Who's the Boss Now?

by Susannah Erwin

  She could save the rest. Maybe. Her mind raced, seeking options.

  The man lowered the cast-iron skillet, letting it fall to his side. She had been so focused on the bottle, she’d almost forgotten she wasn’t alone.

  They stared at each other for a heartbeat, their chests rising and falling almost in unison. So this was the ridiculously handsome new owner. She recognized the square jaw with the perpetual five-o’clock shadow, the thick dark brows set atop a piercing gaze from news stories on the internet. But neither the photos nor the gossip had conveyed the breadth of his shoulders, the way he exuded power and strength, despite being clad in only low-slung sweatpants that draped off narrow hips.

  And she was the interloper here, not him. “Are you going to use that thing?” she croaked, pointing at the pan.

  He shook his head, his mouth working for a few beats. “What the hell?” exploded from his lips. “Who the—?”

  “I can explain.” He was furious. Deservedly so. But she had a bigger concern at the moment. “Right now, I need a new bottle. A container. Something.” She started to push past him, the bottle cradled against her.

  He caught her arm with his left hand. His grip was solid and warm after the chill of the cellar. Wine splashed on her shirt, and her breath caught. She wouldn’t be able to break free. Not without losing what wine remained—and leaving behind all her other bottles.

  “No, you don’t,” he growled. “Explain now.”

  “Let me go and I will.”

  His eyebrows shot toward his hairline. “Let you—Lady, you tried to clobber me!”

  “You threatened me first!” With her chin, she indicated the frying pan in his right hand. “And you’re right. I’m sorry. But you scared me.”

  “You’re breaking into my house!”

  “Technically, I’m about to leave your house. Which I’m still happy to do. But please. I need something to hold the wine.” She met his gaze for the first time. His eyes glittered in the dim light. She took in a gulp of air. “Please.”

  His frown deepened, but his hold on her sleeve loosened enough for her to twist and feint right before dodging around him to the left, to find the door—wallpapered to blend in with the rest of the wall—that led to the service corridor, and beyond it, the kitchen. There had to be something she could use in there.

  The heat of his fingers continued to linger on her skin.

  * * *

  Evan blinked. Did the thief...disappear into the wall? What the hell?

  He glanced at the bottles still in the elevator. They didn’t have labels. Instead, it looked like someone had scrawled notes on the glass with a paint pen.

  That made no sense at all. The owner’s cellar contained rare and very valuable wine. A thief out to make a profit would have gone for the bottles most likely to fetch a high price on the market. What was his intruder up to?

  He explored the area of the wall where she had disappeared and discovered the door, left slightly ajar. A vague memory surfaced of the agent who had represented the estate talking enthusiastically about secret passageways. Evan thought it had been real estate hype, an attempt to upsell a back stairway or an attic crawl space. But no. The house did indeed come with hidden entrances and hallways. And his late-night guest knew about them.

  He paused to listen, then followed the faint sound of rustling to another door. Pushing it open, he discovered he was back in the kitchen, a cavernous space with appliances that would be right at home in a 1950s sitcom. Two cabinets had their doors flung open, while a wine bottle sat propped upside down in the dish rack next to the stainless steel sink.

  The thief was rummaging through a third cabinet. She threw him a glance over her shoulder. “Where are the carafes?” she asked. “Linus kept them here. Did you move them?”

  Evan patted the pockets of his sweatpants for his phone, intending to call the authorities and hold her there until they arrived. However, his pockets were empty. He must have left his phone in the other room. “Talk. Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  She turned to face him. He had his first good look at her in the bright glare of the overhead lights. Dark hair, more raven than chestnut, had been twisted into a bun at the top of her head, but several locks had escaped, the wavy tendrils sticking out every which way. Her skin was pale, almost translucent in contrast to the black T-shirt and dark skinny jeans she wore. Those jeans outlined long, slender legs that led to gently curved hips, but her loose-fitting top concealed the rest of her curves. He dragged his gaze back up to her face. The freezing glare he received informed him he had been caught looking. “Carafes?” she repeated.

