Bao had started toward them.
Then from down the hallway, Francesca’s voice called, “Sarah, darling, who is that simply delicious man you’re sitting with? You must introduce me so I can steal him from you!” She arrived without apparent hurry, but she was at Sarah’s side before she was through speaking.
Joseph let Sarah go. He got slowly to his feet, dazzled by Francesca’s beauty as men would always be.
Francesca smiled at him, extended her hand, allowed him to kiss it. “Any friend of Sarah’s is a friend of mine.”
Francesca kept her gaze on Joseph as he introduced himself, but Sarah knew she had been rescued from her own foolish pride . . . and Joseph’s cruelty.
Flexing her fingers, she watched Francesca charm him, and then started the slow walk back toward her room to call her sisters-in-law and get their advice.
R
afe sat reviewing the police report on Nonna’s attack and comparing it to the security report from the resort.
In the past four days, he’d progressed not at all in the pursuit of Nonna’s attacker, had begun to entertain the suspicion that DuPey was right: that the mugger had been nothing but a drifter who’d come into town and out again. And if that was the truth, what purpose did Rafe have in Bella Valley?
Eli had his vineyards.
Noah had his resort.
Nonna enjoyed Rafe’s company, but she had recovered from the concussion with no ill effects and her rehab was going well. She didn’t need him here.
And Brooke . . . Brooke had her place, too. She was busy with the hotel, keeping the guests happy, answering questions, leading her kickboxing class.
Taking his cell phone out of his pocket, he looked at it, willed it to ring.
He’d heard nothing from his team in Kyrgyzstan, and every minute without word meant another hope lost. If he were there, halfway around the world, he’d be with them. Perhaps he would have made the difference between life and death . . . or perhaps not.
With a sigh, he put the phone back, and inevitably, his mind returned to Brooke.
Whenever he saw her, she was cool and distant, and he . . . he was not cool.
He was horny.
He wasn’t proud of it. He supposed, in a perfect world, with his grandmother in rehab and his security team lost in the wilds with an ever-decreasing chance of survival, he should be above such crude lusts.
Didn’t work that way. Never had. Not around Brooke.
When he met her in the lobby or saw her on the paths, he never had a doubt about who commanded his body. Every time, the little general stood up and saluted.
Then he remembered what DuPey had told him: that she allowed herself to be almost arrested, to be bullied by DuPey’s father; that she had been willing to sacrifice herself out of kindness for a friend, and that made Rafe wonder exactly what role he had played in her life.
If he had been forced to put his thoughts into words—and thank God he hadn’t—he would have said they were star-crossed lovers.
But in high school, had he been like DuPey? A project, someone wounded by life, someone to be saved?
When he came back from Afghanistan, had she viewed him as a lamb to be nurtured and returned to the flock? Had she treated him so gently, given him what he so desperately needed out of pity?
He could not stand the idea.
He needed to leave, to go back to work, to be in Kyrgyzstan on the front line.
His cell vibrated against his leg. He snatched it out of his pocket and looked at the ID.
Not Kyrgyzstan, but a call from Brooke . . . who didn’t want or need him and possibly never had.
He almost didn’t answer, but maybe she had information about who’d ridden that motorcycle up to Nonna’s house.
It wasn’t Brooke at all, but a small, trembling female voice. “Hi.” She stopped.
“Hi!” he said encouragingly. Who was this? Had Brooke lost her cell phone? Was someone’s kid playing with it?
“Hi,” the girl repeated. “I’m one of the maids here at Bella Terra. Brooke told me to call you and ask you come to the garbage area for Millionaire’s Row.”
The garbage area.
“What’s wrong?”
“Come now.” She hung up.
Astonished, he looked at the phone. Brooke had sent him a message like that? Through one of the maids? Really?
Why? Why hadn’t Brooke called him herself? Had she been hurt?
No, the maid would have called the EMTs.
He brought up the map of Bella Terra Resort, found the garbage area, realized it was off the beaten path.
Had she been ambushed? Like Nonna? Was she being held hostage?
