assumed."
