“I take it you haven’t come to tell me again that your childhood was an all-fired disaster,” he said.
“I never did tell you. What would have been the point?” Travis walked to the mahogany sideboard that dominated one wall, opened a bottle of mineral water and poured it, over ice, into a crystal tumbler. “What’s this job you have for me?”
Jonas smiled. “Thought you wasn’t interested.”
“I might not be.” Travis drank some of the water, put down the glass and folded his arms. “But you said it would take me out of L.A. for a while and I’m in the mood for a change of scene. I figured I’d at least listen to the details.”
Jonas folded his arms, too, and leaned back against the wall. Amazing, Travis thought. The old man was eighty-five, but he still looked as hard and wiry as ever.
“Never mind all that politeness crap you gave Marta,” Jonas said. “You’re not havin’ much fun tonight, are you?”
“No,” Travis said bluntly, “I’m not.” A tight smile flickered across his mouth. “But you can’t take any credit for it.”
His father laughed. “Woman trouble.”
“What makes you think so?”
Jonas strolled to the sideboard and poured two fingers of bourbon into his glass.
“Saw you outside with that brunette a while ago. The senator’s girl.” The old man tossed back half the bourbon. “Looked like she was tryin’ to swallow your tongue. Am I right?”
Travis couldn’t help laughing. “I’m sure there’s a more romantic way to put it, Father, but yes, that’s pretty accurate.”
“And you was about as interested as a stallion would be in a cow.”
“Father, your perceptions of my love life are all very interesting, but—”
“Sex life, Boy. Don’t you make none of those stupid mistakes about love. What a man feels for a woman comes straight from his crotch. Mess it up with love, that’s where the problems start.”
Travis looked at the bottle of bourbon, sighed, drank down his water and poured some into his glass.
“I’m sure Marta would be delighted to hear that,” he said.
“I’m not saying I don’t care for Marta. I do. But a man who lets himself think he’s in love is a man in trouble.”
Travis looked at his father. The old man was staring into the distance. His voice had lost its lazy Texas drawl, and gone flat.
“You sound as if you’re speaking from experience,” Travis said softly.
Jonas went on staring for another couple of seconds. Then he took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders and laughed.
“Man gets to be my age, he’s seen enough to know you don’t have to be a jackass to recognize one.”
Travis sipped at his bourbon. “You going to get around to telling me what this job is you’d like me to handle for you?”
His father eased into his favorite leather armchair. His motions were fluid but slower than they’d once been. He really was getting old, Travis thought suddenly. To his surprise, he felt an unexpected twinge of compassion.
“Here’s the situation.” Jonas sat back and crossed his feet at the ankles. “I got me a deal in the works. A company I want to buy, in your neck of the woods. Well, your neck of the woods, figuratively speakin’. It’s up in the Napa Valley.”
“That’s wine country, Father.”
Jonas chuckled. “And a good thing it is, considerin’ that the company I’m lookin’ at makes wine.”
“You? Buying a vineyard?”
“Baron money is invested in lots of things, Travis. If you paid more attention, you’d know that.”
Travis sat down opposite Jonas and told himself not to respond to the taunt.
“If you just want some contracts checked out, I know a couple of guys in Northern California I can recommend.”
“You’re supposed to know somethin’ about wine, isn’t that right, boy?”
“I know enough about it to know what I like to drink and don’t like, but if you’re thinking I know anything about vineyards—”
“I got me a bunch of business managers but not a one of ’em I’d trust to tell a Zinfandel from a Beaujolais.” Jonas smiled. “What’s wrong, son? You look as if you jes’ stepped on a fire ant.”
“Nothing,” Travis said evenly, “except that I’m amazed to hear those two words rolling off your tongue.”
Jonas rose from his chair, went to the sideboard and poured another inch of bourbon into his glass.
“I’d need you to go up there for a day. Two, at the most.”
