Secrets Of Bella Terra (8 page)

Victor gestured widely. “Your Italian friend has returned.”

“My Italian friend?” Brooke scanned the lobby until she found that distinctive head of fiery red, curly hair. “Francesca? Francesca’s here?”

“Francesca? The only Francesca I know is . . . Oh, my God!” For the first time since he’d arrived, Rafe looked as if he had had the feet knocked out from under him. Before Brooke could hurry into the lobby, he grabbed her arm. “My mother? My mother is here?”

“S
he frequently vacations here. Now if you’ll excuse me”—Brooke plucked Rafe’s hand away—“I’m going to greet my guest.”

She stalked into the lobby.

My God, he was irritating. Irritating, handsome, and far too dangerous to her . . . in every way. With him, she had to be careful about what she said and did, because he always, always watched her far too closely.

As she neared the table, she softly called, “Francesca!”

With the polished motion of a dancer, Francesca swiveled in her chair. Her face, so fabulously shaped, lit up. She stood, perfectly clothed in cream slacks, a black V-necked sweater that hugged her every curve, and, of course, black heels so high Brooke would have teetered and fallen. Francesca moved as if the shoes were an extension of her feet. She enveloped Brooke in a perfumed embrace, and in a rich Italian accent said, “Brooke! Darling girl, at last I see you. I have been asking for you, but your dear friend Victor tells me you’re busy with Sarah.” Francesca pulled back and looked into Brooke’s eyes, her own swimming with tears. “Such a tragedy, and to such a sweet woman. She was one of only two good things I got out of my marriage to that
bastardo
, Gavino Di Luca.”

“I can’t imagine what the other is,” Brooke said drily.

Francesca looked over Brooke’s shoulder. “Raffaello! My darling boy, you are here. I had hoped so. It has been so long since I’ve seen you.” She flung her arms around Rafe’s stiff form.

Rafe grimaced and rolled his eyes.

But everyone in the lobby was staring, and Rafe hated scenes. “Let’s sit down,” he said.

“Of course, darling. We should stop making spectacles of ourselves.” Francesca turned her face to Brooke and winked.

As he pulled out Francesca’s chair, then hers, Brooke hid a smile.

If he knew Brooke too well, Francesca knew him, too. She thrived on scenes, used them to manipulate the situation to her advantage, to make Rafe behave like a properly affectionate son.

The three arranged themselves around the table where a tiny cup held the dregs of an espresso. Francesca, her eyes, large and exotically tilted, beamed on the two of them. “How good to see you together again! So young, so perfect for each other. The passion, it still burns as hot as ever?”

Oh, God.
Brooke had forgotten how horribly blunt Francesca could be. And the waiter, on his way to pour water and take orders, stopped so suddenly and looked so enthralled, clearly he had heard Francesca’s exclamation. “My palate has matured,” Brooke said. Remembering the kiss on Nonna’s porch, she didn’t dare look at Rafe. But she wouldn’t let Francesca rattle her composure. “Trent!”

The waiter’s attention snapped to Brooke. Hurrying forward, he poured ice water into their glasses.

“Francesca, would you like another espresso?” Brooke offered, “or perhaps some wine?”

Francesca lavished a smile on the young man. “Children, will you share a bottle of that lovely Di Luca sangiovese with me?”

Brooke wanted to say no. She’d been getting along on too little sleep, and to deal with Rafe, she needed to stay sharp. But Francesca showed signs of wear: Her smile quivered at the corners and she had shadows under her eyes. Something was very wrong, so Brooke told Trent, “We’ll have a bottle of the 2004 Dragon Fire Sangiovese and three glasses.” She waited until he scurried off, then turned to Francesca. “Now tell me what brings you to Bella Terra.”

“I heard about the attack on Sarah and I wanted to make sure she was all right. . . .” Francesca cast her gaze to the floor, looking so guilty Brooke wondered how she had ever won that Academy Award for best actress.

“What else?” Rafe’s forbidding tone made his disbelief clear.

The silence stretched a moment too long, Francesca frowned miserably, and Brooke ventured, “I think perhaps Francesca had some marital problems.”

Trent arrived with the bottle of wine and glasses, showed the label, got approval, uncorked and poured in record time. And when Francesca tasted it and smiled at him, he staggered backward as if he’d been shot by the arrow of love.

