Secrets Of Bella Terra (22 page)

Mrs. Petersson crossed her arms, tilted her head, and stared.

He tried again. “That is, I always feel a strong desire to hold you and . . .”

Brooke watched him unsmilingly.

He faltered.

Her house phone rang, loud and shrill.

He jumped.

Brooke walked over, very controlled, and answered it. She listened for a moment and said, “Give me fifteen minutes. I’ll be there.” Hanging up, she looked at Rafe. “Better put on your shoes.”

“Why?”

“You’re going to get a call.”

Everything she said sounded ominous to Rafe.

“Another murder?” Mrs. Petersson asked.

“No. Someone trashed the Luna Grande Lounge.” Brooke’s face was troubled. “There’s definitely some kind of vendetta against the Di Lucas.”

“Italians never forget a grudge,” Mrs. Petersson said.

Brooke looked at Rafe. “Some of the rest of us remember, too.” She walked into the bedroom and shut the door. Shut him out.

He swung on Mrs. Petersson. “What’s wrong with you?”

She looked startled. “I don’t think you’re the right man for my daughter.”

“No. I mean . . . you use a walker. First time I’ve seen that, and you’re hardly old enough. So—what’s wrong with you?”

She straightened her bent shoulders. “Speaking as someone who is allowed to hang a disabled parking placard on my rearview mirror, I’d like to remind you there’s nothing wrong with me. I am just fine.”

“You’re right. I apologize for my ham-handedness.” At least this time he comprehended how he’d been insensitive.

She inclined her head. “However, I have a disease called rheumatoid arthritis that inhibits my movement.”

Even with the evidence before his eyes, the diagnosis took him by surprise. “How? When?”

“There’s no consensus on the cause of RA. When I was thirty-five, I was in the first stages. The Air Force gave me the ugly verdict and honorably discharged me. Once I told Ken, he couldn’t wait to inform me he had another wife, younger, prettier, in good health. So I did my research, moved to Bella Terra. . . .” Mrs. Petersson walked to the breakfast bar, sat carefully on one of the counter stools, and gestured toward the closed bedroom door. “And here we are.”

He rubbed his hand on his face, trying to adjust his thinking.

When he was a teenager, Mrs. Petersson had been part inspiration, part personal terror.

She had been the kind of person he’d wanted to be: independent, tough-minded, a military leader, with high expectations for her daughter and, by extension, for him, expectations they had done everything in their powers to fulfill. She had encouraged him in his aspirations of courage and heroism. In all his life, he had never imagined this woman would be assaulted by a foe as insidious as rheumatoid arthritis. Thank God she was the fighter that she was. Thank God she had Brooke living close. . . .“Your symptoms weren’t obvious for years.”

“The medications and my exercises kept me functioning at a high level.”

“When did Brooke discover you had RA?”

Mrs. Petersson set her chin. “Her senior year of college.”

“After I came home from Afghanistan?”

“That’s when I told her, yes.”

The bedroom door opened. Brooke came out dressed for work in a black skirt and white shirt, with a black linen blazer tossed over her arm. She glanced at him. “Better get those shoes on.” Going to Mrs. Petersson, she kissed her cheek. “Mom, I’ve got to go. Business. But really, thank you for coming; I’m all right. And I’ll be better when this is all over.”

Mrs. Petersson kissed her back, frowning. “Okay, honey, but be careful. There’s a killer out there.”

“I am careful, I am capable, and I can fight. You taught me all that.” Brooke turned to face Rafe. “And no matter what, I know I’ve got Rafe watching my back.” She wasn’t warm and sweet, as she had been earlier. Her eyes were steely, challenging him.

Yet her words warmed him. She knew he would keep her safe. He nodded, once, briefly.

She walked out, letting the screen door slam.

Her interruption gave him time to process the information Mrs. Petersson had revealed, and now he asked, “Did Brooke want to come after me when I left?”

“She had one semester before she graduated from college with a degree that would give her endless employment possibilities. She was engaged to another man, a good man. I wanted her to be happy.” Mrs. Petersson hadn’t answered his question—which was an answer in itself.

“You didn’t believe she could be happy with me—”

“I didn’t want her to commit to a man as screwed-up as you were!”