“And do what? Knowing a Zin from a Beaujolais comes in handy when you’re reading a wine list, but it doesn’t have a damned thing to do with checking out a contract.”
“It is, if you take along my peoples’ financial reports, and if you put to use some of that stuff you know about oak barrel curing, viniculture…” Jonas chuckled. “There’s that look on your face again, boy.”
Travis laughed. He didn’t mean to but hell, he couldn’t help it.
“You’re still a surprise to me, Father,” he said.
“Life’s full of surprises, boy. Well? Will you do it, or won’t you?”
Travis thought about it. A couple of days up north, five hundred miles away from Malibu, and Los Angeles. It sounded pretty good. He liked the Napa Valley; he’d spent some weekends there. And, yeah, he did know a lot about viniculture. There was a time he’d considered sinking some money into a winery.
And then there was Alexandra Thorpe, and getting her out of his head.
“Yes,” he said, before he could think about it too long and change his mind. He put down his glass and held out his hand. “I’ll be glad to do it, Father. Just get together all those reports you mentioned and have them sent to me.”
Jonas’s hand closed on Travis’s. “Already did,” he said, and grinned. “Figured you wouldn’t be able to pass up a chance like this, seein’ as how you fancy yourself a hotshot lawyer and an expert on wine.”
“Seein’ as how you figure yourself an expert on how I’d react to your offer, you mean,” Travis said, with a lazy smile.
“Somethin’ like that.” The old man drank the last of his bourbon, put down his glass and dug his hands into the pockets of his tux. “Anythin’ else you need, you jes let me know.”
Travis nodded and started from the room. At the last second, he swung toward Jonas.
“The vineyard.”
“What about it?”
“Maybe I’m already familiar with it, Father. What’s its name?”
Jonas frowned. “Hawk’s Nest. Eagle’s Nest. Somethin’ like that.” He strode to his desk, opened a drawer and rifled through some papers. “Here it is. Peregrine Vineyards. Used to be run by somebody didn’t know a thing about wine, guy name of, lemme see here…Stuart. Carl Stuart.”
Travis shrugged. “Never heard of him.”
“Place actually belonged to his wife. Still does, now that she’s divorced. She’s gone back to usin’ her maiden name. Got it right here, someplace.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Travis said, his hand on the doorknob. “I don’t know the name of the vineyard, so I doubt if I’d know the name of—”
“Here it is.” Jonas looked up. “Lady’s name is Thorpe. Alexandra Thorpe.”
Travis felt the floor tilt under his feet. “Alexandra Thorpe?” he said hoarsely.
“Uh-huh.” His father gave him a slow smile. “Is that a problem, boy?”
Their eyes met. Travis thought about asking what the old man knew, about how he could possibly know it…
And then he thought of the woman who’d haunted him ever since he’d walked out of Thorpe House two weeks ago, and about putting an end to this nonsense, once and for all.
“No,” he said calmly, “it isn’t a problem. Not in the slightest.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
ALEX had known people would whisper about the auction.
She also knew that no one would dare say anything to her face. What was said behind her
back didn’t matter. Let the gossips speculate to their souls’ damnation. She would pay no attention.
No, she thought, as she walked along a row of grapes at Peregrine Vineyards, the whispers about that night didn’t bother her.
But the dreams did.
She dreamed about Travis Baron. Erotic dreams, the kind that left the sheets twisted between her thighs. Sometimes she awakened flushed with heat, the all-too-real feel of Travis’s kisses on her mouth. Even thinking about it now made her bones feel as soft as the pulp of the grapes in the fermenting vats.
She had other dreams, too. Tender ones, of Travis holding her in his arms, just holding her, nothing more. Or dancing with her, in a flower-filled garden, his kisses as soft as the whisper of the breeze. The dreams were silly; she knew that. They were half-remembered perfume commercials, playing in her head. Grown women did not have such girlish, romanticized flights of imagination.
