The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 3

by Nora Roberts

  And there would be champagne. Good, she was in the mood for it.

  All followed by an outrageously romantic attempt to lure her into bed. She wondered if she’d be in the mood for that as well.

  He was attractive, she considered, and could be amusing. Perhaps if they both hadn’t been aware that her father had once slept with his wife, the idea of a little romance between them wouldn’t seem so awkward, and somehow incestuous.

  Still, several years had passed. . . .

  “Maria.” Sophia neatly tucked Jerry and the evening to come away, when the Giambelli housekeeper answered. “I’ve a call from my mother’s line. Is she available?”

  “Oh, yes, Miss Sophia. She hoped you would call. Just one moment.”

  Sophia imagined the woman hurrying through the wing, scanning the rooms for something to tidy when Pilar Giambelli Avano would have already tidied everything herself.

  Mama, Sophia thought, would have been content in a little rose-covered cottage where she could bake bread, do her needlework and tend her garden. She should have had a half dozen children, Sophia thought with a sigh. And had to settle for me.

  “Sophie, I was just heading out to the greenhouse. Wait. Catch my breath. I didn’t expect you to get back to me so quickly. I thought you’d be in the middle of the auction.”

  “End of it. And I think we can say it’s been an unqualified success. I’ll fax a memo of the particulars this evening, or first thing in the morning. Now, I really should go back and tie up the loose ends. Is everything all right there?”

  “More or less. Your grandmother’s ordered a summit meeting.”

  “Oh, Mama, she’s not dying again. We went through that six months ago.”

  “Eight,” Pilar corrected. “But who’s counting? I’m sorry, baby, but she insists. I don’t think she plans to die this time, but she’s planning something. She’s called the lawyers for another revamp of the will. And she gave me her mother’s cameo brooch, which means she’s thinking ahead.”

  “I thought she gave you that last time.”

  “No, it was the amber beads last time. She’s sending for everyone. You need to come back.”

  “All right, all right.” Sophia glanced down at her organizer and blew a mental kiss goodbye to Jerry DeMorney. “I’ll finish up here and be on my way. But really, Mama, this new habit of hers of dying or revamping every few months is very inconvenient.”

  “You’re a good girl, Sophie. I’m going to leave you my amber beads.”

  “Thanks a bunch.” With a laugh, Sophia disconnected.

  Two hours later, she was flying west and speculating whether in another forty years she would have the power to crook her finger and have everyone scrambling.

  Just the idea of it made her smile as she settled back with a glass of champagne and Verdi playing on the headphones.

  Not everyone scrambled. Tyler MacMillan might have been minutes away from Villa Giambelli rather than hours, but he considered the vines a great deal more urgent than a summons from La Signora.

  And he said so.

  “Now, Ty. You can take a few hours.”

  “Not now.” Ty paced his office, anxious to get back into the fields. “I’m sorry, Granddad. You know how vital the winter pruning is, and so does Tereza.” He shifted the portable phone to his other ear. He hated the portables. He was always losing them. “MacMillan’s vines need every bit as much care as Giambelli’s.”

  “Ty—”

  “You put me in charge here. I’m doing my job.”

  “Ty,” Eli repeated. With his grandson, he knew, matters must be put on a very basic level. “Tereza and I are as dedicated to MacMillan wines as we are to those under the Giambelli label, and have been for twenty years. You were put in charge because you’re an exceptional vintner. Tereza has plans. Those plans involve you.”

  “Next week.”

  “Tomorrow.” Eli didn’t put his foot down often; it wasn’t the way he worked. But when necessary, he did so ruthlessly. “One o’clock. Lunch. Dress appropriately.”

  Tyler scowled down at his ancient boots and the frayed hems of his thick trousers. “That’s the middle of the damn day.”

  “Are you the only one at MacMillan capable of pruning vines, Tyler? Apparently you’ve lost a number of employees over the last season.”

  “I’ll be there. But tell me one thing.”

  “Of course.”

