Path of Love Read online

  If one sucked her up, would she care? Erica looked at the beautiful woman buckling into the spaceship-like Ferrari, then rested a hand on the luxurious leather of the seat. Perhaps that’s exactly what was happening to her. Alien dog who only looked like a Cavalier King Charles spaniel but was actually the secret ringleader of the Rocky Horror Picture Show: Revisited. She, the hapless Susan Sarandon, sucked into the wormhole of…downright foolishness. Though she liked the idea of waking up and being Susan Sarandon. Susan wasn’t Italian-elegant, but there was no questioning that she had her act totally together.

  Erica slid into the car’s passenger seat, which felt even better than first class looked after a twelve-hour flight in economy. It even smelled like she’d always imagined fine, Italian leather would smell—like a Gucci store only better. She pulled on her seatbelt, barely in time. Snoop climbed up to sit on her lap and rest his chin on the door’s edge over the lowered window.

  The engine roared to life—like the quiet, throaty sound of a mountain lion moments before it jumped down and snapped your neck before dragging you away as dinner. Bridget flashed a wave to Conrad who waved a solemn hand in reply from the verge above his olive trees. The Ferrari leapt forward, slamming Erica back into the seat as they raced down the narrow, twisting road she’d barely been able to creep along. Snoop leaned his side into her chest and she wrapped an arm around him as his ears flapped out in the wind.

  “Snoop for Snoopy?” Erica asked the dog, who turned to roll his eyes at her as if he’d heard that far too many times.

  “Snoop,” Bridget slalomed through the descending twists of the road as if it was built into her DNA. “As in Snoop Doggy Dogg.”

  “You rap much?” she asked him softly. He just put his head back out into the wind and let his ears flap to some secret canine rhythm.

  She was in the hands of strangers and had no idea what came next.

  * * *

  Ridley Claremont III slowed to a stop and looked at the sign.

  Chiuso.

  It wasn’t much of a sign, but then it wasn’t much of a road—so that, at least, fit. The meaning was clear enough though—even if he didn’t know Italian.

  Behind the knee-high steel tripod with its one-word sign, someone had dumped a load of boulders across the one lane of pavement. Cliff above, steep fields below, and not a single gap big enough to slide his Indian Chieftain Classic motorcycle through. Even if he did, the prospects weren’t good.

  Closed.

  The sign was weathered by more than a week or month. Several seasons’ detritus had gathered around the base of the boulders. Beyond must lay a washout that they’d fix…someday. When they got around to it. As if. This was Italy. He was no longer in France. Or Switzerland. Or Germany. Time moved very differently here and he still had no handle on it.

  He wondered how many signs on his way here had warned him, in Italian, that this route was closed. On the map it had looked fine. The high coastal road wandering above the seaside cliffs had seemed like the route to follow rather than the autostrada. He was in no rush. The scenic route suited him just fine.

  He’d picked it up at the French border and spent the last couple weeks following its wandering way south as it climbed up inland to Apricale and back down to Portofino. This time, not far past Monterosso (and the lovely Magdalena—a Polish housewife seeking an adventurous holiday—whom he’d been only too happy to accommodate) and Vernazza (with a harbor so lovely that he hadn’t minded exploring it alone), the coastal road had finally let him down.

  To backtrack fifty or more kilometers inland across the winding hills to pick up the autostrada was more than he could face. At least for today. Maybe tomorrow too. It wasn’t as if he had anywhere he had to be…or anywhere to be at all, for that matter.

  There had been another road just five or so twisting kilometers back. No bigger than this one, but he’d decided to give it a pass. It was just another tiny path down to another tiny cliff town he’d never heard of—Cornflakes? No, that couldn’t be right. He’d been able to see it down the coast and a thousand feet below, perched atop a cliff-wrapped prominence. Just like a hundred other scenic little Italian towns, clinging to the rocks for dear life. It wouldn’t be any different than the others he’d rolled through since entering the country.

