The balance of power had shifted. “So when you get your hands on the diamonds, what do you intend to do?”
“I told you. I will have them reset in platinum and keep them in a safe location, where I can see them whenever I want.” Her eyes softened in longing.
“Yes, you told me. But I think the reason you aren’t worried about Hendrik killing you is because… you don’t intend to stay with the family.”
Her shocked gaze flew to Noah’s.
“This is your last job, Mother,” he said. “You’re retiring.”
“You really are very smart.” It was no compliment.
“And
you
are not as smart as you imagined.” Noah weighed his bomb, then dropped it. “Did you know that on Sunday, Hendrik came to visit my grandmother’s property?”
Her smile disappeared. “
Stupid
boy. He could ruin everything.”
“The cops are looking for him. My brothers know about him now.”
With a scornful wave of her hand, she dismissed law enforcement and Noah’s brothers. “What did Hendrik want?”
“He wanted me to introduce him to my family.”
Liesbeth grew pale with terror, then red with rage. “I will kill him.”
“I’m fine with that.”
She clenched her fist, visibly struggled for control. “But not yet. Not—”
“Until you have the diamonds? You’re skating on thin ice. He wants to oust you anyway, and when he discovers the truth about the bottle, he’ll kill you and claim he was justified. And who will debate his claim?”
She leaned toward him, her green eyes aflame. “Make sure he doesn’t discover the truth about the bottle. Take his place as my successor, and I will personally take the bomb off your neck and you’ll live.”
“As attractive as that sounds—” Noah’s phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at it in puzzlement.
The beaver inn. What was the Beaver Inn doing calling him?
“As attractive as that sounds, I’ve got to take this call,” he said, and answered.
Primo’s deep voice rumbled in his ear. “Listen, Noah, I’ve got a situation at the bar.”
What the hell…?
“And you need me because…?”
“It’s Penelope. She’s in here, getting drunk, and she’s scaring me to death.”
Noah clicked the phone shut.
“What is it?” Liesbeth asked.
“I’ve got to go.” He headed out the door.
Chapter 46
T
he Beaver Inn smelled like disinfectant, which meant one of two things—last night someone had tossed his cookies (and there were unexplained splotches on the linoleum), or there had been a fight with a lot of blood spilled (and there were unexplained splotches on the walls). So probably a little of both.
But for all the bar’s raucous reputation, tonight the atmosphere was subdued, the vineyard workers staring into their beers rather than at the slender female figure sitting on a barstool, arguing with the bartender.
Probably the customers were frightened; no one argued with Primo, or at least no one who wanted to remain in one piece. Primo was notorious for his extraordinary strength and fearsome fighting skills, and speaking as someone who’d been on the receiving end of his punches, Noah could attest that Primo’s fame was well deserved.
In fact, Noah knew the sound and the sight and the
smell of the Beaver Inn—in his time, he had tipped back more than a few shots and kicked more than a little ass there. And had his ass kicked, too.
Which was why having Primo look so desperately relieved to see him was more than a little funny. Penelope had the big guy terrified.
As Noah slipped into the seat next to Penelope, he nodded at Primo. “I’ll have a banana daiquiri,” he said.
Primo put his elbows on the bar and glared.
Hey, just because Noah was here to rescue Primo didn’t mean he had to make it easy. “A nice light chardonnay?” he questioned. “Maybe a frozen strawberry margarita with a little sombrero on top?”
Now Penelope turned and glared, too, through brown eyes so deep and pooled with sorrow that Noah’s breath caught on a shared shard of pain.
Had something terrible happened since he’d seen her at Nonna’s? What had occurred to make her look as if she viewed the world from behind a dark veil, where no light or happiness could penetrate? Was it the loss of her husband? The loss of her mother? Or did she hide secrets that shredded the fabric of her soul…?
Was she more like him than he had ever imagined?
He must have stared too long, seen too much, for she lifted her chin and turned away.
No wonder Primo was rattled. No wonder the customers were quiet. No one wanted to see that kind of anguish staring out from the mirror over the bar. Her pain, so palpably obvious, reminded a man of his own mortality.
Noah glanced at Primo, his eyebrows raised.
PMS?
