Revenge at Bella Terra (28 page)

“You admire me. Thanks loads. Why would I take a chance on you? If I ever hurt you, you would never forgive me.” Color blotched her cheeks and her chin, and she observed him as if he were some kind of vermin. “After all, look at the way you’re treating your maternal grandmother, an old and ailing woman who reached out to you. Our marriage could never work.”

“Don’t leave me. Chloë,
please
. When I gave you the ring, I meant everything I said. We can be married forever. We can have a wonderful life together. We can make our home here, raise a family—”

“Do you love me?”

He froze, stared at her like a deer in the headlights.

“That’s what I thought.” She covered her eyes as if she couldn’t stand the sight of him. “With all the other lies you told, not even you can tell that one.” She walked toward her suitcase, picked it up as if it weighed nothing. “You said you hated Abuela for using you without affection, for making you a thing of value rather than a person. So tell me—how did you justify treating me as badly?”

He couldn’t. Of course he couldn’t. “Where are you going?”

“Home. Texas.” She held his gaze, contempt in every line of her body. “Where I belong.” She nodded toward the grinning skull. “I’m leaving you my inspiration. I don’t need it anymore. I don’t need anything to remind me of the horror that lies within the human brain, or to recall the treachery of the human spirit. I’ve got it all figured out now.”

No. He had to keep her here. If she left, he didn’t have a chance. If she left . . . he might never see her again. “It’s going to get dark. You shouldn’t drive, not while you’re so hurt.”

“I’m not hurt.” She clipped off the words. “I’m in a rage.”

“Of course. I know you are.” He thought rage was keeping her on her feet. “For tonight, stay in the cottage. You can be alone. I promise I won’t bother you.”

“So the cottage is safe?” she mocked.

“Perfectly safe,” he answered.

She stood, breathing hard, then nodded. “I need to plan the trip. Decide what I’m going to do. And you’re right—I shouldn’t be driving. All right. I’ll stay in the cottage tonight, and leave in the morning.” She started for the exit. “Don’t bother to hang around to see me off.”

He looked down at her diamond wedding band, at the pure and glorious engagement ring. “I have my savings. It wasn’t enough to save the winery. But I promise you, I paid for your rings myself.”

She stopped in the doorway, looked back at him. “I’m impressed. Too bad I don’t want those diamonds anymore.”

Chapter 39

T
hree and a half hours later, Eli finished the book,
her
book,
Die Trying
. He put it down on the table, turned down the stereo, leaned forward, and tiredly rubbed his eyes.

The book was about death and murder, yes, and who did it and why, but more than that, it was about people, about overcoming adversity, about love and trust. He had heard Chloë’s voice in every line, and saw her soul in her belief in the goodness of mankind.

She said she’d rather be a fool than be like her mother, distrustful and cynical.

He had personally proved Chloë was a fool for believing in him based on nothing more than her love for him.

He stood.

He had to go out to her. He had to talk to her, explain . . . something.

But how? He had no excuse for what he’d done. Nonna said so. Noah said so. Eli knew it. He’d always known it.

He had thought he would die of shame and loss if he lost the winery. The winery had been better than any living human being because the winery was a thing that could not die.

Never had he realized that it couldn’t love him back. It couldn’t laugh with him or tease him or wrench his guts with its sorrow.

If he had to crawl on his knees, he would bring Chloë back. And when he got her back, he would crawl every day if she demanded it.

Because reading her story, hearing her words, had shown him one unalterable truth—he did love her.

He simply hadn’t recognized the emotion.

Picking up the book, he flipped through it again, seeking inspiration or maybe courage. He got his keys, because he knew she wasn’t going to let him in the door. Still holding the book, he walked downstairs and out the door.

The cottage was right across the yard, the windows lit by the warm glow that signified that Chloë was within.

His heart pounded as he walked along the path, and he wished he could do everything over again.

He wished he could go back to being the man he was before, without feelings or needs.

He wished he didn’t ache like this, didn’t want to fix things with Chloë so desperately he could think of nothing else.

