The Villa

by Nora Roberts

  "Why?"

  "You really stay out of the loop, don't you?" she replied. "A few years back my father had a blistering affair with Jerry's wife. They kept it quiet, but it was still fairly common knowledge in the inner circle. She left Jerry, or he kicked her out. That piece of the pie gets served up differently depending on who's cutting it. Jerry and my father had been reasonably friendly before that, and after things chilled. But there was some heat under the chill, which I discovered two years ago when Jerry hit on me."

  "He came on to you?"

  "Clear and strong. I wasn't interested. He was annoyed and had a number of uncomplimentary things to say about my father, me, my family."

  "Damn it, Sophie, why didn't you mention this before?"

  "Because he made a point of coming to see me the very next day, full of apologies. He said he'd been more upset about the divorce than he'd realized, felt terrible, and ashamed, at taking it out on me, and that he'd come to terms with the fact that his marriage had been over before all of that happened. And so on and so forth. It was reasonable, understandable. He said all the right things, and I didn't think of it again."

  "What do you think of it now?"

  "I see a crafty little triangle. My father, Kris, Jerry. Who was using whom, I can't say, but I think Jerry's involved, or at least knows about the embezzlement, maybe even the tampering. It would be profitable for La Coeur, has been, for Giambelli to be fighting consumer unease, public scandal, internal discord. Add Kris in and you have my plans, my campaign, my work tossed in their lap before I have a chance to implement them. Corporate sabotage, spies, that's common enough in business."

  "Murder isn't."

  "No, that's what makes it personal. He could've killed my father. I can more easily see him with a gun in his hand than I can Donato. I don't know if that's wishful thinking. It's a long way from corporate espionage to cold-blooded murder. But…"

  "But?"

  "Hindsight," she said with a shrug. "Thinking back on the things he said to me when he lost control, and more, how he said them. He was a man on the edge, and one ready to dive off. Within twelve hours, he's apologetic, sheepish, controlled and bringing me dozens of roses. And still, in a mildly civilized way, hitting on me. I should've seen the first incident was truth, and the rest facade. But I didn't. Because I'm used to men hitting on me."

  The unhappiness, the dissatisfaction struggled toward the surface again before she tamped it down. "And I use it, when it suits me, to get what I want."

  "Why shouldn't you? You're smart enough to use the tools at hand. If a guy lets you, it's his problem. Not yours."

  "Well." She laughed a little, sipped her wine. "That's unexpected, coming from a man I've used them on."

  "Didn't hurt me any." He stretched out his legs, crossed his ankles and knew she was trying to puzzle him out. Fine and good, Ty thought. Let her do the wondering for a change. "Anyway, the guy fitting DeMorney's description spent time in the winery," Tyler told her. "Had access to the bottling plant. With Donato."

  "Ah." How sad, she thought. "So the triangle re-forms into a four-sided box. Jerry links to Don, Don links to my father. Both Jerry and Dad link to Kris. Tidy."

  "What do you want to do about it?"

  "Tell the police, here and at home. And I want to talk to David. He'll know more about Jerry's work at La Coeur." She plucked a strawberry from a dish, bit into it slowly. "Tomorrow I'm going into Venice. I've agreed to give some interviews, during which I'll hang Don up by the balls. Disgrace to the family, a betrayal to the loyal employees and customers of Giambelli. Our shock, sorrow and regret, and our unhesitating cooperation with the authorities in the hopes that he will be brought to justice quickly, and spare his innocent and pregnant wife, his young children, his grieving mother any more pain."

  She reached for the bottle to fill her glass again. "You think that's cold and hard and just a little nasty."

  "No. I think it's hard on you. Hard to be the one saying those things, keeping your head up when you do. You've got your grandmother's spine, Sophie."

  "Again, unexpected, but grazie. I'm going to have to deal with Gina and my aunt, as well. If they want family support, emotional and the all-important financial, they'll cooperate with the line we're taking publicly."

  "What time are we leaving?"

  "I don't need you for this."

  "Don't be stupid, it doesn't suit you. MacMillan is just as involved, just as vulnerable. It'll play better in the press if we do this as a team. Family, company, partnership. Solidarity."

  "We leave at seven, sharp." She sat again. "I'll type up a statement, some responses for you. You can go over them on the way in, so they'll be fresh in your mind should you be questioned."

  "Fine. But let's try to keep that the only area where you put words in my mouth."

  "It's hard to resist with you taciturn types, but I'll try."

  He spread some pate on a cracker, handed it to her. "So, let's change channels awhile. What do you think about your mother and David?"

  "I think it's great."

  "Do you?"

  "Yes, don't you?"

  "As a matter of fact. But it seemed to me you've been a little off since they called with the big announcement."