  “Is this the last time she’s going to die for a while?”

  “One o’clock,” Eli responded. “Try to be on time.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Tyler muttered, but only after he clicked the phone off.

  He adored his grandfather. He even adored Tereza, perhaps because she was so ornery and annoying. When his grandfather had married the Giambelli heiress, Tyler had been eleven years old. He’d fallen in love with the vineyards, the rise of the hills, the shadows of the caves, the great caverns of the cellars.

  And in a very real sense he’d fallen in love with Tereza Louisa Elana Giambelli, that whip-thin, ramrod-straight, somewhat terrifying figure he’d first seen dressed in boots and trousers not so different from his own, striding through the mustard plants between the rising rows of grapes.

  She’d taken one look at him, lifted a razor-sharp black eyebrow and deemed him soft and citified. If he was to be her grandson, she’d told him, he would have to be toughened up.

  She’d ordered him to stay at the villa for the summer. No one had considered arguing the point. Certainly not his parents, who’d been more than happy to dump him for an extended period so they could fly off to parties and lovers. So he had stayed, Tyler thought now as he wandered to the window. Summer after summer until the vineyards were more home to him than the house in San Francisco, until she and his grandfather were more parents to him than his mother and father.

  She’d made him. Pruned him back at the age of eleven and trained him to grow into what he was.

  But she didn’t own him. It was ironic, he supposed, that all her work should have formed him into the one person under her aegis most likely to ignore her demands.

  Harder, of course, to ignore the demands when she and his grandfather unified. With a shrug, Tyler started out of the office. He could spare a few hours, and they knew it as well as he. The MacMillan vineyards employed the best, and he could easily have absented himself for most of a season with confidence in those left in charge.

  The simple fact was he hated the big, sprawling events the Giambellis generated. They were invariably like a circus, with all three rings packed with colorful acts. You couldn’t keep track, and it was always possible one of the tigers would leap the cage and go for your throat.

  All those people, all those issues, all those pretenses and smoky undercurrents. He was happier walking the vineyards or checking the casks or plunking down with one of his winemakers and discussing the qualities of that year’s Chardonnay.

  Social duties were simply that. Duties.

  He detoured through the charming ramble of the house that had been his grandfather’s into the kitchen to refill his thermos with coffee. Absently he set the portable phone he still carried on the counter and began rearranging his schedule in his head to accommodate La Signora.

  He was no longer citified, or soft. He was just over six feet with a body sculpted by fieldwork and a preference for the outdoors. His hands were wide, and tough with calluses, with long fingers that knew how to dip delicately under leaves to the grape. His hair tended to curl if he forgot to have it trimmed, which he often did, and was a deep brown that showed hints of red, like an aged burgundy in the sunlight. His rawboned face was more rugged than handsome, with lines beginning to fan out from eyes of clear and calm blue that could harden to steel.

  The scar along his jaw, which he’d earned with a tumble off a stand of rocks at age thirteen, only annoyed him when he remembered to shave.

  Which he reminded himself he would have to do before lunch the following day.

  Those who w
orked for him considered him a fair man, if often a single-minded one. Tyler would have appreciated the analysis. They also considered him an artist, and that would have baffled him.

  To Tyler MacMillan, the artist was the grape.

  He stepped outside into the brisk winter air. He had two hours before sunset, and vines to tend.

  Donato Giambelli had a headache of outrageous proportions. Her name was Gina, and she was his wife. When the summons from La Signora had come, he had been happily engaged in eye-crossing sex with his current mistress, a multitalented aspiring actress with thighs strong enough to crack walnuts. Unlike his wife, all the mistress required was the occasional bauble and a sweaty romp three times a week. She did not require conversation.

  There were times he thought Gina required nothing else.

  She babbled at him. Babbled at each of their three children. Babbled at his mother until the air in the company jet vibrated with the endless stream of words.

  Between her, the baby’s screaming, little Cezare’s banging and Tereza Maria’s bouncing, Don gave serious thought to opening the hatch and shoving his entire family off the plane and into oblivion.