  “You don’t seem to understand who I am or how much trouble you’re in. I ask the questions.”

  Her mouth twisted. “Oh, I understand. You’re St. Isadore’s new owner. The tech guy. The entire valley has been wondering when you would arrive, although obviously, I didn’t think you’d moved in yet. In fact, I would’ve put money down that you wouldn’t move in at all. So, carafes. Are they in the butler’s pantry?”

  He shook his head, confused, but he’d puzzle her words out later. “I didn’t put anything anywhere. I’ve barely set foot in this room.” She glanced at the iron skillet still loosely held in his right hand and raised an eyebrow. He put the pan back on the blackened burner on top of the antique stove. He didn’t get the feeling from her he would require it. “Except to get this. You, however, seem to know the place well. Who are you?”

  “Maybe if you examined the kitchen as thoroughly as you check out women’s bodies, you’d know where things are.” Her tone was light as she continued searching the cabinet, but she held her head as if she were a monarch giving the annual address to the kingdom’s subjects.

  “Just ensuring I can give the authorities an accurate description of who broke into my home.”

  “I didn’t break in. I have a key.” She opened another door. “Most people change the locks when they move into a new place, you know.”

  She had a key? He added that piece of information to his mental catalog of surprising things he’d learned about his thief. “You don’t have an invitation. That makes it a break-in.”

  “In California, I believe that makes it trespassing.” She took out a small plastic water pitcher, scratched and discolored from years of use. “May I borrow this, please?”

  He narrowed his gaze. “I’m not a lawyer, but if Law and Order reruns have taught me anything, it’s only trespassing—which is still a misdemeanor—if you don’t intend to commit a crime. The wine stacked in my elevator says otherwise.”

  She crossed the kitchen and started to pull out cabinet drawers, one after the other. Have you seen—aha!” She pulled out a corkscrew. “I’m not committing a crime. Well, okay, I’ll agree I am trespassing. But not stealing.” Her voice trailed off as she lifted the upside-down wine bottle from where it rested in the dish rack to inspect it. “At least it was a clean crack, which is weird because I doubt I hit the pan hard enough to cause one.” She poured the contents into the pitcher and then sighed, her shoulders falling. “There. I wish the wine could age more, but at least I can taste it.”

  Then she turned to face him. “Thank you for not calling the sheriff. And for your patience. I owe you an explanation—”

  Blue-and-red revolving lights appeared, shining through the kitchen window to cast multicolored shadows. The sound of slamming car doors accompanied them. She raised her eyebrows. “I guess you did call them.”

  Evan shook his head. What the hell? “I don’t have my phone on me.” He pointed at her. “Stay here. I want your story.”

  He made his way to the front entrance, flicked on the lights and opened one of the heavy wooden doors. The chilled January night air rushed in, but his focus was on the sheriff’s car parked in the circular gravel driveway with its lights still flashing. Two men stood by the car, speaking to each other. “Evening
,” Evan called out, although it was more like early morning. “What’s the trouble, deputies?”

  The taller and stockier of the two men straightened up. “No trouble. Sorry to disturb you.”

  The shorter, leaner man strode toward the door. As he came closer, Evan could make out his face. His heart sank past his stomach.

  “Nico.”

  His younger brother pushed past him without a word. Evan turned to the sheriff. “What did he do?”

  “Who, Nico? Oh, he’s not in trouble. But he was a passenger in a car pulled over because the driver was under the influence. Now, your brother is sober, but he doesn’t have a valid driver’s license and therefore couldn’t take over the operation of the vehicle. I was finished with my shift, so I offered to give him a ride here.”

  “With flashing lights?” Adrenaline still thumped in Evan’s veins. The night just kept getting more surreal.

  The sheriff ignored his question and waved instead. “Hey, Marguerite.”

  “Hello, Deputy Franks.”

  Evan turned to see the thief standing behind him, lit by the ornate wrought iron chandelier hanging in the foyer.