  "I think, under the circumstances, I'm allowed to be a little off. But that's one turn of events I can be pleased about. It feels right. I'm happy for her. For them. He'll be good to her, and for her. And the kids… She always wanted more children, now she'll have them. Even if they come half-grown."

  "I was half-grown, and she managed to be more of a mother to me than my own."

  Her shoulders, tensed when he'd tossed the question at her, relaxed again. "She's too young to be your mother."

  "That's what I used to tell her. And she'd say it's not the age, it's the seniority."

  "She loves you. A lot."

  "Feeling's mutual. What're you smiling at?"

  "I don't know. I suppose I've been a little down today, with one thing or another. And I didn't expect to end the day sitting out here with you, actually relaxing. Feels better to have said all that ugly business out loud. Cleanse the palate," she added with another sip of wine. "Then move on to something pleasant we can actually agree on."

  "We've got more common ground than either of us might have thought a year ago."

  "I suppose we do. And I'm impressed that instead of having this discussion inside, with your boots propped up on a coffee table, we're sitting out here. Wine, candlelight, even music." She leaned back, looked up at the sky. "Stars. It's nice to know you can appreciate an attractive venue, even for a discussion that's primarily business and distressful."

  "There's that. But mostly I wanted to set this up out here so we'd have a pretty setting when I seduce you."

  She choked on her wine, managed to laugh it off. "Seduce me? Where's that on your agenda?"

  "Coming right up." He grazed a fingertip over her thigh, just below the hem of her skirt. "I like your dress."

  "Thank you. I put it on to torment you."

  "Figured that." His gaze met hers. "Bull's-eye."

  She leaned over for the bottle again, filled his glass. When it came to sexual skirmishes, she considered herself a veteran. "We agreed that part of our relationship was over."

  "No, you were having a snit about something, and I let you."

  "A snit." She dipped a fingertip in her wine, tapped it gently on her tongue. "I don't have snits."

  "Yeah, you do. All the time. You've always been a brat. A really sexy brat. And for the last while, you've had some pretty rough times."

  The spine he'd just complimented her on stiffened. "I'm not looking for your sympathy, MacMillan, or your tolerance."

  "See." His grin, a calculated insult, flashed. "You're working up toward a snit."

  Temper snuck up her backbone, added heat to rigidity. "Let me tell you something; if this is your idea of a seduction, it's a wonder you've ever scored with a woman."

  "Here's a difference be
tween me and most of the men you know." His legs were stretched out, his voice lazy. "I don't keep score. I don't think about you like a notch on the bedpost, or a trophy."

  "Oh yes, Tyler MacMillan. High-minded, moralistic, reasonable."

  Again he grinned at her, but this time it was full of fun. "You think that insults me? You're just using temper as a defense. It's your mechanism. Mostly I don't mind much giving it right back to you, but I'm not in the mood for a fight. I want to make love with you, starting out here, slow, and working our way in, upstairs into that great, big bed in your room."

  "When I want you in my bed, you'll know it."

  "Exactly." Taking his time, he rose, pulled her to her feet. "You're really stuck on me, aren't you?"

  "Stuck?" Her mouth would have fallen open if she hadn't been so busy sneering. "Please. You'll embarrass yourself."

  "Crazy about me." He slipped his arms around her, chuckling when she pushed against his chest and arched away. "I saw you today, more than once, standing at the window looking at me."

  "I don't know what you're talking about. I might have looked out the window."

  "Looking at me," he continued, slowly drawing her against him. "The way I was looking at you. Wanting me." He nuzzled gently at her neck. "The way I was wanting you. And more." His lips brushed her cheek as she turned her head away. "There's more than the wanting between us."

  "There's nothing—" She gasped when his hand squeezed the back of her neck, then moaned when his mouth crushed down on hers.

  "If it was just this, just the heat, you wouldn't be so scared."

  "I'm not afraid of anything."

  He eased back. "You don't need to be. I'm not going to hurt you."

  She shook her head, but his lips came back to hers again. Gentle now, and unbearably kind. No, she thought as she softened against him. He wouldn't hurt her. But she was bound to hurt him.

  'Ty." She started to push at him again, and ended by gripping his shirt. She'd missed this, the warmth he brought into her. Those twisted sensations of risk and safety. "This is a mistake."

  "It doesn't feel like one. You know what I think?" He lifted her into his arms. "I think it's stupid to argue, especially when we both know I'm right."

  "Stop it. You're not carrying me into the house. The staff will gossip about it for weeks."

  "I figure they've already laid bets on how this was going to turn out." He elbowed open a door. "And if you don't want servants talking about what you do, you shouldn't have servants. When we get home, I figure you should move in with me. Then it'll be nobody's business what we do."

