Revenge at Bella Terra by Christina Dodd Read Free Book Online

picture hadn’t lied. She was very attractive.
    She was two weeks late with no explanation, her father was bribing him to marry her, and she looked younger than he’d expected, which made Eli feel like an even worse cad and bigger lecher.
    And she was smiling ? She had guts.
    He stopped six feet away. Planted his feet. And demanded, “What happened to your hair?”
    The smile disappeared. Temper flared in her eyes. “What happened to your face ?”
    She had the slightest traces of a slow Southern accent. She looked like the fragile type of woman who dissolved at a single cross word.
    Apparently he’d read her wrong.
    He rubbed his cheek. “My face? What’s wrong with it?”
    Taking his arm, she pushed him over to her car and pointed at his reflection in the side-view mirror.
    Okay. She had a point. He wore jeans and rubber boots caked with dirt; a denim shirt soaked in sweat, sunscreen, and grease; and his oldest hat. He had grease smeared up one side of his nose and over his forehead; the hair that had escaped from under his hat had been styled with thick, rich, black mud.
    This was not the way he’d planned their meeting. He’d planned to dress nicely, comb his hair, and, most of all, bathe.
    Damn the woman. They weren’t even married and already she was making him worry about the way he looked.
    He turned to see her carrying two of her bags up onto the small stoop of the cottage. She inserted a key into the lock—he’d sent the key to her, along with a stern admonition that it was for the cottage door only and not to try the house—and opened the door. At her first glimpse inside, she gave an exclamation of surprise and pleasure . . . and he almost smiled.
    He’d spared no expense in the cottage, using a studio floor plan from the Bella Terra resort. Because he wanted to live alone, but he wanted his guests to be comfortable. Not that he ever invited any guests, but he knew someday he would be called on to house the overflow from a family event . . . like his marriage to Chloë.
    She disappeared inside.
    He picked up her big suitcase.
    He gasped.
    The son of a bitch was heavy. Very heavy. The airlines would charge extra for this one. Good thing she drove. He lugged it up the steps onto the porch. He toed off his boots, then walked through the door and found Chloë looking around the generous, lush living space with a sitting area, a fireplace, and a queen-size bed.
    He had had a desk brought in, French provincial in a high-gloss black finish with hand-painted gold accents on the edges of its top, apron, and drawers and down the gracefully curved legs. He’d draped one of Nonna’s antique lace shawls over the top and, in anticipation of Chloë’s arrival, he’d sprinkled the surface with fresh rose petals every damned day. Now he was glad, because with the antique mother-of-pearl lamp and the bouquet of pink roses in the Tiffany crystal vase, her work area looked romantic and writerly.
    With awesome patience, he put the suitcase against the wall. “What’s in there?”
    “Research books.” She examined the tiny kitchen, opened the fully stocked utility drawers, checked out the microwave, the oven, the refrigerator, the sink. “My mom and I call that the suitcase of death.”
    “I survived.”
    “You do look healthy enough.”
    It didn’t sound like a compliment.
    She headed into the warmly decorated bathroom complete with a shower, soaking tub, and heated towel bar, and came out nodding enthusiastically. “This is fabulous. It’s comfortable. It’s roomy. My God. This is better than I could have ever imagined. Thank you for allowing me to stay here. Thank you!” Walking to the French doors, she flung them open and stepped onto the deck.
    He followed, wanting to see her see the view.
    She paced toward the railing, grasped it with both hands, and leaned forward, sunshine on her face, lips softly open, eyes wide.
    On this side of the cottage, the ground dropped away, lending the illusion that the