Prologue
On the night he was murdered, Bernardo Baptista dined simply on bread and cheese and a bottle of Chianti. The wine was a bit young, and Bernardo was not. Neither would continue to age.
Like his bread and cheese, Bernardo was a simple man. He had lived in the same little house in the gentle hills north of Venice since his marriage fifty-one years before. His five children had been raised there. His wife had died there.
Now at seventy-three, Bernardo lived alone, with most of his family a stone's throw away, at the edges of the grand Giambelli vineyard where he had worked since his youth.
He had known La Signora since her girlhood, and had been taught to remove his cap whenever she passed by. Even now if Tereza Giambelli traveled from California back to the castello and vineyard, she would stop if she saw him. And they would talk of the old days when her grandfather and his had worked the vines.
Signore Baptista, she called him. Respectfully. He had great appreciation for La Signora, and had been loyal to her and hers the whole of his life.
For more than sixty years he had taken part in the making of Giambelli wine. There had been many changes—some good, in Bernardo's opinion, some not so good. He had seen much.
Some thought, too much.
The vines, lulled into dormancy by winter, would soon be pruned. Arthritis prevented him from doing much of the hard work, as he once had, but still he would go out every morning to watch his sons and grandsons carry on the tradition.
A Baptista had always worked for Giambelli. And in Bernardo's mind, always would.
On this last night of his seventy-three years, he looked out over the vines—his vines, seeing what had been done, what needed to be done, and listened as the December wind whistled through the bones of the grape.
From the window where that wind tried to sneak, he could see the skeletons as they made their steady climb up the rises. They would take on flesh and life with time, and not wither as a man did. Such was the miracle of the grape.
He could see the shadows and shapes of the great castello which ruled those vines, and ruled those who tended them.
It was lonely now, in the night, in the winter, when only servants slept in the castello and the grapes had yet to be born.
He wanted the spring, and the long summer that followed it when the sun would warm his innards and ripen the young fruit. He wanted, as it seemed he always had, one more harvest.
Bernardo ached with the cold, deep in the bones. He considered heating some of the soup his granddaughter had brought to him, but his Annamaria was not the best of cooks. With this in mind, he made due with the cheese and sipped the good, full-bodied wine by his little fire.
He was proud of his life's work, some of which was in the glass that caught the firelight and gleamed deep, deep red. The wine had been a gift—one of many given to him on his retirement. Though everyone knew the retirement was only a technicality. Even with his aching bones and a heart that had grown weak, Bernardo would walk the vineyard, test the grapes, watch the sky and smell the air.
He lived for wine.
He died for it.
He drank, nodding by the fire, with a blanket tucked around his thin legs. Through his mind ran images of sun-washed fields, of his wife laughing, of himself showing his son how to support a young vine, to prune a mature one. Of La Signora standing beside him between the rows their grandfathers had tended.
Signore Baptista, she said to him when their faces were still young, we have been given a world. We must protect it.
And so they had.
The wind whistled at the windows of his little house. The fire died to embers.
And when the pain reached out like a fist, squeezing his heart to death, his killer was six thousand miles away, surrounded by friends and associates, enjoying a perfectly poached salmon, and a fine Pinot Blanc.
Chapter Two
The valley, and the hills that rose from it, wore a thin coat of snow. Vines, arrogant and often temperamental soldiers, climbed up the slopes, their naked branches spearing through the quiet mist that turned the circling mountains to soft shadows.
Under the pearly dawn, the vineyard shivered and slept.
This peaceful scene had helped spawn a fortune, a fortune that would be gambled again, season after season. With nature both partner and foe.
To Sophia, the making of wine was an art, a business, a science. But it was also the biggest game in town.
From her window of her grandmother's villa, she studied the playing field. It was pruning season, and she imagined while she'd been traveling, vines had already been accessed, considered, and those first stages toward next year's harvest begun. She was glad she'd been called back, so that she could see that part of it for herself.
When she was away, the business of the wine occupied all her energies. She rarely thought of the vineyard when she wore her corporate hat. And whenever she came back, like this, she thought of little else.
