Hidden in the Vines (Romancing the Vine)

by Gemma Brocato

  Table of Contents

  HIDDEN IN THE VINES

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  HIDDEN IN THE VINES

  Romancing The Vine

  GEMMA BROCATO

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  HIDDEN IN THE VINES

  Copyright©2017

  GEMMA BROCATO

  Cover Design by Leah Kaye Suttle

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN: 978-1-68291-345-1

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  For my daughter, Erin.

  You know I will always share a bottle of wine with you.

  Acknowledgements

  Without help from many quarters, this book might never have happened. My family: Mr. Gemma, and our two children . . . You support me and cheer me on and remind me of the good that happens when you share a great love.

  My editor, Char Chaffin, whose patience, humor, scolding, and mentoring as we worked on this story certainly qualifies her for sainthood. I’d ‘put’ you on a pedestal, but I know you do not like that word.

  Special thanks to the Early Bird Writers. You challenge me and help me stick with the goals I set. I can’t tell you how much I love and admire all of you.

  Thanks to The KickAss Chicks and my Sassy sisters: you are all strong, inspiring authors. I want to be just like you when I grow up.

  And most importantly, thanks to my readers. Your notes and comments on my stories inspire me to continue my writing adventure.

  Chapter 1

  Jules Capelli’s happy, quiet, far-from-the-madding-crowd life tumbled straight into the shitter in the time it took her assistant to utter eight fateful words.

  “I thought you told her she shouldn’t come.”

  Marcus Jepson’s ominous words clanged through her consciousness like the foghorn at Point Reyes. Loud, blaring, caught-by-surprise scary.

  Snapping her attention away from the activity schedule she’d been buried under for the past hour, she followed his gaze out the office window. Oh hell, an ostentatious Rolls Phantom glided to a stop in the vineyard’s parking lot. Not in a space, mind you. In the freaking center of the traffic lane. As if by divine privilege, this car wasn’t required to adhere to mundane traffic laws or niceties.

  Gitta Grimes had disregarded Jules’ request that she stay away from Team Vino. Probably should have told the woman to stay the fuck away, but the language would have only earned Jules a scolding for using profanity. Her stomach clenched. The unreachable spot between her shoulder blades itched worse than when she’d had a cast on a broken wrist and the summer temperatures had soared. She’d kill for a knitting needle or chopstick or something long and sharp to ease the discomfort. Or maybe put herself out of her misery.

  The chauffeur hopped out and jerked his black vest into place. He practically danced around the front end of the car. Jules pressed trembling fingers against her lips, as if to hold in a scream at the driver to stop, get back in his goddamn status symbol, and drive away. Biting her tongue, she watched the driver lay his gloved fingers on the chrome-plated handle and yank the door open. He extended his arm toward the interior.

  Peyton Channing, Gitta’s glamorous personal assistant, alighted—yeah, that’s the right word—from the back. Cigarette-fit black jeans molded to the woman’s bulimic-esque frame. A fuzzy chartreuse sweater was the perfect backdrop for the waterfall of Peyton’s long, curly blond tresses. The length was six inches longer than it had been two months ago, confirming Jules’ suspicion the extra hair was really expensive extensions.

  Peyton flipped her pretty-girl tendrils as she pranced across the lot toward the office.

  Jules peered through the darkened windows of the limo to see whether Gitta had accompanied Peyton. Maybe the planets were aligned harmoniously and she’d be lucky. Or maybe not. Movement in the rear compartment solidified her incipient dread into a giant sour lump in her gut.

  As Jules stood, her chair groaned in solidarity with her attitude. “Damn, damn, damn! She never listens.”

  “Well, I . . . uh, I have to go see about . . . something.” Marcus slammed his desk drawer shut. Horror muddied his normally chocolate-colored eyes. Leaping from his seat, he beat a path to the rear exit.

  “Don’t you dare—”

  The slamming door cut off her words. Jules cast a frantic glance between his vacated chair and the main entrance. She was too late. The clack of Peyton’s spiked heels warned she had climbed the stairs of the front porch. Barring the door, and pretending no one was in, was no longer an option.

  With her usual flair for the dramatic, the string bean flung the door open, and breezed through it.

  “Julia, darling. We’re here.”

  Peyton swooped in for an air kiss, lips pursed in a smile as fake as her boobs, Botox-ed brow frozen in place.

  Jules deftly put her rolling chair between them. “I told her no.”

  A shake of the head sent Peyton’s hair into motion. About the only thing on her head capable of moving. Hesitation crept into her eyes but she blinked it away. “She knew you were kidding. It’s your duty to take care of her in her time of need.”

  The acrid ball resting in the pit of Jules’ belly melted into immediate, choking steam. “What the hell, Peyton? Why is it my responsibility to provide a hiding spot while she recovers from plastic surgery?”

