Free Secrets Of Bella Terra by Christina Dodd

always, always watched her far too closely.
    As she neared the table, she softly called, “Francesca!”
    With the polished motion of a dancer, Francesca swiveled in her chair. Her face, so fabulously shaped, lit up. She stood, perfectly clothed in cream slacks, a black V-necked sweater that hugged her every curve, and, of course, black heels so high Brooke would have teetered and fallen. Francesca moved as if the shoes were an extension of her feet. She enveloped Brooke in a perfumed embrace, and in a rich Italian accent said, “Brooke! Darling girl, at last I see you. I have been asking for you, but your dear friend Victor tells me you’re busy with Sarah.” Francesca pulled back and looked into Brooke’s eyes, her own swimming with tears. “Such a tragedy, and to such a sweet woman. She was one of only two good things I got out of my marriage to that
bastardo
, Gavino Di Luca.”
    “I can’t imagine what the other is,” Brooke said drily.
    Francesca looked over Brooke’s shoulder. “Raffaello! My darling boy, you are here. I had hoped so. It has been so long since I’ve seen you.” She flung her arms around Rafe’s stiff form.
    Rafe grimaced and rolled his eyes.
    But everyone in the lobby was staring, and Rafe hated scenes. “Let’s sit down,” he said.
    “Of course, darling. We should stop making spectacles of ourselves.” Francesca turned her face to Brooke and winked.
    As he pulled out Francesca’s chair, then hers, Brooke hid a smile.
    If he knew Brooke too well, Francesca knew him, too. She thrived on scenes, used them to manipulate the situation to her advantage, to make Rafe behave like a properly affectionate son.
    The three arranged themselves around the table where a tiny cup held the dregs of an espresso. Francesca, her eyes, large and exotically tilted, beamed on the two of them. “How good to see you together again! So young, so perfect for each other. The passion, it still burns as hot as ever?”
    Oh, God.
Brooke had forgotten how horribly blunt Francesca could be. And the waiter, on his way to pour water and take orders, stopped so suddenly and looked so enthralled, clearly he had heard Francesca’s exclamation. “My palate has matured,” Brooke said. Remembering the kiss on Nonna’s porch, she didn’t dare look at Rafe. But she wouldn’t let Francesca rattle her composure. “Trent!”
    The waiter’s attention snapped to Brooke. Hurrying forward, he poured ice water into their glasses.
    “Francesca, would you like another espresso?” Brooke offered, “or perhaps some wine?”
    Francesca lavished a smile on the young man. “Children, will you share a bottle of that lovely Di Luca sangiovese with me?”
    Brooke wanted to say no. She’d been getting along on too little sleep, and to deal with Rafe, she needed to stay sharp. But Francesca showed signs of wear: Her smile quivered at the corners and she had shadows under her eyes. Something was very wrong, so Brooke told Trent, “We’ll have a bottle of the 2004 Dragon Fire Sangiovese and three glasses.” She waited until he scurried off, then turned to Francesca. “Now tell me what brings you to Bella Terra.”
    “I heard about the attack on Sarah and I wanted to make sure she was all right. . . .” Francesca cast her gaze to the floor, looking so guilty Brooke wondered how she had ever won that Academy Award for best actress.
    “What else?” Rafe’s forbidding tone made his disbelief clear.
    The silence stretched a moment too long, Francesca frowned miserably, and Brooke ventured, “I think perhaps Francesca had some marital problems.”
    Trent arrived with the bottle of wine and glasses, showed the label, got approval, uncorked and poured in record time. And when Francesca tasted it and smiled at him, he staggered backward as if he’d been shot by the arrow of love.
    Francesca had that effect on men.
    Brooke waved him away. “I’ll call you when we need you again.”
    He nodded, a handsome young man who’d just