Free Secrets Of Bella Terra by Christina Dodd Page A

met the woman of his dreams—and she was older than his mother.
    Francesca took another sip of wine, and sighed as if her heart were broken. “The divorce wasn’t my fault.”
    “It never is,” Rafe muttered.
    Francesca continued. “It was his. He gave me a disease.”
    Brooke didn’t know if she could remember a time when Rafe’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “God, Mama, are you okay?”
    “Yes, antibiotics cleared it up, but it was that which informed me—Raimund slept with other women. Many other women. Not attractive, either. Not like me.” Francesca’s nose wrinkled in fastidious disgust. “Unwashed women with tattoos on their hands and on their noses.”
    “And diseases,” Rafe said.
    “Shut up, Rafe.” Brooke took Francesca’s hand. “Did you ask him why?”
    “I’m sure she did.” Rafe produced his crooked smile. “At the top of her lungs.”
    “Shut up, Rafe,” Francesca said, then turned to Brooke. “Yes, I asked. He said I was old, losing my looks.”
    Both Rafe and Brooke stared, dumbfounded, at her: at the long, curly auburn hair, the smooth skin with only the finest wrinkles, the startling blue eyes, and the face to launch a thousand ships.
    “You’re kidding,” Rafe said. “Even I can see you’re gorgeous.”
    “Ah, thank you, son.” Francesca patted his arm. “But the breasts—they point south.”
    “You’re fifty,” he said flatly. “A little southern exposure is to be expected.”
    “Shut up, Rafe.” Brooke turned back to Francesca. “It sounds to me as if Raimund was weak and abusive. I’m so glad you got away from him.”
    “Yes.” Francesca picked up her glass, saluted them, and took a sip.
    Rafe knew his mother. He recognized that mischievous expression. Slowly he placed his glass on the table. “What did you do to him, Mama?”
    Francesca chuckled, warm and deep. “Did you not hear the scandal? It was all over the news.”
    “We’ve been a little distracted here,” he told her.
    “I saw something about the divorce, but not any reason for it,” Brooke said.
    With a flourish, Francesca announced, “The cameras caught Raimund kissing his male lover.”
    “He’s homosexual?” Brooke sounded shocked—and disappointed.
    “Why the surprise, Brooke?” Rafe realized he’d been a little too sharp, and moderated his tone. “A lot of gigolos go with the paying customer.”
    “On the screen, he seems so sexually intent on his female leads. . . .” Brooke blushed. She actually blushed as if she lusted after this guy.
    “Oh, he is.” Francesca used both hands to fluff her mass of hair. “He has no interest in men. In fact, he hated all my gay friends, avoided them, made loud, rude comments about them. So it was no trouble at all to ask dear Neville if he would involve Raimund in a scandal, and Neville agreed at once. In fact, he said he’d always wanted to plant one on Raimund, and when Raimund came out of the nightclub and posed for the cameras, Neville had already given his interview confessing that their love was the reason for our breakup.”
    For the first time, Brooke realized that Rafe’s crooked smile was the exact copy of his mother’s.
    Francesca continued. “The paparazzi were enthralled. They almost carried Neville to Raimund’s side. Neville threw his arms around him and called him darling. Neville’s a former rugby player, you know, and although Raimund struggled, he never had a chance to get away. . . .” Francesca’s laugh was long, low, constrained. “There’s even a photo of Neville’s hand squeezing Raimund’s shapely rear end. He’s still going to get offers for leading roles, of course . . . but I think the films will have a different focus than before.”
    Rafe leaned back in his chair and chortled.
    “So I came here to see Sarah, because she always is so lovely to me, makes me feel as if she’s not Gavino’s mother, but mine, and I find she is in the hospital!” Francesca’s eyes filled with tears, and Rafe