Francesca had that effect on men.

Brooke waved him away. “I’ll call you when we need you again.”

He nodded, a handsome young man who’d just met the woman of his dreams—and she was older than his mother.

Francesca took another sip of wine, and sighed as if her heart were broken. “The divorce wasn’t my fault.”

“It never is,” Rafe muttered.

Francesca continued. “It was his. He gave me a disease.”

Brooke didn’t know if she could remember a time when Rafe’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “God, Mama, are you okay?”

“Yes, antibiotics cleared it up, but it was that which informed me—Raimund slept with other women. Many other women. Not attractive, either. Not like me.” Francesca’s nose wrinkled in fastidious disgust. “Unwashed women with tattoos on their hands and on their noses.”

“And diseases,” Rafe said.

“Shut up, Rafe.” Brooke took Francesca’s hand. “Did you ask him why?”

“I’m sure she did.” Rafe produced his crooked smile. “At the top of her lungs.”

“Shut up, Rafe,” Francesca said, then turned to Brooke. “Yes, I asked. He said I was old, losing my looks.”

Both Rafe and Brooke stared, dumbfounded, at her: at the long, curly auburn hair, the smooth skin with only the finest wrinkles, the startling blue eyes, and the face to launch a thousand ships.

“You’re kidding,” Rafe said. “Even I can see you’re gorgeous.”

“Ah, thank you, son.” Francesca patted his arm. “But the breasts—they point south.”

“You’re fifty,” he said flatly. “A little southern exposure is to be expected.”

“Shut up, Rafe.” Brooke turned back to Francesca. “It sounds to me as if Raimund was weak and abusive. I’m so glad you got away from him.”

“Yes.” Francesca picked up her glass, saluted them, and took a sip.

Rafe knew his mother. He recognized that mischievous expression. Slowly he placed his glass on the table. “What did you do to him, Mama?”

Francesca chuckled, warm and deep. “Did you not hear the scandal? It was all over the news.”

“We’ve been a little distracted here,” he told her.

“I saw something about the divorce, but not any reason for it,” Brooke said.

With a flourish, Francesca announced, “The cameras caught Raimund kissing his male lover.”

“He’s homosexual?” Brooke sounded shocked—and disappointed.

“Why the surprise, Brooke?” Rafe realized he’d been a little too sharp, and moderated his tone. “A lot of gigolos go with the paying customer.”

“On the screen, he seems so sexually intent on his female leads. . . .” Brooke blushed. She actually blushed as if she lusted after this guy.

“Oh, he is.” Francesca used both hands to fluff her mass of hair. “He has no interest in men. In fact, he hated all my gay friends, avoided them, made loud, rude comments about them. So it was no trouble at all to ask dear Neville if he would involve Raimund in a scandal, and Neville agreed at once. In fact, he said he’d always wanted to plant one on Raimund, and when Raimund came out of the nightclub and posed for the cameras, Neville had already given his interview confessing that their love was the reason for our breakup.”

For the first time, Brooke realized that Rafe’s crooked smile was the exact copy of his mother’s.

Francesca continued. “The paparazzi were enthralled. They almost carried Neville to Raimund’s side. Neville threw his arms around him and called him darling. Neville’s a former rugby player, you know, and although Raimund struggled, he never had a chance to get away. . . .” Francesca’s laugh was long, low, constrained. “There’s even a photo of Neville’s hand squeezing Raimund’s shapely rear end. He’s still going to get offers for leading roles, of course . . . but I think the films will have a different focus than before.”

Rafe leaned back in his chair and chortled.

“So I came here to see Sarah, because she always is so lovely to me, makes me feel as if she’s not Gavino’s mother, but mine, and I find she is in the hospital!” Francesca’s eyes filled with tears, and Rafe thought—wanted to believe—that she suffered for Sarah’s pain. “I wish to go down and visit her, but at the desk they tell me no one but family is allowed. Am I allowed?”

“She would be delighted to see you.” Brooke summoned Trent to the table. “Please go to the desk and confirm Miss Pastore’s suite for this evening and in the immediate future.”

Trent nodded, his eyes shining, and backed away as if Francesca were royalty.

The kid was infatuated.

“I’ll stay for a few weeks. I am not putting you out, am I, my dear girl? You won’t have conflicts with guests who need a room?” Francesca looked distressed.

