Corsica Gate Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Praise for Robena Grant

  Corsica Gate

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A word about the author...

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  “You mean…?” She looked back at the guy. Nah, impossible. I’ve never been that lucky.

  “Yeah, that’s Carlo Antonelli.”

  “You don’t want to accept the date, just make up whatever excuse you want.” Tony beckoned.

  A jolt of heat spread through her abdomen when Carlo grinned and waved. He ducked through the slow moving traffic and stopped in front of her smiling a crooked smile. Pushing his sunglasses onto his head, white teeth flashing, and mahogany eyes sparkling, he held out his right hand.

  My wedding date? Her heartbeat pounded, and her mouth went dry.

  “You must be Dia.” He tucked the book underneath one arm and held her hand gently with his other big warm hand. “Carlo Antonelli.”

  “Yes.” The word came out on a soft breath. She swallowed hard. “Tony mentioned you wanted to speak to me about Marco’s wedding.”

  Something inside of her shifted, as if a huge iceberg started to melt in her chest and slide sideways, leaving a pool of cool, blue, bubbling water. She floundered for a minute wondering what to say next, because she couldn’t use the word date. Not while looking into his magnificent eyes. Then she remembered he was Italian, or at least part Italian. Strike one. Her shoulders stiffened. She had no interest in Italian men. She hitched up the purse onto her shoulder, and squinted from behind the dark sunglasses.

  Praise for Robena Grant

  CORSICA GATE won second place in the contemporary romance category of the 2013 Heart of the West contest.

  ~*~

  “The characters are tough, yet believable. GONE TROPICAL is a beautifully written book and leaves the reader wanting more.”

  ~InD’Tale magazine (5 Stars)

  Corsica Gate

  by

  Robena Grant

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Corsica Gate

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Robena Schaerf

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Champagne Rose Edition, 2015

  Print ISBN 978-1-62830-714-6

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-715-3

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Donna Gates: a true survivor.

  ~

  And yes, Nico does have a brother.

  Chapter One

  “It’s been six months.” Mama’s shrill voice floated in from the kitchen and settled in the living room like a giant cloud of judgment. “You gotta get back out there, Dia Sophia.”

  A warm breeze fluttered through the open window carrying familiar scents from San Diego’s Little Italy. Dia breathed in the aroma of warm bread and something else, probably spaghetti with meatballs and marinara sauce. Hearing the warning shuffle of Mama’s house slippers, she sat up on the sofa. Cat gave her a one-eyed glance, slid off the chair, and dashed down the hall, a streak of black and white fur.

  “Your brother’s wedding is the perfect time, and there’s nobody better than Antony Cupertino to be your date,” Mama said.

  “He cheated on his wife.”

  “What?” Mama frowned. “Who says these things?”

  “Everyone.”

  Mama rolled up her apron from the bottom, sat carefully on the edge of the wing chair Cat had vacated, afraid a crumb might escape the apron and land on the forty-year-old faded chintz, or the well-worn rug. Some things never changed. If Cat left behind too many black hairs, he would be banished to the outdoors for a few hours.

  “Maybe his wife did the rumble-tumble on him first, and—”

  “Ma, it doesn’t matter.” Dia kept her voice even, although she wanted to scream. Rumble-tumble…geez, couldn’t she say sex? But there’d be no challenging the woman who referred to her by both given names.

  Not a good time to tell Mama about the trip. The woman was in denial about the apartment hunting; her daughter taking a trip alone would tip her over the edge. Besides, it was too close to Marco’s wedding day to upset her.

  Her phone rang. She glanced at the number.

  “You can talk.” Mama nodded at the phone.

  “It’s not important. I’ll call later.”

  Mama shook her head. She thought every phone call was important. She hadn’t moved well into this decade of texting and social media. But Ma knew how to conveniently lose messages. “I’m absolutely, one-hundred percent, not going to my brother’s wedding with Tony.”

  “Why not?”

  “Hell, I won’t get in the same car as—”

  “Don’t curse in this house.” A scowl darkened Mama’s bronzed features. She undid the straps of the apron and rolled it into a ball while muttering in rapid Italian interspersed with old village colloquialisms.

  It took all Dia’s concentration to keep up with her. “English, Mama.”

  “And just-a.” Mama waved one hand around. “Just you remember Mrs. C. She helped me when Papa died. God rest his soul.”

  “I know, I know, Ma. Don’t get all excited.”

  “Excited? Without that job she gave me, you wouldn’ta graduated from college.”

  Dia chewed at her lower lip, until she caught herself. Papa had set up college funds, and it was those funds that had provided for her education, and not Mrs. Cupertino’s job. Not that she would remind Mama of that. All she wanted…all she needed right now was a little peace and quiet. “You’ve got to quit matchmaking. I’ll choose my own man. Okay?”

  Truth? She wanted no guy in her life at all. She’d dated enough in college before her engagement to Jason. A mental video—a haze of tequila shots, wild dancing, and men—well, boys really—streamed through her mind. She toyed with her phone.

