The Villa

by Nora Roberts

  Sophia zipped through her interoffice e-mail. She'd have preferred attending to the reports, the memos, the questions personally in her San Francisco office. But the law had been laid down. She didn't go to the city unaccompanied. Period.

  Tyler refused to be pulled away from the fields. The weeding wasn't complete, the suckering was just begun, and there was a mild infestation of grape leafhoppers. Nothing very troublesome, she thought with a little twist of resentment as she answered an inquiry. The wasps fed on the leafhopper eggs. That's why blackberry bushes, which served as hosts for the predator, were planted throughout the vineyard.

  Hardly a season passed without a slight infestation. But there were stories, and those who loved to tell them, of an entire crop being devastated by the little bastards.

  She wouldn't budge Tyler until he was certain it was under control, and by that time, she'd be so busy with the last-minute details of her mother's wedding she wouldn't be able to spare a day to go into the office, much less out to the vineyards.

  When the wedding was over, the harvest would begin. Then no one would have time for anything but the crush.

  At least the demands, the tight schedule, helped keep her mind off Jerry and the police investigation. It had been two full weeks since she'd careened around turns with no brakes. As far as she could tell, the investigation was at a standstill.

  Jerry DeMorney was a different matter.

  She, too, had her sources. She was perfectly aware there was talk about him. Questions, not only by the police, but by his superiors. And the board members, led—mortifyingly, she hoped—by his own great-uncle.

  It was some satisfaction to know he was being squeezed, as her family had been squeezed. Between the greedy fists of gossip and suspicion.

  She brought up another e-mail, clicked to open the attached file.

  As she watched it scroll on-screen, her heart stumbled, then began to race.

  It was a copy of the next ad, one set to run in August.

  A family picnic, a wash of sunlight, the dapple of shade from a huge old oak. A scatter of people at a long wooden table that was loaded with food and bottles of wine.

  The image Sophia had hand-picked was of several generations, a mix of faces, expressions, movement. The young mother with a baby in her lap, the little boy wrestling with a puppy on the grass, a father with a young girl riding his shoulders.

  At the head of the table, the model who'd reminded her of Eli sat, his glass lifted as if in a toast. There was laughter in the picture, continuity, family tradition.

  This image had been altered. Subtly, slickly. Three of the models' faces had been replaced. Sophia studied her grandmother, her mother, herself. Her eyes were wide with horror, her mouth gaping with it. Stabbed into her chest, like a knife, was a bottle of wine.

  It read:

  THIS IS YOUR MOMENT

  IT'LL BE THE DEATH OF YOU

  AND YOURS

  "You son of a bitch, you son of a bitch." She jabbed the keyboard, ordered the copy to print, saved the file, then closed it.

  He wouldn't shake her, she promised herself. And he wouldn't threaten her family with impunity. She would deal with him. She would handle this.

  She started to slap the hard copy of the ad in a file, hesitated.

  You're a handler, Tyler had told her.

  Suckering the vines was a pleasant way to spend a summer's day. The sun was warm, the breeze mild as a kiss. Under the brilliant blue cup of sky, the circling Vacas were upholstered with green, the hills rolling down lush with the promise of summer.

  His grapes were protected from that streaming midday sun by a lovely verdant canopy of leaves. Nature's parasol, his grandfather called it.

  The crop was more than half its mature size, and before long the black grape varieties would begin changing color, green berries miraculously going blue, then purple as they pushed toward that last spurt of maturity. And harvest.

  Each stage of growth required tending, just as each stage brought the season to its inevitable promise.

  When Sophia crouched beside him, he continued his work, and his pleasure.

  "I thought you were going to hole up in your office all day, waste this sunshine. Hell of a way to make a living, if you ask me."

  "I thought a big, important vintner like yourself would have more to do than suckering vines personally." She combed a hand through his hair, lavishly streaked by the sun. "Where's your hat, pal?"

  "Around somewhere. These Pinot Noir are going to be our earliest to ripen. I've got a hundred down with Paulie on these babies. I say they're going to give us our best vintage in five years. His money's on the Chenin Blanc."

  "I'll take a piece of that. Mine's on the Pinot Chardonnay."

  "You ought to save your money. You're going to need it financing Maddy's brainstorm."

  "It's an innovative, forward-thinking project. She's already buried me in data. We're putting together a proposal for La Signora."

  "You want to rub grape seeds all over your body, I could do it for you. No charge." He shifted, their knees bumped before he laid a hand on hers. "What's the matter, baby?"

