Solid Gold Seduction (The Drakes of California)

by Zuri Day

  “Is that guy a problem?”

  She could feel the strength in his chest as he spoke. God, what that deep voice did to parts of her soul! But it did something else. It took her out of her musings and brought her crashing back down to the reality of where she was and why. Dancing had given her a temporary reprieve from the man she would have been altogether peachy with never seeing again in life. But sooner or later she knew she’d have to deal with Cedric. She told herself there was no fear there, but shivered nonetheless.

  The song ended. Warren stepped back, his hands on her arms, his eyes boring into her. “Charli, are you all right?”

  “I can take care of myself,” she replied with a defiant lift of her chin.

  “That’s not what I asked you.”

  For an awkward moment they stood there, something indefinable yet palpable passing between them. Another song started, this one upbeat, and soon more couples swirled around them.

  “Thanks for the dance,” he said with one last squeeze of her arm. And then he was gone.

  If he’d waited a second more he would have seen that Charli didn’t stay alone for long. She felt a lone finger run down her bare back and wheeled around. “Stop it!” I should have known he’d hound me. “Look, Cedric. I don’t want any trouble out of you. I just want you to leave me alone.”

  “Or what?” Cedric looked around. “Is that your boyfriend? He doesn’t scare me.”

  “I’m no longer that little girl that you cornered in the barn,” Charli said with a sneer, as rising memories pushed her past the point of worrying about decorum or caring for her safety. “The friend who’ll keep me safe from you isn’t walking on two legs.”

  “Oh, you have a guard dog? I’m scared.” He faked a shudder.

  “You should be.” Charli’s voice was low, her smile menacing. “Because I believe in the Second Amendment, and if you come near me again my guard dog—” she looked loathingly up and down Cedric’s five-nine frame “—will have no problem relieving you of your family jewels. I’m sure they’re so small that shooting them may be difficult. But I’m a pretty good aim.”

  With that, Charli calmly walked away.

  Two pairs of eyes followed her over to the table, where she joined the woman who Warren had learned from his mother was named Alice Witherspoon.

  Niko looked at his brother. “Looks like your neighbor might be in trouble.”

  Warren took a sip of his drink, watching as Cedric exited the building. “I’m not worried about Charli. I think she can hold her own.”

  Chapter 9

  As it was harvesting season for their first yield of grapes, the week following the town of Paradise Cove’s celebration went by in a blur. Warren had his hands full, his attention going from the crash course on grapes he was getting from his cousin Dexter Drake to checking the progress on his dream home that Jackson was building. There weren’t enough hours in the day. He was exhausted, and at times had to remind himself that this was a madness he’d created.

  “Hey, cuz.” Warren walked up to his cousin Dexter, who was standing in one of the vineyard rows, talking to the manager.

  Dexter turned to him. “Perfect timing, Warren. I was just suggesting to Eduardo that since all of the table grapes have been gathered these grapes, the chenin blancs, should be harvested next.”

  “Whatever you say, Dexter. I’m here to follow your lead and learn all that I can.”

  “Eduardo here is highly knowledgeable. For years his father managed a large vineyard just down the road from ours. He’s a wine country son through and through. Instead of milk, they put grape juice in your bottle, huh, Eduardo?”

  “No,” Eduardo replied, his dark eyes twinkling. “Wine.”

  The Drakes laughed.

  “I think you’ve got a stellar crop here,” Dexter continued, picking a grape and examining it closely: skin, pulp, seeds and all. “I know it’s been a long time coming—”

  “Five years,” Warren interjected.

  “But I think the wait will be well worth it.”

  “I couldn’t have done any of this without your expertise, Dex.”

  “I’m just glad that you followed my advice and planted grapes instead of marijuana.”

  “Hey, don’t knock that hustle! The medical marijuana business is booming. Weed is the number-one California crop!”

  “Yes, but can you imagine the money you’d have had to spend on security? There are guys who’d want that crop, and they’d have no interest in turning it over to doctors and dispensaries.”