  “Didn’t think you still lived here,” the sheriff said.

  The thief—Marguerite, Evan mentally corrected himself—shot Evan a glance. When he didn’t speak, she took a deep breath. “I don’t.”

  The sheriff’s gaze ping-ponged between Evan and Marguerite, and Evan remembered for the first time since finding his thief that he was wearing only a pair of sweatpants. Then the sheriff nodded. “All right. Well. I should get going.”

  “Thanks for bringing Nico home.” Evan shut the front door and turned to Marguerite. “I still want your story. First I have to find my brother.”

  “He’s in the kitchen,” she said. “He seems angry. That’s why I came to find you.”

  “Nico is always angry,” Evan muttered.

  “Why didn’t you tell the sheriff you caught me trespassing?” She cocked her head. More dark locks fell from her messy bun to frame her high cheekbones.

  Evan didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure if he had an answer. “My brother, then you,” he repeated and motioned for her to lead the way.

  Nico sat at the wide oak table that occupied one end of the kitchen. He had a loaf of bread and a mammoth jar of peanut butter by one elbow, and he was chugging from—

  “Oh, no,” Marguerite exclaimed. She extricated the pitcher from Nico’s grasp. Only a few drops remained. If Nico wasn’t drunk when he got here, he was now doing his best to remedy that.

  That was the last straw for a night that contained more straw than a haystack. Evan slammed his palms down on the table. Nico and Marguerite both raised startled gazes to meet his. “Start talking.” He pointed at Nico. “You first. You went to bed hours ago.”

  “I changed my mind,” Nico said, his tone as flat as the piece of bread he was spreading with peanut butter. A shock of light brown hair fell across his forehead and hid his eyes, but Evan knew Nico’s gaze would be just as expressionless. “A girl I met earlier called and said she and her friends were going out and she’d come get me. You were in the shower.”

  “You need to tell me.”

  “I know you forget, but I’m twenty-one years old. So, no, I don’t.” Nico bit into his sandwich. “But I texted you when the sheriff pulled us over. Thanks for picking me up, by the way. Having the sheriff drive me back here wasn’t at all humiliating.”

  “I—” Damn it. His phone was in the living room. And he hadn’t looked at his messages since he first sat down to go through paperwork four hours ago. It felt like a century had passed. “We’re not talking about me,” he finally said. “We’re talking about you.”

  Nico’s response was to take another bite out of his sandwich. “Who’s she?” he asked, jerking a thumb at Marguerite.

  “Oh, no,” Marguerite said again, with an entirely different intonation. She clutched the water pitcher to her chest. “I’m not a part of this. I’ll grab my things and go.”

  “Do ‘your things’ include the multiple bottles of wine you’re stealing?” Evan asked.

  “More wine?” Nico perked up. “If it’s what I was drinking, it’s excellent.”

  “Really?” Marguerite smiled, the first real smile Evan had seen from her. And it was...amazing. He’d noted she had expressive eyes, the dark blue of an evening sky. But when she smiled, they glowed, making her appear lit from within. “That bottle was pretty young.”

  “Tasted great to me.” Nico carried his plate to the sink.

  “Thanks.” Marguerite sniffed what remained in the water pitcher. “But a wine expert would say—”

  “Too much tannin, so yeah, it would benefit from more aging. But the flavors were nicely balanced. Anyway, good night.” Nico left the kitchen without a backward glance.

  “Hey, we’re not done—” Evan called after him, but Marguerite’s hand on his arm caused the rest of his words to die in his throat. He glanced down at where her slender fingers rested on his bare bicep.

  Pink colored her cheeks. She took her hand away and stepped to the sink where she washed out the water pitcher. “Let him go. He was spoiling for a fight, but now he’s thrilled he scored a point off me. Allow him his victory.”

  Evan still felt the pressure of her touch. “You’re not only a thief, you’re a psychologist? Multitalented.”