Still, she couldn't stay long. She had duties in San Francisco. A new advertising campaign to be polished. The Giambelli centennial was just getting off the ground. And with the success of the auction in New York, the next stages would require her attention.
An old wine for a new millennium, she thought. Villa Giombelli: The next century of excellence begins.
But they needed something fresh, something savvy for the younger market. Those who bought their wine on the run—a quick, impulse grab to take to a party.
Well, she'd think of it. It was her job to think of it.
And putting her mind to it would keep it off her father and the scheming Rene.
None of her business, Sophia reminded herself. None of her business at all if her father wanted to hook himself up with a former underwear model with a heart the size and texture of a raisin. He'd made a fool of himself before, and no doubt would again.
She wished she could hate him for it, for his pathetic weakness of character, and his benign neglect of his daughter. But the steady, abiding love just wouldn't shift aside. Which made her, she supposed, as foolish as her mother.
He didn't care for either of them as much as he did the cut of his suit. And didn't give them a thought two minutes after they were out of his sight. He was a bastard, utterly selfish, sporadically affectionate and always careless.
And that, she supposed, was part of his charm.
She wished she hadn't stopped by the night before, wished she wasn't compelled to keep that connection between them no matter what he did or didn't do.
Better, she thought, to keep on the move as she had for the past several years. Traveling, working, filling her time and her life with professional and social obligations.
Two days, she decided. She would give her grandmother two days, spend time with her family, spend time in the vineyard and the winery. Then it was back to work with a vengeance.
The new campaign would be the best in the industry. She would make sure of it.
As she scanned the hills, she saw two figures walking through the mist. The tall gangly man with an old brown cap on his head. The ram-rod straight woman in mannish boots and trousers with hair white as the snow they trod. A border collie plodded along between them. Her grandparents, taking their morning walk with the aging and endlessly faithful Sally.
The sight of them lifted her mood. Whatever changed in her life, whatever adjustments had been made, this was a constant. La Signora and Eli MacMillan. And the vines.
She dashed from the window to grab her coat and join them.
At sixty-seven, Tereza Giombelli was sculpted, razor sharp, body and mind. She had learned the art of the vine at her grandfather's knee. Had traveled with her father to California when she'd been only three to turn the land of the ripe valley to wine. She'd become bilingual, and had traveled back and forth between California and Italy the way other young girls had traveled to the playground.
She'd learned to love the mountains, the thatch of forest, the rhythm of American voices.
It was not home, would never be home as the castello was. But she had made her place here, and was content with it.
She had married a man who had met her family's approval, and had learned to love him as well. With him she had made a daughter, and to her lasting grief, birthed two stillborn sons.
She had buried her husband when she'd been only thirty. And had never taken his name nor given it to her only child. She was Giambelli, and that heritage, that responsibility was more vital and more sacred even than marriage.
She had a brother she loved who was a priest and tended his flock in Venice. She had another who had died a soldier before he had really lived. She revered his memory, though it was dim.
And she had a sister she considered foolish at best, who had brought a daughter more foolish yet into the world.
It had been up to her to continue the family line, the family art. She had done so.
Her marriage to Eli MacMillan had been carefully considered, scrupulously planned. She had considered it a merger as his vineyards were prime and nestled below hers in the valley. He was a good man, and more importantly in her calculations, a good vintner.
He had cared for her, but other men had cared for her. She enjoyed his company, but she had enjoyed the company of others. In the end, she'd thought of him as the Merlot, the softer mellowing juice blended to her stronger, and admittedly harsher, Cabernet Sauvignon.
The right combination could produce excellent results.
Her acceptance of his marriage proposal had been contingent on complex and detailed business arrangements. The arrangements had benefited both their companies, and had contented her.
But Tereza, who was rarely surprised, had been so, to find comfort, pleasure and simple satisfaction in a marriage now approaching its twentieth year.
He was a fine-looking man still. Tereza didn't discount such matters as they spoke of genes. What made up a man was as important, to her mind, as what that man made of himself.
Though he was ten years her senior, she saw no sign of him bowing to age. He still rose at dawn every day, and would walk with her, regardless of the weather, every morning.
