Author: Christina Dodd
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/christina-dodd/page,17,44121-revenge_at_bella_terra.html
He drove to their home.
Other than “I do,” he scarcely spoke a word during the entire trip. It was as if he’d said everything possible earlier and now he had nothing left.
Yet he held Chloë’s hand as if he couldn’t bear to let her go, and that was enough. Because she didn’t care whether he spoke. Once the ceremony was over, she didn’t have anything to say either.
She’d never done anything so stupid in her life.
The phrase echoed over and over in her brain. She didn’t have a doubt that marrying Eli in such a hurry was stupid. Yet she couldn’t scrape up any regret. Something was keeping her unrepentant, some emotion that was growing stronger by the second.
He pulled to a stop in front of the house, and came around to help her out of his truck.
He looked as if he were in shock, drawn and pale beneath the tan.
Good. That made two of them.
When she stepped onto the chrome side rail, he swept her off her feet and into his arms.
Startled, she laughed and clutched his neck.
He stood holding her, looking down at her as if . . . as if he held his life’s desire.
His expression was so intense it made her heart beat faster. Blushing, she lowered her lashes. And all the while, she was thinking, This is my wedding night. My wedding night.
She was trying to convince herself she had done this. Married him. She’d never done anything so stupid in her life. She must be in love.
His arms tightened, and he headed for the house.
“I can walk,” she said.
“I did everything backward. I’m going to get this right.” He ran with her up the stairs—it was interesting and a little unsettling to realize how strong he was—and put her down only to put his key in the lock and open the door. Picking her up, he carried her across the threshold. He shut the door with his foot, lowered her to the ground, pushed her against the wall, and gave her one of his patented kisses, lips to lips, tongues seeking, breath shared. When she was clinging to his shoulders, he pulled back. His eyes were almost black again, and hot, and she remembered what to do—wrap her legs around his waist so he could carry her to the couch and . . .
He said, “We can’t do that.”
“What?” What was he talking about?
“You just . . . I’d hurt you again.” His voice was rough, a rasp on her fragile feelings. “We’ll have to wait.”
“What?” she repeated.
“I’ve got to . . . I’ve got business to attend to.”
She stared at him, bemused and disbelieving. “At three in the morning?”
He drew a long breath. “International market.”
“You sell wines to the international market?” She knew she sounded incredulous. She was incredulous.
But why would he lie?
For that matter, after that impassioned speech about wanting her, why would he refuse to make love to her? “You skunk,” she said.
“Skunk?” He half laughed. “Skunk. As insults go, that’s . . . cute.”
“I can be more explicit.”
“No.” He kissed her again. “No.” He kissed her as if he couldn’t resist.
This time when he pulled away, she clung to the collar of his shirt. “Eli . . . even skunks need love.”
His eyes were wild, desperate. Taking her hands away, he held them and said, “For the love of God, Chloë, let me . . . I need to leave you alone. Just for tonight. I can wait one night.”
“Is this a test?”
“One night.”
“What about me?”
“Be sensible.” He wasn’t being patronizing. He was pleading. “If we . . . do anything . . . more, you’d be too sore.”
True. “I don’t care,” she said.
“Then we’d have to wait again, longer next time, and . . .” He tore himself away from her, crossed the room toward the stairs as if the hounds of hell chased him.
She collapsed against the wall and watched him, resentful . . . and appreciative. The man could be a butt model . . . for all the good it did her.
When he turned around and came back, she straightened up. “Changed your mind?”
“You haven’t moved in yet. The master suite is this way.” He hovered just out of her reach, and indicated a hallway that led off the living room. “Which suitcase do you want? Show me and I’ll bring it.” He acted like she had the plague.
She pointed.
He grabbed it and headed toward the hall.
She stalked after him.
The master bedroom was almost monkish in its asceticism.
She was not feeling monkish. She was feeling tired. And grumpy. And horny.
“Do whatever you need to. . . .” He faded toward the door.
“I’m thinking of a bedspread with big flowers and lots of ruffles,” she announced.
He stopped. Looked concerned. Saw her giving him the evil eye. He disappeared out the door.
She flounced into the bathroom. She took a shower and put on her most boring pajamas. She climbed into the low California-king-size bed and pulled up the covers. She decided to sulk—and fell right to sleep.
She woke up once when a warm, male body pulled her close. But the next morning, when she opened her eyes, he was gone.
Chapter 29
Chloë worked in the office all day without pause, revising her manuscript, writing a new scene, understanding her protagonists for the first time, why Gabriel was so tortured, why Hannah was so withdrawn, what had instigated the terrible chain of events that brought Hannah to the attention of a ruthless murderer. . . .
When the phone rang, Chloë stared at it, shaken from her creative frenzy and for a moment not even sure what the sound meant.
But it was Eli’s phone, and she didn’t think she ought to answer it. She might be his wife—but who knew that? Except her. And him. And after last night’s chaste experience, she wasn’t sure that he hadn’t changed his mind.
Besides, she didn’t have time to answer it. Her fingers tingled with the words waiting to be written.