High overhead, a hawk cried out its pleasure as it soared toward the sun on a thermal current of hot valley air. Alex tilted her head back, looked up and wondered what it felt like to be so free. She had never been free, not of the responsibility to live the life first her father, and then her husband, had laid out for her. And it had seemed enough, until that Friday evening, two weeks ago, when she’d gone into the exciting embrace of a stranger.
It had taken her a while to understand why she was wasting her time thinking about a man who didn’t deserve it but, finally, she did. It was because she didn’t have enough to keep her busy.
The idea—that there was more to life than the things that filled hers—had actually been perking for a while.
She’d never really thought about the way she lived before. She’d been raised to be an obedient daughter in the expectation that she’d marry someone in the same circle of people she’d known all her life, and that she’d be an excellent hostess and a good wife to him. She was an expert at making half an hour’s worth of polite conversation about absolutely nothing and planning an elegant meal for ten or two hundred. She’d never questioned her role: she’d deferred first to her father’s wishes and then to her husband’s. She’d hated her marriage but she’d probably have stayed in it, if she hadn’t returned home one day and found Carl in her bedroom with another woman.
Oh, yes. Until two weeks ago, she’d played her role impeccably.
Alex paused and scuffed her bare toes in the cool, sandy soil.
Her father would have turned purple at the sight of her walking around this way. Carl, too. It isn’t suitable, they’d have said, but their shock would have been nothing compared to that of her attorneys and business manager when she’d refused to simply sign away Peregrine Vineyards without first meeting the prospective buyer, even though the vineyard had been for sale for several months without so much as an offer.
Her business manager had looked vaguely alarmed. “Surely, you’re not having second thoughts about selling Peregrine? We’ve explained how much money it would take to make the vineyard profitable, Ms. Thorpe, and that we are convinced it’s not worth the investment.”
“You have. And I still wish to sell. But I want to meet the buyer.”
“Whatever for?” one of the lawyers had asked.
She thought about telling them that she’d decided to take a greater interest in the workings of her inherited estates but from the looks on their faces, she’d decided it might be best to leave that news for another day. Instead, she’d told them that she had a special fondness for Peregrine, which was true enough.
She’d seen the winery years before, when she’d inherited it. Carl had taken her to the Napa Valley for what she’d foolishly thought was a romantic getaway weekend but had only been his way of checking out the property. Her disappointment had been minimal; by then, she’d known not to expect much from her marriage. What had surprised her was that she’d fallen in love with Peregrine on sight. The acres of grapevines, the gently rolling hills, the big Victorian farmhouse standing on a grassy rise…
“It’s beautiful,” she’d said, and then added, impulsively, “Why don’t we fix up the house and use it for weekends?”
“Don’t be foolish, Alex,” Carl had replied brusquely. “Peregrine isn’t a toy, it’s a business venture.”
He was right, of course. That was why she was selling it. Alex sighed, tucked her hands into the pockets of her linen trousers and began walking. Okay, maybe it was silly but she didn’t want to hand Peregrine over to a faceless entity. It was why she’d insisted on a meeting.
“But it isn’t done,” her senior attorney had said, the same way she imagined he’d have said, “My God, Ms. Thorpe, there’s an alligator swimming in your bathtub.”
“Why isn’t it?” Alex had replied politely, and the men had rushed in with explanations that ranged from the logical to the absurd, but it had all come down to the same thing.
Her father would not have permitted it, and neither would Carl.
“My father is dead,” Alex had said. “And Carl Stuart is no longer my husband.”
And so, here she was, walking the dusty rows of the vineyards, looking at the grapevines as if she knew something about them when she didn’t know anything, heading toward the Victorian farmhouse for a meeting with a man who’d probably been told he’d have to endure fifteen minutes of idiotic fluff, if he wanted the purchase to go through.
Alex paused at the end of the row of grapevines, where she’d left her shoes, and put them on. She didn’t know why, but she felt uncertain. It was a new feeling, and she didn’t like it. She’d felt this way only once before, after she’d bid on Travis.
