The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 3

by Nora Roberts

  There was a thrill in that, she thought. In that quick whip of strength and temper.

  “Okay?” he demanded and dropped her flat on her feet again.

  “Almost.” She ran her hands up his chest, felt him tremble. A thrill, she thought, in knowing you were physically outmatched but still had power. She laid her lips on his, teasing until his hand took a fistful of the back of her sweater, until her hands were locked possessively around his neck and her own stomach muscles went loose.

  “That,” she murmured, “was just fine.”

  “Leave your terrace doors unlocked.”

  “They have been.”

  “I have to get back to work.”

  “Me too.”

  But they stayed as they were, mouths a breath apart. Something was happening inside her. A quivering, but not that lustful shiver in the belly. This was around her heart, and more ache than pleasure. Fascinated, she started to give in to it. And the phone in her pocket began to ring again.

  “Well,” she said a little unsteadily as she eased away. “Round two. I’ll see you later.”

  She dragged her phone out as she hurried away. She’d think about Ty later. Think about a lot of things later. “Sophia Giambelli. Nonna, I’m glad you caught me. I tried to reach you earlier, but . . .”

  She trailed off, alerted by her grandmother’s tone. She stopped walking, stood at the edge of the vineyard. Despite the wash of sunlight, her skin chilled.

  She was already running back as she broke the connection. “Ty!”

  Alarmed, he whirled back, caught her on the fly. “What is it? What happened?”

  “They found more. Two more bottles that were tainted.”

  “Damn it. Well, we were expecting it. We knew there had to be tampering.”

  “There’s more. It could be worse. Nonna— she and Eli—” She had to stop, organize her thoughts. “There was an old man, he worked for Nonna’s grandfather. Started in the vineyard when he was just a boy. He retired, technically, over a year ago. And late last year he died. He had a bad heart.”

  He was already following her, already feeling the dread. “Go on.”

  “His granddaughter, the one who found him, says he’d been drinking our Merlot. She came to my grandmother after the news of the recall broke. They’re having his body exhumed.”

  “His name was Bernardo Baptista.” Sophia had all the details in neatly typed notes, but she didn’t need them. She had every word in her head. “He was seventy-three. He died in December from an apparent heart attack while sitting in front of his own fire after a simple meal and several glasses of Castello di Giambelli Merlot, ’92.”

  As Margaret Bowers had, David thought grimly. “You said Baptista had a weak heart.”

  “He’d had some minor heart problems and was suffering from a lingering head cold at the time of his death. The cold adds another layer. Baptista was known for his nose. He’d worked wine for over sixty years. But as he was ill, it was unlikely he’d have detected any problem with the wine. His granddaughter swears he hadn’t opened it before that night. She’d seen it that afternoon when she’d visited him. He kept it, and a few other gifts from the company, on display. He was very proud of his association with Giambelli.”

  “The wine had been a gift.”

  “According to his granddaughter, yes.”

  “From?”

  “She doesn’t know. He was given a retirement party, and as is customary, Giambelli presents an employee with parting gifts. I’ve checked, and that particular wine was not on the gift list. He’d have been presented with a Cabernet, a white and a sparkling. First label. However, it’s not uncommon for an employee to be allowed to choose another selection, or to be given wine by other members of the company.”

  “How soon will they know if the wine caused his death?” Pilar moved to the desk where Sophia sat, rubbed a hand over her daughter’s shoulder.

  “A matter of days.”

  “We do what we can to track the wine,” David decided. “Meanwhile, we continue as we have been. I’m going to suggest to La Signora and Eli that we hire an outside investigator.”

  “I’ll work on a statement. It’s best if we announce the new finds, and Giambelli’s part in implementing the recall and the testing. I don’t want to have to chase the release again.”

  “Let me know what I can do to help,” Pilar told her.

  “Get that guest list together.”

  “Honey, you can’t possibly want to hold a party now.”