The answering machine clicked on. The caller started leaving a message. “Eli, it is Tamosso Conte and I wanted to know if you—”
Even before he gave his name, she recognized the voice. Snatching up the phone, she said, “Papa? What are you doing calling me here?”
Her father stopped right in the middle of a word. “Chloë?”
He sounded so surprised that at once she felt stupid. “Or were you calling Eli?”
“Eli. Yes, I was calling Eli.” Papa sounded off balance. “Cara, you surprised me. I didn’t expect you to answer his office phone. That was foolish of me. . . .”
She tried to think of something to fill the awkward pause, but she’d been writing so much she had no words left for conversation.
At last he asked suspiciously, “You are working there, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m working.”
“Is he nearby?”
“No, he left this morning”—before she got up—“and I haven’t seen him since.” She hadn’t heard from him either.
Short honeymoon.
She glanced down at herself. Good thing, she supposed, because when the book woke her up she had made her coffee, hustled upstairs without a shower, and started writing while still in last night’s pajamas.
She was a disgrace to Southern womanhood.
“What time is it there?” she asked.
“There?” Papa sounded bewildered.
“What time is it in Italy? It must be the middle of the night.”
“Yes. It’s the middle of the night in Italy. Beautiful Italy . . .” Abruptly he changed the subject. “How’s your book?”
“Good!” She could answer that honestly enough. “You were right. Coming here has helped me a lot.”
“I am the papa,” he said with authority. “I am always right.”
She could hear him preening. “The trouble is, you believe that.”
“Why would I not
? It’s the truth. I should perhaps call Eli on his cell phone.”
“Because you’re, um, business associates?”
“That’s right.”
“How can you be business associates? You’re a leather merchant.”
“I import things, you know?”
“You import Eli’s wines to Italy?”
“Yes, and soon you’ll be seeing Milan’s best leather goods sold in Bella Terra’s gift shop.” He sounded remarkably pleased with himself.
“Oh.” She hadn’t believed it before. She’d thought her father’s story about how he and Eli worked together was all a bunch of hooey. Knowing her papa, they might be doing business only because Papa had researched Eli, decided he was a suitable husband, and approached him with some kind of offer Eli couldn’t resist.
Eli Di Luca, let me import your wines to Italy. I’ll make your family famous in their homeland. And by the way, here’s my eligible daughter.
Oh, yes. That kind of plot sounded exactly like Papa.
Wouldn’t he be surprised when he found out it had worked?
She grimaced.
Surprised . . . and obnoxious.
Which would make her mother madder, which would make Papa even more obnoxious. It was a vicious circle, one that revolved around Chloë and her mother’s decision to keep her a secret from her father, and while refusing to exchange a word, they scored off each other. The childish way they acted made Chloë wonder whether she could convince Eli they should keep their marriage a secret until after their second child was born. Because once her parents started fighting about Chloë’s wedding, it might very well end only in bloody death and destruction.
“About Eli—do you like him?” Papa sounded sly and wicked.
“I like him. He’s the best choice of a husband you’ve found so far.” She held her breath, waiting to see whether her father would admit to his nefarious schemes.
“Ha! You are too smart for me!” Papa’s voice deepened and became positively jovial.
Chloë wanted to blurt out the news. Your scheme worked. We’re married!
No. He’d tell the world. Somehow, even if he had to hold a press conference, he would get the news to her mother. Chloë had to hold herself back.
She realized there was an expectant pause in the conversation and hurried to fill the gap. “I’ll tell Eli you called.”
“You do that. Arrivederci, mia figlia bella.”
“Arrivederci, mio papa.”
After they hung up, Chloë tapped a pencil on the desk. What business did her father and her husband have together? Was Eli really selling wine to Italy? The night before, had Eli abandoned her to talk to her father?
That was a lowering thought.
But she didn’t have any time to verify Eli’s relationship with her father.
She needed to write, and she needed to do it now.
Moments of inspiration had to be utilized when they occurred.
Chapter 30
“I don’t know how you did it, but congratulations. You saved the winery.” Val Mowbray handed Eli the IRS confirmation of payments received. “Whoever is after you will be fried when he finds out, because the IRS can’t touch you now.”
“Good.” Eli was so angry—at Joseph Bianchin and at himself—his lips felt stiff. “Pay off the rest of the debt ASAP. I’ll want the receipts this afternoon.”
“You bet.” Val offered her hand. “You’re back in business with barely a hitch.”
Eli shook her hand, left her office, and walked down Bella Terra’s main street.
He should have felt a huge weight off his chest.
Instead he felt guilty. So guilty.
And that made him furious.
Last night, when he demanded Chloë marry him, he hadn’t been thinking about the winery. He hadn’t been thinking at all. He’d been in some kind of primitive claiming mode. She was his, and he would take her.
Like that was better.
He ran up the stairs to Bella Terra’s police station.
No matter how he looked at it, no matter how he figured it, he had used Chloë without a thought to what she wanted, to what she needed.
Even if he somehow managed to justify last night as an act of primal possession, he had still managed to remember to fax Conte a copy of the marriage certificate and collect on their bet. So after all these years and all his struggles, the facts stared him right in the face; he was like his Silva relatives, like Abuela, playing every angle, selfish to the bone.
