Chapter Twenty-one

Rachel opened the front door of the villa without knocking. “Is Elliott around?” she called to one of the maids who was polishing furniture.

“Sí, senorita.” The maid pointed down the hallway leading to the library.

It was dusk and the hall was nearly dark. Rachel had swung by home to shower and change her clothes after visiting Alex. Her father and brothers had driven in to San Francisco without her. No doubt they planned a night on the town and she wasn’t included. As if she cared. It gave her the perfect excuse to stay here with Elliott.

She knocked softly on the library door. “It’s me, Rachel.”

So much time passed before he responded that she thought the maid must have been mistaken. She swung the door open and found Elliott sitting at the desk in the dark. “Are you all right?”

Another long moment passed before Elliott flicked on the small desk light. It cast shadows upward, emphasizing the hollow circles around his eyes and the tight lines around his mouth. In his palm, he held Tori’s engagement ring, and it sparkled like the North Star even in the dim light. Rachel bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

“What happened?”

“Tori doesn’t want to marry me.”

“After that scene this morning, I should think you wouldn’t want to marry her.”

Elliott shrugged. “She claims nothing went on. She kissed Brody. That’s all.”

Rachel couldn’t help being disappointed in Elliott. “Don’t tell me you believe her?”

“What does it matter? It’s over between us.”

Hallelujah! Rachel locked her knees to keep from jumping in the air. “I’m sorry. She doesn’t deserve you.”

Elliott shifted in the big leather chair that had been his father’s. He didn’t seem as angry with Tori as Rachel expected. What was wrong with him?

“I understand Gina is going to be on the early news.” Rachel didn’t know what to say, so she went ahead with her agenda. “We should watch.”

“How did you hear?”

“Lorenzo called me.” Actually, he’d left a message on Rachel’s machine. She’d picked it up when she’d gone home, taking it as a sign Lorenzo was in their camp.

She grabbed the remote control and clicked on the television. The San Francisco station was doing the weather and recapping information that had come across most vintners’ desks early that morning on the Weather Fax. A cold front was coming this way. Even though the grapes had been harvested, so the worst threat was over, the vines themselves could be damaged by frost.

“You had Aldo get the heaters out?” she asked.

“They’re ready,” Elliott replied without enthusiasm.

She wanted to tell him all about Aldo and Alex, but something stopped her. What good would it do without Elliott’s full attention? He was staring at the television, but she didn’t think anything on the screen was registering.

“Look! There’s Gina.”

Elliott appeared more alert as the male reporter standing next to Gina began talking. “Like the Kennedy family, tragedy has once again struck Napa’s own Hawke family. A few days ago, Giancarlo Hawke died in a tragic accident. Now one of his sons, Brody Hawke, has been killed while driving his twin brother’s—”

“What? Brody didn’t die,” Elliott exclaimed, blocking out the rest of sentence. “Weren’t a pack of reporters there this morning when we were fighting?”

“Yes, but these reporters are from San Francisco. The reporters who saw the fight were from the a local station.” Rachel tried to keep the smile out of her voice. Lorenzo hadn’t told his mother the truth. “No doubt the local station will have the correct news. Let’s listen to Gina.”

“It was tragic, truly tragic.” Gina managed to appear teary-eyed. “We had just met Brody at the funeral. Then to have him killed so … so tragically is just heartbreaking.”

Rachel waited a moment, listening to the news that had now switched to the stock market report before she ventured to ask, “Would you like to get rid of him?”

“Yeah, right. Brody has nine lives—at least. Who else would go over a cliff and bail out?”

“Then live to tell a woman all about it while she conveniently pulls thorns out of his back.” Rachel couldn’t resist rubbing salt in the fresh wound. To soften the blow, she added, “He deliberately wrecked your car.”

Elliott had a strange expression on his face. “I’d like to think so.”

The cell phone in Rachel’s purse rang before she could ask what he meant. She reached in and grabbed it. The digital display read Farallon Vineyards. Alex. He never called her except late at night.

But then, Alex had never revealed how he really felt about her. Things were changing too fast for Rachel’s comfort. She liked time to scope things out and come up with a plan.

