Her smile disappeared. “I’m really not.”
“So you killed that guy and haven’t thought twice about it?”
“He deserved it.”
The silence stretched. Usually when he saw Brooke, she was dressed in a black suit with a skirt and heels. Usually she had her hair carefully controlled and her cosmetics were perfectly applied.
He liked to look at her like this, in faded denim jeans and an oversize white button-up shirt tucked into the waistband. Her pink running shoes were scuffed, her hair had been styled by the wind as they drove, and if she was wearing makeup, it was damned little.
Right now, the way she looked reminded him of high school. High school and first love . . . “Where did the crime occur?” he asked.
“My crime, or his?” Still cool. Still calm.
“Where did he find you?”
“In building A, in the housekeeping closet on the north end of the property. He trapped me there, so I shot him.”
“You just happened to have a gun on you.” He put hard disbelief in his tone.
“I had been uneasy for several days. My people had reported a man skulking on the grounds, and Noah made it clear that if I found myself in a situation, I should defend myself.” Her voice didn’t rise in volume or tone. Her eyes never bothered to open, not even a flicker.
“How did you know this skulking man was a threat?”
“Didn’t your brothers tell you? The guy pulled a knife.”
“And you shot him.”
“I shot him.”
“Because he pulled a knife.”
“The leather, the boots, the tats, and the piercings seemed less than reassuring, too.” Still not a twinge of guilt or distress in her voice.
“So you shot him,” Rafe repeated, trying to make her react the way he knew she should. “Once? Twice?”
“I emptied the gun.”
“Six shots?” He hadn’t expected that. “Surely one shot brought him down.”
“I didn’t hit him the first time.”
“But you were defending yourself, and you were trained to shoot.”
She opened her eyes. She pushed herself up on her elbows. She looked up at him in annoyance. “If you know everything, why are you questioning me?”
“When two acts of violence occur so closely together, both of them concerning people I care about, I want to know all the details.”
Brooke sighed and sat all the way up. “I was supervising one of the maids. Madelyn is fairly new, so I’m keeping an eye on her. She was cleaning the rooms and I was following behind her, checking her performance and giving her corrections, and she ran out of wood soap. So I went to the supply room to get her some, and he followed me in. He was grinning and holding a knife. I tried talking to him, but he lunged at me. So I shot him.”
“What happened when you missed the first time?”
“I panicked. I shot again. And again. I shot him until I knew he was dead and I had no more bullets.”
Rafe didn’t believe a word of it. Not a word. Not with that calm recital. But he nodded as if he did. “You must have nightmares.”
“Nightmares?” For the first time, she seemed to realize she should be not merely telling the story, but displaying some emotion—the kind of emotion she’d shown in the kitchen when she once more faced the crime scene where Nonna had been attacked.
“The first time I killed a man . . . well. I can still see his face at the moment of his death.” Rafe scooted down to sit beside her. “The blood spurting from his chest, his neck, splashing me as he collapsed, knowing he would never stand on this earth again . . .”
“Better him than you,” she said. “And better this guy than me.”
“Of course. But for all that your parents are soldiers, you are not.” He slid his arm along the step behind her back, lifted her to him, brought her close. Leaning back against the steps, he placed her body across his. “When you think about committing bloody murder, no matter how justified—you need comfort.”
“Sure.” She tugged against him, but halfheartedly as if she didn’t quite know how to react. “But not yours.”
“Mine more than anyone’s. Mine because I know you better than any man on earth.” He was trying to tell her he knew she was lying.
Did she comprehend?
He thought so, because she looked into his eyes and her blue gaze weighed him and her next move.
No. None of that.
He pulled her as close as he could, wrapped one hand on the back of her head, and held her still for his kiss.
A cautious press to the corner of her mouth. To the other corner. Then full on, opening her with his tongue and tasting her for the first time and knowing this was homecoming.
Yeah. Homecoming.
Brooke was the woman he dreamed of every day of his life.
Brooke was the woman he denied himself for her own good, because she wanted Bella Terra and he wanted the world.
