Some guys were like that, she supposed . . . although usually not with her. Men tended to like her.
So. Nothing personal in this excursion. It was business, and that knowledge helped her forget that uncomfortable moment when he’d looked in her eyes and she’d suddenly remembered she was in her pj’s, her bra hanging from a chair, and he smelled like warm spice and cool citrus, and tall guys with long legs and broad shoulders made her weak at the knees—among other places.
He slowed down to twenty-five as they entered the outskirts of town.
On her first spin through on her way to Eli’s home, Chloë had noted that the town of Bella Terra was marvelously quaint, a place founded in the nineteenth century and relatively undiscovered until the 1980s, when the California wine industry was well on its way to its current prominence. Main Street was actually the main drag, where elaborate Victorian mansions that advertised themselves as bed-and-breakfasts sat arm in arm with ultramodern condos made up of tin roofs and jarring angles. The grocery stores and strip malls were located on the outskirts, but those outskirts weren’t too far from the central town square. Posh art galleries, chic clothing stores, and wine-tasting rooms circled the park, and shoppers and tourists strolled and shopped and mingled with the locals.
As Eli parallel-parked the truck with an ease that made her envious, she said, “I keep looking at the bandstand and expecting to see a revival of The Music Man.”
“That was last summer,” he said, so deadpan she didn’t know whether to believe him or not. He came around to her side, took her computer case and helped her out, then held on to her hand as he led her toward the Bella Terra resort. It felt funny to be towed through the streets behind him; he wasn’t paying attention to her, yet he twined his fingers in hers, made sure she had room to walk, kept her close. As they stepped into the check-in area, he nodded in greeting as bellmen, desk clerks, and the concierge greeted him, and headed through the lobby as if he owned it.
She supposed, since it was his family’s resort, he had the right.
In the Luna Grande Lounge, a guy of about fifty stood behind the bar, frowning over a printout spread from one end to the other. Behind him a glass-covered wall of wine storage rose two stories to the ceiling, and the tallest library ladder Chloë had ever seen traveled along a horizontal steel rod and allowed access to even the highest bottles . . . except that a quick scan proved that none of the cellars had any contents.
But then, the entire bar was empty, the chairs upside down on the tables; it looked like they were remodeling.
“Tom!” Eli said.
The guy looked up, surprised. “Eli!” His gaze shifted to look her over, and he noted their joined hands.
Self-conscious, she freed herself.
Eli let go of her easily.
“Is this the woman you’re hiding in your cottage?” Tom asked.
“Sure.” To Chloë’s surprise, Eli sounded sanguine about the teasing. “Chloë, this is Tom Chan, one of my best friends and one of the world’s foremost experts on wines. Tom, Chloë Robinson, famous author.”
Tom reached across and shook her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chloë. Loved your book. I’m a mystery reader from way back, and you had me fooled clear to the end.”
No matter how often she heard it, praise for her book warmed her, and she smiled at him.
Tom looked startled, then smiled back. “No wonder Eli invited you to live with him.”
“She’s not living with me,” Eli said curtly. “She’s living in the cottage.”
“Right. That’s what I meant. You two want to have lunch in here? We’re not officially open yet after the incident a few weeks ago, but, Chloë, since you’re a famous author, we’ll let you bring your friend in here.” Tom smirked at Eli.
Incident? “What happened?” she asked.
Tom glanced at Eli, and when it was clear he wasn’t going to answer, he said, “We had a vandal break in and take out most of the wines on the wine wall. Dropped them from the top of the ladder. Wiped us out. Expensive bottles of wine. Priceless. Irreplaceable.” Tom’s eyes filled with tears.
“We caught the vandal. But the wines are gone.” Not a muscle stirred in Eli’s face, but she felt emotion vibrating through him.
A grief similar to Tom’s? And anger . . . an anger that swirled with currents of violence and vengeance.
“You love your wines,” she said.
