Free Secrets Of Bella Terra by Christina Dodd Page B

thought—wanted to believe—that she suffered for Sarah’s pain. “I wish to go down and visit her, but at the desk they tell me no one but family is allowed. Am I allowed?”
    “She would be delighted to see you.” Brooke summoned Trent to the table. “Please go to the desk and confirm Miss Pastore’s suite for this evening and in the immediate future.”
    Trent nodded, his eyes shining, and backed away as if Francesca were royalty.
    The kid was infatuated.
    “I’ll stay for a few weeks. I am not putting you out, am I, my dear girl? You won’t have conflicts with guests who need a room?” Francesca looked distressed.
    “It’s the off-season, and you require one of the expensive rooms, so I’ll place you in Millionaire’s Row, and when you come back from the hospital, we’ll check you in and take you to your cottage.” Brooke stood, her glass of wine virtually untouched. “Having you visit Sarah now is so helpful to us. Please assure her I’ll be back this evening”—she turned her gaze to Rafe—“as will the boys?”
    “Of course.” He helped his mother out of her chair.
    Brooke said, “I’ll go tell the doorman to call a car to take you to the hospital.”
    “And then we’ll go to introduce me to the resort’s heads of staff?” Rafe asked.
    Her expression cooled, became indecipherable. “As you wish.”
    Rafe watched her walk off, tall, aloof, desirable, and so very much not his.
    Francesca cupped his cheek and turned his face to hers. “You’ll come to spend time with your mama?”
    “I will.” He was caught, but oh, how he abhorred the constant wildly thrashing tornado of emotions that swirled around Francesca at all times.
    “Good.” She smiled the brilliant smile that men around the world were willing to die for. “In return, I’ll help you acquire your heart’s desire.”
    Not just no. Hell, no. In Italian, he said, “Mama, please. I have everything I need.”
    “Not true!” she said decisively. “I say it is time you stopped living a half life. It is time you had everything you
want
.”

Chapter 12

    “M iss Pastore?” Victor interrupted them with a bow, his brown eyes warm and deferential as they rested on Francesca. “If you would come with me, your car is at the door.”
    Francesca placed her hand on his arm. “Victor, you are so handsome, so debonair. How have you managed to remain single?”
    “I run very fast,” Victor said earnestly.
    As they walked away from Rafe, he heard his mother’s distinctive, throaty laughter.
    Damn it
. Like there wasn’t trouble enough with his grandmother attacked, Dopey as sheriff, and Brooke Petersson as Rafe’s contact. Now his mother was here. When he remembered his early years—the screaming fights between his parents, his mother’s copious tears every time his father slept with another girl, their touching reconciliations, and then another round of wild emotion and anguish—he couldn’t stand it. When his parents had divorced, he’d lived with Francesca as she bounded between the highs and lows of affairs and marriages so passionate they had set the paparazzi on fire.
    Francesca loved scenes. She thrived on drama. And when Rafe got the role in his movie and won the accolades of the world, the world expected him to be like his mother.
    He was not. That was why he had finally come to live with his grandmother. At the age of fourteen, and with the brutality of youth, he had made himself clear. He told Francesca that acting was the same as lying, and he would never again be a liar. Like her. Like his father.
    She had cried.
    He hadn’t cared. Because he no longer believed in her laughter and her tears. To him, every movement looked like acting. Every word sounded like acting. Like lying.
    He had been determined to be the real thing—and that determination had almost gotten him killed. Worse, it had almost destroyed him.
    Only one thing had saved him, one person. . . .
    With the stillness he’d learned from years in the