  “What am I supposed say to Mrs. C?” Mama paced the room muttering in Italian. Her dark eyes snapped, and her hands waved. Long, manicured red talons stabbed at the air. “Tell me that.”

  “What happened, Ma? Who made the call about this date?”

  “Tony called to ask if you had a date.” Mama looked down at her house slippers.
“I tell him no. I say to Mrs. C. that you will come over today.”

  “Okay. So, I’ll tell Mrs. Cupertino I already have a date.”

  “But you don’t. I don’t like the lies, Dia.”

  “Then I’ll tell the truth. I’ll tell her it’s my choice, and that I’m going alone.”

  “Choice? Hah. Look at the mess you’ve made with choices,” Mama said. “And not one man of Italian blood.”

  Darn. Mama knew her thoughts on Italian men. Is she looking for a fight? Dia sat taller. She’d always said Italian men were too passionate, and they had too much macho bullshit going on. The truth was her personality was too cool—as in unloving and unlovable—for such a man.

  “An Italian man would honor his parents and his community. A promise is a promise.” Mama sucked in a deep breath, tapped twice over her heart, and then made the sign of the cross. “Until you and your boyfriends, the Romani family held their heads high in this neighborhood.”

  “I know. I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you.”

  Mama turned and stomped to the kitchen. Dia couldn’t dispute what Mama had said; she really didn’t care for the old traditions. Jason, even though not Italian, was Catholic. They would have married at Our Lady of the Rosary. That would have pleased her mother enough so she’d have forgiven her for marrying a man with Irish roots…eventually.

  Dia blew at the hair that hung low over her eyebrows. Another thing Mama hated. Tomorrow she’d have her bangs trimmed, which reminded her of Tony. Tony was old. He’d gone to school with Marco, so he’d be around thirty-two. Eight years older than her, and already with a receding hairline. He did the awful comb-over thing that only brought more attention to the bald spots. And he had so cheated, but not with another woman, and that’s why his wife divorced him.

  “You’re lucky to have such a nice soon-to-be sister-in-law,” Mama called from the kitchen, her words mixing with the sounds of pots and pans clanging together.

  “Yeah, I know. I love Maria.”

  Dia stood and peered into the distorted hall mirror with its black splotches. The mirror was a real treasure from the old country, so Mama claimed. Dia slicked on lip gloss, grinning as she realized she looked just like her brother, without the black spots, of course. Marco and Maria had been together for ages before deciding to tie the knot; nothing at all like her flighty self. She’d leave for vacation in Rome soon after the wedding. On her return she’d move out.

  Would Mama hate being alone again? Guilt flooded her. The day after the wedding, then she’d tell Mama about the trip.

  “She understands,” Mama said.

  Dia almost jumped out of her skin. She hadn’t heard Mama come into the hall. She took in a deep breath to slow her heartbeat. “Who understands?”

  “Maria. She didn’t even beg you to be a bridesmaid. But are you grateful?”

  “I thanked her.” Dia glanced around. Definitely time to move out. Twenty-four years old and living back at home. She sighed at the thought of having spent six months sleeping in the skinny bed with the pink floral comforter staring mindlessly at the purple wall she’d painted as a teenager. She was grateful to Mama. There’d been time to think after she’d been jilted, to save money and to figure out her future, but there was no way they’d ever understand each other.

  “What’s wrong?” Mama asked.

  “I’m looking for keys.” Dia tipped out the contents of the purse onto the sofa. The keys were stuck in the middle of the checkbook, along with the newly signed apartment lease. She turned her back and shoved everything inside the purse before Mama could see. “I’m going out.”

  Severe-looking portraits of family members, long since gone, lined one wall, judging her as she walked past. Dia scooped up Mama’s library books, and smiled at the photos of her very-much-alive clan of aunts, uncles, and cousins neatly arranged on the mantel. A wooden cross hung on the wall behind the sofa. A Virgin Mary statuette held place of honor on an end table. She suppressed a shudder. Mama’s house.

  Dia cleared her throat. “I’ll swing by Mrs. C.’s and talk to Tony. I’ll be nice.”

  “You do that.”

  Mama gave her a skeptical glance and fluffed the cushions on the sofa. God forbid anyone leave a dent in a cushion. The woman was unbelievable; she had one foot stuck in the old country, and the other in the new. Dia kissed her on both cheeks.

  “I’m making lasagna, don’t be late,” Mama said. “Uncle Frank is coming for dinner.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll be back at six thirty.” Dia hurried out the door and stood for a moment in the driveway. She sniffed at the air. When the wind blew you could smell the ocean, and it smelled just like Uncle Frank when he came in off his fishing rig. It was only four blocks down to the water. What would it be like to love a simple guy, lead a simple life, or marry a fisherman?