To some people, notably Noah, that idea might seem absurd. Yet violence, normally so far from Bella Valley, had arrived, and with a few quick adjustments, a loaded pistol, an extra knife, Rafe transformed himself into a warrior, prepared to rescue Brooke . . . or be attacked. He staked out his route, moved quickly and quietly, and when he neared the garbage enclosure, he loosened the pistol in his holster and checked the position of the knife under his jacket.
The maid—pale faced, blue eyed, tattooed, and with a shaved head—popped out of the open gate to the Dumpster area.
He remembered her from his first day here. She’d been cleaning in the lobby.
When she saw him, her relief was pathetic, transparent and frantic. “Mr. Di Luca! Thank God you’re here. Miss Petersson . . . she needs to shower, and we’ll have to call the police, but she insisted on talking to you first.”
This garbled message didn’t erase his suspicions, but it did change them. “She needs to shower?” Was this girl crazy?
The maid paid no attention to his bewilderment, but pushed him around the corner.
Brooke was upright and half-naked on a plastic chair, thin and pale and desperate. A red, rough scrape covered her icy white cheek, and her expression . . .
He was on his knees beside her before she realized he was there. “Brooke?” he called her name softly. “What happened?”
Her eyes shifted, vaguely out of focus. Her gaze sharpened. “Rafe? Oh, good. Do you remember the gardener I told you knew something about the attack on Sarah? Luis Hernández? The one who disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“I found his cross. He’s in the Dumpster.”
Rafe looked around at the small, close, desolate area. “Why were you in the Dumpster?”
Brooke cradled one hand in her lap. The other one she held out as if it were alien to her. “Um . . .” She had to think. “One of our guests has lost her ring. We were looking for it. I saw the glint of jewelry, grabbed it, and he—” She closed her eyes and lowered her head.
The maid made an incoherent sound of anguish. She flung her hand over her eyes as if she couldn’t bear the memory of what she’d seen.
He assessed the maid’s incoherence and Brooke’s near nudity differently. “Brooke, I’m glad you called me first.”
“It’s something to do with the attack on Nonna, isn’t it?” Brooke asked. “That’s why I called you. You knew it wasn’t a vagrant. You knew.”
“I suspected,” he amended. “Let me call DuPey and get him on his way; then I’ll ask you a few questions.” And get her something for the scrape on her face, and some cool water to drink, her and the maid.
“That’s good.” Brooke nodded. “I knew you would know what to do.”
Rafe ran his hand over her hair, then rose and walked out the gate and made his call. After a moment’s hesitation, he called Noah.
His brother hung up before Rafe had finished the first sentence.
Noah was on his way.
Glancing back inside, Rafe saw the maid kneeling beside Brooke, helping her wash her hand in the bucket. The two women had just been through hell together.
The maid looked pale, too, and slightly sweaty.
These women were in shock.
Walking back in, he asked the maid, “Who are you?”
“Madelyn.”
He remembered the name . . . Ebrillwen had spoken about her, and not in a complimentary manner.
But what mattered now was how Madelyn cared for Brooke. With his hand under Madelyn’s elbow, he lifted her to her feet. In a slow, clear voice, he instructed, “The spa is close. Go there. Get two bottles of water, and get Brooke a robe.”
Madelyn’s eyes focused, and she nodded as if glad to have something to do.
He continued. “If they give you any trouble, tell them—”
Madelyn’s face grew cold. “They won’t give me any trouble.” She looked back at Brooke, and her expression trembled on the edge of pain. “She can’t seem to wash enough. If you would help her—”
“Yes.” He understood. He knew.
He’d seen what Brooke had seen, suffered as Brooke had suffered.
In this, at least, no one could help her more.
M
adelyn sped out of the enclosure.
Rafe walked over to Brooke, knelt in front of her. He moved the bucket aside, dried her hand on his T-shirt. “Sweetheart.”
Slowly she lifted her head, opened her eyes, stared at him as if she’d never seen him before.
He pulled her off the chair and into his arms, then sat against the wall, holding her tight. Rocking her in his arms, he murmured words of comfort, and when Madelyn came back with the robe, he helped Brooke stand and huddle into it.
He knew what she was doing: acting on instinct, hiding herself as if she were dirty.
He opened the water bottles for them—the plastic twist tops were tight and Madelyn was now trembling so hard he was afraid she’d fall down. As the sirens started in the distance, he coaxed them both to drink.