  "I got another message, another doctored ad. It came through a file attached to interoffice e-mail." As his hand tensed, she turned hers over so their fingers linked. "I've already called. It was sent under P.J.'s screen name. She hasn't sent me any posts today. Someone either used her computer or had her account information and password. It could've come from anywhere."

  "Where is it?"

  "Back home. I printed it out, locked it in a drawer. I'm going to send it to the police, add it to their pile. But I wanted to tell you first. As much as I hate the idea, I suppose the thing to do is call a summit meeting so everyone in the family's aware and on guard. But… I wanted to tell you first."

  He stayed as he was, crouched, his hand dwarfing hers. Overhead a cloud teased the edges of the sun and filtered the light.

  "Here's what I want to do. I want to hunt him down and peel the skin off his bones with a dull knife. Until that happy day, I want you to promise me something."

  "If I can."

  "No, Sophie, there's no if. You don't go anywhere by yourself. Not even from the villa to here. Not even for a walk in the gardens or a quick trip to the goddamn mini-mart. I mean it." . "I understand how worried you are, but—"

  "You can't understand, because it's unreasonable. It's indescribable." He tripped her heart by bringing her free hand up, pressing his lips to the palm. "If I wake up in the middle of the night and you're not there, I break out in a cold sweat."

  "Ty."

  "Shut up, just shut up." In one fast and fluid move, he got to his feet to walk off the nerves and the rage. "I've never loved anyone before. I didn't expect it to be you. But it is, and that's it. You're not doing anything to mess this up for me."

  "Well, naturally, we can't have that."

  He turned, gave her a look of profound frustration. "You know what I mean, Sophie."

  "Fortunately for you, I do. I don't intend to mess this up for you, or me, either."

  "Great. Let's go pack your things."

  "I'm not moving in with you."

  "Why the hell not?" Frustration had him dragging his hands through his hair. "You're there half the time anyway. And don't give me that lame excuse about needing to be home to help with the wedding."

  "It's not a lame excuse, it's a reason. Potentially a lame reason. I don't want to live with you."

  "Why? Just tell me why."

  "Maybe I'm old-fashioned."

  "Like hell you are."

  "Maybe I'm old-fashioned," she repeated, "in this one area. I don't think we should live together. I think we should get married."

  "That's just another…" The words sank in, momentarily dulled his brain. "Whoa."

  "Yes, and with that scintillating response, I need to go back home and call the police."

  "You know, one day you're actually going to let me work through a process at my own time and pace. But
since that isn't the case on this one, at least you could ask me in a more traditional way."

  "You want me to ask you? Fine. Will you marry me?"

  "Sure. November's good for me." He cupped her elbows, lifted her a couple inches off the ground. "Which was when I was going to ask you—but you always have to be first. I figured we could get married, have a nice honeymoon and be back home before pruning time. Kind of a tidy and symbolic cycle, don't you think?"

  "I don't know. I have to think about it. Culo."

  "Back at you, honey." He gave her a hard kiss, then dropped her back on her feet. "Let me finish this vine, then we'll go call the cops. And the family."

  "Ty?"

  "Mmm."

  "Just because I did the proposing doesn't mean I don't want a ring."

  "Yeah, yeah, I'll get to it."

  "I'll pick it out."

  "No, you won't."

  "Why not? I'm the one who'll be wearing it."

  "You're the one wearing your face, too, but you didn't pick that out, either."

  On a sigh, she knelt beside him. "That makes absolutely no sense." But she tipped her head onto his shoulder as he worked. "When I came here I was scared and angry. Now I'm scared, angry and happy. It's better," she decided. "A lot better."

  "This is who we are," Tereza stated, lifting her glass. "And who we choose to be."

  They were dining alfresco, in a kind of Giambelli reflection of the ad. A purposeful choice, Sophia thought. Her grandmother would stand straight against a threat and kick it dead in the balls if need be.

  The evening was warm, the sunlight still brilliant. In the vineyards beyond the lawns and gardens, the grapes were growing fat and the Pinot Noir, as Tyler had predicted, was just beginning to turn.

  Forty days till harvest, Sophia thought. That was the old rule. When the grapes took color, harvest was forty days away. Her mother would be married by then, and just back from her honeymoon. Maddy and Theo would be her brother and sister, and back in school. She would be planning her own wedding, though she'd pressured Tyler not to announce their engagement yet.

  Life could continue because, as La Signora said, this is who they were. And who they chose to be.

  "When we have trouble," Tereza continued, "we band together. Family. Friends. This year has brought trouble, and changes and grief. But it's also brought joy. In a few weeks Eli and I will have a new son, and more grandchildren. And, it seems," she added, turning toward Maddy, "a new enterprise. In the meantime, we've been threatened. I've given considerable thought to what can and should be done. James? Your legal opinion of our options."

