Secrets Of Bella Terra (35 page)

“I know it.” Once again Rafe showed his knowledge of Eli and his reactions. “You sound stressed again. You okay? Need backup? I could get someone there in less than fifteen minutes.”

The Italian was maybe sixty, with iron gray hair, sagging jowls, a droopy nose, and, by God, he was no more than five feet, six inches tall, with a dockworker’s figure. But those eyes . . . He was shrewd. Yes, Eli’s first reading of him was correct. This man was the Godfather incarnate.

“I don’t think I’m in danger, but I am going to get off the phone.” He straightened away from the table. “Congrats, Rafe. Condolences to Brooke. I’ll see you back at Bella Terra before you leave, right?”

“Right.” It was Brooke on the phone again. “You be careful, Eli. I’ve never had a brother before, and I don’t want to lose you now.”

“No chance of that,” Eli said, and hung up. To the Godfather, he said, “Can I help you?”

The man walked up and offered his hand. “Tamosso Conte. I am glad to meet you, Eli Di Luca.” Conte spoke English with a decidedly Italian accent and the harsh notes of the city in his voice.

Eli shook his hand solemnly. “You’re from Rome?”

“Milan. I’m in leather goods.”

Sure. And Eli was in fruit production. “I hope you’re enjoying your visit to the United States.”

“It is always a pleasure to visit. I’m here on behalf of my daughter—she’s half American and amazingly independent.”

“American girls are like that.”

“Yes.” Conte put down his wineglass and reached into his pocket.

Not that Eli was worried he was going to pull out a gun, but it was a relief when he brought forth his wallet.

Conte pulled out a worn picture of a young woman seated at a desk, smiling brilliantly at the camera. “Pretty, isn’t she?”

Eli barely glanced at her. “Very pretty.” As tattered as the photo was, she was probably ten years older and twenty pounds heavier.

Conte beamed. “I worry about her. . . .She’s an author, you know? She wrote a mystery, hit the
New York Times
first time out.”

“You must be very proud.” Obviously he was. Not many men showed off photos of their adult daughters at the drop of a hat.

“Proud? Yes, but concerned.” Conte gazed at the picture as if he couldn’t get over the fact he even had a daughter; then he tucked it back in his wallet. “A girl like that, she doesn’t need a man, or so she thinks. A father worries.”

“I can see that you would.” Eli had no idea where this was going, but he knew he didn’t give a damn about this man’s kid. Not when he was drowning in his own problems.

Conte got down to business. “Listen. You and me, we can do each other favors. Solve each other’s dilemmas.”

Ah, here it came. The ridiculous offer. And who knew? From this guy, maybe a threat. “What dilemmas are those?”

“Mine—I want grandchildren while I’m young enough to enjoy them. You”—Conte stepped in front of Eli and stared into his eyes—“you want enough money so that you don’t lose your family’s winery.”

Eli stepped back fast and hard, and slammed his hip into the corner of a table. It hurt. He knew it did. But right now, he couldn’t feel it. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” Conte’s eyes were dark, determined, pitiless. “You were busy growing grapes, making wines, getting awards. You left the business in the hands of a dear old friend. He embezzled how many millions of dollars and fled to South America, leaving you in . . . How do Americans say it? Shit shape?”

“Close enough.” No one knew. No one. How did Conte find out?

The very available lady who had been hoping for so much in the ballroom stepped out, spotted Eli and started over. She was weaving. She was smiling. She got within five steps of them and the sense of crisis between the two men stopped her in her tracks. Her eyes grew large and frightened; she swerved away and walked out the door as if she’d always been headed for the restrooms.

Conte waited until she was gone; then he continued. “You might have been able to sell some of those valuable bottles of wine from your bar in your resort. But the vandal destroyed them.”

Eli spoke between his teeth. “Did you have a hand in that?”

“No. That was luck for me.”

Eli stared, trying to see the truth about Conte.

Conte stared back, inviting him to read his character. “I am always lucky, Eli Di Luca. It is something to remember.”

Eli wanted to bring this guy down. “My family is not without resources. I can ask my brothers for help.”

“But you won’t. The winery and everything concerning it is your responsibility.”

How did the old man know
that
? Eli never told anyone his feelings.

As if he’d asked, Conte said, “I went looking for a good Italian boy to wed my daughter. Your name came up. I studied you. I know more about you than you know about yourself.”

“No.” About that, Eli was certain. “You don’t.”

“I know you’ve been trying to figure a way out of this mess, but you don’t know what you’re going to do.” Conte spoke the classic line: “So—I’ll make you an offer.”

“At least I knew that was coming.” An odd relief, to guess right about at least one thing.

“I help you. You help me,” Conte said.

Eli wet his lips. “What kind of deal are you offering? Because I’m not putting the winery up as collateral—”

Conte chuckled. “No, you have the wrong impression. Deliberately? Or because you’re an American and really don’t understand? I don’t know, but I don’t want your winery.” As if it were nothing, he waved off the one thing that Eli loved with all his heart. “I told you—it’s about my daughter. I want her to wed. I want her to have children. If she had been raised like a proper Italian girl, I would tell her who to marry. But her mother raised her to be an independent woman. An American woman. So she has to fall in love. I want this to happen soon.” The man whom Eli had marked as being shrewd, shallow, driven by greed, suddenly became a man overwhelmed by the need for family, for affection.

“I get all that.” Eli had caught the drift of the proposal, but he really needed this spelled out. “What has this to do with me?”

The shrewd businessman returned. “It’s easy. We sign a contract. The terms are clear. You court my daughter. You convince her she loves you. You wed her. And in return, I solve all your financial problems, the winery is on its feet again, and you are in complete control.”

“About the wedding—you’re joking.” Conte had to be joking.

“Not at all.” Conte pulled out the photo and again waved it at Eli. “I’m proposing what the English call a marriage of convenience.”