He met her gaze, and his brown eyes kindled with the kind of slow-burning rage that would have made her afraid, if she had been the one to break those bottles. “Wine is the thread that connects me to the Di Lucas who came to this country, settled this land, and planted the grapes, to the Di Lucas in Italy who tended their vineyards. Wine is my heritage—and I take it badly when my heritage is threatened.”
Chapter 11
Did Eli Di Luca harbor other emotions, other loves? A man who felt so strongly about his heritage must surely hate darkly, laugh loudly, love deeply.
Yet never had Chloë seen a sign of any great emotion in Eli. She was a pretty good observer of human behavior—what writer wasn’t?—and she couldn’t even imagine such a thing. He’d seemed to be a stoic, rather unfeeling guy. Now she realized . . . perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps when she looked at him, all she saw—all anyone saw—was a mask, a shell that covered and contained the real man.
And she wondered . . . What hid beneath that shell that he had so carefully constructed?
“Shall I call a waiter out of the restaurant?” Tom picked up the house phone.
“You do that,” Eli said.
“Take any table you want.” Tom gestured to the empty restaurant and joked, “None of them are reserved.”
“By the window?” Eli didn’t wait for her to answer, but took the chairs off the table with the best view of the carefully landscaped, lush garden, and held the back of one until she sat down. He sat opposite her, facing the door. In a low voice, he said, “The Chan family moved here not long after the Di Lucas arrived, working on the railroad as Chinese laborers. Then they settled down to work in the fields and orchards. They’ve always been ambitious and they worked hard. Not even the Chinese Exclusion Act kept them down.”
She scrambled for her spiral notebook. This was good stuff.
Eli waited until she had it open and her pen poised. Then he continued. “The hard work paid off; the Chans own vineyards in Bella, Sonoma, and Napa valleys. Tom’s brothers and nieces and cousins are doctors and lawyers and shop owners. Tom’s considered kind of the loafer, because after he came back from the Gulf War, he didn’t want to go after a law degree. All he wanted to do was consult on wines. Of course, restaurateurs come from all over the world to talk to him, but his mom doesn’t get it. She still nags him to get the degree.”
Thoughtlessly, Chloë said, “That sounds like my dad in reverse, nagging me to dump my career.”
“And get married.” Eli’s voice was warm and deep.
“Yes.” She’d already talked to Eli about it. Assured him he was safe. Why was she uncomfortable now?
Because he was looking at her differently than he had that first day. Because he’d held her hand in the street. Because he was a good-looking guy who’d seen her in her pajamas, and he’d noticed the bra on the chair. Because he smelled good enough that she wanted to sniff him like a fine glass of wine . . .
All of which added up to a resounding nothing . . . but she was still uncomfortable.
A plastic-covered three-sided ad for new menu items sat at the edge of the table. She picked it up and studied it.
Tom limped over with two glasses—she hadn’t realized, but apparently he was disabled—and set them on the table. “Honey, there’s no point in reading the tricorner,” he said. “Note the wine stains. It’s not current.”
“I know. I can’t help it. I’m a compulsive reader. Do you want me to recite the nutrients on the Cheerios box?” She grinned cheerfully at him.
“No, if you’re going to seduce me with oat bran, w
e need to be alone.” Tom pulled a bottle of wine from under his arm. “I had this one stashed under the bar, a nice Di Luca Arneis. Light, refreshing, perfect for lunch.”
Chloë said, “I don’t usually drink before, um, the evening. . . .”
The two men looked at her uncomprehendingly, as if she were speaking Latin.
“I can make an exception today.” Apparently Bella Valley was much like her father’s home in Italy: Wine was appropriate anytime.
Tom utilized the corkscrew with dexterity and speed, and poured her glass full. “This is one of Eli’s best whites.”
She’d learned to taste wine in Italy; she took a sip of the cool, pale wine and rolled it over her tongue. “Dry, full-bodied, with notes of apricots and . . . pears?”