  He set down his fork, gathered his thoughts. "While evidence indicates DeMorney was involved, even perhaps instrumental, in the embezzlement scheme, the tampering, there's no concrete proof. Donato's claims notwithstanding, there isn't enough to convince the district attorney to file charges on those matters, or Tony Avano's death. It's been confirmed that he was in New York when Sophia's car was tampered with."

  "He would have hired someone," David began.

  "Be that as it may, and I don't disagree, until the police have evidence against them, there's nothing they can do. And nothing," James added, "you can do. My best advice is to stay above it, let the system work."

  "No offense intended to you or your system, Uncle James, but it hasn't been working very well to date. Donato was murdered while he was in the system," Sophia pointed out. "And David was shot on a public street."

  "Those are matters for the Italian authorities, Sophie, and only tie our hands all the more."

  "He's harassing Sophie with those ads." Tyler shoved at his plate. "Why can't they be traced back to him?"

  "I wish I had the answers. This isn't a stupid man or, thus far, a careless one. If he's at the core of all of this, he's covered himself with layers of protection, alibis."

  "He walked into my apartment, sat down and shot my father in cold blood. I'd consider that, at the very least, a careless act. He needs to be punished. He should be hounded and pursued and harassed, just as he's hounded, pursued and harassed the family."

  "Sophia." Helen reached across the table. "I'm sorry. Sometimes justice isn't what we want it to be, or what we expect."

  "He set out to ruin us." Tereza spoke calmly. "He hasn't done so. Damaged, yes, caused us loss. But he'll pay a price for it. Today he was asked to resign his position at La Coeur. I'm pleased to believe that discussions Eli and I had with certain members of their board, and discussions David had with key executives bore this particular fruit."

  She sipped her wine, enjoyed the bouquet. "I'm told he didn't take it well. I'll use whatever influence I have at my disposal to see to it he finds no position at any reputable winemaker. Professionally, he's finished."

  "It's not enough," Sophia began.

  "It may be too much," Helen corrected. "If he's as dangerous as you believe, this sort of interference will push him into a corner, make it only more imperative that he strike back. As a lawyer, as your friend, I'm asking you… all of you, to leave it alone."

  "Mom." Linc shook his head. "Could you?"

  "Yes." The single syllable was a fierce declaration. "To protect what mattered most, I could. I would. Tereza, your daughter is about to be married. She's found happiness. She's weathered a storm, and so have all of you. This is a time for you to celebrate, to move on, not to focus on revenge and retribution."

  "We each protect what matters most, Helen. In our own way. The sun's going," she said. "Tyler, light the candles. It's a pleasant evening. We should enjoy it. Tell me, do you still pit your Pinot Noir against my Chenin Blanc?"

  "I do." He worked his way down the table, setting the candles to flame. "Of course, it's a win-win situation, as we're merged." When he reached the head of the table, he met her eyes. "Speaking of mergers, I'm going to marry Sophia."

  "Damn it, Ty! I told you—"

  "Quiet," he said so casually, Sophia sputtered into silence. "She's the one who asked me, but I thought it was a pretty good idea."

  "Oh, Sophie." Pilar leaped up from the table and rushed to throw her arms around her daughter.

  "I only wanted to wait until after your wedding to tell you, but big mouth here couldn't keep it shut."

  "That part was her idea, too," Tyler agreed as he circled the table. "Sophie's not wrong that often, so it's hard to get it through her head when she is. The way I figure it, you just can't have enough good news. Here."

  He grabbed her hand, holding it when she tugged. He took a ring out of his pocket and slipped the simple and spectacular square-cut diamond on her finger. "That makes it a deal."

  "Why can't you just… It's beautiful."

  "It was my grandmother's. MacMillan to Giambelli."

  He took her hand, lifted it and kissed it. "Giambelli to MacMillan. It works for me."

  She sighed. "I really hate it when you're right."

  Revenge, Jerry decided, made stranger bedfellows than politics. Not that they'd quite gotten to the bed yet. But they would. Rene was so much easier a mark than he'd have believed.

  "I appreciate your seeing me like this. Listening. Hearing me out." He reached for Rene's hand. "I was afraid you believed those vicious rumors the Giambellis are circulating."

  "I wouldn't believe any of them if they said the sun came up in the east." Rene settled back on the sofa, made herself cozy. Over and above her loathing for the Giambellis was a keen sense for a man with money. She was quickly running out of cash.

  Tony, damn him, hadn't been honest with her. She'd already sold off some jewelry, and if she didn't land another fish soon, she'd have to go back to work.