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approximately the height and girth of a sequoia pressed into her belly. Or maybe she was unimpressed.
    “Sure.” He let her go.
    He let her go. Again.

Chapter 10

    R afe on her heels, Brooke strode from the public parking lot, packed with springtime tourists, up the side street and past the cars stacked up under Bella Terra’s portico.
    The resort’s main building had been constructed in the twenties in the old California Spanish style: thick golden stucco walls to keep out the summer’s heat, a clay tile roof, and green-painted shutters. The family had added on until it included three wings with one hundred guest rooms. Each generation had remodeled until the merest remnants remained of the original building, and within the last fifty years, cottages had been scattered throughout the vineyards and among the trees.
    Always the Di Lucas had treasured the feel of California’s history, intertwined with theirs, the ups and downs, the grapes and the land, the heat and the glory.
    The front door led onto First Street and the bustle of downtown. The back door of the main building led to the check-in area. There the valets took control of the cars, golf carts waited to take the guests to their cottages . . . and it was there Brooke headed. She nodded to the bellmen, young men and women casually dressed in dark golf shirts and khaki chinos, pushing carts of luggage toward the bell desk.
    She paused and critically observed as the server for their winery of the day, Folderol Winery, poured for their incoming guests from their selection of four wines, discussed their merits, and handed out information.
    The resort kept a large beverage server full of lemonade to offer to their guests; someone had spilled a glass on the polished concrete floor. One of their housekeepers was on her knees cleaning it up.
    Brooke walked to her side and placed her hand on Madelyn’s shoulder.
    Predictably, Madelyn jumped. She looked like a street fighter: short and thin, with blond hair shaved close to her head, a snake tattoo around one wrist, and a scar on the side of her neck. The housekeeping staff complained that she was freaky, but because Madelyn worked hard, took their shifts if they wanted to slack off, and took double time if they were shorthanded, they usually forgave the freaky.
    Brooke lifted a brow to the manager behind the desk and got a nod in return. Although the afternoon check-in rush was ongoing, he and his staff had everything under control.
    She took her first deep breath since the moment Rafe had walked into Sarah’s hospital room, and felt herself relax. She was back in her element, in charge of making sure the visitors to Bella Terra Resort were happy, at ease, well fed, and entertained—and she had the personnel to handle that task.
    Turning to the concierge desk, she waited while her second in command, Victor Ruíz, laid out a wine country map for an older couple and circled suggested destinations.
    “How does he decide where to send them?” Rafe asked.
    “If they know the kinds of wines they enjoy, we have something to go by. But a lot of the time people haven’t got a clue about whether they like cabernets or carignans, whites or reds, or if they like wine at all. Then it’s tricky. Restaurants are easier. Everyone knows what kind of food they like—although sometimes they lie about it so they sound sophisticated.” The line in front of the desk took a sudden jump as a group of four couples stepped up to the desk and a very young couple stepped off the elevator looking confused and concerned. “Will you excuse me?” she said to Rafe, but didn’t wait for a reply. At this time of the day, the staff all performed double duty, whatever needed to be done, and if that inconvenienced Rafe, well . . . good.
    She got behind the desk and dealt with the couples first, setting them up on a wine country tour bus for the following day. She helped two elderly ladies get a reservation at Speak-Easy’s Cajun Restaurant,