“You!” Francesca threw the box of tissues at him, but she laughed. “So I must grow old alone?”
Rafe got serious in a hurry. “Surely that’s better than being humiliated by men like your former husband.”
“Yes . . .” She dabbed at her red nose, and stood. “Victor is innocent of this vandalism, but he would not say that he had been with me because he didn’t want anyone to know we had been together in a cottage. He is an old-fashioned gentleman, and he didn’t want false rumors that said we had been lovers.”
“Why didn’t you tell the truth as soon as you heard?” Rafe asked.
Her gaze fell. “Because I didn’t want people to know I had been scolded like a wayward child.”
Noah nodded. “I can see it would rankle.”
“So, Rafe, will you tell your
polizia
that Victor is innocent?” she asked.
“It would be better if you did that, as your first act of independence.” Rafe waited to see how she would respond.
She thought, then said slowly, “I could do that.”
Rafe opened the door. “Perhaps you could arrange for the car to bring Victor back so he knows who sprang him from jail?”
“He doesn’t deserve such a courtesy!” She tossed her hair again and strode out.
The storm was over. Francesca was back in fine form—but perhaps between Victor, Noah, and Rafe they’d given her food for thought.
Rafe sure hoped so.
As he shut the door, Noah leaped to his feet. “Rafe! We missed it! He’s in!”
Rafe swung away from the door. “Who is it?”
“Blond. Tall. He’s turning so I can see his face. . . .” Noah pointed at the monitor. “Josh Hoffman. Josh Hoffman! I gave that little shit a donation for his college fund!”
“Focus, Noah. Let me make sure we’re recording.” Rafe walked to the desk. The record light was on.
Then, for the first time since it had been hacked, his cell phone rang. Suspiciously, he pulled it from his pocket.
The number was from overseas. From Kyrgyzstan. He answered, put the phone to his ear, and shouted, “Where the hell have you been?”
His team leader shouted back, “In hell, but you know what Winston Churchill said—if you’re going through hell, keep going. We brought her out. She’s alive and well!”
Rafe crowed with laughter and relief.
His team was out of the mountains and safe, their mission accomplished, the helicopter pilot safe in their hands.
He was looking at the hacker—they’d caught him red-handed.
Success. Success all around. Success at last.
“Congratulations, Ellis!” he said into the phone. “Listen. I’m working a situation, but do whatever is necessary, call in any reinforcements to get out of the country and onto a U.S. military base. I’ll meet you there and—”
Somebody knocked furiously on the office door.
He and Noah looked at each other.
“Just get out,” he said to Ellis. “Okay?”
“Affirmative.” His team leader hung up.
Whoever it was started hammering with a fist.
Rafe hurried to the door and yanked it open.
Ebrillwen stumbled in, her perfect hair mussed, her cool eyes wild. “I can’t go down there. Come on. Come on! I can’t go down there.”
Tom Chan limped up behind her. “We’ve got a mess on our hands, man.”
“Calm down,” Rafe said, although his own heart started a fast, powerful beat. “What’s wrong?”
“She sent me to get you.” Ebrillwen had her hand on her chest. “It’s Josh. He’s going down into the cellar—”
“It’s okay. We’re taping him,” Rafe told her.
“Son of a bitch!” Noah shouted. “Brooke’s in the cellar. She followed him down!”
H
eart racing, hand clutching the bottle of champagne, Brooke stood outside the last cellar door, at the end of the long, gloomy corridor. She’d followed Josh from a distance, taking care to stay back, to move soundlessly, to be one with the shadows.
She thought she’d succeeded. He seemed oblivious to her presence.
Now she peered inside the murky room, trying to remain as still as possible, to see what—or who—was in there. All Brooke could recall was Zachary telling her that Josh liked to pull the legs off the gophers.
Why hadn’t Madelyn come when Ebrillwen paged her?
Did Josh have her trapped down here?
Oh, God.
Brooke wished Ebrillwen were here with her. But Ebrillwen had taken one look at the stairs leading down to the cellar and backed up, shaking her head.
Brooke had discovered Ebrillwen’s phobia—going underground.
Nothing had shaken her refusal, and Brooke didn’t have time to persuade her. Didn’t really want to worry about someone so out of her mind with fear that she would give them away.
