Revenge at Bella Terra (13 page)

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

He waited for more, but she stared up at the sky as if enthralled.

He glanced up.

Some blue. Some clouds. The usual.

“Do you want to go inside now and, um, get ready?”

She dug her phone out of her pocket and looked at the time. “No. But if you’re going to stand there and interrupt me . . . go away. Either that or lie down here and be quiet.”

He looked down the rows. Nothing but tall vines rich with leaves, grass on the ground, a glimpse of the valley. He looked up the row. Her cottage stood there, and behind it, the lawn stretched up to the wide expanse of his house. Everything seemed very normal except . . . for no reason he could see, Chloë was stretched out flat on the ground.

He should turn back, go to the house, call Nonna and cancel lunch, and return to work and leave Chloë to her silliness.

But he was supposed to be courting her. So maybe some silliness was in order. And besides . . . besides, something about the way she listened stirred a memory buried in the depths of childhood, of a time when he sat among the vines without fear, secure in the fact that he would be safe . . . in this place.

Feeling odd and awkward, he walked over and sat down beside her.

Without looking at him, she made room.

He leaned back, arms at his sides, legs straight.

He looked at her, waiting for something, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t seem to pay any attention to him. Just gazed at the sky . . .

It was so quiet here. Quiet except for the rattle of leaves as the breeze brushed them.

She was right: It did sound like the vines were talking in some foreign tongue that he could almost understand. He wanted to tell Chloë she was right . . . but it really was so quiet.

The California sun had heated the ground all morning, and, crushed beneath his body, the grass gave up its summer scent, fresh and green. The blades tickled his bare neck and the palms of his hands, and beneath them, he felt the earth breathe. . . . Well, that was silly enough right there, and he almost got up and went back to the house.

For God’s sake, he was a grown man. What if Royson came along and saw him? What would Eli say?
I was listening to the earth breathe?

Not that he cared what Royson thought, but he hated when people had any reason to gossip about him. His mother’s family had trained him—it was always better to remain in the background, quiet and unnoticed. Then he had a better chance of getting away. . . .

He stiffened.

God, what a revelation. He thought he’d put his mother’s family far behind, and yet they still influenced him so much.

Eli looked at Chloë again.

Her eyes were half-closed. She appeared to be dozing . . . or listening with all her might.

The tops of the leaves were over his head and hedged the sky with parallel lines of deep green. The wispy clouds slid in fluid stripes across the pale blue, mixing and re-forming like dancers in some modern ballet. And all the while, the grape leaves on the trellis shimmered on the periphery of his vision; the earth rotated beneath him and wheeled through the universe, chasing its date with destiny. . . .

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d lain beside a woman, content to be shoulder to shoulder without planning his next move: seduction, sex, then up and on to something else: work, family, TV, anything in his life that was not her, whoever she was.

Here, now, with Chloë, he just . . . was. At peace.

And he didn’t even like her.

Actually, no, that was wrong. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her. It was that he didn’t like being forced to marry her.

It would be better if he didn’t rush into a marriage of heat and passion. Even the warmth of the sun wasn’t enough to melt the frozen center at the pit of his belly when he remembered his mother and the anguish and jealousy that poisoned her life. And his.

He’d established to his satisfaction that Chloë was not in any way like his mother. Except for those few moments when he’d seen her give in to despair over her book, she seemed remarkably cheerful and stable—at least for a writer. And she brought every advantage with her. Eli guessed his father-in-law was going to be a pain in the ass, but once the dowry was paid and the winery out of debt, Eli would put Conte in his place.

Altogether she was a good choice as a wife. She had a career, so she wouldn’t unduly interfere in Eli’s life. She was pretty enough to stir his libido. In fact, now, from the depths of his relaxation, he recalled a dream he’d had last night . . . of Chloë beneath him while he—

He sensed movement beside him.

His eyes sprang open.

When had they closed?

Chloë was leaning on her elbow, studying his face. When he looked at her, startled and tense, she smiled. “I’ve never seen you relaxed before. You’re very handsome when you’re not frowning.”

Frowning? He had frowned at her?

Of course he had. “Spring and summer are our busy times in the vineyard,” he said stiffly.

“I’ve noticed. I’ve seen you leave in the morning and come home late at night. You’re busy all the time.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be? Busy writing?”

“There’s more to writing than typing. You took me to the water tower. Now the shape of my plot is changing. I came out here to walk. And think.”

“Did you settle the problem?”

“I think so.” She smiled again. “Maybe. Probably.”

Had he thought she was pretty
enough
? Right now, looking down at him, a half smile on her lips, she was more than pretty. She was beautiful: pale skin with red freckles sprinkled across her upturned nose, eyes the color of amber, college-girl blond hair that looked like an angel’s halo around her head, and those two strands of hell’s fiery red at her temple.

She was heaven and hell, guilt and temptation.

Her legs were long, bare. The camp shirt wasn’t buttoned very far; he could see the beginning of the pale swell of her breasts.

Leaning her head close to his face, she breathed in as if testing his scent.

And when she did, he breathed her in. Like a glass of fine wine, she had scents he could identify: orange blossoms, cinnamon, a hint of vanilla. But beneath those surface aromas another scent note tantalized him. . . . It was Chloë, and her own female fragrance twined around his senses, enticing him, branding him with yearning.

Slowly, she leaned closer and layered her lips to his.

Damn it.
He should be making the first move. He should be in charge.

But the sun shone and the clouds billowed, and Chloë was kissing him. He liked the way she kissed, not passionately, not aggressively, a slow exploration with lips soft, yet closed.

It was nice.

It was not enough.

He opened his mouth under hers, tasted her . . . and she sprang back as if he’d used a cattle prod.