She trusted him as she had no man since her grandfather, and cared for him more than she had any man not of her blood.
He knew all of her plans, and most of her secrets.
"Sophia arrived late last night."
"Ah." Eli laid a hand on her shoulder as they walked between the rows. It was a simple gesture, and habitual for him. It had taken Tereza some time to grow used to this casual touching from a man, from a husband. A longer time still to come to depend on it. "Did you think she wouldn't come?"
"I knew she would come." Tereza was too used to being obeyed to doubt it. "If she'd come straight from New York, she would have been here sooner."
"So, she had a date. Or did some shopping."
Tereza's eyes narrowed. They were nearly black and still sharp in distance vision. Her voice was sharp as well, and carried the exotic music of her homeland. "Or stopped off to see her father."
"Or stopped off to see her father," Eli agreed in his slow, comfortable way. "Loyalty's a trait you've always admired, Tereza."
"When it's earned." There were times, much as she cared for him, when Eli's unending tolerance infuriated her. "Anthony Avano has earned nothing but disgust."
"A pitiful man, a poor husband, and a mediocre father." Which made him, Eli mused, very like his own son. "Yet he continues to work for you."
"I let him into Giambelli too intimately in those early years." She'd trusted him, she thought, had seen potential in him. Had been deceived by him. That she would never forgive. "Still, he knows how to sell. I use whatever tools perform their task. Firing him long ago would have been a personal satisfaction and professionally unwise. What's best for Giambelli is what's best. But I don't like to see my granddaughter cater to the man. Uh."
She tossed aside thoughts of her son-in-law with an impatient wave of the hand. "We'll see how he takes what I have to say today. Sophia will have told him I called her home. So, he'll come."
Eli stopped, turned. "And that's exactly as you wanted it. You knew she'd tell him."
Her dark eyes glinted, and her smile was cool. "And if I did?"
"You're a difficult woman, Tereza."
"Yes. Thank you."
He laughed, and shaking his head began to walk with her again. "Your announcements today are going to cause trouble. Resentment."
"I should hope so." She stopped to examine some of the younger vines supported by trellis wires. Cane-pruning would be required here, she thought. Only the strongest of them would be permitted to grow and to be trained.
"Complacency becomes rot, Eli. Tradition must be respected, and change explored."
She scanned the land. The mist was raw and the air damp. The sun would not burn through it that day, she was certain.
Winters, she thought, grew longer with every year.
"Some of these vines I planted with my own hands," she continued. "Vines my father brought from Italy. As they grew old, the new was made from them. The new must always have room to sink their roots, Eli, and the mature are entitled to their respect. What I built here, what we've built in our time together, is ours. I'll do as I think best with it, and for it."
"You always have. In this case, as in most, I agree with you. It doesn't mean we'll have an easy season ahead of us."
"But a vintage one," she said. "This year. She reached over to turn a naked vine in her fingers. "A fine and rare vintage. I know it."
She turned, watched her granddaughter run up the slope toward them. "She's so beautiful, Eli."
"Yes. And strong."
"She'll need to be," Tereza said and stepped forward to catch Sophia's hands in hers. "Buon giorno, cara. Come va?"
"Bene. Bene." They kissed cheeks, hands tightly linked. "Nonna." Sophia eased back, studied her grandmother's face. It was a handsome face, not soft and pretty as the girl on the label made so long ago, but strong, nearly fierce. Carved, Sophia always thought, as much by ambition as time. "You look wonderful. And you."
She shifted to throw her arms around Eli. Here, it was all very simple. He was Eli, just Eli, the only grandfather she'd ever known. Safe, loving, and uncomplicated.
He gave her a little lift with the hug, so her toes just left the ground. It made her laugh, and cling. "I saw you from my window." She stepped back as her feet hit the ground again, then lowered to pat and stroke the patient Sally. "You're a painting, the three of you. The Vineyard, I'd call it," she continued, straightening to button Eli's jacket at his throat against the chill. "What a morning."
She closed her eyes, tipping her head back and breathing deep. She could smell the damp, her grandmother's soap, an...