  He shrugged his shoulders inside his black leather. It had been too hot rolling slowly along the twisting road. Now, stopped in the sun and staring at the blasted chiuso sign, it was cooking him alive. He’d never liked the damned thing anyway, preferred his old denim jacket. But women could somehow tell that he was wearing a couple thousand bucks of Fendi and it seemed to work for them. Besides, it was one of the last gifts his mom had given him. Bibi had been the best mom in history. Four months wasn’t near long enough to accept her loss. He still turned to her without thinking, multiple times a day, but she was no longer there.

  Resigned, he kicked the Indian Chieftain back to life and backtracked. It turned out to be only three kilometers but it was so slow and twisty that it felt like twenty. Twenty that he’d never intended to retrace. His goal had been to always keep moving forward until he’d seen what Europe had to offer. The place was no bigger than the continental US, shouldn’t take that long to catch the highlights. Maybe he’d hit Australia next, rolling the big bike across the vast Outback and see what the deal was.

  “All part of the adventure, Ridley,” he told himself without much enthusiasm. That had been lacking lately. “Some grand adventure.” Barely three months on the bike and he’d already covered whole chunks of Europe. Nothing seemed to hold him for long—not even the women. Of course, they never had.

  He stopped at the turn and looked back over his shoulder: no hint that the road was closed ahead. At least nothing that said chiuso or anything similar. Maybe you were supposed to just know. Yeah, that had worked just so well for him up to now. He “just knew” jack shit!

  Taking the turn, he rolled down the cliff road. It followed torturous switchbacks too tight to really unleash the bike’s 1800cc engine and have any fun. Napa Route 121 and 128. Now that was the place for a midnight ride on a big bike with a long-legged blonde just hanging onto him for dear life. Winding through the scrublands and vineyards, wrapped in the warm smell of dry grass and laurel, climbing over the ridge to run along the shores of Lake Berryessa. If he got lucky—and he was skilled at getting lucky—a little moonlit skinny-dipping and even closer contact with said long legs.

  The French Alps. Oh yeah. Once he’d figured out that he just needed to suggest a motorcycle ride along a section of the Tour de France bicycle race route, he’d been set. The French loved their bicycles and he’d certainly enjoyed the French women. Worked better than a dinner date at the Celadon or The French Laundry in Napa. Cheaper too.

  This tiny bit of nowhere Italian cliffside town was so obscure that only lost souls like himself would ever come here.

  Shit!

  He kicked down a gear and let the engine take the load of trying to move slowly enough on the steep downgrade.

  Not lost soul. Wandering soul. That sounded better. Even if it was less accurate.

  Third son of a top Sonoma vineyard family. Two shithead older brothers who had always hated his guts, which was only fair, he supposed, as he’d always hated theirs. Was it his fault that he was the son of the trophy wife? Bibi had been a fun mom. As an added bonus, being young—especially compared with Father’s friends—and beautiful, she’d attracted young and beautiful friends. And their equally comely daughters.

  It had been a sweet setup—until Father’s old ticker gave out at the wheel and ran the Maserati off the edge of Big Sur, taking both of his parents out of the game. So much for having the sexiest mom in all of Sonoma.

  Clarence and Evangene—no wonder they were such shits with names like those—had wanted him off the property the next day. To prove the point, they’d torched Grandfather’s old Indian Chief Blackhawk that he’d spent two summers restoring himself. Then they offered—without qu
ite being stupid enough to say it aloud, which was too bad because he’d had a recorder running—to do the same to him.

  He’d liberated a couple cases of Clarence’s Private Reserve Merlot, sold them for forty grand (about a tenth of what they were worth, just to rub it in), and bought himself an Indian Chieftain Classic. He could have paid cash himself, but where was the fun in that? Compared to the old Blackhawk, the new bike had newer gear, a bigger engine, and the plus of having a double seat for the ladies to ride. (He’d had a monster Ducati crotch rocket for picking up the local ladies, but it would suck for touring.)

  If it wouldn’t have gone back to them, he’d have shoved the rest of the inheritance down his brothers’ ungrateful throats. Of course, what he’d do without money was an issue he’d have thought of later rather than sooner, but choking them with it still sounded attractive.