Their eyes met; he’d kissed a lot of women, all of them willing.

He’d never viewed consternation before . . . but he did now.

She rolled away.

He caught her and rolled her back.

Now she was flat on her back and he was leaning over her, holding her lightly, his hand on her waist.

Eyes wide, cheeks pink, she looked as if she wanted to take flight.

“It was just a kiss.” He kept his voice low and slow. “Wasn’t it?”

“Just a kiss.” Clearly he made her nervous. She was talking too fast. “But, um, you know, it’s time to get ready to go to your grandmother’s.”

As she spoke, he watched her lips. Pouty, full, with a natural pink tint. A long throat that begged to be caressed. And from this angle, he could see more of her left breast... she hadn’t known he would join her. She hadn’t left off the bra or unbuttoned the shirt for his benefit.

He returned his gaze to hers.

How lucky that he had arrived so early to check on her. “I am ready,” he said.

Her eyes dilated. In alarm? Or passion? “I’m . . . not.”

“Getting ready won’t take long. You’ll see.” Placing just his fingertips on her breastbone, he slid and touched, little by little pushing the shirt aside.

Her heartbeat increased; he felt it under his hand. Goose bumps rose on her skin.

She licked her lips. “I don’t think you ought to . . .”

He cupped her breast, small and tender.

Her voice caught in her throat.

He ran his thumb around the nipple. It sprang up like a new bud; so she was tentative, not afraid.

“Eli, we don’t have this kind of relationship.” But she put her hand on his shoulder . . . and she whispered his name.

“We do now.” Leaning over, he kissed her the way she deserved to be kissed, putting his interest, his passion, his pleasure into her mouth.

She was still wary.

But he breathed with her, allowed her to taste him, taught her what it was to kiss a man who worshiped a woman’s body. He fed her back all her wonder in the day, offered his very real gratitude for showing him what pleasure there was in a moment of peace stretched out in the grass in the sun.

It wasn’t enough. Of course not. Not for him.

He wanted, really wanted, to run his palm up her thigh, glide his fingers under the loose hem of her shorts, touch her, caress her, find out whether she was wet and make her wetter.

That was too fast, too soon.

He prided himself on his control, on his slow seductions.

And she was going to be his wife. No need to rush things.

But he
wanted
.

And as the kiss became more than just an appetizer before the feast . . . he could sense she wanted, too. The taste of her fascination changed, became blind desire. She opened her mouth and let him feast. Her arms slid around his shoulders. She lifted her body to his.

He kissed her now with the steady, driving rhythm of intercourse, using his tongue to demonstrate his need.

He dropped his knee between her legs—it wasn’t as good as the touch of his hand; at least, not for him—but when he pressed his thigh against her, her eyes sprang open. She gasped and shuddered, on the edge of orgasm.

Then color swept her face.

If she tumbled over the edge, if she came here, now, in the sunshine, embraced by a man she barely knew merely because he kissed well, she would be mortified, and everything he’d gained with her would be swept away.

Worse, if he didn’t stop, if she came, he would humiliate himself in a way he hadn’t since his first date.

Where was his discipline?

He dragged himself back, allowed her room to move, forced himself away from the worst of the temptation.

“Gotta go shower. Get dressed. Put on makeup.” Her voice started low, got stronger.

“I know.” He did know.

He hated to let this moment go.

But he must. For her sake.

For his own, too.

He was not like his mother.

He didn’t let passion rule him.

He would never allow emotion to ruin his life.

So he smiled at Chloë as if his balls weren’t aching. With leisurely care, he removed his hand from her breast. He buttoned two of the buttons on her shirt—cover that temptation!—and gave her a warm, closemouthed kiss. “You go on. I’ll call Nonna and tell her we’re going to be late.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and, as if he were totally relaxed, he asked, “Can you be ready in a half hour?”

Chapter 17

T
he road to Eli grandmother’s house wound through the vineyards, past wineries, past orchards that cast hypnotic dappled shadows on the pavement, rising and falling . . . and rising.

A beautiful drive.

Chloë should be enjoying this break from work.

But in all her life, she had never before been nervous about meeting a man’s family. She didn’t really have reason to be nervous now.

But somehow those kisses in the vineyard had changed everything.

Not that she hadn’t been kissed before. She had. And by some pretty good kissers. If she’d been asked before, she would have said she liked to kiss.

Eli was in a whole different class. He didn’t seem to understand that kisses were supposed to be pleasant interludes: not serious, not mind-altering, not an experience to make the earth shake and the heavens tremble.

How had he done that? How had he brought her to the verge of orgasm with . . . kissing? He knew it, too. When she remembered the way he’d looked at her, all dark, smoldering sensuality, as if he were ready to jump her right there in the vineyard . . . well. She was so embarrassed she could die.

Which meant she should not be sitting in his truck, hands folded in her lap, both sandaled feet firmly on the floor mat, one foot crushing a paper cup, while she gazed out the front window and tried to think of something to break the silence. Something that did not include,
Take me back; I don’t want to meet your grandmother; it feels like a commitment and it shouldn’t.

Eli apparently felt no such compunction to speak; he drove in silence and with the same negligent efficiency he had used yesterday.

How could today feel so different?

The smoldering sensuality had disappeared . . . well, except she didn’t trust that. Yesterday she hadn’t realized he smoldered at all. Now she suspected him of constantly smoldering and concealing it so well she never even smelled the telltale smoke.

He was like Clark Kent, looking exactly like Superman, yet no one suspected what powers he concealed. . . .

“Not too much farther,” he said, and glanced at her. “I like the dress. You surprised me.”

She smoothed the skirt of her brightly flowered sarong dress. “Why?”

“You don’t seem to be the type to wear a dress.”