But he resolved that he would be a good husband to Chloë. It wouldn’t be hard; all through last night and all through the morning, he’d had to fight the desire to rush to her side and make love to her the right way . . . slowly, with control, until she was out of her mind with need, passion . . . love.
She loved him.
He had planned for that. Worked for it. Why it was a surprise, he couldn’t quite comprehend. Why it was a delight . . . He knew damned well why it was a delight.
He’d told her his secrets, all except one, the one he would have to live with—the memory still made him shudder at the weakness he’d shown her—and still she’d given herself to him. He’d done a lousy job of loving her—and still she wanted him.
She loved him in spite of himself, and he didn’t expect that. He had never imagined any woman would crack the shell he’d built around himself and, once inside, like him despite the frailty she discovered.
He would feel better, he thought, if he confessed his crime to Chloë. She was a logical woman. Surely she’d understand.
If she didn’t . . . well, here he was, continuing his plan to make her happy by involving her in solving the mystery of Massimo Bruno.
Most women wanted jewelery. Chloë wanted murder.
The air in the police station was different: musty, thick, full of frustration and anger and justice served in spite of itself. The place had that 1930s ambience: linoleum floors, glass partitions, the hallway of doom that led to the holding cells, and a big, scarred, wooden countertop with a bored cop waiting to help you.
Luckily for Eli, he knew the cop. “Hey, Terry, did you draw the short straw?”
Terry Gonzales was fifty, overweight, cynical, funny, and the smartest man Eli had ever met.
Right now, he looked half-asleep, but then, he always did. When the time was right, he could move with frightening speed. “I broke up a fight at the Marinos’ bar last night,” he said. “At the Beaver Inn. They say I caused unnecessary damage to their fine establishment.”
The two men looked at each other.
The Marinos’ bar was so not a fine establishment.
“So until the dispute is settled, I have to do office duty. How can I help you?”
“Is DuPey around?”
“No, he’s ignoring his paperwork to show the hot-shit FBI guy around town.”
“Who’s the hot-shit FBI . . . Oh, you mean Wyatt Vincent?”
“That’s the one. He’s here to tone us up so we’re prepared for big-time crime.” Terry’s delivery was always deadpan.
But Eli thought it was especially so now. “You don’t approve.”
“I’ve been a cop here for thirty years. You know how it is with us old guys. We don’t like change.”
“You’re so full of it.” Terry kept abreast of all the new developments, but he always played down his abilities. He’d once told Eli that in law enforcement, it was better to be underestimated. Kept a man alive.
“It’s a job requirement,” Terry said. “Anything else I can help you with?”
Eli thought for a moment. “Is anyone here who examined that crime scene in the water tower?”
Terry’s smile was the definition of a shit-eating grin. “There’s Finnegan Balfour. He’s in the patrol room having coffee. You want me to call him up?”
“No. Absolutely not.” Eli remembered the kid from Kansas, the one who knew his way around a still, and asked, “Why did DuPey hire him, anyway? He seems to be . . .”
“Wort
hless? Inept? Bumbling? Lazy? A yokel?”
“Yes. So he really is—”
“Worthless? Inept? Bumbling? Lazy? A yokel? Oh, yeah. He’s DuPey’s wife’s nephew. He was a cop in Kansas, got into trouble back there, and in exchange for expunging his record, he had to promise to get out of town.” Terry leaned his bulky elbows on the counter. “You know DuPey. He’s a pretty good police chief, but we all know who’s in charge at his house, and it sure as hell ain’t him. The kid is even living in their basement.”
Remembering that Finnegan had developed a crush on Chloë in record time, Eli asked, “What’d Finnegan get in trouble for?”
“Let’s just say his moral standards are a little skewed.” Terry smirked and shook his head. “Don’t worry. He’s not dangerous. Just one of the dumbest sons a’ bitches I’ve ever met.”
“Guess not. He’s managed to land himself a cushy job at the Bella Terra Police Department, he can’t get fired, and he’s living with his relatives.” Eli watched as Terry thought about it.
“Damn. I hate that you’re right.” The policeman heaved a heavy sigh.
“How about Mason?” Eli asked. “Is he in?”
“Dr. Death? He’s in his office, chortling over some new crapometer the Sacramento Police Department is letting him borrow. I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with a guy who deliberately chooses to cut up a corpse. But I remember when he was a kid. He was the one who loved dissecting the owl pellets.” Terry buzzed Eli through the gate. “Come on back.”
Eli walked through and headed for the offices, then stopped and returned to the front desk. “Terry, if a woman is married for her money and doesn’t know she was married for her money, what do you think would happen if she found out?”
“Her husband could never sleep safe again. Why? You broke and looking for a rich wife?” Terry guffawed, deep in his chest.
“Not anymore,” Eli answered.
Terry stopped laughing.
Eli walked to Mason’s office.
Chapter 31
Mason was leaning over a machine that vaguely resembled an overhead projector, except with blinking lights and a myriad of gauges. He glanced up, and although Eli had never before visited him at work, Mason accepted his presence without a blink. “Come and look at this.”