Page 1 of Fire on the Moon

Chapter One

Had she leaped into the middle of a family feud? Or was this her chance to heal a twenty-year-old rift between two brothers? Francesca Turner wasn’t sure, but she knew that her dying father kept saying he wished he could see his older brother, Angelo, one more time.

She ached to grant that wish. But she wasn’t foolish enough to break the rules and simply invite her uncle to visit. She wanted to see what he was like first, and so she’d done a little research and called him on the phone.

The call coming out of the blue must have startled him.

“This is little Francesca?” he asked, his voice skeptical and at the same time hopeful.

“Yes. But I’m not a little girl anymore.”

“It’s been so long.” His tone took on a note of urgency. “Where are you? Is your dad okay? Can I come and see you?”

“You know it’s complicated. Why don’t I come down there, and we’ll talk first.”

“Of course. Wonderful. I’ll send you the air fare. Just give me a few days to finish some important business.”

She’d agreed, and now here she was pulling into the driveway of his place in Naples, Florida—in what looked like a very plush neighborhood.

She hadn’t told Dad about the trip. It was a secret—until she could be sure everything was okay.

There was a fence around the property. And when she pressed the buzzer on a post beside the high gate, she could see a camera inspecting her through the side window of her rental. Then a disembodied voice asked her to state her name and date of birth.

She blinked. That was what they always asked when you were calling to make a doctor’s appointment—to double-check it was really you. The request from her uncle was like a little jolt from a stun gun, and she wondered if she’d made a serious mistake coming down here.

She looked behind her, wondering if she should just back up and return to the airport. Then she told herself she was overreacting.

When the gate swung inward, she proceeded up a curving driveway bordered by lush foliage you’d only see indoors back home in Massachusetts. Among the green leaves were low plantings of bright impatiens and begonias that had long since been killed off by frost in New England.

The house had been invisible from the street, but as she rounded a bend, her jaw dropped. The white stucco structure sparkling in the tropical sun was the size of a small apartment building, but a lot more stylish, with shady verandas, a huge second-story balcony, a four-car garage and a front door that looked like it had been stolen from a Spanish castle.

As soon as she parked her rental Hyundai in the brick-paved circular drive, the massive door opened, and a short, dark-haired man wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt stepped out. He looked so much like her father that her breath caught. Well, she corrected herself, like Dad had looked before he’d gotten sick. But the prominent nose, the deep-set eyes and the wavy dark hair were the same.

As she climbed out of the car, he hurried to the driver’s side, seeming a little nervous, and she suspected that he was wondering how to act, now that she’d arrived.

“Honey, you’re all grown up. And you’ve turned into a beauty like your momma.”

Mom had died a couple of years ago, and Francesca still missed her.

“I’m sorry you didn’t want to stay with me,” Uncle Angelo continued, then looked like he wished he hadn’t said it.

“I didn’t want to put you to any trouble,” she answered cautiously. Really, she had good reason to keep some distance between them.

“Well, I’m so glad you came. Come in. Come in. You must be worn out from your trip.”

She studied his tanned face. Now that the greetings were over, she saw that his features were drawn and his eyes darted around the garden before coming back to her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing. Nothing. I’m just trying to finalize a business deal.” He led her into an entrance foyer as large as Dad’s living room back home, then through to a covered veranda. The view swept down to the Gulf, where she saw a wrought iron fence blocking direct access to the beach. She might have asked him if he ever went down there, but she didn’t want to start off this reunion by bringing up his security concerns.

Searching for something to say, she murmured, “This is a beautiful setting.”

“Yes. I was lucky to find the property.”

At one side of the seating area was an alfresco kitchen, where he opened the fridge and brought out a bright red plastic pitcher.

“Fresh-squeezed orange juice,” he said. “A perfect welcome to Florida. And some little sandwiches. Chicken salad. Tuna. Ham and cheese. Egg salad. I had my housekeeper make them before she went home for the day. What’s your pleasure?”

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