  Only his mother was quiet, and only because she’d taken a sleeping pill, an air-sickness pill, an allergy pill and God knew what else, washed them all down with two glasses of Merlot before putting her eye mask in place and passing out.

  She’d spent most of her life, at least the portion he knew of it, medicated and oblivious. At the moment, he considered that superior wisdom.

  He could only sit, his temples throbbing, and damn his aunt Tereza to hell and beyond for insisting his entire family make the trip.

  He was executive vice president of Giambelli, Venice, was he not? Any business that needed to be conducted required him, not his family.

  Why had God plagued him with such a family?

  Not that he didn’t love them. Of course he loved them. But the baby was as fat as a turkey, and there was Gina pulling out a breast for its greedy mouth.

  Once, that breast had been a work of art, he thought. Gold and firm and tasting of peaches. Now it was stretched like an overfilled balloon, and, had he been inclined to taste, flavored with baby drool.

  And the woman was already making noises about yet another one.

  The woman he’d married had been ripe, lush, sexually charged and empty of head. She had been perfection. In five short years she had become fat, sloppy and her head was full of babies.

  Was it any wonder he sought his comfort elsewhere?

  “Donny, I think Zia Tereza will give you a big promotion, and we’ll all move into the castello.” She lusted for the great house of Giambelli—all those lovely rooms, all the servants. Her children would be raised in luxury, with privilege.

  Fine clothes, the best schools and, one day, the Giambelli fortune at their feet.

  She was the only one giving La Signora babies, wasn’t she? That would count for quite a bit.

  “Cezare,” she said to her son as he tore the head off his sister’s doll. “Stop that! Now you made your sister cry. Here now, here, give me the doll. Mama will fix.”

  Little Cezare, eyes glinting, tossed the head gleefully over his shoulder and began to taunt his sister.

  “English, Cezare!” She shook a finger at him. “We’re going to America. You’ll speak English to your zia Tereza and show her what a smart boy you are. Come, come.”

  Tereza Maria, screaming over the death of her doll, retrieved the severed head and raced up and down the cabin in a flurry of grief and rage.

  “Cezare! Do as Mama says.”

  In response, the boy flung himself to the floor, arms and legs hammering.

  Don lurched up, stumbled away and locked himself in the sanctuary of his in-flight office.

  Anthony Avano enjoyed the finer things. He’d chosen his two-story penthouse in San Francisco’s Back Bay with care and deliberation, then had hired the top decorator in the city to outfit it for him. Status and style were high priorities. Having them without having to make any real effort was another.

  He failed to see how a man could be comfortable without those basic elements.

  His rooms reflected what he thought of as classic taste—from the silk moiré walls, the Oriental carpets, to the gleaming oak furniture. He’d chosen, or his decorator had, rich fabrics in neutral tones with a few splashes of bold colors artfully arranged.

  The modern art, which meant absolutely nothing to him, was, he’d been told, a striking counterpoint to the quiet elegance.

  He relied heavily on the services of decorators, tailors, brokers, jewelers and dealers to guide him into surrounding himself with the best.

  Some of his detractors had been known to say Tony Avano was born with taste. And all of it in his mouth. He wouldn’t have argued the point. But money, as Tony saw it, bought all the taste a man required.

  He knew one thing. And that was wine.

  His cellars were arguably among the best in California. Every bottle had been personally selected. While he couldn’t distinguish a Sangiovese from a Semillon on the vine, and had no interest in the growing of the grape, he had a superior nose. And that nose had steadily climbed the corporate ladder at Giambelli, California. Thirty years before, it had married Pilar Giambelli.

  It had taken that nose less than two years to begin sniffing at other women.

  Tony was the first to admit that women were his weakness. There were so many of them, after all. He had loved Pilar as deeply as he was capable of loving another human being. He had certainly loved his position of privilege in the Giambelli organization as the husband of La Signora’s daughter and as the father of her granddaughter.