  “What really sealed it for me was all of the regulatory guidelines and bureaucratic red tape I would have had to deal with in getting the product into those authorized distribution channels. It would have been a nightmare. With my grapevines, I just have to pick up the phone, call you down from your throne in Southern California and have you oversee and execute the hard stuff.”

  “Ha! I’m afraid that’s not how it works!”

  “No?”

  “I hope you’re paying attention to these lessons I’m teaching. Because next year it’s all on you.”

  “Come on, now, Dex! I—” His phone rang. “Oh, hold on. It’s Jackson.” He tapped the cell phone screen. “Hey, Boss.” He paused, listening. “Oh, okay. Sure, I’ll be right over.” He ended the call. “The gate has come in,” he said to Dexter and Eduardo. “I need to go down to where the men will be installing it.”

  “No worries, Warren. Eduardo and I will have a short meeting with the workers and that will pretty much wrap up my visit.”

  “I appreciate it, man.” Warren gave Dexter a shoulder-bump hug. “If you’d like, you’re welcome over to Mom’s house for dinner. As always.”

  “I’d love to but I’ve already booked a flight back to San Diego. Faye says little David has a bit of a fever. So I’m going to go on back and help her out.”

  “The doctor tamed the playboy. Who would have ever imagined Dexter Drake would pass up a Friday night in San Francisco for a night with a wife and a kid’s spittle?”

  “Don’t knock it until you try it,” Dexter replied.

  “That’s what you did!”

  “You’re right. I thought a wife and children were for other people and that my role in life was to be the cool uncle who spoiled nieces and nephews before sending them back home.”

  “All kidding aside, I hope your son will be okay.”

  “I’m sure he will.”

  “Okay, Dex. I need to run. Give Faye my love.”

  “Will do.”

  The two men shared a final handshake before Warren turned and left.

  After a short ride in the golf cart—another of Dexter’s suggestions—Warren arrived at the section of the fence in the area described as the “south forty.” There were four crewmen there, one wearing a gray shirt with the logo of the company that had sold Warren the gate. The gate and corresponding hardware had been unloaded and the workers were arranging the pieces on the ground.

  Warren walked over to the man sporting the company logo and held out his hand. “Warren Drake.”

  “Steve Humphries,” the man replied, his grip firm, his scruffy day-old beard showing wisps of gray that belied his boyishly good looks. “I thought we’d make the opening there,” he said, pointing to where one of the men had a measuring tape, marking off the fence in two places. “Would you prefer that the gate swings inward or out?”

  “Which do you suggest?”

  Steve looked at the fence and at the land beyond it. “How will the gate be used?”

  “The neighbor has cattle that will be coming in to drink at the stream, just over that ridge.”

  “In that case, I think swinging inward would be most beneficial. Are there a lot of cattle?”

  Warren squinted, recalling past conversations with Charli. Then he looked at Steve. “That’s a good question.” He retrieved his cell phone. “Shoot, I don’t have her phone number. Do you need this information to get started?”

  “No. But I do need to ex
plain the automatic lock system and how it can be activated and deactivated, even from a remote location.”

  After receiving a crash course on operating the gate, Warren drove the cart to where his car was parked but on second thought, continued past it to the stables. He jumped out and went over to where one of the workers was grooming Coal, his pride and joy.

  “Hello, Mr. Warren.”

  “Hello, Anthony.”

  “Want me to saddle him up, sir?”

  “No, I’ll handle it. You can finish feeding the other horses and then clean out their stalls.”

  He walked over to the majestic black stallion, who immediately began bowing his head in greeting.

  “Hello, Coal,” Warren said, his voice low and soothing as he stroked the lustrous mane of the proud beast. “It’s time to go and visit a pretty lady. Ready to go for a ride?”