Eli exchanged a glance with Tom, and both nodded as if pleased.
Tom poured for Eli. “I don’t know if you know, Chloë, but Eli is an incredibly talented vintner, and although he can be difficult, he’s a good guy all around.”
“For God’s sake, Tom.” Eli glared at his friend.
“I’m just trying to help you out.” Tom sounded hurt and righteous. “You’re not getting any younger, you know. You need to get out and get yourself a good woman before you’re so decrepit there’s nothing of you worth getting.”
Chloë sputtered with laughter.
“Drink your wine.” Tom winked at her. “He looks better from behind an intoxicated haze.”
“He looks good no matter what.” She lifted her glass to Tom. “All the men in this bar are beauty and charm combined.”
Tom perked up. “Let me get a chair and sit down.”
“Go away, Tom.” Eli sounded territorial.
Or maybe he thought of himself as her protective uncle.
“You know,” Tom grumbled as he limped away, “you young guys just can’t take the competition.”
Eli solemnly met her gaze. “Tom and your father should get together.”
“I like that they can both make us embarrassed.”
“I think they embarrass themselves.”
It didn’t matter if Eli thought of himself as something like an uncle to her. She could never convince herself he was anything but a scrumptious man in denim.
She sipped again. Interesting.
Not the wine—the change in the dynamics in this relationship.
Just this morning, she would never have thought she could sit across a table from Eli Di Luca and feel breathless with anticipation, as if something great were about to happen.
The waiter who arrived was young and efficient, bringing water, menus, making suggestions for lunch. They ordered.
Chloë clicked her pen, clicked it again, clicked it again. She put the point to the paper, looked inquiringly at Eli. Anything to distract her from the weird vibrations in the room. “I don’t know much about this area during Prohibition. Were there a lot of stills distilling brandy?”
“Lots. Prohibition wiped out many very prosperous families. Everyone was scrambling for money.”
“Your family, too?”
His brown eyes held no warm highlights; they were almost black as he remembered a time before his time. “Most certainly. The Di Lucas stayed with grapes, but Prohibition and the revenuers’ axes destroyed the family’s prosperity. Our folks were tough and resourceful, so we opened this resort.”
“Original thinking.”
“The story goes that my great-great-great-grandmother, who was a young widow when Prohibition took effect, spearheaded the idea. Everyone thought she was crazy. Her sons fought her. But she said if we built a luxury place for the very wealthy—and even during the Depression, there were very wealthy people—they would come. She invited Rudolph Valentino for the grand opening, then told the San Francisco newspapers he was coming. The newspaper reporters arrived. Rudolph Valentino did not. But she had a reputation for irresistible charm. She gave them good food, good lodging, good music, probably slipped them a little nonalcoholic grape juice that she had fermented.” He grinned.
My God. He grinned.
He had a bit of Great-great-great-grandmother’s charm after all.
He continued. “They went back and wrote flattering stories about the resort. By the next year, Rudolph Valentino did stay. The Bella Terra resort catered to the wealthy from San Francisco, from burgeoning Hollywood, and eventually the East Coast and around the world. Bella Terra became the vanguard of our resorts and the main family business for the next fifty years.”
“Your family owns more resorts?” Now Chloë was really impressed.
“Two more, one in southern California and one on the coast of Washington, both run by more Di Lucas. My grandmother had only one son, my father, but generally speaking, Di Lucas breed like rabbits.”
Do you have children? Do your brothers have children? Do we have to talk about breeding? “Is the winery more profitable or the resorts?”
“The resorts taken altogether make more, but in the eighties, the winery began to make a profit again. I started to take the reins when I was in college and took over completely when I was twenty-two.”
So he’d been in charge for twelve years. No wonder he had that I’m-the-dude attitude. “Do you own any part of the resort?” she asked.
“The Di Luca family shares all profits on the family properties, with salaries given to those of us who work here.”