“It’s the off-season, and you require one of the expensive rooms, so I’ll place you in Millionaire’s Row, and when you come back from the hospital, we’ll check you in and take you to your cottage.” Brooke stood, her glass of wine virtually untouched. “Having you visit Sarah now is so helpful to us. Please assure her I’ll be back this evening”—she turned her gaze to Rafe—“as will the boys?”

“Of course.” He helped his mother out of her chair.

Brooke said, “I’ll go tell the doorman to call a car to take you to the hospital.”

“And then we’ll go to introduce me to the resort’s heads of staff?” Rafe asked.

Her expression cooled, became indecipherable. “As you wish.”

Rafe watched her walk off, tall, aloof, desirable, and so very much not his.

Francesca cupped his cheek and turned his face to hers. “You’ll come to spend time with your mama?”

“I will.” He was caught, but oh, how he abhorred the constant wildly thrashing tornado of emotions that swirled around Francesca at all times.

“Good.” She smiled the brilliant smile that men around the world were willing to die for. “In return, I’ll help you acquire your heart’s desire.”

Not just no. Hell, no. In Italian, he said, “Mama, please. I have everything I need.”

“Not true!” she said decisively. “I say it is time you stopped living a half life. It is time you had everything you
want
.”

“M
iss Pastore?” Victor interrupted them with a bow, his brown eyes warm and deferential as they rested on Francesca. “If you would come with me, your car is at the door.”

Francesca placed her hand on his arm. “Victor, you are so handsome, so debonair. How have you managed to remain single?”

“I run very fast,” Victor said earnestly.

As they walked away from Rafe, he heard his mother’s distinctive, throaty laughter.

Damn it
. Like there wasn’t trouble enough with his grandmother attacked, Dopey as sheriff, and Brooke Petersson as Rafe’s contact. Now his mother was here. When he remembered his early years—the screaming fights between his parents, his mother’s copious tears every time his father slept with another girl, their touching reconciliations, and then another round of wild emotion and anguish—he couldn’t stand it. When his parents had divorced, he’d lived with Francesca as she bounded between the highs and lows of affairs and marriages so passionate they had set the paparazzi on fire.

Francesca loved scenes. She thrived on drama. And when Rafe got the role in his movie and won the accolades of the world, the world expected him to be like his mother.

He was not. That was why he had finally come to live with his grandmother. At the age of fourteen, and with the brutality of youth, he had made himself clear. He told Francesca that acting was the same as lying, and he would never again be a liar. Like her. Like his father.

She had cried.

He hadn’t cared. Because he no longer believed in her laughter and her tears. To him, every movement looked like acting. Every word sounded like acting. Like lying.

He had been determined to be the real thing—and that determination had almost gotten him killed. Worse, it had almost destroyed him.

Only one thing had saved him, one person. . . .

With the stillness he’d learned from years in the field, he waited for Brooke to return. She should have been back by now.

Perhaps Francesca had detained her. Perhaps she’d been caught by a guest or a staff member. Most likely she was simply unwilling to cater to him and what she considered his unreasonable demands.

But he was on an investigation. She might make him wait, but he could make good use of his time. Turning, he walked back toward the check-in area. He intended to look at the map of the guest cottages, pick out the one he wanted to use as a base, and pick up the key card. He would bring his bag in from his rental car—he didn’t trust it to the curious hands of any of the bell personnel—and at some point today, he’d get into his cottage and set up his technology.

When he neared the concierge desk, a tall blonde with a bouncing ponytail, a carefully tended tan, and legs up to her ass turned toward him. She was the typical California beauty in the resort’s regulation dark golf shirt and light chinos. At the sight of him, her big blue eyes lit up and she bounded over like a tennis player retrieving a drop shot. “Hi, Rafe, it’s been a while.”

“Hi . . .” He lifted an eyebrow at her, trying to decide whether she was one of those women who had seen the movie he’d made when he was a kid and pretended to know him, or if she was someone he had genuinely forgotten.

Either was possible.

“Jenna. Jenna Campbell.” She offered her hand and a wide, white beauty-queen smile. “Remember? We had calculus together, and I was awful, and you helped me with it? At the library? Remember? After school? You and me in the dusty old stacks?”

“Of course.” He didn’t have a clue, but at least now he was pretty sure she was someone he’d forgotten. “You were on the pep squad, right?”