  They’d tried to cash him out, but Bibi had survived Father by a full day. Because of language in the will and his brothers’ overeager attorney, they’d filed with the court before she died. That meant that Bibi was entitled to receive a quarter share along with the three sons. (His brothers’ mom got three million to shut up and go away.) When Bibi finally succumbed, with only Ridley in attendance, her own will gave her quarter share solely to him. Half owner of the stunningly successful Claremont Family Wines. Not too shabby. Thanks, Mom.

  And he’d trade it all in to sit and crack another bottle of their Signature Pinot together. How many beautiful evenings had they spent like that? She never held back in telling him how he was messing up with the girls and how to treat them better. Bibi didn’t have a coy bone in her, even if Ridley was the only one in the family to appreciate her brain as well as her looks.

  His brothers wanted him gone, fine. But they’d have to pay him a half of everything for life and he’d hired a total shark of a lawyer and auditor to make sure they couldn’t hide a penny. He considered giving his half of the stock to a drug dealer or a street gang just to screw them. For now, though, he was keeping his options open.

  He was getting the feel for Italian roads. They weren’t about speed—not real speed like Route 128, which was more suited to his Ducati Multistrada superbike. These had a certain flow to their winding paths. Sharp twists, hairpins so tight they practically undercut each other, though there was always an olive tree or a cluster of grapevines somehow squeezed into the gaps. No land wasted here.

  Getting the feel for it, he was about to pop up a gear and let it really roll. Then he spotted a small red triangle in the road. Two weeks in the country and he’d already seen enough of those to be slamming on the brakes by instinct alone.

  Good thing that it was there. Just around the next blind corner, the road was completely blocked by a tow truck. No sign of a car, just a cable disappearing downslope into the trees. Since no one was going anywhere until he was done, Ridley parked his Chieftain in the middle of the road, dropped the stand, and climbed off to go enjoy the show. The dry grass reminded him of Sonoma, but the sea was close enough here to fill the air with its saltiness. Baked by the sun, it had an unexpected richness.

  An elderly man in khaki pants and a white button-down shirt stood at the edge of the road looking down the slope.

  “Hey, buddy. Parlez vous anglais?”

  “Je parle English,” the man replied. “In Italy you may wish to enquire: Parli inglese. It would be somewhat more appropriate.”

  “Right. Sorry. Just came out of France,” not that he spoke more than a couple of French phrases—most having to do with, Want a ride on my American classic motorcycle?

  They both looked down the slope as the tow truck operator climbed laboriously up the steep grade. Once he arrived, rather than starting the tow, he joined them in staring down at the small white car far below among the trees. Someone else who’d been driving on this road also parked and came over to join them in looking down at the car.

  He and the old chap rattled some Italian back and forth, but neither seemed in any real hurry; just watching the day go by. The other local started another topic: soccer maybe. That went on for a while before petering out.

  The car in the orchard was like that moment in James Bond’s For Your Eyes Only. The lovely Melina Havelock’s—undeniably the hottest Bond girl ever except maybe the original Honey Rider—tiny Citroen C2V plunging down through the olive grove, dodging all the bad guys in their vicious black Mercedes.

  “Yours?” Ridley asked after they’d gone quiet for a bit.

  “A friend’s.”

  “They okay?”

  The old man turned to inspect him carefully from his boots to his untrimmed hair.

  Ridley knew women liked hair long enough to toy with. Bibi had given him that and other tips on cultivating the “bad boy” look when he’d gotten old enough for his interests to turn to girls. “Bad boy with money.” It took him a while, but he’d eventually gotten it down and it had worked like a magic charm. She’d also attempted to cultivate “bad boy with heart of gold” but that had never really taken. It made him sad to remember how often she’d teased him about that failure. Maybe he’d try again someday for her sake.

  “Are you quite all right?” The guy narrowed his eyes as if seeing inside him.

  “What do you mean? I wasn’t the one who crashed my car down into an olive grove.”