  Peyton tsked her tongue against her overly bright, veneered teeth. The sound reminded Jules of the incessant song of a cicada; creepy, disgusting bugs. “There was nowhere else she could go. She had to get out of Hollywood. The gossip rags caught wind she’d had a procedure.”

  Jules raked her fingers through the short wisps of her hair and snorted. “A procedure? Only one. That’s novel.”

  Miracle of miracles, Peyton’s chemically frozen lips thinned into a straight line. Jules had scored a direct hit. “There’s no need to be snarky.”

  “Yeah, I’m going to check number one on that statement . . . strongly disagree.” Jule
s shoved her hands into her back pockets and leaned against the corner of her desk.

  Impatience and a miniscule amount of panic flared in Peyton’s eyes. “Jules, I’m begging you. She needs to be completely out of the public eye for at least two weeks. This is the most remote location we could get to in a vehicle in one day. Traveling isn’t easy for her right now. She’s in pain.”

  A giant sucking hole melted in the steel sheeting enclosing Jules’ heart. Her job revolved around helping people work better in teams. Even though it bothered her to say no, when Gitta had called to ask about staying with her while she recovered from her surgery, Jules had been unmistakable in her denial. Which blew, because a tiny piece of her wanted to help. She wanted to be in the role of caregiver and make a difference. If only she could get past the petty resentment lurking in the shadows of her life.

  As usual, Gitta had ignored her wishes. The famous actress lived with the attitude it was good to be queen and lorded her position over all her minions. Knowing the woman was in pain had taken some of the sting away.

  Jules trained her gaze on the limo and chewed her lower lip. After surgery, Peyton had called her to say everything was fine, but that Gitta was hurting.

  She drew a huge lungful of air and blew it out slowly, reciting I can do this, I can do this in her mind. “God, Peyton. Why did she do that to herself? She sure as hell doesn’t need to. Gitta’s beautiful. She looks to be in her upper thirties, not her actual fifty-ish.” It wasn’t long ago that Gitta had beaten a twenty-something actress out of a role portraying a thirty-year old widow. Gitta’s performance had generated some Oscar buzz.

  Peyton shrugged and looked away. “She was offered a role as someone’s mother.”

  “Ah. Well, that explains so much.” Knowing Gitta, the casting decision had to be devastating.

  Jules studied the limo again. Marcus strode across the lot and approached the driver, who lounged against the front end, Winged Victory poking him in the butt. Marcus’ years of providing security for Gitta showed in the way he swept his head from side to side, scanning the area for paparazzi or other threats. Jules pondered which was worse; crazies with cameras, or the just plain crazy.

  The silence in the room grew heavy as Peyton waited for an answer. Jules continued to study Marcus. He moved to the back door of the vehicle.

  “Don’t do it, don’t do it,” Jules chanted under her breath. She scooted over to the window and pressed her fingertips against the glass. “Ah, shit! He’s done it.”

  Marcus had opened the door and stuck his head inside. Gitta probably already had him wrapped around her little finger. From her vantage point, Jules caught the concerned expression on his face when he looked over his shoulder to the window where she stood.

  Spinning away from Marcus’ frown, she pressed a hand to her midriff, currently twisting into a painful pretzel. “Her staying here is going to be a logistical nightmare. I have a team event beginning tomorrow. There will be six, no . . . wait, I had some add-ons this morning, so eight total strangers roaming the property.”

  Victory bloomed in Peyton’s eyes. At least Gitta’s assistant graciously refrained from yelling, “Bingo!”

  Annoying, take-charge Peyton surfaced the second Jules didn’t say no. To Peyton it probably sounded like capitulation. “We don’t have to stay in the main house. We’ll stay in that little cabin in the valley. No one will ever see her there. You’ll have our meals sent down to us, right? She won’t have to come to the dining room.”

  Jules’ shoulders rose toward her ears. Peyton had a point. The little house was extremely remote. Nowhere near the large facility where Jules accommodated her overnight guests. Problem was, Jules had just finished renovating the space and had planned to move her own belongings to it tonight.

  Forcing tension out on a solid, resigned breath, Jules concentrated on lowering her shoulders to a neutral position. “The kitchen is stocked. You’ll have to cook. With eight guests scheduled, I won’t have time to get meals for you also.”

  Due to the frozen nature of Peyton’s face, Jules couldn’t be sure, but she thought the woman’s expression might be horror.

  “Fine, but Gitta hates my cooking. Says I burn water.”

  “Not going to work, Peyton, so just give it up. I’ll be too busy trying to keep the teams on the opposite side of the vineyard, away from you and Gitta.”

