Authors: Virginia Brown
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Sagas
“So how long have you owned the realty company?” This was safe conversational ground. Kept him from wandering into more dangerous waters with her.
“Six or seven years now. Took me a while to figure out what I wanted to do. After getting out of college I traveled for a while, saw places I’d only read about, then went with my mother to Italy one year and fell in love with this small village at the foot of the mountains. I bought a little place near a vineyard, and try to go back as often as I can. Anyway, it keeps me off the streets.”
“Yeah, that’s a big problem, I hear.”
She laughed. “Speaking of running the streets—Brad’s avoiding the law and Cathy’s out of the hospital now. What are
you
doing?”
“Working with Doc.” He took a sip of his beer, let the silence lay for a few minutes. It’d be impossible to explain what he didn’t know how to put into words. Tansy understood it without the words, but they’d always been like that. With Cinda it wasn’t as easy. It’d been too long. And he didn’t feel the same about her as he did Tansy. It went a lot deeper, the kind of want and need that he’d done his best to avoid but couldn’t quite seem to manage with Cinda. If he let himself think about it, his mind went in directions he never should travel. Not even in his thoughts.
That was more intrinsically dangerous than anything he’d ever faced, even enemy soldiers.
“So how do you like working with Doc?” Cinda asked finally, and he felt her looking at him but didn’t dare look back.
“He’s the best. Wouldn’t want to work with anyone else.”
“Does that mean you plan on staying permanently in Cane Creek?”
“No.”
Silence fell again, this time heavy with unspoken questions. There wasn’t another answer he could give right now. He didn’t plan on staying, didn’t plan not to stay. It all depended on too many variables, mainly her grandfather.
“Why not?” she asked, but it came out a soft whisper.
He made the mistake of looking at her, then wished he hadn’t. She’d leaned forward, the expression on her face a reminder of all the years he’d wanted her, her lips parted, eyes wide and dark in the dim light, pale hair sleek and shiny over her shoulders. He got up and didn’t think of anything but touching her, putting his hands in her hair and tasting her mouth again, pulling her against and under him like he’d done in dreams he never wanted to recall.
Cinda looked up, unmoving, watching when he moved toward her, let him take her arm and pull her up against him. He took her beer and set it on a table, then pushed his hands through her hair, holding her face between his palms to look into her eyes. He didn’t know what he was looking for, what he wanted to see, just knew he’d recognize it if it was there.
Her hands rested lightly on his shoulders. A pulse beat in the little shadow of her throat, her breath coming quick and kind of shallow. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over her lower lip, saw uncertainty in her eyes, felt the quiver in her hands.
“Give me a reason to stay,” he said, and it came out all low and hoarse, maybe because he wanted a reason so badly.
“Chantry—” She tightened her fingers into his muscles, held him, searching his eyes like he’d been searching hers. Like she’d find an answer, like he had one. “God, it’s
. . .
I don’t know.”
It should have ended up in bed. They should have fallen asleep in each others’ arms that night. That’s the only way this day should have finished.
But fate, as usual, had other ideas.
“
Scusi
,” a man’s voice said, and Chantry let go of Cinda and turned to see a man standing just at the edge of the courtyard. He nearly blended into the shadows until he stepped into the light of one of the lanterns. “
Carissima
. . .
it seems I have interrupted at the wrong time.”
Cinda looked a little embarrassed, but said steadily enough, “Yes, Paolo, you certainly did. Is everything all right?”
“Sí, of course. I just missed you, and thought perhaps
. . .
but I am mistaken.”
“It’s all right. Paolo—this is Chantry Callahan. Chantry, this is Count Paolo di Savona. A family friend.” Savona was looking at Cinda with anything but friendship. She didn’t take notice, but put a hand on Chantry’s arm, fingers light. “He’s come back here to escape the heat in Italy, visit with us for a while. He’ll be staying at the house, so you may run into him occasionally.”
Chantry took the hand Savona offered. He could have picked a better time. While he wore only his sweatpants and bandages, Savona was tricked out in a dark shirt and pants that looked expensive and perfectly creased, with Italian loafers and no socks. He looked in his mid-forties, Continental, well-groomed, and arrogant. He had those chiseled features and a dark tan that spoke of hours spent in the sun, and Chantry was willing to bet that anyone who called himself a count hadn’t gotten that tan picking grapes.
“We have heard much about you, Signore Callahan,” he said smoothly, “and have been in Cane Creek less than six hours. You are infamous, a man of much comment here, no?”
He shrugged, a gesture Savona correctly read as contempt of the town’s opinion. And of him for bringing it up.
The count lifted a brow, his dark gaze shifting briefly to Cinda. He released Chantry’s hand, took a step back, then said, “
Il vostro amico è molto rude
.”
“
No, non volente appena essere insultato
,” Chantry replied before Cinda could speak, and Savona looked amused.
