Chapter 6
DANTE
Where the hell does she think she’s going?
I watch from my balcony as Frankie speeds down the driveway in that ridiculous little sports car she bought.
I’ve been out here with my coffee and my laptop since the sun came up.
It’s the only place I can stand to be in the whole goddamn house lately.
Everywhere else just seems empty without her.
I can’t even sleep soundly in my own bed anymore.
Slamming my laptop shut, I move closer to the railing and watch her turn at the end of the long drive, onto the main road. The sound of the hot rod engine fades, and so does my view of her. Fuck.
My anxiety kicks into high gear, even though I know I shouldn’t care. I kicked her out because she lied to me, after all, and I don’t tolerate liars. Yet every moment since Rico Correa showed up claiming to be her husband, it’s all I can do to stop wanting her.
What if she’s on her way to him? The simmering jealousy I’ve been trying to ignore boils over at the thought.
Pulling out my cell phone, I pull up the GPS app that’s linked to every winery-owned vehicle for insurance purposes.
She may not be aware, but a tracker was put on her car shortly after she purchased it.
It takes a second for the GPS to register.
And then the little blue dot of her vehicle begins to move southeast on the screen.
My heart begins to pound. Before I fully realize what I’m doing, I race through the doors, out of my office, and down the stairs. I jump into my car and take off in Frankie’s direction, tires kicking up gravel as I speed down the drive.
I fly down the freeway, weaving in and out of traffic in a crazed attempt to catch up.
I don’t know why I’m so worried about where she’s going, but the taunting suspicion that she’s going to him won’t stop knocking in my brain.
When I see a flash of cherry red up ahead, I let off on the gas and slow the car to the speed limit.
The GPS confirms that it’s her. I fall back even further, relying on the tracker rather than my eyes.
But I’m losing my goddamned mind as I follow her, becoming more and more anxious as we leave the city and enter the shady city limits of Vallejo.
This can’t be right. The town went bankrupt a while ago and the place has fallen into a state of neglect and disrepair.
Nobody comes here anymore unless they’re up to no good. Maybe she’s lost, or stopping for gas.
I take a right and follow a lonely street with cracked asphalt all the way to the end, where a run-down motel stretches out before me.
Sure enough, Frankie’s Jag is parked in the lot.
I clench my eyes against a flash of anger.
Jesus Christ, I was right. She’s in here somewhere with him.
Probably letting that oily bastard touch her.
The thought of that asshole’s hands on my wife makes me—no. Not my wife. Not anymore. Fuck.
I run the fingers of both hands through my hair and squeeze my head between my palms. Then I take a deep breath, trying to convince myself she means nothing to me now. She’s just a lying female who wasted my time.
Being angry at her is supposed to calm me down, but all it does is leave a bitter taste in my mouth. Gripping the wheel, I take a few more breaths to steady myself.
The sickening fact is, what’s going on in that motel room is none of my business.
My anger and jealousy aren’t even real, they’re simply male instincts getting in the way. Testosterone and all that shit. I need to take my dick out of the equation, that’s all.
I stare at the Jaguar until the car blurs in my vision.
Then I get a firm grip on my emotions, methodically tucking each one into the compartmentalized recesses of my brain where all the uncomfortable feelings go.
My father taught me the trick, and it’s served me well.
Turn it off. Put it away. Forget about it. Done and done.
Putting my car in reverse, I speed out of the lot and head back to Bellanti Vineyards. I have work to do, business to focus on. Any lingering attachment I feel toward Frankie is merely the byproduct of a poor business decision, and the sooner I wash my hands of her the better.
I park outside the offices, ignore the receptionist’s attempt to flag me down, and head straight to Armani’s office.
I see him standing outside his office door in the hallway, a smile on his face as he chats with Candi Gallagher.
He’s looking at her with the same intensity he reserves for acquisitions he absolutely has to have. But there’s something more there.
Something that’s going to get him into trouble if he doesn’t start thinking with his head instead of his cock.
At the sight of me, Candi gives Armani a polite nod and excuses herself. Once my brother and I are in his office with the door firmly shut, he turns irritated eyes on me.
“What’s this all about?” he asks. “I had another few minutes scheduled with Candi.”
“You can thank me later for saving your ass,” I shoot back. “I saw how you were looking at her and you need to nip that in the bud.”
Armani shakes his head and goes for the coffee pot. He raises it in question, but I wave off his offer of a cup.