“It’s Dad,” she told Elliott. “I’ll talk to him in the hall. Switch to the local channel. See if they have the story right.”

She stepped into the dark hall, then said, “Alex?”

“Guess who was just here?” he asked.

“Brody?”

“No, angel. Think big. Real big.” Alex didn’t gloat often, but she could hear smugness in his tone. “Megabucks.”

“One of the Rothschilds?” she guessed. The late French vintner had collaborated with the Mondavis to produce a premier wine, Opus One. It stood out among the best and most expensive produced in the region.

“Nooo. I mean seriously rich.”

“Richer than a Rothschild? I give up.”

“Kevin Puth.”

“The Kevin Puth—Mr. Dot-Com?”

Alex chuckled, a low, masculine, thoroughly sexy sound. “With a name like that how many Kevin Puths could there be?”

“What did he want?” She was so excited it was difficult to keep her voice low.

“Kevin is going to build a state-of-the-art vineyard. No expense spared. He wants me to run it.”

Alex stopped and let her hang there for a moment. Rachel couldn’t help noticing how Alex was on a first name basis with one of the richest men in the country. Alex, of all people.

“Kevin is willing to pay me five times what I’m making here and give me a percentage of the vineyard.”

“Really?” Rachel couldn’t help but be impressed. Alex was talented; everyone knew it, but to have Kevin Puth offer him such a deal was an unprecedented coup. This would mean Alex didn’t need his father’s money. Aldo selling to the Corellis would no longer be a threat.

“Oh, Alex. How wonderful. When do you start?”

“Start? Screw that! I want my own vineyard. Why work for some nerd who doesn’t know jack-shit about making fine wine?” Alex again laughed, then added. “I just thought you’d get a kick out of his offer.”

Brody sat in Sheriff Westcott’s conference room and read the file on Gian Hawke’s death yet another time. He had all the crime scene photographs spread out on the long conference table. He’d pored over them, inspecting each with the sheriff’s special magnifying glass.

Nothing.

There wasn’t one iffy piece of evidence to suggest his father had been murdered except there had been no water in his lungs. An examination of the coping around the pool revealed it was more than possible for an invalid to tumble out of a wheelchair and hit his head. Gian could have remained partially suspended—the coroner’s theory—tangled in the chair. By the time he sank to the bottom where Gian was found, he was already dead, accounting for the absence of water in his lungs.

“Okay,” Brody muttered under his breath. “It’s plausible.”

His sixth sense insisted this was not what had befallen his father, but he could understand why the authorities had declared it an accident. Proving anything different based on the evidence he’d seen was about as likely as hell freezing over.

Or Tori deciding she loved him.

“Where did that thought come from?” he asked himself.

He couldn’t get her out of his mind. He’d tried ignoring Tori, then tried concentrating on the crash, and then he’d insisted on reviewing the reports on his father’s death.

Nothing worked. His mind kept straying to Tori. If Elliott hadn’t shown up when he had, Brody knew exactly what would have happened. Despite his strict moral code, he would have made love to his brother’s fiancée.

He would have enjoyed every second of it, but he would have hated himself afterward. What kind of man went behind his brother’s back? Some men did, but his mother had raised him, placing a high value on honesty.

His years as a SEAL had solidified his moral code. To lead his men, his word had to be trusted implicitly. Sneaking around with another man’s fiancée wasn’t something he did or that he would condone among his men. If it happened, it would lead to the demoralization of the entire unit.

What in hell had he been doing? He was a worthless shit. Period. End of discussion.

He gathered up the photographs of his dead father to keep from thinking about Tori. Most of the shots were of the scene itself, but a few were of Gian Hawke. He’d been a tall man like his sons, but age and illness had debilitated him. His once dark hair had turned a pewter gray, and his face had the grizzled looked elderly men’s often had.

“One day, that’ll be me. Elliott, too.” He put the pictures into the manila envelope. “If I live that long.”

Tori could think what she wanted, but Brody was positive Elliott had been the one to tamper with the Porsche. Brody had been lucky to walk away alive. Hell, he’d been lucky his entire life. How many times should he have died during a SEAL mission? Too many to count.

