But she was herself once more . . . and she was, perhaps, a little more in love with Rafe than she ever had been before.
Rising, she used the bathroom, then donned her robe and wandered out to the kitchen, following the smell of bacon.
The front door was open, letting in the fresh morning air. The screen door was shut, closing out the bugs. Rafe stood before the stovetop, barefoot, bare-chested, clad in a pair of jeans and a leather belt. When she stepped into the kitchen, he never turned his head, but he called, “Bacon and eggs, because you need protein to get you through. Today’s going to suck, what with DuPey bugging you for details and everyone asking if you’re all right.”
He was right. It was going to suck. “Protein sounds good.” She eased herself onto her stool at the breakfast bar.
“One egg or two?”
“One. You want me to make the toast?”
“I want you to sit right there and let me wait on you.” He shot her a laughing glance. “Enjoy it. If you’re lucky, it’ll only happen once.”
“Because a day like yesterday will only happen once, you mean?”
“Right.” He put the plate in front of her. Cantaloupe, crisp bacon, wheat toast, marmalade, two eggs.
“High-handed,” she said mildly.
“Orange juice?” he asked.
“Milk.”
“You bet.”
A glass of skim appeared at two o’clock on her place mat. “Thank you.” She ate with appetite, not like last night, when she had nibbled, feeding an unsteady stomach. Today she ate with the full knowledge that she couldn’t change the past and today was going to be, as Rafe predicted, difficult.
Glancing up, she watched Rafe pull on a clean black T-shirt. “Where’d you get that?”
“Before daybreak this morning, I took the walk of shame to my cottage and picked up a different outfit.” He leaned on the counter and grinned at her. “I figured you wouldn’t want me traipsing out of here dressed in the same stuff I wore yesterday. Might sorta make people think something went on here last night.”
“What did happen here last night?”
“We found each other again.”
She put down her fork. She reached across the counter, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him close. “Sometimes I remember why I like you.”
His blue eyes turned a dark, greedy gray. “Why do you?”
“You’re not always a jerk.”
“Damned with faint praise.”
“Sometimes you’re pretty smart.”
“Your flattery stings like a slap to the face.”
“You want flattery? You’re great in bed and you have moments of thoughtfulness.”
“I’m great in bed because you’re between the sheets.” His voice was a solemn breath.
To be so close to him, to know what he’d done for her, how he’d understood and cared for her . . . The two of them shared so much history. She breathed in the scent of his soap, watched his lips grow closer, and today, this moment, felt like sex and love and two souls in union.
With a thunk, the front screen door snapped open.
The two of them jumped and swung to face the newcomer.
Kathy Petersson, her mom, dark haired, blue eyed, leaned on her walker and glared coldly. “I came by because I was worried about you, Brooke, but I see I needn’t have bothered.”
Brooke suffered a moment of disorientation. She had been here before. They had all been here before. In high school. In college.
How did it always come back to this?
Brooke let go of Rafe’s shirt, and of the moment.
Rafe straightened.
Brooke felt herself redden.
No one else on earth could have made her feel guilty. But her mother could, and did.
Brooke cleared her throat. “Mom! Did you hear about—”
“The murder? On the news this morning. Yes.” Kathy pushed her walker into the cottage. “I knew Rafe would be at the crime scene. I didn’t expect him to be in your kitchen after being so clearly in your bedroom.”
Brooke expected Rafe to say something. Help her out. Explain.
But he stood and watched her mother move slowly into the living room in seeming astonishment, as if he didn’t understand why she was perturbed.
Brooke tried to think of the best way to explain. “Rafe stayed with me last night.”
“Obviously,” Kathy said forbiddingly.
Brooke was an adult. She had had sex. So what?
Why was she feeling obliged to explain?
Oh, yeah. Because this was her mother. And although they lived their own lives, the two of them had been and always would be family.
“Rafe is here because he understood the kind of trauma I went through.” Taking her fork, Brooke poked him in the arm to make him talk.
He jumped. “I do understand Brooke’s trauma. So do you, Mrs. Petersson. I guess I should have thought to call you.”
If this wasn’t such a desperately embarrassing and significant moment, Brooke would have grinned. He sounded as he’d sounded when they were in high school: nervous, tentative, hopeful.
Her mom wasn’t buying any of it. “That would have been pleasant.”
He continued. “But I had to help Brooke through the trauma because . . . well, because after all the times she helped me, I owed her. And I wanted to pay my debt.”
Chapter 33
Rafe didn’t understand what happened next. But he knew that Brooke went from happy to angry.
He knew Mrs. Petersson went from angry to amused.
Somehow—he didn’t understand how or why—he had totally screwed up.
“What?” Brooke slid off the stool. “What? You helped me last night because you owed me?”
“Yeah. I owed you. You helped me through my trauma. You know.” He lowered his voice, speaking only to her. “After I came back from Afghanistan.”
She stood straight. She looked at him as if she’d never really seen him before.
Red alert! Red alert! She was furious. She was hurt. He tried to think what he’d said wrong. He started backtracking. “Not that what I did for you could ever compare to what you did for me. You saved my life, my mental health. If it hadn’t been for you, I would have been sidelined by the military and been forced back into civilian life.”
Mrs. Petersson crowed with laughter.
Oh, God. Brooke had her hand on her chest as if her heart hurt. He hadn’t fixed anything. But he still didn’t know what he’d said in the first place and why she wasn’t responding to his explanations.
“So you stayed with me last night because I helped you when you came back from Afghanistan?” Brooke’s voice rose.
It was like she was rearranging the words, but saying the same thing, trying to grasp his meaning.
Maybe she was angry that he hadn’t mentioned how much he’d enjoyed the night with her. That made sense. No woman wanted to think of herself as a pity fuck. “I was selfish, too. I wanted to help you, but I also wanted to have . . .” He glanced at Mrs. Petersson.
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 rem
ember, 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?
Chapter 34
Rafe 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.
br /> 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.”