  “On the contrary.” The worry, the sadness over an old man she remembered with affection hardened into determination. “We’ll just twist the angle. We hold a gala here, for charity. We’ve done it before, and a great deal more for good causes. I want people to remember that. A thousand a plate. All food, wine and entertainment donated by Giambelli-MacMillan, with proceeds going to the homeless.”

  She scribbled notes as she spoke, already drafting invitations, releases, responses in her head. “Our family wants to help yours be safe and secure. There are a lot of people who owe La Signora more than a grand for a fancy meal. If they need to be reminded of that, I’ll see to it.”

  She cocked her head, waiting for David’s reaction.

  “You’re the expert there,” he said after a moment. “It’s a shaky line to walk, but in my opinion, you have superior balance.”

  “Thanks. Meanwhile, we have to pretend a cool disinterest in the press Rene is generating. There’ll be fallout from that, and it’ll be personal. What’s personal to Giambelli will, naturally, touch on business.”

  Pilar slid into a discreet chair at a quiet table in the bar at the Four Seasons. She was sure if she’d mentioned her intentions to anyone, she’d have been told she was making a mistake.

  She probably was.

  But this was something she had to do, something she should have done long ago. She ordered a mineral water and prepared to wait. She had no doubt Rene would be late. Just as she’d had no doubt Rene would meet her. She wouldn’t have been able to resist making an entrance or having a confrontation with an enemy she perceived as weaker.

  Pilar nursed her drink and sat patiently. She had a lot of experience with waiting.

  Rene didn’t disappoint. She swept in. She was, Pilar supposed, the kind of woman who liked to sweep into a room, trailing furs though the weather was too warm for them.

  She looked well—fit, rested, glowing. Too often in the past, Pilar admitted, she’d studied this stunning and younger woman and felt inadequate in comparison.

  A natural response, she imagined. But that didn’t stop it from being foolish and useless.

  It was easy to see why Tony had been attracted. Easier to understand why he’d been caught. Rene was no empty-headed Barbie, but a tough-minded female who would have known just how to get what she wanted, and to keep it.

  “Pilar.”

  “Rene. Thanks for meeting me.”

  “Oh, how could I resist?” Rene dumped her fur and slid into her chair. “You’re looking a little strained. Champagne cocktail,” she told the waitress without glancing up.

  Pilar’s stomach didn’t clench as it once would have. “You’re not. You had a few weeks in Europe early this year. It must have agreed with you.”

  “Tony and I had planned on an extended vacation. He wouldn’t have wanted me to sit home and brood.” Rene angled herself, crossed long, silky legs. “That was always your job.”

  “Rene, I was never the other woman, and neither were you. I was out of the picture long before you and Tony met.”

  “You were never out of the picture. You and your family kept your hooks in Tony, and you made sure he never got what he deserved from Giambelli. Now he’s dead, and you’ll pay me what you should have paid him.” She picked up her drink the minute it was served. “Did you think I’d let you drag his name, and mine by association, through the dirt?”

  “Odd, I was going to ask you the same thing.” Pilar folded her hands on the table. A small, tidy
move that gave her a moment to gather herself. “Whatever else, Rene, he was my daughter’s father. I never wanted to see his name sullied. I want, more than I can tell you, to know who killed him, and why.”

  “You did, one way or the other. By cutting him out of the company. He wasn’t meeting another woman that night. He wouldn’t have dared. And I was enough for him, the way you never were.”

  Pilar thought about mentioning Kris, but knew it wasn’t worth the effort. “No, I was never enough for him. I don’t know who he was meeting that night, or why, but—”

  “I’ll tell you what I think,” Rene interrupted. “He had something on you, you, your family. And you had him killed. Maybe you even used that little twit Margaret to do it, and that’s why she’s dead now.”

  Weariness replaced pity. “That’s ridiculous, even for you. If this is the kind of thing you’re saying to reporters, that you intend to say on television, you’re opening yourself up to serious legal action.”

  “Please.” Rene sipped again. “Do you think I haven’t consulted an attorney to see what I can say and how I can say it? You saw to it that Tony was about to be cut off, and that I came away with next to nothing. I intend to get what’s coming to me.”