“So you deliberately used your illness to make her guilty, to make sure she returned to Bella Terra.”

“She felt sorry for you.”

“No.” He slashed the air with his hand. “Brooke’s not stupid. If all she felt for me was pity, she would have dragged me to a psychiatrist.”

Her slight incline of the head might have been an acknowledgment. “Look. I’m a military strategist. I scrutinized the situation, weighed your disastrous history together, and recalled my own observations of servicemen suffering from
PTSD
. Brooke is my only child. I would do anything to protect her and her happiness.”

“Yes. I see that.” In a cold part of his mind, he admired Mrs. Petersson’s strategy. But the cold part wasn’t ruling him now. He was furious and insulted. “You talked to me. You told me to leave. You said I was too screwed-up to be any good to her.”

“Perhaps I was wrong to interfere, but allow me to point out—you let me make that decision for you, and you never tried to come back for her.” She challenged him with her gaze and her strength of mind. “You didn’t care. Not enough.”

He wanted to argue. Argue that she was unfair, that he’d been ill and trusted her insight. But damn it. If not for her interference, who knew what might have happened!

His phone rang.

He groped for his pocket and answered it.

“Come to the Luna Grande,” Eli’s terse voice instructed.

Here was the call Brooke had predicted.

“I have to go.” Rafe sat down and laced up his running shoes. Picking up his jacket, he slid it on and felt the reassuring weight of the knife in his sleeve.

How odd to feel the need for protection in Bella Terra.

“All right. I understand where you’re coming from.” Although he didn’t like it. “I’m a man. Why did I let you steer the course of my life—and Brooke’s? But I assure you, I’ve never done anything to deliberately hurt Brooke, and I never will.”

“You’ve never used malice, you mean. But deliberately . . . yes, you have. You two have been in love and out of love, but how would you even know if the same things are important to both of you? What kind of relationship do you have that you don’t talk to her about your job? About what matters to you? About your plans?”

“Fair enough. I’ll take all your points under advisement. Now take mine under advisement. I’ve dealt with my
PTSD
. It changed me, true—in the end, it made me a better man, and one able to help Brooke in her hour of need. It’s time for some honesty between Brooke and me, and for you”—he pointed his finger at Mrs. Petersson—“to back. Off.” He didn’t wait for her to argue. He didn’t have the time and he didn’t have the patience. Instead he walked out the door and into the warm spring morning.

No matter what he told himself about making love to Brooke to divert her, it had been no struggle at all to fulfill his duty. This morning, his body was satisfied as it had not been for years. . . .No. As it had never been before. So he had to ask himself—this time, even if she was better off without him, would he be willing to walk away from Brooke? Would he be able?

R
afe saw Zachary and Josh huddled together in a flower bed and talking furiously.

As Rafe walked past, they fell silent.

He walked past the spa and he caught a glimpse of Madelyn and Jenna in the reception area, talking and shaking their heads.

When they saw him, they looked away.

Outside the lobby, a city police officer stood guard over the entrance while Victor spoke sternly to the young waiter—what was his name?—Trent.

When the two spotted Rafe, they stepped back to let him pass, as if he were a condemned man walking his last mile.

What had happened? What was so terrible that it compounded last night’s discovery of a body in the Dumpster?

When Rafe stepped into the lobby, he at once recognized the scale of this new disaster. He could smell it, the rich, pungent, fruity odor of spilled wine . . . a lot of spilled wine. No wonder he’d been called. No wonder Eli had sounded angry and brokenhearted.

The officer guarding the entry to the wine bar stepped back to let him in, but Rafe halted in the doorway, unable to take in the scope of the destruction.

High on the wall, the glass doors that protected the most expensive wines hung open. The slots where the wine should be were empty—and red splattered the bar, the windows, the chairs, the far wall.

The bottles, all of the bottles, had been dropped from the top of the ladder, two stories up.

Glass littered the brushed concrete floor, crunching under Rafe’s shoes as he walked forward to meet the little group that stood huddled together, eyes wide, staring at the carnage.

DuPey was on the phone, speaking in the hushed tones one used at a funeral.

Tom Chan stood wiping his eyes on a bar towel.

Ebrillwen walked in circles, surveying the mess and shaking her head.