“We were just talking business,” he says. “Can I help that she was wearing an attractive dress? What man is going to ignore that?”
I smirk. “Why do I have the feeling you’d kill any other male who happened to notice?”
He crosses the room with his coffee and sits down behind his desk. “Did you need something, Dante? Or did you just come here to stir up some shit?”
“Both, actually. Let me lay it out for you.”
“I’m all ears,” he says, sliding a notepad in front of him and picking up a pen.
I take a seat across from him and jab my finger onto his desk for emphasis. “The Abbott Winery has to stay with us. I’ve been after those vines for years. There’s no way I’m giving them up. If my marriage truly isn’t legit, we need to find a way to keep the Abbott grapes.”
My brother takes a sip of his coffee, much too slowly for my impatient mood. I’m waiting for some response but he just stares at me. Perhaps I haven’t made my case clear enough.
“Look, those vines have suffered a decade or more of mismanagement. The neglect has taken its toll, but even still, in the short time we’ve been tending them we’ve already gotten a useful yield. Those vines are resilient. Next year will be even better.”
“I don’t disagree,” Armani concedes.
“So we’ll keep the vines. Look into it. Make it legal.”
He nods. “Leave it to me.”
My eyes narrow. “And what the hell’s going on with the Italian marriage certificate? Why’s it taking so long?”
Sighing, my brother says, “Look, it takes six to twelve weeks just to get a copy of an American marriage certificate—and we’re talking Italian bureaucracy here.
Time is irrelevant to them, and there’s no central government office that keeps records.
I’ve been chasing down every local authority I can find and putting in requests for the docs, but so far it’s been nothing but phone tag and extended hold times and transfers to different departments and emails that go nowhere.
Point is, I’m working on it. So trust that when I do get a hold of someone who knows what they’re doing—”
“Do they know who you are? The Bellanti name—”
“Means nothing to a sleepy records clerk in a tiny village in Castiglione della Pescaia. Swear to Christ, Dante, I’m doing absolutely everything I can. Barring a flight to Italy to go pick up the document myself, which I’ll certainly take under consideration. I could use a vacation.”
“Ha ha,” I say dryly.
“And now, I have a question for you.” He eyes me steadily and I feel like I’m about to get my ass chewed. “Will Frankie be staying in the guesthouse indefinitely?”
I cut my brother a harsh look, hoping it will shut him up, but he just raises his brows.
“I’m not trying to get involved,” he says mildly. “But I need to know if I should be paying the domestic staff extra to take care of her needs as well, or if I should hire new people. The guesthouse isn’t exactly close to the main house, and it isn’t fair to the staff to expect—”
I get to my feet because I can’t sit any longer. “Do whatever it fucking takes to keep her out of my life. She’s not allowed back in the main house, period.”
“Understood,” Armani says, scribbling something down, his tone carefully neutral.
My emotions are showing through, dammit, but if I can’t trust Armani, who can I trust?
“And listen to me when I say, steer clear of Candi Gallagher,” I warn. “Don’t ever fall in love. Women will betray you every single time.”
He crosses his hands on the desk. His mouth twitches as if he’s holding back a smile.
“So you do love her,” he asks, not really asking.
“Of course I don’t,” I say, poker face in place again.
With that, I storm out, slamming the door behind me.
I head to my own office and lock myself inside, throwing myself into emails and calls, but my attempts to get lost in work quickly fail. My mind keeps straying to Frankie in that motel room. I curse myself for impulsively following her there.
Irritated, I stare at the wall across from my desk.
The couch still has an indent in the cushion, the blanket balled up in a wad from when she spent the night in here.
My brain conjures up unbidden memories of her lying there, the soft flush on her face as she sleepily watched me enter the room.
The way her neckline dipped low, revealing the soft curve of her luscious breast.
I’d fucked her on that couch. My cock stirs at the memory; I adjust myself to keep my pants from pinching. She climbed onto my lap while I sat there, hiking up her skirt, spreading her thighs wide so she could sink down and take me whole in one thrust.
And there was the time I bent her over my desk—
No. I need to clear my mind of her. Put an end to this. And I know exactly what I need to do.
I need to fuck her right out of my system, and then fuck someone else. To prove she means nothing to me. That she’s not special. Because she isn’t.
I’ll fuck her one last time.
That’s all I need to make this hell stop.