  For those reasons he had, for many years, attempted to be very discreet about his particular weakness. He had even tried, a number of times, to re-form.

  But then there would be another woman, soft and fragrant or sultry and seductive. What was a man to do?

  The weakness had eventually cost him his marriage, in a technical if not a legal sense. He and Pilar had been separated for seven years. Neither of them had made the move toward divorce. She, he knew, because she loved him. And he because it seemed like a great deal of trouble and would have seriously displeased Tereza.

  In any case, as far as Tony was concerned, the current situation suited everyone nicely. Pilar preferred the countryside, he the city. They maintained a polite, even a reasonably friendly relationship. And he kept his position as president of sales, Giambelli, California.

  Seven years they had walked that civilized line. Now, he was very afraid he was about to fall off the edge of it.

  Rene was insisting on marriage. Like a silk-lined steamroller, Rene had a way of moving toward a goal and flattening all barriers in her path. Discussions with her left Tony limp and dizzy.

  She was violently jealous, overbearing, demanding and prone to icy sulks.

  He was crazy about her.

  At thirty-two, she was twenty-seven years his junior, a fact that stroked his well-developed ego. Knowing she was every bit as interested in his money as the rest of him didn’t trouble him. He respected her for it.

  He worried that if he gave her what she wanted, he would lose what she wanted him for.

  It was a hell of a fix. To resolve it, Tony did what he usually did regarding difficulties. He ignored it as long as humanly possible.

  Studying his view of the bay, sipping a small vermouth, Tony waited for Rene to finish dressing for their evening out. And worried that his time was up.

  The doorbell had him glancing over, frowning slightly. They weren’t expecting anyone. As it was his majordomo’s evening off, he went to see who was there. The frown cleared as he opened the door to his daughter.

  “Sophie, what a lovely surprise.”

  “Dad.”

  She rose slightly on her toes to kiss his cheek. Ridiculously handsome, as ever, she thought. Good genes and an excellent plastic surgeon served him well. She did her best to ignore the quick and ins
tinctive tug of resentment, and tried to focus on the equally quick and instinctive tug of love.

  It seemed she was forever pulled in opposing directions over her father.

  “I’m just in from New York, and wanted to see you before I headed up to the villa.”

  She scanned his face—smooth, almost unlined and certainly untroubled. The dark hair wisped attractively with gray at the temples, the deep blue eyes were clear. He had a handsome, squared-off chin with a center dimple. She’d loved dipping her finger into it as a child and making him laugh.

  The love for him swarmed through her and tangled messily with the resentment. It was always so.

  “I see you’re going out,” she said, noting his tuxedo.

  “Shortly.” He took her hand to draw her inside. “But there’s plenty of time. Sit down, princess, and tell me how you are. What can I get you?”

  She tipped his glass toward her. Sniffed, approved. “What you’re having’s fine.”

  She scanned the room as he walked over to the liquor cabinet. An expensive pretext, she thought. All show and no substance. Just like her father.

  “Are you going up tomorrow?”

  “Going where?”

  She tilted her head as he crossed back to her. “To the villa.”

  “No, why?”

  She took the glass, considering as she sipped. “You didn’t get a call?”

  “About what?”

  Loyalties tugged and tangled inside her. He’d cheated on her mother, had carelessly ignored his vows as long as Sophia could remember, and in the end had left them both with barely a backward glance. But he was still family, and the family was being called to the villa.

  “La Signora. One of her summits with lawyers, I’m told. You might want to be there.”

  “Ah, well, really, I was—”

  He broke off as Rene walked in.

  If there was a poster girl for the trophy mistress, Sophia thought as her temper sizzled, Rene Foxx was it. Tall, curvy and blonde on blonde. The Valentino gown showcased a body ruthlessly toned, and managed to look understated and elegant.

  Her hair was swept up, slicked back to leave her lovely, pampered face with its full, sensuous mouth—collagen, Sophia thought cattily—and shrewd green eyes.