  Her color deepened and she held her chin up. “I’m neither. I’m a winemaker. And I was once his age.” Her tone implied that Evan must not remember what it was like to be a young adult.

  She was right. He didn’t. Because when he was Nico’s age, he was running his first company. Nor did he need to be reminded by a thief of the chasm between Nico and him, no matter how intriguing he found her. “My brother isn’t your concern.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Okay. So, like I said, let me get my things—”

  “You still owe me your story. Let me guess—you say you’re a winemaker, so you made the wine you’re steal—”

  “Not stealing.”

  “Liberating, then.” He made air quotes with his fingers. “But I don’t remember a Marguerite listed among St. Isadore’s key staff. I thought the head winemaker was a Calvin or a Cassian or a—”

  “Casper. Casper Vos. He’s at Dellavina Cellars now.” Steel shutters slammed down behind her eyes, turning her gaze opaque.

  Evan regarded her. “You don’t seem to like him.”

  “Most of St. Isadore’s staff is now gone,” she said, ignoring his comment.

  “I see that for myself.”

  “They started to leave even before Linus had his stroke. Might not be a bad thing to have to start over. Loyalty wasn’t their strong suit.” A bitter breeze danced through her words.

  He leaned against the table. “Except for you, I take it. What was your role at St. Isadore?”

  She sighed. “That’s a complicated question.”

  He waved his hand at the dark windows. “There are a few hours left before sunrise.”

  She opened her mouth—

  The lights overhead winked and went out. The room plunged into darkness.

  Two

  Marguerite stood still, allowing her eyes to adjust to the sudden change. But apparently her companion had other ideas. She heard a thump and a crash, followed by several muttered words she couldn’t quite make out, but she was sure most of them had four letters. “You okay?” she said.

  “This damn night” was the response. “What the hell is happening now?”

  Marguerite chuckled. She couldn’t help it, even though her heart still pounded painfully from being caught trying to sneak away with her wine. Her pulse had started racing from the moment the bottom of the bottle had hit the frying pan and now continued to act as if she were competing in the last leg of a triathlon.

  Or at least that�
�s why she told herself her heart was pumping overtime. It had nothing to do with the fact Evan Fletcher wore nothing but sweatpants, which constantly threatened to fall off his narrow hips. She was almost glad the lights were off so she wouldn’t have to work so hard to keep her eyes from lingering on his impressive pecs and the wall of abdominal muscles below.

  “The previous owner’s memory started to slip toward the end. He was afraid he’d forget to turn off lights and run up the electricity bill, so every room is on a timer.”

  “At two a.m.?” He sounded both put out and disbelieving.

  “He was a night owl. I’ll get them back on.”

  “I can turn on my own lights,” he muttered, followed by the scrape of furniture against the floor and another thud. A loud thud.

  Marguerite gasped. It was bad enough the sheriff had seen her at St. Isadore late at night. If he had to come back because the new owner was hurt while she was on the premises...it would not do her reputation, already tattered after her confrontation with Linus’s nephews, any favors. As it was, she could already hear tomorrow’s gossip leapfrogging from breakfast table to luncheon counter thanks to Deputy Franks spotting her with a half-dressed Evan tonight.

  She struggled to distinguish shape from shadow in the dark, but Evan had to be near the kitchen table. She moved quickly—only to trip over what in hindsight she realized were his bare feet. She stumbled and went down, her hands stopping her fall. “Ow!”

  “That hurt, damn it,” came the grumpy voice from her left.

  “Are you okay? What happened?”

  “Chair. Nico didn’t push it in.”

  He sounded so disgruntled, she had to laugh. “No broken bones, I take it.”

  “Just my broken dignity. What little remained. You okay? Sounded like you went down harder than me.”

  Her wrists stung from taking the brunt of her fall. She ran a quick check of the rest of her body. Feeling the firm hardness of his thigh under her left calf, she realized her legs were entwined with his. She quickly untangled herself. “Um. No. More shocked by finding myself on the floor than hurt.”