Noah and Brooke watched Eli, who knelt behind the bar, picking up the chunks of glass held together by wine labels, looking at each one, then putting it down.

When Rafe caught his breath, he asked, “What in the hell happened?”

DuPey got off the phone and answered, “Last night, after the bar closed, someone came in and . . .” He waved a hand.

“How?” Rafe asked. “Whoever it was should have tripped the sensors.”

Ebrillwen had left the room and came back with a squeegee at the end of a broom handle in her hand and Madelyn carrying a basket of cleaning supplies.

Brooke went over to hold a low-voiced conference with Madelyn. The maid nodded and spoke, then went to work wiping down the furniture.

Brooke patted her on the shoulder and came back to stand close enough to listen.

“No alarm,” DuPey assured him.

“Then who?” Rafe persisted. “What do the security cameras show?”

Noah joined them. “They show Victor going into the bar and never coming out.”

Rafe turned on him. “That’s impossible. He has to have come out.”

“This morning, he’s the one who called in the damage,” Noah said.

“Does he have an alibi?” Rafe looked between the two men.

Brooke answered, “He says no.”

“He says no?” Rafe remembered the policeman hovering near Victor and the entrance, not guarding the door, as Rafe had assumed, but Victor. “You don’t believe him?”

“He’s lying,” Brooke said. “I’d swear it. Protecting someone or something.”

Rafe lifted his brows at DuPey.

“I tend to think she’s right.” DuPey spread his hands. “But if he won’t talk, I’m going to have to take him into custody.”

From behind the bar, they heard Eli snarl, “Son of a bitch!” He stood, looked at his wine-stained palm, then carefully withdrew a long glass shard. A new, thicker red oozed up. “Chan, hand me a bar towel.”

Chan did. “Eli, if you don’t stop, you’re going to need a transfusion.”

Ebrillwen started to squeegee the broken bottles and the wine.

Eli looked up, and in his brown eyes Rafe saw pure, utter rage.

Ebrillwen backed off, went to Madelyn’s side, and started using the towels to wipe down the windows.

With his gaze still on his older brother, Rafe asked, “What do the cameras inside the bar show?”

“They show the bottles hurtling to the floor,” DuPey told Rafe, “but they’re pointed the wrong direction to identify who’s doing the damage.”

“No.” Incredulous, Rafe pulled out his cell. “Not even possible. None of this is possible. Let me get my nerd on the phone and get to the bottom of this.” He dialed Darren and put him on the speaker.

Darren’s sleepy face popped onto the screen. “Hey, man, is this important? Because I’m on an Art of Vampire gaming marathon, and after thirty-two grueling hours, I’m about to drive a stake through the master vampire’s heart.”

“Let me show you something.” Rafe pointed his onphone video camera at the wreckage and panned from one end to the other.

He turned the camera back at himself.

Darren sat with his mouth hanging open. “What the hell . . . ? What? That’s the wine bar at the resort? No.” He started typing as fast as he could. “That’s impossible. No alarm. What happened?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know.” He scratched his head, bent back to the task. A blast of screaming came from his speakers.

Everyone jumped.

“What was that?” Rafe asked.

“Master vampire just ripped my throat out,” Darren said absently. Then, “Right there. There’s a glitch. Why didn’t I see that before? There’s a glitch in the program. This is . . .”

Victor walked into the wine bar, his suit pristine, his demeanor calm, every inch of him the perfect concierge. He pulled out a chair, frowned, used his handkerchief to wipe it off, then took a seat and waited—waited to be arrested.

The mystery deepened. “How soon can you figure this out?” Rafe asked Darren.

Eli paced toward him.

“I don’t know.” Darren shook his head as he stammered and typed. “It’s been sabotaged. Sabotaged. Shit! But I don’t know by who. Usually I recognize the, um, signature.”

“Signature?” Eli asked.

Darren replied, “All hackers have their own way of doing things. I may not know who the person is behind the hacking—obviously, we protect our identities—but usually I recognize the way any specific hacker works. As far as I can tell, this is a new entry into the field. Happens sometimes. But damn, he’s good.”

“How soon can you figure it out?” Rafe repeated.

“The hack is moving away from me when I get close.” The kid suddenly looked more than his seventeen years. “This is my fault. I should have seen it. Twenty-four hours or less, I promise.”