Primo mouthed silently.
Noah shook his head.
Primo shook his, too.
Primo tilted his head toward the door.
Noah nodded.
He had to get Penelope out of here.
He scrambled to get back to his lighthearted teasing, to change the mood, to ease her away from the gaping darkness. “What?” He punched her lightly on the arm. “Can’t a man order a drink around here?”
“You
can
, but the big oaf across the bar doesn’t put any liquor in the drinks, so what difference does it make?” Her voice sounded absolutely normal. Snappish, but normal.
“Look.” Primo took her glass away. “I’ll make you a whole new drink. You can watch me. Ice and straight gin. How’s that?”
“How about straight gin, no ice?” she countered.
“I’m telling you, we don’t serve your fancy-ass girly gin in here. The only kind of gin we have is pure rotgut. It doesn’t taste like juniper; it tastes like the whole pine forest.” Primo pulled a steaming-hot glass out of the under-the-counter dishwasher. “Just let me put a little ice in the glass to take the edge off. Your ulcer will thank me for it.”
“You never care about my ulcer like that,” Noah said.
“I don’t care if
you
suffer.” Primo ladled ice into the glass and swirled it around. The ice was melting, pooling at the bottom. “The sooner the crap you drink
kills you
, the happier I am.”
Penelope made a whimpering sound.
Both men turned in time to see her cover her mouth for a telling moment.
They froze. What was wrong? What had they said?
Kills you.
It was death that made her cringe.
“He didn’t mean it,” Noah said comfortingly. “We’re frenemies.”
“Yeah,” Primo said. “We’ve known each other our whole lives, and we take care of our own. The stuff we say to each other—it’s just talk.”
They waited on tenterhooks to see whether she would cry or collapse or… or tell them what was wrong.
Instead she pulled her hand away from her face and tapped the bar. “Hurry up with the drink.” She was finished with that brief, revealing moment.
“All right.” Primo pulled a bottle of gin out of the freezer, slapped the glass in front of her, and poured. “Straight gin with a little ice mixer. That’ll get you properly toasted.”
She sat up straight, said, “Thanks,” and took a long swallow.
Noah and Primo exchanged glances. Even with the melted ice, it was powerful stuff, and she sucked it right down.
“For me—tequila. Salt. Lime.” Noah turned to look over the big, cavernous room, where fluorescent beer signs turned the peeling paint orange and pink and bilious green. “So how’s business here at the Beaver Inn?”
“We’re busy. It’s a good night when the farmworkers leave their knives at home.” Primo lined up the ingredients on the bar. “How’s business at the resort?”
“Okay. We spend more time screening the guests, trying to figure out whether they’re media or tourists or cold-blooded murderers.” From the corner of his eyes, Noah kept track of Penelope. For a self-professed coward, she didn’t flinch or even seem to notice his talk of crime. She simply kept drinking.
Noah had to get her alone, to a place where she could cry or scream or… just tell him
what had happened.
“Any luck with that famous bottle of wine?” Primo asked.
Noah swung to face him. “What do you know about the bottle of wine?”
“Exactly what my aunt told me I could know,” Primo answered. “Did you think you could keep info like that away from Aunt Arianna?”
“No. Of course not.” Noah glanced at his watch.
It was almost time.
He was getting so he knew without even looking.
His watch alarm went off. Three thirty-seven p.m.
Eight days left.
He licked the salt, shot the tequila, and bit the lime. And shuddered. To Penelope he said, “Arianna Marino knows everything that goes on in this valley.”
Penelope nodded. “I know. I came here to stay because it was cheap, and I knew the place, and I knew I would be safe.” She laughed, and her laughter cracked in the middle. “But wherever I go, there I am.”
Chapter 47
N
oah didn’t know how Primo did it, but somehow, without moving from behind the bar, he stage-directed a fight between the vineyard workers and the orchard workers. The ruckus began quietly, and Penelope paid no attention to anything but her liquor. The argument became an uproar; then, with the suddenness of a summer storm, fists and chairs were flying. A single punch sent one worker slamming into Penelope’s barstool as she hunched over the bar.
She turned, and for a moment, Noah thought she was going to launch herself into the fight.