She frowned, straightened her shoulders and walked up the rise. This was not the time to let her thoughts wander. She’d never see Travis again. What she had to concentrate on now was the man waiting for her at the house.
What would she say to him? What would she ask? She didn’t even know his name, or his function. In her determination to face down her advisor and her attorneys, she’d forgotten to ask them any of the things she should have. He represented the buyer. That was all she knew.
One of her lawyers would be present at this meeting, of course, but she didn’t want to let him do all the talking. She wanted to participate. She was a good judge of people; she could ask questions that would give her some insight into this unknown buyer’s intentions because, silly or not, she wanted Peregrine to have the best possible stewardship.
Alex smoothed back her hair. The breeze had teased the strands loose from the knot her hairdresser had secured at her nape this morning. Glancing down, she saw that her toes, exposed in her Italian sandals, were faintly gritty from her walk.
“A good beginning, Alex,” she muttered—and came to a dead stop.
There was a car in the driveway, parked alongside her rented sedan. Her attorney drove a black Cadillac and this car was black. But it was a Porsche. Her heart banged against her ribs. Travis drove a black Porsche.
Alex laughed. California was awash in black Porsches. Anyway, what would a cowboy want with a vineyard?
Her cellular phone rang just as she reached the porch. She plucked it from her shoulder-bag and heard her attorney’s voice.
“Ms. Thorpe, forgive me, but I’m afraid I’m going to be delayed.”
Alex sighed, opened the screen door and stepped into the slate-floored foyer.
“Delayed? For how long?”
“Actually, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to make it at all. I tried calling you—”
“Never mind. We’ll just have to reschedule.”
“Well, if you’d be interested in a suggestion…”
She smiled at his new caution. “Certainly.”
“You might wish to go ahead and hear what Mr. Baron has to say.”
She felt the blood drain to her toes. “Who?”
“Mr. Baron. Travis Baron. I didn’t realize you two were already acquainted, Ms. Thorpe, but Mr. Baron tells me that you’re old friends.”
“Old friends,” Alex said,
in a strangled whisper.
“It was the only thing I could think of telling him,” a low male voice said.
Alex jerked around. Travis stood in the entrance to the living room. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and those boots. Those cowboy boots…
“Alex? You are old friends, aren’t you?”
She looked into the deep green eyes of the man she’d been dreaming about. They were not friends, and surely not old ones. They weren’t even lovers. Not even she was naive enough to think that one long day spent in bed made a man and a woman into lovers.
“Alex?”
Alex licked her lips. “Yes,” she said, into the phone, “yes, we’re…we’re old friends, Mr. Baron and I.”
Travis smiled. She tried not to think of how his mouth tilted when he smiled, and how it had felt against her own.
“Good,” her attorney said. “Fine. Just listen to what Mr. Baron has to say. Don’t agree to anything, of course.”
“Of course,” Alex said, her eyes never leaving Travis, and she pressed the Disconnect button. “Mr. Baron.” Her voice was cool but her hand was trembling as she put the phone away, and she hoped he couldn’t see it.
“Back to formalities, Princess?”
Alex flushed. “Perhaps you’d like to explain your presence.”
“Explain what? I’m here to buy this place. Didn’t your lawyers tell that to you?”
“You? Buy Peregrine? You might have fooled my attorneys, but you can’t fool me. What are you really doing here?”
Travis fought back the desire to take Alex in his arms and kiss that haughty look from her face. He’d imagined this scene over and over. Sometimes, she’d flown into his arms the second she saw him; in another version, she’d launched herself across the room and tried to scratch out his eyes.
What he hadn’t anticipated was that she’d look at him as if he were something beneath contempt, or that she’d be even more beautiful than he remembered. He felt the stir of his body, looked at the disdain in her expression, and knew that nothing had changed.
Realizing it made him angry. Angry at himself, angry at her. No, anger didn’t quite cut it. Fury was a better word, but he’d be damned if he was going to let her know it.
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