But for his own good, he had to kiss her. Because touching her brought back memories of necking at the far end of the orchard alongside an irrigation canal. And because she smelled like wine flowers and fertile earth, and youth and passion and true love.
“Rafe . . .” she murmured against his lips. Lifting her head, she tried to push away.
Yes, because this Brooke was cooler. Calmer. With none of the hero worship she’d shown him in high school. And none of the helpless compassion that had moved her in college. She was in face and form still Brooke . . . but she wasn’t his Brooke. Not anymore.
And he, like the beast he was, wanted to break through her serenity and see for himself whether the young, exuberant Brooke still existed beneath the mask . . . or if she had become the woman she pretended to be.
He slid one hand down to her butt and one up to the back of her neck, and with his fingertips he stroked her ear.
She stilled.
She was the same, at least in that respect. A caress to her earlobe hypnotized her with pleasure.
He kissed her again, and the taste of her . . . ah, that blocked everything but the passion and sweetness and glory that was Brooke.
She was cautious. God, so cautious. In some rational part of his brain, he completely understood why she held back. But the lustful, animal part of his brain—okay, not his brain, his dick—didn’t care. He held her with his arm across her back, her body so close against his that the layers of clothing between them were nothing but a hindrance. He knew her shape, sensed the changes that seven years had wrought, exulted in them. He probed her mouth with his tongue, swept away her cool control, brought all their old, dusty feelings into the sunshine and the new day.
She was still motionless, as if waiting. . . .
But he knew he’d won when she slid her fingers into his hair and kissed him back, deftly giving him as much delight as he offered, amplifying his need for possession into a thing that relentlessly clawed at him, making him imagine all the ways he could take her, here, in the sunshine on his grandmother’s front steps overlooking Bella Terra.
He knew her so well.
But she knew him, too, and it didn’t take psychic ability to know where his mind had gone, not as close as they were.
So when she got her elbow between them close to his throat and pressed with increasing force, he knew no amount of ear rubbing was going to change her mind.
“My pager’s vibrating,” she said.
“Is that what that is?” He smiled at her. “I was hoping for something . . . different.”
“I’ll bet. If they’re paging me now, when I’ve told them not to, it’s important. So . . . ?” She was polite and unflustered, considering he had a hard-on approximately the height and girth of a sequoia pressed into her belly. Or maybe she was unimpressed.
“Sure.” He let her go.
He let her go. Again.
R
afe on her heels, Brooke strode from the public parking lot, packed with springtime tourists, up the side street and past the cars stacked up under Bella Terra’s portico.
The resort’s main building had been constructed in the twenties in the old California Spanish style: thick golden stucco walls to keep out the summer’s heat, a clay tile roof, and green-painted shutters. The family had added on until it included three wings with one hundred guest rooms. Each generation had remodeled until the merest remnants remained of the original building, and within the last fifty years, cottages had been scattered throughout the vineyards and among the trees.
Always the Di Lucas had treasured the feel of California’s history, intertwined with theirs, the ups and downs, the grapes and the land, the heat and the glory.
The front door led onto First Street and the bustle of downtown. The back door of the main building led to the check-in area. There the valets took control of the cars, golf carts waited to take the guests to their cottages . . . and it was there Brooke headed. She nodded to the bellmen, young men and women casually dressed in dark golf shirts and khaki chinos, pushing carts of luggage toward the bell desk.
She paused and critically observed as the server for their winery of the day, Folderol Winery, poured for their incoming guests from their selection of four wines, discussed their merits, and handed out information.
The resort kept a large beverage server full of lemonade to offer to their guests; someone had spilled a glass on the polished concrete floor. One of their housekeepers was on her knees cleaning it up.
Brooke walked to her side and placed her hand on Madelyn’s shoulder.
Predictably, Madelyn jumped. She looked like a street fighter: short and thin, with blond hair shaved close to her head, a snake tattoo around one wrist, and a scar on the side of her neck. The housekeeping staff complained that she was freaky, but because Madelyn worked hard, took their shifts if they wanted to slack off, and took double time if they were shorthanded, they usually forgave the freaky.