  Shaking off thoughts on marriage, she fished out her phone, settled into the old Honda, and called the Auto Club travel agency. Anna wasn’t in, so she left a message, and pulled out onto the street. Money would be tight again for a while, but this trip was essential, and Anna was getting her some good deals. Plus, she had her round trip honeymoon ticket to use up.

  She patted the steering wheel. Trading in the Honda could wait.

  ****

  Dia drove down Little Italy’s main street, parked in front of Cupertino’s market and got out of the car. Tony stood there on the pavement beneath the striped green and white canvas canopy, surrounded by split barrels of tomatoes and zucchinis. He wiped his hands on his matching apron.

  “Hey, Dia,” Tony said. “I ah…need to talk to you.”

  His forehead was shiny. It wasn’t hot enough to sweat. She figured he was nervous. “Relax. I’ve already got a date.”

  “No, no, that’s not what—” Tony took a step closer. “You do?”

  “Yep. And that’s all you need to know.” She inched back, but he moved forward. Hell, any closer and they’d be waltzing. “So we’re good then?”

  “Ah, yeah, I guess.” Tony frowned, and glanced back inside the shop at his mother who still kept an eye on them. His dark eyes glistened. “I, ah…I told Mama I asked someone else to the wedding. But I told her I got you another date.”

  “What?” Dia glowered at him. “I don’t want a date, and especially not with some stranger. Will everyone in this damn community stop feeling sorry for me? I want to go alone.”

  Tony’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. Finally he blurted, “He’s a nice guy. Old friend. My stockbroker. Works downtown. Carlo Antonelli.”

  His words had come out in sharp pops like he was using one of those heavy-duty staple guns. He’d pronounced the guy’s name An-ton-elli with a sweep of one hand for emphasis. Dia shoved a fist against her hip. Another Italian, go figure. Yeah, like Tony has a stockbroker. Geez, the guy is probably his bookie or a loser poker buddy.

  “I planned to drop by this evening, introduce you. He’s having dinner with us first.”

  Mrs. C’s hawkish glare burned through the plate glass window. Dia faked a smile. The old woman smiled back. He was tied to his mama’s apron strings. Well, weren’t they both controlled by their mothers? She’d grown up hearing the stories of Tony’s attempts to break away from Little Italy and the family business. His situation wasn’t that different from hers; the bony fingers of an Italian mama had a far reach and a strong grip.

  She looked back at Tony. “Don’t bother with this Antonelli guy. I’m not interested.”

  Dia raised a hand in farewell. Tall, dark, and handsome personified stepped out of the bookstore across the street clad in blue jeans and a white Oxford shirt. His attention was focused on the book in his hand so Dia didn’t have to avert her admiring gaze. The man was definitely worth a second glance. Dark curly hair kissed the collar of his shirt. What would it feel like to run her fingers through it? Backlit by the Little Italy sign suspended high above the center of Main Street, he glimmered in the late afternoon sun. She pulled in an audible breath.

 
“It’s okay,” Tony said. “I know it hasn’t been very long, and Jason—” He shrugged. “Jason is an ass. Carlo will understand. Play nice for ten secs, while I introduce you.” When she didn’t reply, he added, “Okay?”

  “You mean…?” She looked back at the guy. Nah, impossible. I’ve never been that lucky.

  “Yeah, that’s Carlo Antonelli. You don’t want to accept the date, just make up whatever excuse you want.” Tony beckoned.

  A jolt of heat spread through her abdomen when Carlo grinned and waved. He ducked through the slow moving traffic and stopped in front of her smiling a crooked smile. Pushing his sunglasses onto his head, white teeth flashing, and mahogany eyes sparkling, he held out his right hand.

  My wedding date? Her heartbeat pounded, and her mouth went dry.

  “You must be Dia.” He tucked the book underneath one arm and held her hand gently with his other big warm hand. “Carlo Antonelli.”

  “Yes.” The word came out on a soft breath. She swallowed hard. “Tony mentioned you wanted to speak to me about Marco’s wedding.”

  Something inside of her shifted, as if a huge iceberg started to melt in her chest and slide sideways, leaving a pool of cool, blue, bubbling water. She floundered for a minute wondering what to say next, because she couldn’t use the word date. Not while looking into his magnificent eyes. Then she remembered he was Italian, or at least part Italian. Strike one. Her shoulders stiffened. She had no interest in Italian men. She hitched up the purse onto her shoulder, and squinted from behind the dark sunglasses.

  “I didn’t think I’d recognize you.” Carlo punched Tony on the shoulder. “You didn’t do her justice, man.”

  Tony did a fake punch back, and they goofed around for a bit, then he shrugged and grinned. “When you grow up with people it’s hard to get it right. The local gals are like little sisters.” He eyed her for a moment. “We look out for our gals.”

  Huh. There was more to Tony than she’d ever imagined.

  “I’ll leave you two to talk.” Tony hitched his thumb toward the market.

  “Sure,” Carlo said. “Tell your ma I’m looking forward to her stuffed shells. We are having them, right?”