The cottage loomed before him.

He wished he weren’t in love.

And he exalted in the knowledge that he had fallen for the one woman he could love forever.

As he approached the porch, he fumbled with the keys, finding the right one by the feel of its teeth.

He still didn’t know what he was going to say, what he was going to do. He knew only that he had to make Chloë understand that—

The explosion rocked the ground, lifted him off his feet, threw him twenty feet, and slammed him onto the pavement.

A fireball rose thirty feet in the air.

Heat singed his face, his hair, sucked the oxygen from his lungs.

He blacked out. Fought his way back to consciousness.

Then he was up, running toward the cottage.

The heat drove him back. He could hear screaming; it was his.

Chloë. Chloë!
She was in there.

No. Pieces of the roof, of the walls, were scattered around, burning in small imitations of the massive fire at the cottage.

Chloë wasn’t in there. She was gone, blown to pieces.

The flames roared and laughed.

Eli found himself staring at the fire, so bright that it burned itself onto his retinas. He was clutching the book again. Still.

He knew he had done this. He’d lied to Chloë. He’d told her someone had sabotaged the cottage to lure her into the house with him.

It had come true.

Somehow, this was his fault.

He heard screaming again, but it wasn’t him this time. Sirens. It was sirens.

Red lights flashed. The fire engine whipped by him, got so close to the cottage he thought the engine would ignite. Firemen leaped out, hooked onto the hydrant, and started spraying the area. Not the cottage. The cottage was a loss. They wanted to contain the flames, not let them spread to the vines, because . . . because the winery was important to the local economy. Because they thought he cared.

More sirens behind him. And blue and red lights.

Someone, a man, shouted in Eli’s ear, “Come over here. The EMTs want to check you out.”

Eli didn’t really hear. He couldn’t comprehend . . . this.

“Eli Di Luca!” A man spoke his name in a firm tone. “You don’t have any eyebrows left. Come over to the ambulance. They think you need oxygen.”

Eli turned his head and looked at Wyatt Vincent.

“Come on, man. You’re in the way.” Wyatt gestured toward the cottage.

It was already burning with less intensity. Most of the flammable material had been blasted away.

“Let me do my investigation,” Wyatt said. “You’re going to want to know who did this thing.”

Eli touched his forehead. The skin felt parched. Wyatt was right; Eli had no eyebrows, and the first inch of his hair broke off in seared, brittle chunks. With a nod, he walked to the ambulance. The other EMTs had fanned out over his yard. One female remained.

She told him to sit down.

He sat.

She handed him a mask.

He put it on. He coughed as oxygen drove the smoke from his lungs, and remained motionless while she bandaged his ear. Apparently it was bleeding from a cut.

She checked his head and put an ice pack on the bump forming on the back of his head. She spoke to him, waved a flashlight in his eyes, asked him his name.

Eli looked at the light, answered the questions.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. DuPey asked, “Was someone in there?”

Eli nodded.

DuPey’s hand tightened. “Chloë?”

Eli flipped the book over in his hand. He looked at her photo. He nodded.

“Jesus have mercy.” DuPey crossed himself, then turned away and started shouting at his men. “Where’s Wyatt? Get him over here. He said he was going to do the investigation. Get him over here!”

Uniformed figures appeared silhouetted against the flames. Terry. Finnegan. Some others. Nameless, faceless shapes moving and shouting . . . while Chloë was no more.

Police drove up the driveway.

Police drove down the driveway.

The firemen put out hot spots around the yard. They sprayed the cottage itself.

Eli sat numb and blank, unthinking, unfeeling, waiting for some great bleak wave to break over him.

Then something . . . something caught his attention.

Something was wrong. Something was off. Something didn’t make sense here.

He started examining the vehicles in the drive.

Where . . .? Where was the blue Ford Focus? Where was Chloë’s car? Where . . . ?

Who had taken Chloë’s car?

In his pocket against his leg, his phone vibrated. And vibrated.