Brooke lifted a brow to the manager behind the desk and got a nod in return. Although the afternoon check-in rush was ongoing, he and his staff had everything under control.
She took her first deep breath since the moment Rafe had walked into Sarah’s hospital room, and felt herself relax. She was back in her element, in charge of making sure the visitors to Bella Terra Resort were happy, at ease, well fed, and entertained—and she had the personnel to handle that task.
Turning to the concierge desk, she waited while her second in command, Victor Ruíz, laid out a wine country map for an older couple and circled suggested destinations.
“How does he decide where to send them?” Rafe asked.
“If they know the kinds of wines they enjoy, we have something to go by. But a lot of the time people haven’t got a clue about whether they like cabernets or carignans, whites or reds, or if they like wine at all. Then it’s tricky. Restaurants are easier. Everyone knows what kind of food they like—although sometimes they lie about it so they sound sophisticated.” The line in front of the desk took a sudden jump as a group of four couples stepped up to the desk and a very young couple stepped off the elevator looking confused and concerned. “Will you excuse me?” she said to Rafe, but didn’t wait for a reply. At this time of the day, the staff all performed double duty, whatever needed to be done, and if that inconvenienced Rafe, well . . . good.
She got behind the desk and dealt with the couples first, setting them up on a wine country tour bus for the following day. She helped two elderly ladies get a reservation at Speak-Easy’s Cajun Restaurant, directed two already inebriated young men to the pool with instructions to introduce themselves to the female lifeguard, looked around for the confused young couple—and saw Rafe speaking with them. They were laughing and nodding, less concerned, more relaxed.
Good. After all, it was his family’s resort. In a crunch, he could pitch in.
She watched as he walked them through the lobby and out the front door onto Bella Terra’s main street, then stood and gestured as he told them how to get to their destination.
He came back in as the rush died a sudden death, leaving Victor, Rafe, and Brooke looking at one another in relief.
The men moved toward each other, two fellows confident in who they were.
Brooke introduced them. “Rafe, this is Victor Ruíz, my second in command, and lately, my very overworked right-hand man. Since Sarah’s been in the hospital and I’ve been with her, he’s been picking up the slack.” She watched as the two men shook hands, then told Rafe, “Victor is originally from Paraguay, has trained and worked in the best hotels all over South America, and when I vacationed in Buenos Aires, I watched him. He knew celebrities, always said the right thing, handled his employees with tact and discretion. So I seduced him into coming to the U.S.”
Eyes twinkling, Victor bowed toward her. “I was very willing to be seduced, especially to work with a concierge of such international fame.”
“You are too good.” She was aware that Rafe watched them without smiling. “Victor, why did you page me?”
“I didn’t page you,” Victor said.
“Really?” She pulled out her pager and looked. “Someone did. I assumed since I instructed that only you—”
“No, but as long as you’re here . . .” Victor launched into a litany of problems that cropped up every day at the resort, matters he was completely able to handle.
Brooke frowned as she listened. If he hadn’t paged her, who had? Only a few people had access to her number, and those few people had been given strict orders to leave her alone so she could be with Sarah. She interrupted. “Is there anything here that requires my attention?”
“There is. You have a guest who is asking to speak to you. No one else will do.” The words were severe, but Victor’s eyes were twinkling as he spoke, and he indicated the lobby.
Brooke stepped around the corner into the generous room Noah had transformed into their lobby.
Three walls were glass reaching twenty feet in the air, with views of gardens and foliage so thick and rich and colorful, every table and chair had a view of paradise. The fourth wall was a wide, floor-to-ceiling fireplace with openings on either side that led to the elevators and the check-in area. A small bar occupied the center of the room, and there they served a continental breakfast in the morning and drinks at night. Each seat had been chosen for comfort. Every guest was made welcome with offers of salted edamame served in small blue and white porcelain Asian bowls, and bottled springwater. This was, after all, California, home of holistic foods, environmental correctness, and fierce snobbery.