In a slow, calm voice he said, “You two are going to have to talk to Sheriff DuPey about what happened. Can you do that?”
Both women stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language, and nodded as if they were numb.
He hoped the numbness would last through their questioning.
Two police cars pulled up in front of the gate and blocked the road, sirens blaring, lights flashing. Two officers got out of one car and cordoned off the area with yellow crime scene tape. DuPey came through the gate looking grim and competent. Another guy dressed in jeans, a button-down shirt, spotless running shoes, and carrying two heavy leather bags, followed.
As Rafe went to meet them, Noah pulled up in one of the resort’s golf carts and arrived at a run.
DuPey introduced the guy in the button-down shirt as the coroner, then asked, “What happened?”
Rafe told them what he knew.
Noah informed them that the trash collectors were due soon.
The coroner, grim and efficient, shed his leather bags and pulled on his latex gloves. He placed the step stool and climbed into the Dumpster.
DuPey went to the two women, speaking softly, asking his questions.
Rafe watched, but he knew the women’s breakdowns were inevitable. The question was how soon.
“Rafe!” Noah snapped.
Rafe glanced at his brother. “What?”
Noah’s green eyes were hot with irritation. “I’m trying to get this straight in my mind. The gardener who disappeared right after the attack on Nonna is in the Dumpster. He’s dead and has been dead for a while.”
“I’d guess someone killed him after he spoke to Brooke,” Rafe said, “when his behavior made her realize something was wrong at Nonna’s.”
Brooke was, as expected, replying to DuPey’s questions straightforwardly, putting her distress aside for the necessary investigation.
Madelyn took her cue from Brooke, talking, gesturing, responding in a manner meant to move the investigation along.
“Is he the one who attacked Nonna?” Noah asked.
“It’s possible, but in all probability this is a murder. So someone else is involved. He didn’t jump in that Dumpster by himself.”
“Right.” Noah nodded. “Someone hid the body, then brought it here when the trash collectors were due, figuring it would get dumped and he’d be off the hook.”
“Or she,” Rafe reminded him. “We don’t know it’s a guy.”
“And this person has to have access to the Dumpster area and know the pickup schedule, which means he—or she—works here.” Noah’s eyes got angrier.
“It’s not out of the realm of possibility that someone outside of your organization could get through the gate, but given the situation, I’d say you’re correct.”
Noah stepped up to Rafe and stood before him, toe-to-toe. In a low, forceful voice, he said, “I’m going to tell you this one time, and one time only.”
“What?” His brother was being weird.
“About the attack on Nonna being premeditated—you were right.”
This place smelled like rotting garbage and decaying flesh. Rafe itched to take Brooke away to safety. And although he didn’t like it, this investigation would change Bella Terra forever.
But he couldn’t help grinning at Noah’s reluctant admission. Wrapping his arm around Noah’s neck, he pulled his younger brother close enough that their foreheads touched. “I thought you knew—I’m always right.”
“Oh, I know.” Noah bonked their foreheads together hard enough to hurt. “But I don’t have to like it.”
They broke apart, rubbing their foreheads and grinning.
Then Noah’s smile faded. “Oh, no. Look who just came through the gate. It’s her.”
Ebrillwen Jones had arrived, head up, shoulders back.
The two officers who had been guarding the compound followed in her wake, trying to eject her.
The head of housekeeping imperiously ignored them. Her cool gaze swept the area and she made her assessment. In a voice so severe and formally British it frosted the air, she said, “What is going on here, Madelyn?”
Madelyn looked at her boss’s stern countenance. Her composure faded. Her face worked as she fought the sudden onset of tears.
“Here we go.” Rafe started toward the women.
Ebrillwen stiff-armed him, pushed him aside, and marched over to DuPey. “This young woman is one of my maids, and her dereliction of duty has thrown my schedule completely off. If she’s not under arrest, and if you’re done questioning her, I’ll take her to my office and settle this matter of her neglect of her duties.”
DuPey straightened, put his hands on his belt, and tried to stare down Ebrillwen. “Ma’am, I really don’t think she has had a lot of choice about her activities this afternoon. Perhaps you could dial it back a few notches.”