But Brooke didn’t want to be alone. Ebrillwen wasn’t the only one who, just on principle, didn’t like basements. Brooke didn’t like them, either, and more than that, she didn’t want the responsibility for Madelyn’s rescue to be hers and hers alone. Because the cellars smelled like a tomb, looked like a tomb. And Brooke was afraid that for Madelyn, this was a tomb.
Brooke had sent Ebrillwen to get Rafe. The housekeeper could handle that—and hopefully, she had.
Josh walked from an unseen corner to the huge barrel that stood on its side on a stand. He worked eagerly to open the trapdoor at the end. He pulled out a bottle of wine, glanced at the label, and laughed.
The wine? Massimo’s wine? Was that why he was down here? Had he found it?
Because Brooke wasn’t willing to risk her life for a bottle of wine, no matter how valuable.
She started to ease back—and jumped when he said loudly, “See? I told you this was where I’d find gold.”
He turned and looked toward the corner closest to the door, out of Brooke’s line of sight.
Oh, no.
Madelyn was there. Or at least, someone was.
He walked toward the person, saying, “I know, you don’t care, but I’m going to make a fortune . . . and you’re going to stay here forever and ever.” He disappeared from Brooke’s view . . . and grew silent.
Brooke needed Rafe. He’d save Josh’s prisoner.
Ebrillwen had promised to send him.
Brooke would leave, go meet him, give him all the details.
But first, she could do this one thing. A distraction that might save the prisoner’s life.
Brooke twisted the wire off the champagne. Shook it up. She put it on the floor and prepared to run.
And Josh leaped from behind the door, grabbed her arm, and slammed her forehead against the wall.
She screamed in surprise and pain.
He laughed, twisted her wrist high behind her back, and marched her inside the cellar room. “You are so fucking stupid.” He spoke into her ear. “I knew you were there all the time. I heard your message to your boyfriend. Man, as soon as I heard my name, I knew it was time to set a trap. And you fell for it! So fucking stupid.”
Her eyes were swelling. Her nose was bleeding. “Didn’t think you could monitor all the phone calls.”
“Shut up.” He yanked her arm tighter.
Would he dislocate her shoulder? Rip it off?
He steered her toward the darkest corner. “You know everybody. Everybody trusts you. And you’re big, wonderful Rafe Di Luca’s girlfriend. We were listening to your calls ’specially.”
He was right. She had been stupid.
But that champagne bottle . . . it was still on the floor, waiting to blow. Thank God for Chan’s suggestion. Perhaps the distraction would be enough.
No . . . the distraction
would
be enough. She would make it enough.
“If I turn off the lights and lock you in here, it’s going to be a long time before anyone finds you.” Josh giggled. “You’d probably run in circles for hours, bang on the door, and cry like a baby. So it would be a kindness if I break both your legs first. Right?” She felt his lips move against her ear.
“No.”
He bit the shell of her ear. Broke the skin.
She screamed again.
“Right?” He jerked on her arm, twisted her elbow, bringing the pain in her shoulder to an exquisite agony.
Tears poured down her face.
A voice spoke from the door. Rafe’s voice. “Let her go.”
Josh and Brooke both jumped.
Josh released her. He spun her around, pulled her back against him.
Rafe’s face swam before Brooke’s blurry gaze.
Thank God. Oh, thank God
.
Josh jammed something small and cold against her forehead. “I’ll kill her,” he said.
A gun.
Of course. What else? He had a gun.
“And add murder to your crimes?” Rafe’s voice was warmly reasonable. Even better, he held a pistol pointed in their direction. “That would be stupid. Josh, you’re not stupid.”
The bottle Brooke had placed by the doorway. Champagne. Why wouldn’t it blow?
“What difference does one more body make? You know I killed Hernández.” Josh’s voice lost its manic edge, became petulant and whiny.
“There’s only one way out of this cellar. You can’t escape. You know you can’t.” Now Rafe sounded harder, more authoritative. “Give up.”
“I’ll use her to get me out.” Josh squeezed her throat with the bar of his arm. “You’ll do anything for her. I know you will.”
Champagne. Was it not going to work?
“Yes, I’ll do anything to save Brooke,” Rafe said.
“Good to hear,” she croaked.
He paid no attention. “But law enforcement has been called. Do you imagine—”
Boom!
The detonation from the corridor was small but loud.
Rafe started.
Josh recoiled.
Brooke rammed her elbow into Josh’s ribs, stomped on his toe, spun, and dropped to the floor.