  The man studied him again with those eyes of blue steel. He might be a slender man who stood a few inches shorter than his own six feet and much older, but the look suggested that he wasn’t a man to be messed with.

  “Just asking if your friend was hurt.” Was it bad here to be polite and ask about a stranger?

  “She is unharmed by this experience. Merely shaken.”

  “Shaken, not stirred?” The guy could be an elderly James Bond like David Niven in the original Casino Royale.

  The man’s baleful gaze was certainly up to Niven’s standard of making a man feel small and inconsequential.

  The tow truck driver finally lost interest in a conversation he probably couldn’t understand, revved up the truck’s engine, and engaged the winch. With a loud groan, it began hauling the car up the slope.

  “Do you know anything about this town?” Ridley had to shout to be heard.

  Again with that Niven look.

  “Got any suggestions on where I could shack up for the night?”

  “Shack up?”

  “Sleep. Hotel, whatever.”

  “Where are you from?” The man led him aside, out of the tow driver’s way and distant enough from the truck to speak without shouting.

  “Sonoma. It’s in California.”

  “Some nice wines there,” the man said in the same tone one might use to say there are clouds in the sky.

  Ridley was…had been…was proud of Father’s wines. He and Father had each spent more time with Marissa, the chief vintner, than his two brothers combined. Maybe he should have taken over the winery and thrown them out. Little late to think of that. But hell, even Bibi had taken an interest in the process once Ridley had started really telling her about it. Some nice wines? Shit, man! Better than a lot of your overpriced Italian ones, buddy.

  “What is your name, young man?”

  “Ridley Claremont III. Folks call me…Ridley.” It sounded dumb, but no one was allowed to call him Lee anymore. Not since Bibi had died, because that had been her nickname for him and it still hurt too much to hear it coming from someone else’s mouth. It was as if was suddenly someone else. Something about that amused Conrad, or at least made him thoughtful.

  “Conrad Evenston.” The guy had a grip of steel even tougher than the one in his blue eyes.

  The guy studied him for several long moments before answering.

  “There’s a nice café, Il Cane. The Dog. You may make inquiries there. You may find it at the base of the main carruggio.”

  “Carruggio? Don’t know that one.”

  “It is a local Ligurian word. I believe Americans unimaginatively call it a pedestrian zone. Much of Corniglia
is carruggio, not open to vehicles. Not even your conveyance.”

  “Corniglia. Il Cane. The Dog. At the base of the main carruggio. How do you say ‘thanks’ in Italian?”

  “Grazie.”

  “Grazie then. Appreciate the tip.”

  A final deafening groan from the aged tow truck and the crumpled little car heaved into view over the grassy shoulder. Like most cars on the Italian roads, it wasn’t much bigger than his bike. Right side fender and door bashed in. The front metal was a mess as well. No head-punch mark on the inside of the windshield and the airbags hadn’t been unleashed; still… Ridley glanced down the long slope.

  “Rough ride.”

  “Eh?” The tow truck driver asked him.

  Ridley turned to Conrad to translate for him, but the man was gone. He caught just a glimpse of Conrad’s silver hair as he disappeared beneath the olive trees.

  Chapter 2

  Perhaps Italy wasn’t a total disaster.

  Erica was feeling much better about the day—now that it was evening. She leaned against the railing of her tiny balcony. Her stance practically plunged her face into the wild array of flowers planted in boxes along the wrought iron rail. Geraniums in purples, pinks, and whites that looked so happy it was impossible not to grin at them. She’d had a hot shower, changed into fresh clothes, and cradled a stoneware mug of tea that smelled of lemon and honey. Not honey-honey, but Italian honey. Like it had been made by little beret-wearing bees. No, that would be France. Happy bees anyway, singing little Italian bee songs as they sought pollen from among the flowers.

  The room was so Italian that it would have been a cliché if she wasn’t standing in it.

  The B&B was in a stone building that probably dated back to the Medici just like Conrad’s olive trees. The ground floor was a café that Bridget promised her she’d like when she was ready to come down.