The Villa

around and doesn't make you jumpy half the time. I put considerable effort into that theory the last ten years. Didn't do me a damn bit of good."
    "I can beat that," David said after a moment. "Yeah, I can beat it. I had a wife, and we had a couple kids—good kids—and I figured we were chasing the American dream. Well, that went into the toilet. But I had the kids. Maybe I screwed up there a few times, but that's part of the job. And my focus was on the goal. Give them a decent life, be a good father. Women, well, being a good father doesn't mean being a monk. But you keep that area down on the list of priorities. No serious relationships, not again. No sir, who needs it. Then Pilar opens the door, and she's holding flowers. There are all kinds of lightning bolts."
    "Maybe. They still fry your brain."
    They walked the rows in the coldest hour before dawn, while the sprinklers hissed and the vines glittered, iced silver, and safe.
     
    Two hundred and fifty guests, a seven-course dinner, each with appropriate wines, followed by a concert in the ballroom and ending with dancing.
    It had been a feat to pull off, and Sophia gave her mother full marks for helping to perfect each detail. She added a pat on the back for herself for carefully salting the guests with recognizable names and faces from all over the globe.
    The UN, she thought as she sat with every appearance of serenity through the aria by the Italian soprano, had nothing on the Giambellis.
    The quarter million raised for charity would not only do good work, it was damn good PR. Particularly good since all members of the family were in attendance, including her great-uncle the priest, who'd agreed to make the trip after a personal, and insistent, call from his sister.
    Unity, solidarity, responsibility and tradition. Those were the key words she was pounding into the media. And with words went images. The gracious villa opening its doors for the sake of charity. The family, four generations, bound together by blood and wine, and one man's vision.
    Oh yes, she was using Cezare Giambelli, the simple farmer who'd built an empire on sweat and dreams. It was irresistible. And while she didn't expect it to turn the tide of adversity, it had stemmed it.
    The only irritant in the evening was Kris Drake.
    Missed a step there, Sophia decided. She'd issued an invitation to Jeremy DeMorney quite purposefully. Inviting a handful of important competitors illustrated Giambelli's openness, and again a sense of community. It hadn't occurred to her Jerry would bring a former Giambelli employee as his date.
    Should have, she reminded herself. It was clever, sneaky and slyly amusing on his part. And just like him.
    On top of that she had to give Kris credit for sheer balls. Brass ones.
    Scored off me this round, she admitted. But felt she'd got back her own by being flawlessly gracious to both of them. "You're not paying attention." Tyler gave her a quick elbow jab. "If I have to, you have to."
    She leaned toward him slightly. "I hear every note. And I can write mental copy at the same time. Two different parts of the brain."
    "Your brain has too many parts. How long does this last?"
    The pure, rich notes throbbed on the air. "She's magnificent. And nearly finished. She's singing of tragedy, of heartbreak."
    "I thought it was supposed to be about love."
    "Same thing."
    He glanced toward her, saw the sheen of tears, the single drop that spilled from those dark, deep eyes and clung perfectly to her lashes. "Are those real, or for the crowd?"
    "You're such a peasant. Quiet." She linked her fingers with his, allowed herself to think of nothing, to feel nothing but the music for the final moments.
    When the last note shimmered into silence, she rose, along with the others, into thunderous applause.
    "Can we get out of here for five minutes now?" Ty whispered in her ear.
    "Worse than a peasant, a barbarian. Brava!" she called out. "You go ahead," she added under her breath. "I need to play hostess. You should grab Uncle James, who looks as miserable as you do. Go out and have a drink and a cigar and be men."
    "If you don't think it took a man to sit here, and stay awake, during nearly an hour of opera, baby, you better think again."
    She watched him escape, then moved forward, hands extended to the diva. " Signora, bellissima !"
     
    Pilar did her duty as well, but her mind wasn't full of music or publicity copy. It was reeling with details and timing. The chairs had to be removed,