  Chapter 10

  As he rounded the bend in the road leading up to the Reed ranch house, Warren sat straighter in the saddle, for the first time wishing he’d forgone his favorite Raider ball cap for the Stetson he’d purchased a few years ago but seldom wore. The blazing sun overhead was only partly the reason. There was something about his prickly neighbor that made him want to cowboy up, in more ways than one. Not that he was trying to impress her or anything.

  No, never that.

  He neared the wooden gate surrounding the property and looked at the garden beyond it. No sign of her. The area around the barn, stables and detached garage was equally quiet. He reached the fence, dismounted and looped the horse’s reins over a post. He removed his cap, wiped the sweat from his brow and knocked on the door.

  A wiry man who looked to be anywhere from sixtysomething to as old as God came to the door. Although it was warm he wore heavy denims and a flannel shirt. There was a stained white apron tied around his middle, a kerchief at his throat and a toothpick clenched between his teeth. Warren imagined that the man could have ridden with the great Bill Pickett, perhaps even been related.

  The man opened the door, sharp, white eyes peering out of his weathered face. “Afternoon.”

  “Afternoon, sir. Is Charli here?”

  The eyes narrowed. “Who wants to know?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Warren,” he replied, holding out his hand. “Warren Drake. I own the ranch and vineyard just down the road.” He clasped a hand that felt like steady work and hard living. “And you are?”

  “Griff.”

  “Griff? Nice to meet you. Is Griff your first name or your last name?”

  The toothpick moved from one side of Griff’s mouth to the other. “Yep.”

  “Okay.” Clearly you are where Charli learned her good manners. Feeling that voicing this thought was not the best course of action, Warren decided upon another approach. “I have some news for her regarding her cattle, and the stream that’s on my land. She’s been waiting for an update. Is she here?”

  Griff removed the toothpick from his mouth, raising his head a notch as he eyed Warren. “You Walter’s kin?”

  “I am.” Warren smiled, unconsciously lifting his chin with pride. “He’s my grandfather. Do you know him?”

  The toothpick returned to its place of prominence between the teeth. “We’ve met a time or two.”

  “Was it during the time that he and Charles Reed were partners?”

  Griff stepped out onto the porch, walked past Warren, and shot a perfect stream of tobacco juice into a hydrangea bush. “That’s a fine piece of horseflesh.”

  “My pride and joy.” Warren joined Griff at the edge of the porch, standing by his side to admire the animal.

  “Thoroughbred?”

  “Arabian.”

  “Can you ride him bareback?”

  “I can ride any horse, saddle or not.”

  Griff shot him a skeptical look before turning back toward the house. When he reached the door he placed his hand on the latch, then said without turning back around, “She’s out in the pasture, with the cowhands. Best to state your business and be gone.”

  * * *

  The sound of horse hooves pounding the earth drew Charli’s attention from the injured cow. She turned her head toward the sound, shielding her eyes to try to make out the rider. Over the years, she’d become so attuned to each horse and the worker who rode it that she usually knew who approached her without having to look. But not this time. The hoofbeats were too heavy and too rapid to belong to Griff and his horse, Danger. They were too authoritative to be that of cowhand Willie and his horse, Shaft. The only other workers here today were the two now with her, which meant one thing. There was a stranger on her land.

  She stood, dusting off her jeans as the commanding rider came into view. A familiar feeling danced over her, but she ignored it. No way. The only horsepower he’s used to is under a hood. At once, she recognized both the quality of the horse and the skill of the rider. As they came closer, she noticed something else. The broad, hard shoulders that had occupied way too many of this week’s errant thoughts. The jutting chin and strong neck from which she’d smelled a cologne that matched its wearer—striking and bold.

  It’s him.

  She swallowed and willed herself to remain detached, demanded her body not to react and her stance not to waver. But not trusting her hands to behave themselves once he got within touching distance, she stooped back down to tend to the injured cow.

  Warren reached the small group and climbed off the horse. He joined them. “Hello, Charli.”

  “Drake,” she responded without looking up.

  “What happened?” he asked, kneeling beside her.