He’d lived for the thrill, but now … but now what? Was he beginning to question his way of life? No, of course not. He was a man who had direction, who knew what he wanted. This unexpected appearance of a family and relatives—and Tori—had him off balance. That’s all.

A sharp knock on the door broke into his thoughts. One of the deputies stuck his head in, saying, “Sheriff Westcott wants you in his office. Your brother’s here.”

Here? Why? Brody picked up the file, then walked down two doors to the sheriff’s office.

Sheriff Westcott motioned for him to come in, and Brody walked by Elliott who was seated in a chair opposite the sheriff’s desk. Brody handed the file to the sheriff, ignoring his brother. Thanks to Elliott’s lucky punch, Brody’s nose was slightly swollen and hurt like hell. He had a scab running the length of his neck from Rachel’s cat-like scratch.

“Have a seat, Brody. I want to talk to you both. That’s why I had Elliott drive in here.”

Brody sat in the chair beside his brother, but didn’t look in his direction. Out of the corner of his eye, Brody couldn’t help noticing Elliott had shaved and changed clothes since their encounter this morning.

Sheriff Westcott leaned forward in his seat, bracing his elbows on the desk. He gazed at them, his eyes shifting from Brody to Elliott to Brody again before he said, “The preliminary report has come back on the Porsche. Both bolts were missing from the tie rods.”

Elliott held himself erect in his chair. Man, oh, man. He couldn’t look at Brody. Elliott had been dead certain Rachel was right. Brody had faked the accident to wreck his car. Tori’s theory had to be correct. Someone was trying to kill him or Brody. Or both of them.

Elliott had been wrong. Only his brother’s SEAL training had saved him from death. Strange and disquieting thoughts raced through his mind. His brother had tried to be fair with him, offering him the inheritance.

What had Elliott done? Turned on him, driven by greed. How could he have been so malicious? He hadn’t given his brother an even break.

A quick glance at Brody confirmed what Elliott already knew: His brother’s expression hadn’t changed. Whatever Brody thought, he was keeping it to himself. Elliott didn’t have that ability. He had been wrong, and he wanted to discuss it with Brody, but not in front of the sheriff.

“A number of people had the opportunity to tamper with my car.” Elliott hoped he didn’t sound defensive, but Tori’s question about why he’d taken so long to see off the Corelli brothers was uppermost in his mind. He didn’t want Brody to think he was responsible for the accident.

“Let’s have some names.” Sheriff Westcott picked up a pen and pad from his desk.

“Rachel Rittvo and Gina Barzini were present when I offered Brody my car as well as Ricco and Don Corelli. I told Maria Sanchez, my housekeeper. A number of other guests standing around may have overheard me.”

“What about opportunity?”

Elliott thought a moment, recalling something strange. “When I walked Brody to the garage, the door was open, which is unusual. You know the fog around here isn’t good for the cars. We keep the garage door shut at night. I thought my people had been distracted by everything that was happening and forgot to close it. Now I wonder.”

“I’ll check into it,” the sheriff said. “I’ll interview everyone you mentioned and see what I can find out.”

Sheriff Westcott started to stand, and Elliott knew he was going to dismiss them.

“I walked the Corelli brothers outside, but I didn’t see them drive away. I headed back toward the kitchen to see Maria.”

“Okay. I’ll see you two later after I check into all of this.”

Elliott left the sheriff’s office with his brother. Brody had yet to spare him a glance. As they walked out of the station into the chilly night air, Elliott said, “I didn’t try to kill you.”

Brody looked at him, and for an instant his gaze sharpened. “At first, I believed you had, but Tori made me reevaluate.”

“Tori?” Elliott couldn’t say her name with out a sharp stab of anguish.

“Yes. I kept asking myself who would benefit by my death. You were the only one I came up with. Then Tori pointed out that you never used the word ‘Porsche’ when you said car. Most people would have expected you to give me the Range Rover. Someone may have wanted you dead, not me.”

“Do you have time to go somewhere to talk?” Elliott asked.