would depend on which one I loved.”
His lips twitched. “Ella the romantic.”
“Is there anything wrong with that?”
He smiled that smile. “Quite the contrary.”
He’d angled toward her, about to say more, when the phone rang again.
With a growl, he set his napkin aside. “Whoever that is, they’re not giving up.”
“I’ll get it.” She pushed back her chair.
Already standing, Tristan put his hand firmly on her shoulder. “Tonight you’re a guest at my table. Allow me.”
But she sprang up and wove around him toward the phone. “I insist.”
He frowned then chuckled as he shook his head. “You’re doing a lot of that lately.”
She wouldn’t have insisted if she weren’t worried it might be Scarpini. She didn’t want Tristan talking to that man, because it would mean explaining that sordid episode. And in two weeks, she’d be gone from this house for good. Tristan need never know about her visit from the police.
But she’d answered the phone dozens of times this week. No wrong numbers, no heavy breathing. No sign of Drago Scarpini. Nevertheless, her palms were damp by the time Tristan was seated again and she picked up the phone.
“Barkley residence.”
Three beats of silence then, “Eleanor? That is you, isn’t it?”
A concrete wall hit and knocked the breath out of her. She blindly reached for the sideboard and held on.
“If you’re wondering how I got the number,” Drago Scarpini said, “you can speak with the new reception-ist at your lawyer’s office. Thank you for the ten grand, by the way. It’s a start.”
The solicitor’s office had given out her number? She squeezed the receiver. “I said under no circumstances—”
Ella stopped, but she’d already let slip the acknowledgement Scarpini needed. He was indeed speaking with Eleanor Jacob.
“The receptionist stumbled over herself giving me your number so that a brother and sister could get in touch again.” He chuckled. “Some people are just so helpful.”
She stole a guilty glance at Tristan, who pushed back his chair again.
“Is everything all right?” Tristan asked.
Her brow prickled as perspiration beaded on her upper lip and nausea rolled high in her stomach. Somehow she managed an unconcerned face, nodded at Tristan then turned and, into the receiver, said very quietly but firmly, “Don’t call again.”
His laugh was pure evil. “Eleanor, you can run but you can’t hide. Not forever, anyway. See you soon, bella. Very soon.”
As the line went dead, the floor tilted under her feet, like the deck of a ship going under. Her stomach twisted and the light seemed to fade.
Tristan materialized beside her, his supportive arm around her waist. “You’re not all right,” he said. “Who was that?”
Giddy, she gazed up into his stormy eyes. If she told him that was Scarpini, he’d want to know the rest. She didn’t want Tristan to know…
Her father had told her once that mud sticks. In other words, bad opinions are darn hard to shift. Ella believed in being truthful, but in this case she didn’t want Tristan for even one moment to picture her as her mother’s murderer.
She made an excuse.
“It was a friend wanting to meet me for coffee to-morrow.” Her voice was threadbare but not trembling, thank heaven. “I’d already told her definitely not. It would have to be next week.”
The lie stuck in her throat. Not only did she hate fibbing, even for this good reason, but linking the word friend with Scarpini in any sense made her physically ill.
Tristan’s brows nudged together. “You didn’t seem pleased to hear from your friend.”
Her throat convulsed. “We…have some things to sort out.”
“Nothing I can do to help?”
She started to make another excuse, but he held her arms and willed her to look into his eyes. “Let me help, Ella.”
She held her breath then crumpled and let the whole story spill out.
“The man who says he’s my half brother—Drago Scarpini—that was him on the phone. He phoned a week ago, too, after you’d taken me to dinner that night. He said the money I left from the will was a start. He said he’d see me…see me soon. I’d hoped he’d go away, but—”
A bubble of panic caught in her throat.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Tristan brought her close and rubbed her back. His heat and scent wrapped around her like a warm winter cloak.
When she’d almost stopped trembling, he gently pulled away and looked at her more deeply. “Tell me the rest.”
She garnered her strength. Since she’d told him this much, she might as well tell him the rest.
“The day after the funeral the police knocked on my door. They wanted to investigate an accusation…”
When she hesitated, he tipped up her chin with a knuckle. “An accusation of what, Ella?”
She swallowed. “Matricide.”
“You?” When she nodded, Tristan laughed. “That’s absurd.” His amused expression dropped. “What evidence did they have?”
“More or less just Scarpini’s accusation.”
“More or less?”
“I administered morphine to my mother for the pain. Scarpini said I overdosed her. I had her prescribed supply but he said, because I’d known a doctor, I could access more.”
“What reason could you have for killing your terminally ill mother?”
“Scarpini was livid I hadn’t given in to his threats. Whether he’d called the police to intimidate me, or he’d hoped that they’d actually charge me, I don’t know. But he told them I was tired of looking after her. That she was about to change her will and I wanted it all.”
“The worst kind of gold digger,” Tristan murmured gravely.
His pupils dilated until his eyes were burning black coals. When he finally spoke, his voice was danger-ously low. “How long have you known this man?”
She was a little taken aback. “I told you. Just weeks before my mother died.”
He nodded, but the slope of his brows said he needed to absorb it. Could she blame him?