Shots blasted, echoed, died.
Josh shrieked and fell backward.
She crawled, desperately, blindly, wanting away from him.
Voices shouted.
Lights flashed on, bright lights. Spotlights on Josh’s writhing form.
Someone swooped her up—Rafe, it was Rafe; she knew it was Rafe—and ran down the long, dim corridor toward the hotel level.
She was safe now. She knew she was safe.
And she passed out.
“It’s only minor injuries when they happen to someone else.” Nonna leaned over Brooke’s hospital bed and smiled into Brooke’s right eye.
The other eye was swollen shut.
Her nose hurt.
Her shoulder ached.
Her head . . . her head throbbed with the beat of a thousand arrhythmic drums.
“They’re keeping her overnight because they’re worried about a concussion.” Her mother’s voice spoke from off to Brooke’s left. “And because she’s in shock.”
“Rafe?” Brooke mumbled. They were keeping her all night. She was in the hospital. The doctors must have ordered drugs, because she could hardly talk. And she was so tired.
“Rafe’s fine,” Nonna said proudly. “Not a scratch on him.”
“Madelyn’s fine, too,” her mother said. “Rafe said you thought Josh had captured her, but she apparently saw DuPey on the hotel grounds, decided to tell the truth about the Flores murder and to do it before she lost her nerve, and while you were searching for her in the cellar, she was in police custody.”
“She wasn’t hurt at all?” Somewhere in the deep reaches of her mind, Brooke was glad. So glad.
“She really is fine. Josh Hoffman wasn’t so lucky.” Her mother’s voice again, rich with satisfaction. “Rafe’s shot went through his spleen. They operated, saved his life, but he’ll be lucky if he ever walks again.”
Where’s Rafe?
“Who would have thought that fool was smart enough to fool my grandson and paralyze the hotel’s security system?” Nonna asked.
“Not me,” her mother said.
Not me, either
, Brooke wanted to say. But her mouth wouldn’t work, and somehow both of her eyes were closed.
Someone patted her hand, and Nonna said, “Go to sleep, dear. Sleep is the best thing for you now.”
W
hen Kayla Garcia pushed Brooke’s wheelchair out the hospital doors, Brooke smiled with relief and delight.
Victor was waiting to drive her to Bella Terra. Victor, dapper and handsome, looking none the worse for his experience with an American jail.
“I’m so glad to see you,” she said.
“And I to see you.” He helped her out of her wheelchair into the backseat, gave her a bottle of cold water to drink, an ice pack for her forehead, and a broad-brimmed hat. He went around to the driver’s seat, buckled himself in, and said, “I’ll have you back to Bella Terra in fifteen minutes. Noah’s waiting to take you to your cottage. I know that’s where you want to be. Only in your own home can you truly recuperate.”
“Thank you, Victor. You’re very sweet.” She smiled and refrained from asking the one question that haunted her—
Where’s Rafe?
Other than a big, ugly headache, Brooke didn’t remember much about her hospital stay. But she did clearly remember Nonna assuring her,
Rafe’s fine. Not a scratch on him.
Even under the influence of major meds, Brooke had been delighted and relieved.
Now . . . not so much, especially since from the moment he’d dropped her at the emergency room, she hadn’t heard his voice. Which meant . . . which meant he was busy with other things. Important things.
Clearly, she was not an important thing.
Victor put the car in gear and glanced in the mirror. “Everyone at Bella Terra wanted to line up to welcome you back, but I told them you wouldn’t be well enough to handle it. I did discourage them, although I fear you’ll still have to run a small gauntlet. Noah has promised them that as soon as you’re healed, we’ll have a party in your honor.”
“Everyone is very sweet.” She was tired. And lonely. In pain. And depressed.
“Everyone knows the whole story now. Noah told us—”
Noah. Not Rafe.
“—about how Josh hacked into the computers and that’s why he was able to commit those crimes without being caught. He was insane, I think. What did he have to gain?”
Obviously Noah hadn’t told everyone about Massimo’s bottle of wine. Wise man. All the horrible things that had happened—Hernández’s murder, the destruction of the wine bar, yesterday’s horror in the cellar—were the fault of that damned bottle. The bottle, and Joseph Bianchin. “So as soon as DuPey discovered Josh was behind the crimes, he let you out of jail?” she asked Victor.