  That damnable cologne hit her nostrils at once, bringing back the memories of that night, their dance, into clearer focus. She could almost feel his hands—one clasping her own, the other hovering just above her round assets—could almost feel his breath against her neck.

  She stood abruptly, walked over to her horse and pulled a cell phone from her saddlebag. Yes, she needed to make a call, but even more so, she needed to put some distance between herself and that man. “More than likely hit a plug in the dirt at the exact wrong angle,” she finally answered while scrolling through the names showing on the phone’s screen. “Looks like her leg’s broken.” She looked at one of the cowhands. He was a serious-looking young man with a slender build, his high cheekbones, hawk nose and long, silky black hair bound in a ponytail an obvious result of his Native American heritage. “Bobby, I was going to call Jim. Have him bring over the floating tank. Just on the small chance that it’s merely sprained.”

  “No,” Bobby said, shaking his head. He knelt and placed a hand on the cow’s heaving side. The animal breathed slowly, steadily, as if resigned to its fate. “There is no hope for this animal.” He looked at Charli. “Do you want me to—”

  “No,” Charli said, cutting him off with the soft yet firmly delivered word. “You know how we do it out here, Bobby. My cow, my kill.” Once again she walked over to her horse, this time taking a .22-gauge rifle from out of a saddle holder. She walked back over to the cow. “Bobby?”

  The young man, who was still kneeling, leaned forward as if whispering in the cow’s ear. Then he stood and said something in a language that Warren did not understand. Judging from everyone’s silence, and the way the air felt around him, he would have guessed it was a prayer. Charli stepped up, the men moved back and she fired. One clean shot. Between the eyes. The cow was dead.

  While the cowhands tended to the animal, Charli walked back over to her horse. Warren followed her. “What do you want, Drake?” she asked, placing the gun back in its holder.

  He decided to ignore her attitude for the moment. After all, the woman had just shot a cow. “I came over to let you know that the gate arrived. The men are installing it now. It is electronic, opened by a code that gets entered into a box on a nearby post. In case of a power outage, it can also be opened manually. I wanted to give you both the code and a key.”

  She looked down at the big silver key in the palm of
his large hand, and back up at him. “You’d trust me with a key inside the Drake domain?”

  “You can’t be trusted?”

  “Of course I can! We Reeds keep our word.”

  “Meaning...”

  She shrugged, said, “Nothing,” and reached for the key.

  Warren closed his fist. Patience was gone. “Not so fast. I’ve put up with your rude behavior and foul attitude long enough. I go to your house and get more veiled jabs and hidden innuendo from First-and-Last-Name-Griff.” He took a step forward, close enough that their breath mingled and their bodies almost touched. “If you have a problem with me or my family,” he continued, his tone low and angry, “tell me straight out. If you don’t, then you need to start treating me with at least as much respect as you just gave that cow.”

  Chapter 11

  Bobby’s footsteps had been so light that neither Warren nor Charli had heard him approaching. “Everything all right here, Charli?” The question was directed at his boss but his eyes were on Warren.

  “Everything’s fine, Bobby. Thanks for your help. Listen, the cowhide’s yours if you want it.”

  “Thank you, Charli. I’ll give it to my uncle. He’ll make something special.”

  “I’m sure he will.” She turned to Warren—her gaze unwavering, her eyes sending a message that he couldn’t quite read. “Where are you putting the gate?”

  “Close to the southwest corner, where the land is flat and the path is worn from the obvious trips back and forth to the stream over the years. Would you like to come and have a look?”

  She hesitated slightly before giving a curt nod, slipping a foot into the stirrup and swinging up onto her mount. “Tell Griff I’ll be back in time for supper,” she said to the men, then turned her horse toward Drake’s place, touched its flanks with her feet and raced across the terrain without looking back.

  Oh, really? That’s how you do it? That’s how you want to get down? The somber events Warren had just witnessed receded as he watched Charli run away. He was up on his horse and they moved in one fluid motion.