Free Revenge at Bella Terra by Christina Dodd Page B

she heard it, praise for her book warmed her, and she smiled at him.
    Tom looked startled, then smiled back. “No wonder Eli invited you to live with him.”
    “She’s not living with me,” Eli said curtly. “She’s living in the cottage.”
    “Right. That’s what I meant. You two want to have lunch in here? We’re not officially open yet after the incident a few weeks ago, but, Chloë, since you’re a famous author, we’ll let you bring your friend in here.” Tom smirked at Eli.
    Incident? “What happened?” she asked.
    Tom glanced at Eli, and when it was clear he wasn’t going to answer, he said, “We had a vandal break in and take out most of the wines on the wine wall. Dropped them from the top of the ladder. Wiped us out. Expensive bottles of wine. Priceless. Irreplaceable.” Tom’s eyes filled with tears.
    “We caught the vandal. But the wines are gone.” Not a muscle stirred in Eli’s face, but she felt emotion vibrating through him.
    A grief similar to Tom’s? And anger . . . an anger that swirled with currents of violence and vengeance.
    “You love your wines,” she said.
    He met her gaze, and his brown eyes kindled with the kind of slow-burning rage that would have made her afraid, if she had been the one to break those bottles. “Wine is the thread that connects me to the Di Lucas who came to this country, settled this land, and planted the grapes, to the Di Lucas in Italy who tended their vineyards. Wine is my heritage—and I take it badly when my heritage is threatened.”

Chapter 11
    D id Eli Di Luca harbor other emotions, other loves? A man who felt so strongly about his heritage must surely hate darkly, laugh loudly, love deeply.
    Yet never had Chloë seen a sign of any great emotion in Eli. She was a pretty good observer of human behavior—what writer wasn’t?—and she couldn’t even imagine such a thing. He’d seemed to be a stoic, rather unfeeling guy. Now she realized . . . perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps when she looked at him, all she saw—all anyone saw—was a mask, a shell that covered and contained the real man.
    And she wondered . . . What hid beneath that shell that he had so carefully constructed?
    “Shall I call a waiter out of the restaurant?” Tom picked up the house phone.
    “You do that,” Eli said.
    “Take any table you want.” Tom gestured to the empty restaurant and joked, “None of them are reserved.”
    “By the window?” Eli didn’t wait for her to answer, but took the chairs off the table with the best view of the carefully landscaped, lush garden, and held the back of one until she sat down. He sat opposite her, facing the door. In a low voice, he said, “The Chan family moved here not long after the Di Lucas arrived, working on the railroad as Chinese laborers. Then they settled down to work in the fields and orchards. They’ve always been ambitious and they worked hard. Not even the Chinese Exclusion Act kept them down.”
    She scrambled for her spiral notebook. This was good stuff.
    Eli waited until she had it open and her pen poised. Then he continued. “The hard work paid off; the Chans own vineyards in Bella, Sonoma, and Napa valleys. Tom’s brothers and nieces and cousins are doctors and lawyers and shop owners. Tom’s considered kind of the loafer, because after he came back from the Gulf War, he didn’t want to go after a law degree. All he wanted to do was consult on wines. Of course, restaurateurs come from all over the world to talk to him, but his mom doesn’t get it. She still nags him to get the degree.”
    Thoughtlessly, Chloë said, “That sounds like my dad in reverse, nagging me to dump my career.”
    “And get married.” Eli’s voice was warm and deep.
    “Yes.” She’d already talked to Eli about it. Assured him he was safe. Why was she uncomfortable now?
    Because he was looking at her differently than he had that first day. Because he’d held her hand in the street. Because he was a good-looking guy who’d