  Jules crossed back to her desk. With a couple of fast key strikes, she locked her computer, scooped up her keys, and gestured to the door. Following Peyton outside, her feet grew heavier, as if she had weights strapped to her ankles, more reluctant as she approached the limo. As Marcus backed away from the door, she curled her lip, hoping to convey her contempt for his betrayal as well as her intention to get even with him. Maybe she’d lock him in a bedroom with Peyton.

  Drawing a deep breath to fortify herself, Jules bent down to look into the darkened interior of the car. “Hi, Mom. Welcome to Team Vino.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “Dixon! Rawlings! Get your asses in here,” Mike Simon bellowed from the door of his fishbowl office.

  Alex Dixon smothered his rising anger. The rude summons wasn’t unexpected. Bad enough he was getting called to the office. To have to go there with Todd the jackass Rawlings chafed like a bad case of jock itch on a sweltering day. Behind him, Rawlings swore profusely under his breath.

  Throwing his pen down, Alex shoved up from his desk. On the way past, Rawlings bumped into Alex’s chair, jarring it into the backs of his knees. Alex slapped his palms on the desk to steady himself. Rawlings shot an irritated glance over his shoulder, eyes narrowed and upper lip curled as he moved toward Simon’s office. The doofus barely missed running into the copy machine. Dipshit.

  Alex shook his head, sending a what-the-fuck look after Rawlings. The bastard had started the war; wining and dining one of Alex’s key sources with the intent to scoop a story. It hadn’t made a lick of difference to Rawlings that Alex had cultivated this particular contact over months and months. His patience had paid off, and now he was one meeting away from swaying the guy to agree to provide access to the studio’s finance people.

  Part of the master plan to concentrate his reporting skills on the business end of Hollywood, as opposed to the talent side.

  When he’d taken the job with Entertainment Access, that had been his goal. He didn’t give a fuck about what actress had just broken up with her beau. Or which actor had gone off the deep end and been arrested for public intoxication or domestic abuse. He didn’t care to intrude into the gritty details of the lives of the rich and famous. All Alex wanted was a chance to break into the world of business reporting. And Hollywood was basically a business machine. Lots of money. Lots of moving parts.

  But Rawlings had destroyed the relationship Alex had painstakingly built. Alex’s credibility with his source ended up shot to shit, due to his co-worker’s stupidity. Alex had guaranteed confidentiality to the studio representative. Rawlings hadn’t felt inclined to honor that promise and blabbed the name of Alex’s source to the studio boss, along with the evidence he’d somehow collected, implicating the boss in an affair with an underage actress.

  Twenty-four hours later, the source had been terminated and Alex had not one, but two black eyes. The first came from his contact, which Alex considered misplaced but justifiable. He winced when he touched his fingers to the bruise under his left eye. That one was courtesy of Rawlings when confronted about how far he’d stepped over the line.

  The SOB had gotten right up in Alex’s face so he’d shoved him away. Rawlings roared back and leveled him with a right hook Alex hadn’t seen coming. It was the last time the asshat would have an opportunity to catch him unawares.

  All of this had gone down yesterday, while their boss had been out of the office. The staff still chattered about the incident this morning, shutting up whenever Al
ex was in earshot. It hadn’t taken long for Big Mike to get wind of it. In between phone calls, he’d glared from under bushy graying brows at the pair of them all morning long.

  Trudging toward the office, Alex let his stare bore holes into the back of Rawlings’ head. Eyeing the rigid set of the man’s shoulders, he couldn’t imagine why the Toad was angry. Alex was the wronged party in the entire mess.

  “Take a seat,” Mike ordered. The glass walls of the office rattled when Mike banged the door shut. The soles of his boots thudded harshly against the concrete floor as he marched around his desk, each step sounding like a hammer against nails in a coffin.

  Rawlings leaned forward in his chair. “Boss, none of this was my—”

  “Shut the fuck up.” The bark in the editor’s voice was a big clue about just how pissed off he was. He scrubbed a hand down his face, clenched his fist, and dropped it to the arm of his chair. He stared at a spot over Alex’s head.

  Alex waited silently, a negotiating tactic Rawlings hadn’t learned. The dude’s mouth opened and closed, reminding Alex of a freaking large-mouth bass. Tension rose up Alex’s spine like one of those Pharaoh’s Serpent fireworks. The kind that, when lit with a match, created an oily black snake reeking of fire and brimstone. Much like the current situation.

  Mike rested his hands on his protruding stomach and lowered his gaze to focus on Alex’s face. “Looking kind of colorful there, Butch. Nothing broken, I hope.”

  “Nah, just bruised.”

  Avoiding eye contact with Rawlings, Simon concentrated on drawing a circle on the scarred desktop with one blunt finger. Rawlings’ knee bounced like a kid who’d waited too long to run to the bathroom. An upholstery tack dug into Alex’s fingertip as he gripped the edge of his chair. Otherwise, he remained motionless, waiting for Simon to mete out punishment. Undeserved as far as Alex was concerned.