  “Really? And since we’re so cold-blooded, aren’t you afraid of retribution?”

  Rene glanced toward a nearby table. Two men sat, sipping water. “Bodyguards. Round the clock. Don’t even bother threatening me.”

  “You’ve created quite a fantasy world, and appear to be enjoying it. I’m sorry about you and Tony, sincerely, as you were perfect for each other. I came here to ask you to be reasonable, to show some decency toward my family and to think of Tony’s child before you speak to the press. But that’s a waste of time for both of us. I thought you might have loved him, but that was foolish of me. So we’ll try this.”

  She leaned in, surprising Rene with the sudden and very cold gleam in her eye. “Do what you want, say what you want. In the end, you’ll only look ridiculous. And though it’s small of me, I’ll enjoy that. More, I think, than you will saying it or doing it. Keep being the strident trophy wife, Rene, it suits you,” Pilar said as she reached in her purse for money. “Just as those rather gaudy earrings suit you—a great deal more than they did me when Tony gave them to me for our fifth wedding anniversary.”

  She tossed a twenty on the table between them. “I’d consider them and anything else of mine he helped himself to over the years full payment. You’ll never get anything else out of me, or Giambelli.”

  She didn’t sweep out. She’d leave the drama for Rene. Instead she sauntered, and felt good about it. Just as she felt good about dropping another bill on the table where Rene’s bodyguards sat watch.

  “This round’s on me,” she told them and walked out laughing.

  “I put on a pretty good show.” Steaming now, Pilar paced back and forth over the Aubusson in Helen Moore’s living room. “And, by God, I think I came out on top. But I was so angry. This woman is gunning for my family and she’s wearing my damn earrings while she’s taking aim.”

  “You’ve got documentation on the jewelry, insurance records and so on. We could take issue.”

  “I hated those stupid earrings.” Pilar gave a bad-natured shrug. “Tony gave them to me as a peace offering after one of his affairs. I got the bill, too, of course. Damn it, it’s hard swallowing how often I was a fool.”

  “Then spit it out. Sure you don’t want a drink?”

  “No, I’m driving, and should be heading back already.” Pilar hissed out a breath, sucked in another. “I had to blow off steam first or I might have given in to road rage and ended up in jail.”

  “Good thing you have a friend on the bench. Listen to me. I think you did exactly right by facing off with her. A lot of people would disagree, but they don’t know you like I do.”

  Helen poured herself a couple of fingers of vodka over ice. “You had things to say, and you’ve waited too long to say them.”

  “It won’t change anything.”

  “With her? Maybe, maybe not.” Helen sat, stretched out. “But the point is, it changed something for you. You took charge. And personally, I’d have paid good money to see you tell her off. She’ll go on her little rant on her trashy talk show and very likely end up getting hammered by various audience members who take offense at her designer suit and ten pounds of jewelry. Wives,” she continued, “who’ve been cheated on, left holding the bag for women like her. God, Pilar, they’ll rip her to tattered shreds before it’s done, and you can bet Larry Mann and his producers are counting on just that.”

  Pilar stopped pacing. “I never thought of that.”

  “Honey, Rene Foxx is just one of God’s many custard pies. She hit you in the face, sure, but so what? Time to wipe her off.”

  “You’re right. I worry about the family, about Sophie. Even though it’s tabloid press, it’s press, and it’s going to embarrass her. I wish I knew how to shut her up.”

  “You could get a temporary restraining order. I’m a judge, I know these things,” Helen said dryly. “You could file suit—libel, defamation. And you might win. Probably would. But as your lawyer, and your friend, my advice is to let her have her rope. She’ll hang herself with it sooner or later.”

  “The sooner the better. We’re in an awful mess, Helen.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “If she says things that hint we may have arranged for Tony to be killed, that Margaret was involved . . . The police have already questioned us about a relationship between Margaret and Tony. It worries me.”