“Forgive me. I did not know you are proficient in my language.”
“I’m not. And this isn’t my house, but you’re right—I don’t much care for a man coming in here and insulting me.”
“
Perdonilo prego
.”
“May I speak?” Cinda looked irritated. “First, I’ll be back at the house shortly, Paolo. If you don’t mind, I have a few more things to discuss with Chantry.”
Recognizing a dismissal, Savona backed gracefully away, but with an appraising glance at Chantry before he left. He made it obvious he didn’t like it.
“Well,” Cinda said when he’d gone, “that was awkward. But maybe we need to take this slow anyway. I don’t know where you’ve been or if there’s anyone else in your life—maybe we need to get reacquainted, see if there’s anything still there. We don’t really even know each other anymore. And when did you learn to speak Italian?”
“Picked it up while I was in the Marines.” He had no intention of telling her he’d spent a lot of time with an Italian
signorina
who’d taught him a much less civilized dialect while he was stationed near Milan. That’d been a long time ago anyway.
Cinda nodded. “See? That’s what I mean. It’s been fourteen years. So much has happened in our lives.”
He knew exactly how long it’d been. But there wasn’t anything to say that wouldn’t be wrong. He took a step back and away from her.
“Right.”
“Don’t you agree?” she asked, sounding uncertain, but he knew better than to try to offer any argument.
“Yeah. Sure I do. You’re right. It’s been a long time. Look, you better go. Paolo may come looking for you again.”
She frowned a little, looked at him in the dim light, but he just stared back at her without moving even when she put a hand out as if to touch him. After a moment, she simply nodded and seemed to draw herself up into something stiff again, like she’d been that first time he’d seen her after so long.
“I see. Tomorrow I’m having a barbecue. My parents will be here, but you’re welcome to join us if you feel like it.”
“Thanks. I’d rather not.”
“Sooner or later—”
“Right. Let’s make that later.”
She gave him a funny look but nodded. “I understand. And I can’t say I blame you.”
Good thing. He had a fair idea of how it’d go if he showed up at a family barbecue. Philip Sheridan had been elected to mayor again, which had to be some kind of record since he’d only been out of office for the one term during which he’d unsuccessfully pursued a seat in the senate. Sitting across a table from Chantry would be the last thing Sheridan would want to do.
She started to leave, then paused, turned back to look at him. “In case you’re wondering, Paolo’s just a family friend.”
Right
. Sure he was. Somebody just needed to inform di Savona of that. Chantry shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”
“I realize that. You never do.”
He just looked at her. She had to know why. He never liked the answers he got when he asked those kind of questions. It was easier not to care. Trouble was, this was Cinda. He did care even when he knew better.
Cinda made an exasperated sound and shook her head. “This isn’t exactly how I thought it would be.”
He could have told her real life never lived up to expectation.
Instead he watched her walk away. Part of him wanted to stop her, part of him knew it wouldn’t help much if he did. Right now he had nothing to offer her. Hell, he didn’t even know if he’d be here this time next month.
Maybe it was supposed to be like this. Mama had said that things always happened for a reason, that there were other forces at work in life that created circumstances for people to learn from by making choices. He’d made choices a long time ago that were still affecting him. Maybe he just hadn’t learned what he was supposed to yet.
And maybe he’d be like Mama and learn too late.
It was Mindy Rowan who sucked him into the dog fighting mess, going back on all she’d said, coming to Chantry in the rear of the clinic the next day. They both had weekend duty, him checking on some sick pets, her doing the feeding and cleaning. She was upset and mad as hell.
“Billy Mac’s gone too far now. I know it was him. I don’t know who else to ask for help.”
“What’s he done?” Chantry asked, looking up from the IV he was checking.
“Stole my mama’s pit bull puppy. I know it was him. He saw her outside, came up to talk about Sugarpie, and now she’s gone.”
He’d seen the pup. A sweet-natured, gangly-legged, tan and white pit bull female not quite six months old. “Maybe she just got out. Dug under the fence. Someone left the gate open.”
“No. Mama keeps her in the house most of the time. You know how careful she is. She wouldn’t ever leave the gate open because of the kids. That’s why she got the dog, to raise her with my kids. You know how protective they are.”
When raised under the right circumstances. Pit bulls got a bad rep because of owners most of the time. All dogs had the ability to be mean. Pit bulls were aggressive by nature, just like some breeds, like Catahoulas. It was their nature to guard their territory, drive off intruders, protect their homes and family, including the two-legged variety. Men had just corrupted them, turned the breed into one feared and reviled now, bred them for ferocity instead of family. He didn’t like it, but then he’d never much liked seeing animals or people forced into fight-or-die situations. Not in real life. In real life, endings weren’t always played to soft music and closing credits, or a tidy wrap-up of loose ends just before the last chapter ended. Real life had too many messy endings.
“What do you want me to do, Mindy?”
“Go with me to get my dog.”