Free Revenge at Bella Terra by Christina Dodd Page A

thought she annoyed him so much he’d much prefer if she didn’t talk. Of course, that brought up the question—why had he asked her out?
    Probably her father had called and demanded an accounting.
    Yes, that had to be it.
    Although . . . Eli looked better than the first time she had seen him—he was clean and in jeans, a blue denim shirt, and work boots; he certainly hadn’t gone out of his way to impress her.
    Maybe he wasn’t here at her father’s behest.
    Plus, she still suffered from that gut feeling he didn’t like her, as if he’d been angry at her before he’d even set eyes on her.
    Some guys were like that, she supposed . . . although usually not with her. Men tended to like her.
    So. Nothing personal in this excursion. It was business, and that knowledge helped her forget that uncomfortable moment when he’d looked in her eyes and she’d suddenly remembered she was in her pj’s, her bra hanging from a chair, and he smelled like warm spice and cool citrus, and tall guys with long legs and broad shoulders made her weak at the knees—among other places.
    He slowed down to twenty-five as they entered the outskirts of town.
    On her first spin through on her way to Eli’s home, Chloë had noted that the town of Bella Terra was marvelously quaint, a place founded in the nineteenth century and relatively undiscovered until the 1980s, when the California wine industry was well on its way to its current prominence. Main Street was actually the main drag, where elaborate Victorian mansions that advertised themselves as bed-and-breakfasts sat arm in arm with ultramodern condos made up of tin roofs and jarring angles. The grocery stores and strip malls were located on the outskirts, but those outskirts weren’t too far from the central town square. Posh art galleries, chic clothing stores, and wine-tasting rooms circled the park, and shoppers and tourists strolled and shopped and mingled with the locals.
    As Eli parallel-parked the truck with an ease that made her envious, she said, “I keep looking at the bandstand and expecting to see a revival of The Music Man .”
    “That was last summer,” he said, so deadpan she didn’t know whether to believe him or not. He came around to her side, took her computer case and helped her out, then held on to her hand as he led her toward the Bella Terra resort. It felt funny to be towed through the streets behind him; he wasn’t paying attention to her, yet he twined his fingers in hers, made sure she had room to walk, kept her close. As they stepped into the check-in area, he nodded in greeting as bellmen, desk clerks, and the concierge greeted him, and headed through the lobby as if he owned it.
    She supposed, since it was his family’s resort, he had the right.
    In the Luna Grande Lounge, a guy of about fifty stood behind the bar, frowning over a printout spread from one end to the other. Behind him a glass-covered wall of wine storage rose two stories to the ceiling, and the tallest library ladder Chloë had ever seen traveled along a horizontal steel rod and allowed access to even the highest bottles . . . except that a quick scan proved that none of the cellars had any contents.
    But then, the entire bar was empty, the chairs upside down on the tables; it looked like they were remodeling.
    “Tom!” Eli said.
    The guy looked up, surprised. “Eli!” His gaze shifted to look her over, and he noted their joined hands.
    Self-conscious, she freed herself.
    Eli let go of her easily.
    “Is this the woman you’re hiding in your cottage?” Tom asked.
    “Sure.” To Chloë’s surprise, Eli sounded sanguine about the teasing. “Chloë, this is Tom Chan, one of my best friends and one of the world’s foremost experts on wines. Tom, Chloë Robinson, famous author.”
    Tom reached across and shook her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chloë. Loved your book. I’m a mystery reader from way back, and you had me fooled clear to the end.”
    No matter how often