He didn’t care.

Where was her car? Had it burned, too? Had the firemen pushed it out of the way?

No, and no.

Where was Chloë’s car?

The cell phone’s vibration stopped, and started again.

He stood, searching the area for a visual, and as he did, he pulled out his phone and glanced at the caller ID.

Chloë was phoning him.

He answered, barely catching the call before it went to voice mail. “Chloë?”

“Eli. Listen, Eli.” It was her voice. Her voice, high-pitched and frightened. “He’s trying to drive me off the road.”

“Who?” For the first time since the explosion, his brain clicked on.

Someone had blown up the cottage. Someone had tried to kill Chloë. Who?

“I don’t know. Big pickup. Big tires. Behind me.” She sounded frantic. “It’s dark out here, totally black, but he tried to pass on an inside corner and push me off the road.”

Someone realized she was still alive. Someone was chasing her.

Eli cupped his hand over the phone, spoke quietly and rapidly. “If you see a spot that looks safe, drive off fast into the bushes, jump out and—”

“Here he comes again!” she shrieked.

The connection went dead.

“Chloë!” he yelled.

The EMT took his arm. “Mr. Di Luca, I understand you just got married, but she’s gone. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Eli glanced at the woman, and with a jolt realized he had to shut up, get away quietly, save Chloë. Because . . .

She was alive. Chloë was alive.

Where? Where was she?

The EMT tried to move him. “Mr. Di Luca, you’ve had a shock. You should sit down again.”

He had to think. How could he find Chloë?

This woman really looked concerned about him. He needed a distraction. “Is that one of the firemen who’s hurt?” Eli pointed toward the vineyard, toward a place where no one stood.

“What?” She looked around.

“Yes. I saw him go down. No one’s close. I’m fine, really.” He sat down again. “You should go and check on him.”

With a glance at him, she picked up her bag and hurried away.

Eli surveyed the area.

The firemen were busy.

DuPey was directing the investigation. Policemen were scouring the grounds. He recognized Terry’s patrol car, but he couldn’t see Terry anywhere.

Exactly what he needed.

Standing, he strolled over, projecting confidence with every stride. Opening the door, he slid inside.

GPS
.
GPS
.
All he had to do was locate the GPS for Chloë’s phone.

Picking up the mike, he called Patricia. Terry wasn’t hard to imitate; Eli lowered his voice and spoke with Terry’s deadpan delivery. “Can you get me a location on a cell phone?”

“You bet, Terry. What’s the number?”

Eli recited each numeral slowly and clearly, the way Terry would, then sat waiting, mouth dry, heart pounding, until Patricia came back and said, “Current location is Browena Road almost at the summit. You at the fire? What happe—”

Eli clicked off. He slid out of the car, looked down at his hands.

The book was gone. He must have left it by the ambulance.

He patted his pockets. His keys were gone.

He’d had them when he came out. He needed them now. He had to get his truck out of here. He had to go after Chloë.

He ran inside. Got his spare keys. Ran back out. He climbed in his truck, maneuvered it around. “Hey!” he shouted at one of the young patrolmen. “Move your car. You’re blocking my way!”

The boy looked at Eli. Recognized him. Said, “Now, Mr. Di Luca, I can’t do that. You’re in no shape to drive.”

Eli looked around.

DuPey was headed in his direction.

The EMT was running toward him.

This was why Eli owned this truck. With a shrug, he put it in gear, turned toward the vineyard, and drove over the Di Luca family’s 1974 planting of zinfandel grapes, his grille and bumper knocking over the trellises, his huge tires crunching the vines as he headed for the main road, leaving the fire and the grief and the chaos behind.

He was going to rescue Chloë.

Chapter 40

C
hloë drove the night-ridden, winding mountain road in a frenzy of fear, taking the corners too fast. Trees and road signs flashed past. Her tires skidded on the dry pavement. She heard the roar of a powerful pickup as the driver accelerated for another shot at her, and in her rearview mirror, the wide-set headlights blinded her.