  "Move—move in with you? Have you lost your mind? Put me down, Ty. I'm not going to be carried up the steps like a heroine in a romance novel."

  "You don't like it? Okay, we'll do it this way." He shifted, hauling her up and over his shoulder. "Better?"

  "This isn't funny."

  "Baby." He patted her butt. "It is from where I'm standing. Anyway, there's plenty of room for your stuff at my place. Got three extra bedrooms with empty closets. That ought to be enough for your clothes."

  "I'm not moving in with you."

  "Yes, you are." He walked into her bedroom, kicked the door shut behind him. He had to give the staff credit. He hadn't seen one of them on the trip upstairs. Hadn't heard a peep. He gave Sophia full marks, too. She wasn't kicking and screaming. Too much class, he supposed as, still carrying her, he lit the candles scattered through the room.

  "Tyler, I can recommend a good therapist. There's absolutely no shame in seeking help for mental instability."

  "I'll keep it in mind. God knows I haven't been clear in the head since I got tangled up with you. We can make an appointment together, after you move in."

  "I'm not moving in with you."

  "Yes, you are." He let her slide down until she was back on her feet and facing him. "Because it's what I want."

  "If you think I give a single damn about what you want right now—"

  "Because," he continued, skimming his fingers over her cheek, "I'm as crazy about you as you are about me. That shut you up, didn't it? It's time, Sophia, we started dealing with it instead of dancing around it."

  "I'm sorry." Her voice shook. "I don't want this."

  "I'm sorry you don't want it, too. Because it's the way it is. Look at me." He framed her face with his hands. "I wasn't looking for this, either. But it's been there, for a long time. Let's see where it takes us."

  He lowered his mouth to hers. "Just us."

  Just him, she thought. She wanted to believe it, wanted to trust all these soft and liquid feelings that were flowing into her. To love someone and have it be strong and true. To be capable of that. Worthy of it.

  She wanted to believe it.

  To be loved by an honest man, one who would make promises and keep them. Who would care for her, even when she didn't deserve it.

  That was a miracle.

  She wanted to believe in miracles.

  His mouth was warm and firm on hers, patiently stirring desire. The steady, irresistible rise of passion was a relief. This she could understand, this she could trust. And this, she thought as she wrapped her arms around him, she could give.

  She went with him willingly when he lowered her to the bed.

  He kept the heat banked. This time there would be no mistaking what happened between them was an act of love. Generous, selfless and sweet. He linked his fingers with hers as he deepened the kiss, as he tasted the beginning of surrender on her lips.

  It was meant to be there, in the old bed in the castello where it had all begun a century before. There, another beginning, another promise. Another dream. As he looked down at her, he knew it.

  "Blooming time," he said quietly. "Ours."

  "Always the farmer," she said with a smile as she unbuttoned his shirt. But her hand trembled, went limp when he took it in his, pressed it to his lips.

  "Ours," he repeated.

  He undressed her slowly, watched the candlelight shimmer over her skin, listened to the way her breath caught, released, caught again when he touched her. Did she know the barriers between them were crumbling? He did; he felt them fall when she quivered. And knew the precise moment her body yielded to her heart.

  They seemed to sink into the bed like lovers in a pool. She gave herself to the sensations of those hard palms sliding over her, that persuasive mouth roaming where it pleased.

  She reached for him, rose to him. And answered. The quiet beauty of knowing he would be there, that he would hold on even as she did, poured through her like wine in the blood.

  When he pressed his lips to her heart, she wanted to weep.

  No one else, he thought as he lost himself in her. No one else had ever unlocked him this way. He felt her rise under him, an arch of welcome. He heard her broken moan merge with his as she crested. And knew when he looked down at her that she was steeped in what they gave each other.

  A blend, rare and perfect, finally shared.

  Once again he linked his hands with hers, holding tight now. "Take me in, Sophie." His body shook, control ruthlessly held, as he slipped inside her. "Take me. I love you."

  Her breath caught again as sensation swarmed into her, tore at her heart. Fear and joy bursting. "Ty. Don't."

  He laid his lips on hers, the kiss gentle. Devastating. "I love you. Take me." He kept his eyes open and on hers, watched tears swim and shimmer. "Tell me."

  "Ty." Her heart quaked, seemed to spill over. Then her fingers curled strong to his. "Ty," she said again. "Ti amo."

  She met his mouth with hers now, clung, and let him sweep her away.

  "Say it again." Drifting, Ty ran a fingertip up and down her spine. "In Italian like that."

  She shook her head, her only sign that she heard the request, and kept her cheek pressed against his heart.

  "I like the way it sounds. I want to hear it again."

  "Ty—"