The Villa

Keep running."
    He hung up, poured himself a glass of wine, lit a cigar for good measure. Then he picked up the phone and called the police.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
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    With a mixture of regret and relief, David watched Venice recede.
    "There's no reason for you to haul yourself out of bed and tag along to the airport this way," he told Tyler as the water taxi plowed its way through early-morning traffic. "I don't need a baby-sitter."
    "Yeah, I'm getting a lot of that lately." Tyler sipped his coffee and hunched his shoulders against the cool, damp air. "It's starting to piss me off."
    "I know how to get on a plane."
    "Here's the deal. I put you on at this end, they pick you up on the other end. Live with it."
    David took a closer look. Tyler's face was unshaven, his expression foul. For some reason it perked David up. "Rough night?"
    "I've had better."
    "You going to be able to get back okay? Your Italian's pretty limited, isn't it?"
    "Kiss ass."
    David laughed, gently shifted his shoulder. "There, I feel better now. Sophia giving you a hard time?"
    "She's been giving me a hard time for twenty years. It's stopped spoiling my day."
    "If I offer you some advice, are you going to pitch me overboard? Remember, I'm wounded."
    "I don't need any advice where Sophia's concerned." Despite himself, Tyler frowned over at David. "What is it?"
    "Keep pushing. I don't think anyone's ever kept pushing her. Not the male of the species, anyway. If she doesn't kill you for it, she's yours."
    "Thanks, but maybe I don't want her."
    David settled back to enjoy the ride. "Oh yeah." He chuckled. "You do."
     
    Yeah, Tyler admitted. He did. Which was why he was risking her considerable wrath. She didn't like anyone touching her things. Didn't like being told what to do, even—no, he corrected as he packed up her little portable office, especially —when it was what was best.
    "What the hell are you doing?"
    He glanced up, and there she was. Still damp from the shower and sending off sparks of temper. "Packing your saddlebags, partner. We're riding out."
    "Get your hands off my stuff." She rushed in, snatched back her laptop, pressing it against her like a beloved child. "I'm not going anywhere. I just got here."
    "I'm going back to the castello. Where I go, you go. Any reason you can't work there?"
    "Yes. Several."
    "And they are?"
    She hugged the computer tighter. "I'll think of them."
    "While you're thinking, pack the rest of your gear."
    "I just unpacked."
    "Then you should remember where everything goes." With this indisputable logic, he strolled out.
     
    It irritated her. He'd caught her off guard and when her brain was still mushy from a sleepless night. It annoyed because she'd been planning on making the drive north and spending at least a day or two working out of the castello.
    It irked as she recognized how petty it was for her to sulk in silence on the drive.
    And it added one more layer of temper that he seemed so sublimely unconcerned.
    "We're taking separate bedrooms," she announced. "It's time we put the brakes on that area of our relationship."
    "Okay."
    She'd already opened her mouth to skewer him and his carelessly agreeable response had it hanging slack. "Okay," she managed. "Fine."
    "Okay, fine. You know, we're weeks ahead in the growing season back home. Looks like they're just finishing up the new plantings. Talked to the operator yesterday. He tells me the weather's been good, no frosts for weeks, and they're seeing the beginnings of new bloom. Keeps up warm through the bloom, we'll get a normal set. Oh, that's the conversion of flower to grape."
    "I know what a normal set is," she said between her teeth.
    "Just making conversation."
    He turned off the highway and started the drive through the gentle hills. "It's pretty country. I guess it's been a few years since I made the trip over. Never seen it this early in the spring."
    She had, but had nearly forgotten. The quiet green of the hills, the pretty contrast of colorful houses, the long, sleek rows riding the slopes. Fields of sunflowers waiting for summer, and the shadow of far-off mountains that were a faint smudge against a blue sky.
    The crowds of Venice, the urbanity of Milan were more than highway miles from here. This was a little heart of Italy that pumped steadily, fed by the earth and rain.
    The vineyards here were the root of her destiny, had ordained it when Cezare Giambelli planted his first row. A simple dream, she thought, to