Free Revenge at Bella Terra by Christina Dodd

boots—they were new; she hoped she wasn’t screwing up taking a chance on them—then checked her computer case again.
    “You might add a hat,” Eli advised from the door that led onto the deck. “You don’t have much hair left, and what you have doesn’t cover your lily-white neck.”
    The short hair/lily-white comment was clearly not a compliment, but she didn’t care. After two interminable weeks of working and getting nowhere, she was going out into the world. The fresh air blowing through the cottage already seemed to be dispersing the cobwebs, and the sight of Eli Di Luca’s dark silhouette against the light was oddly menacing. Or critical. Or something. All she knew was that her heart beat faster knowing he stood there.
    Funny, considering that when she’d gotten here and gone to work on the book, she’d easily dismissed him from her mind.
    “Ready?” He locked the French doors, then came to her and took her computer case. “We’ll eat at the resort; then we’ll drive out to the water tower.”
    “I can carry that,” she offered, and halfheartedly tugged at the strap. She was from Texas; she knew how to let a man perform the little courtesies between a man and a woman. But somehow, that kind of relationship between the two of them made her uncomfortable, as if it moved them to a level of intimacy. Which was stupid when she considered the fact that he was lifting less than ten pounds.
    “Humor me. My old-fashioned grandmother taught me my manners.” He walked away from her. “Do you know how to set the alarm?” When she nodded, he walked out the door and down the steps.
    When she joined him in the driveway, he said, “We’ll need to take the truck. Your little car won’t make it.”
    “Okay.”
    He looked surprised. Probably it wasn’t politically correct for a guy to assume he had to drive, and California was all about being politically correct. But she didn’t equate her femininity with a steering wheel.
    His forest green extended-cab F-250 pickup had big, serviceable wheels and tires and a jacked suspension that lifted it so far off the ground she would need help to get in.
    “ Nice truck.”
    He raised his eyebrows at her.
    “I’m from Texas,” she said. “We know our trucks.”
    “I should have known.” He gave her a hand up into the cab. When she was settled, he handed her the computer case, walked around, and climbed into the driver’s seat.
    The dashboard was dusty and he had a few paper coffee cups rolling around on the floorboard, but she supposed, after the condition of the cottage, she was in no position to criticize.
    The winding road to Bella Terra involved a couple of switchbacks as they descended the ridge, then smoothed out as it joined the highway.
    Eli’s driving wasn’t flashy, wasn’t too slow. He drove skillfully; she didn’t notice the curves. But that didn’t surprise her; Eli seemed to be one of those men who occurred too seldom in life: a man capable of doing whatever he did with a deceptive ease.
    Chloë rolled down the window, let the breeze blast tease her face, and watched the vineyards and wineries and fruit stands go by. They slid from one enclave of Bella Valley to another, the olive and oak trees casting dappled shade onto the two-lane road. The vines stretched in endless rows. Peach trees shed their blossoms as California’s early spring scattered them across the landscape. Here and there a farmhouse or a barn stood on a small plot of grass, and wineries of various grandeurs beckoned invitingly. The air smelled new, as if the vines and trees and the earth itself breathed out the coming summer.
    There was isolation here, and wilderness beckoning just over the hill, yet farmers worked the vineyards, and tourists drove the roads. Maybe in the summer Bella Valley would be hot and crowded, but right now, it was perfect, and it fit Eli Di Luca.
    He belonged here.
    She liked that she didn’t feel as if she needed to entertain him. In fact, she