  “Margaret was the unlucky victim of some maniac’s lunacy. Product tampering doesn’t even have a target, that’s why it’s lunacy. Tony was deliberate. One has nothing to do with the other, and you shouldn’t start linking them in your mind.”

  “The press is linking them.”

  “The press would link a monkey with an elephant if it upped the ratings and sold papers.”

  “You’re right there, too. I’ll tell you something, Helen, over the anger, under the worry I felt when I talked to Rene, I realized something. I confronted her on this point because it mattered, because it was important, because I needed to take a stand.”

  Sipping her drink, Helen nodded. “And?”

  “And it made me realize that I never, not once, confronted her or any of the others, the countless other women in and out of Tony’s life. Because it stopped, he stopped being important. I had no stand to take. That’s very sad,” she said quietly. “And not all his fault. No, it wasn’t,” she went on before Helen could do more than spit out an oath. “It takes two to make a marriage, and I never pushed him to be one of those two in ours.”

  “He started chipping at your self-esteem right from the beginning.”

  “That’s true.” Pilar held out a hand, took Helen’s glass for a small and absent sip. “But a great deal that happened, and didn’t happen, between us was as much my doing as his. I’m not looking back with regret. I’m looking back, Helen, because I’m never, never going to make those mistakes again.”

  “Okay, fine.” Helen took the vodka back, toasted with it. “To the new Giambelli woman. Since you’re forging a new path, come sit down and tell me all about your sex life now that you have one.”

  On a low sound of pleasure, Pilar stretched her arms to the ceiling. “Since you ask . . . I’m having an incredible, exciting, illicit affair with a younger man.”

  “I hate you.”

  “You’re going to loathe me when I tell you he has this wonderful, hard, tireless body.”

  “Bitch.”

  Laughing, she dropped onto the arm of the sofa. “I had no idea, really, how a woman could get through life without having a clue what it’s like to be pressed down under a body like that. Tony was slim and rather delicate.”

  “Not much of a yardstick.”

  “You’re telling me.” She winced. “Oh, that’s terrible. That’s sick.”

  “No, that’s gre
at. James has . . . a comfortable body. Sweet old bear,” Helen said fondly. “But you won’t mind if I enjoy a few thrills through your sexual adventure?”

  “Of course not. What are friends for?”

  Sophia was ready for a little sexual adventure of her own. God knew she needed one. She’d worked herself to near exhaustion, then worried herself over the line.

  A swim after she’d shut down for the day had helped, then a turn in the whirlpool to loosen muscles tensed from that work and worry. She’d added one more phase to the water therapy with a long, sumptuous bath full of oil and scent.

  She’d lit candles throughout the room, fragrant with lemongrass and vanilla and jasmine. In their shifting light she chose a nightgown of black silk with a low, lacy bodice and thin straps. Why be subtle?

  She’d selected the wine from the private cellar. A young, frisky Chardonnay. She set it on ice to keep it cool, curled into a chair to wait for Ty. And fell dead asleep.

  It felt odd sneaking into a house where he’d always been welcome. Odd and exciting.

  He’d had moments, off and on during his life, where he’d imagined slipping into Sophia’s bedroom in the dark. Hell, what man wouldn’t?

  But actually doing it, knowing she’d be waiting for him, was a lot better than any midnight fantasy.

  He knew when he opened those doors they’d fall on each other like animals.

  He could already taste her.

  He could see the candlelight beating against the glass. Exotic, sensual. The turn of the knob in his hand barely made a click and rang like a trumpet in his head.

  He braced for her, closing the door at his back. Then he saw her, curled in a ball of fatigue in the chair.

  “Ah, hell, Sophie. Look at you.”

  He crossed the room quietly, crouched down and did what he rarely had the opportunity to do. He studied her without her knowing it.

  Soft skin that hinted of rose and gold. Thick, inky lashes and a full, lush mouth perfectly shaped to meet a man’s.

  “You’re one gorgeous piece of work,” he murmured. “And you wore yourself out, didn’t you?”