Primo gave a roar, vaulted the bar, lowered his head, and rushed the crowd.
Drinkers fled before him.
Noah grabbed Penelope’s arm and hustled her out the door.
They stepped out into late-afternoon sunshine.
Penelope blinked and staggered.
Noah caught her, steadied her. “Come on; I’ll walk you to your room.”
She looked at him sideways. “What’s the matter? Afraid if you don’t I’ll go back to the bar?”
“Afraid you’ll fall on your face.”
“Did you not see how Primo was watering my drinks? I’m only tipsy.” Her mouth twisted bitterly. “And I wanted to be roaring drunk. Number fourteen.” She pointed at the grimy white door not far from the office.
“Why?” He guided her across the parking lot.
“Why number fourteen? Because Primo put me in… Oh. Why do I want to be drunk?” She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. “It’s an anniversary.”
“Your anniversary.” Her wedding anniversary.
Noah hadn’t realized her grief for her husband was so fresh. So real. Sunday, when he’d dragged her out of Nonna’s house and enjoyed her body, and she had responded… she’d been using him as a substitute.
Wow. That would teach him to imagine stuff about soul mates and eternal love.
“Which anniversary?” he asked.
“The first.”
He thought he’d misunderstood her. Or she’d misunderstood him. Or… something. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Tell me about it.”
As Penelope used her key card to open the door, he followed her inside. The minuscule room contained a dresser and a queen-size bed, and two of the ugliest lamps he’d ever had the bad fortune to see. But at least the furniture covered most of the hideous carpet.
He’d been inside a room at the Sweet Dreams Hotel one time, the same day he’d told Penelope he no longer wanted her and she’d left with her mother. He’d come to the Beaver Inn looking for a fight, and when the bartender refused to serve him—he was still underage—he’d gotten belligerent. By the time the bouncers hauled him out of there, he was covered with bruises and contusions, and Arianna Marino said she wasn’t sending him back to his grandmother in such disgraceful shape. She’d slapped a steak on his swollen-shut eye, shoved him in a motel room, and told him no one would ever know if he cried.
No one ever did.
Now he barely stopped himself from saying, again, that he would get Penelope a room at the Bella Terra resort.
She must have known what he was thinking, because she said, “I can afford this. Okay?”
“Right. I understand.” He did. She had her pride.
He had his pride, too. Or at least, he
should
have his pride. He
should
care if she used him as a sexual substitute for her beloved husband.
One lousy shot of tequila, and the sleazy motel room was looking good… because Penelope was in it.
He had to get out of here. “Are you going to be all right now?”
“All right?” She stood swaying, staring at nothing. “No. I don’t think I’ll ever be all right again.”
Uh-oh.
In a sudden movement, she stepped to the bed, gripped the comforter, and threw it down on the floor. “As long as you had to come and interfere with my well-deserved drinking binge, why don’t you make yourself useful?”
“Like… how?”
He could think of only one way: using the bed. But he was a guy with a one-track mind. When it came to women, he was usually wrong about… well, everything.
But when she grabbed his shirtfront, he knew he wasn’t wrong about this.
“Make me forget,” she said. Her wide brown eyes were sorrowful, but mostly… they were angry. Angry at him? No, angry at life for dealing her such a lousy hand.
He understood that all too well. “I can’t. I shouldn’t.” God, he sounded
coy
.
But he really shouldn’t.
“What? You shouldn’t take advantage of a woman who’s been drinking? You shouldn’t take advantage of a woman in mourning? Or you just don’t want to start it up between us again?” She dug her fingernails into his shirt, into his flesh. “Because I’ll tell you, Noah, the thing I remember best about you is that you were good in bed. And the other thing I remember is… after dumping me like that, you owe me. And you know it.”
He did owe her. Nine years ago he had treated her like hell.
But this… this was wrong. She was tipsy. She was in pain. If they had sex, tomorrow she would be sorry.…
Maybe.
But worse… he would enjoy it. He would revel in it. Whatever he did with her now would be the most wonderful moment—
moments
—of his lousy, worthless, miserable life. Sex with Penelope would be no sacrifice, and that was the only way he could justify rolling around on the bed naked.…