“And you’re not only the winemaker; you also direct the operations in the vineyard.”
“Right. I make a good salary.” He watched her with a half smile. “Is this research for your book or are you asking for another reason?”
She had, she realized, been quizzing him about his income as if she were vetting him as a prospective husband. She’d sounded as bad as her father, and she blushed—damned fair skin—and mumbled, “For the book.”
But for all her embarrassment, she was satisfied once more that Eli wasn’t entertaining her for her father’s money.
He didn’t need her father’s money at all.
Chapter 12
To Chloë, the water tower didn’t look like a water tower at all, more like the turret of a medieval castle rising from the middle of a vineyard filled with vines gnarled and bent like hunchbacked old women wringing their hands. The tower’s round, orange brick skin reached three stories in the air, baking in the afternoon sun. Up by the octagon tin roof, a hole in the bricks gaped like a missing tooth, and, as Chloë watched, a pigeon flew out from beneath the eaves.
“Don’t look up with your mouth open,” Eli advised.
The comment gave her pause; did he have a sense of humor? Because it was the first inkling of one she’d seen.
“These vines are different from the ones around the cottage,” she said.
“They’re planted in the old way, not trained to grow flat on an espalier but left to grow naturally and trimmed into shape. They’re not as easy to farm, but the older vines produce our best wines.” Leaning over, he caressed the branches as he would a lover.
That was more like the Eli Di Luca she thought she knew, in love with his grapes.
A mechanical lift like the kind used to reach signs or electrical wires sat beside the tank, but this one had wheels and tires, and the tracks showed it had been driven into place.
“A cherry picker,” Eli said. “So my guys can stand on the platform, disassemble the tower, stack the bricks, and lower them to the ground without breaking any. Once they realized what was in there, they came down as quickly as they could and called me.”
“Do you think the water tower was built specifically to house the still?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why put a water tower in the middle of a vineyard? Especially if you’re going to use it to hide your still? Aren’t there better places to hide it?”
“Think about it. A vineyard needs water, so a water tower makes sense. When you build it, it doesn’t attract anyone’s attention. Assemble a wooden tank, fill it with water, surround it with brick that extends ten feet over
the top, add a roof and you’ve got a hidden room inside there.” Eli pointed toward the roof.
“How ingenious.” Chloë worked hard to think up creative plots; this would never in a million years have occurred to her.
“Plus, this is a rural area now. Think what it was like in the thirties.” He gestured toward the two-lane highway that ran straight through this, the flattest part of the valley. “Town is fifteen miles south, and in 1930 the population of the whole valley was maybe ten thousand.”
She squinted her eyes and gazed across the valley, trying to see it as it had been eighty years ago. “I don’t know a lot about stills, but don’t they require a constant fire for several days before the liquor is ready?”
“That’s right.”
“Then how did Massimo pull that off? Wouldn’t he have had to vent the smoke somewhere?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been inside.”
Outraged, she demanded, “You haven’t gone in? How could you not?”
“It’s a crime scene,” he said patiently. “An old crime scene, it’s true. But I called law enforcement—that’s Bryan DuPey, the chief of police and a school friend. He said he’d put it on his schedule. Obviously not high on his schedule—it’s been a week.”
“Oh, no.” She clutched her throat with both hands, realized Eli’s proximity made her uneasy enough to overreact, and dropped them to her side. “This DuPey didn’t forbid you to go up, did he?”
“No, he doesn’t care as long as I don’t put the still back into use. I’ve managed to refrain.”
Another brief flash of a sense of humor. She thought.
“Come on. I’ll take you up on the cherry picker,” he said.
“Please, let’s go up the way Massimo would have!” She looked around, spotted a narrow metal door set at ground level. “It’s more atmospheric.”
“Maybe we can find you another skull.”
Humor and sarcasm. So Eli Di Luca was more than just a walking, talking wine expert and sex god.
“I should never have had that glass of wine with lunch,” she said aloud.