A Model of Perfection

by Pamela Gibson

  Text copyright ©2017 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Marina Adair. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original St. Helena Vineyard Series remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Marina Adair, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  A Model of Perfection

  by Pamela Gibson

  A St. Helena Vineyards Kindle World Novella

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you, Marina Adair for allowing us to invade your world and populate it with our characters. I live near the real St. Helena and I like yours just as well. Thanks also to an amazing set of authors for this second launch…Faith Andrews, Heatherly Bell, Mollie Cox Bryan, Grace Conley, TM Cromer, Jen Doyle, Jessie Evans, Cary Hart, Brittany Holland, Kate Kisset, Deb McNaught, Nan O’Berry, Leslie Pike, Stephanie Rose, Anna J. Stewart, Stephanie St. Klaire, Reina Torres. My final thank you is to my amazing husband for handling the formatting, some of the editing, and all of the support.

  Dear Readers,

  Welcome to the St. Helena Vineyard’s Kindle World, where romance is waiting to be uncorked and authors from around the globe are invited to share their own stories of love and happily ever after. Set in the heart of wine country, this quaint town and its cast of quirky characters were the inspiration behind my St Helena Vineyard series, and the Hallmark Channel movie, AUTUMN IN THE VINEYARD. I want to thank these incredible authors for spending time in St. Helena, and all of you readers who are adventurous enough to take the journey with us.

  I hope you enjoy your time here as much as we have.

  Warmly,

  Marina Adair

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  "I can't stand here much longer, Cass. That beast is getting closer."

  The plumb line in Victoria Larkin's hand wobbled as she slanted a glance toward the animal grazing nearby. It lifted its head and looked at her while chewing busily.

  "Pretend this is the photo shoot where the camera zoomed in on the diamond necklace dangling from your right hand. Hold very still. I'm almost through."

  "I was sitting in a chair then, not standing in a muddy field. And I'm telling you, it's sizing me up like I'm its next meal." Was that panic in her voice? She loved animals, grew up with a menagerie. Her parents were veterinarians. But she'd never seen an alpaca up close and personal, and this one didn't look friendly.

  "It's just an alpaca. I don't know what it's doing here, but I'll call someone when we're through."

  Vickie narrowed her eyes and focused on the animal. Its jaws stopped moving, and it pawed the ground, ears laid back, holding her stare.

  "It hates me. I can sense it. It thinks I'm an enemy."

  "Complain, complain, complain. The woman who's been photographed a gazillion times can't hold the plumb line still while her sister takes one last survey shot. Done."

  Victoria glanced back at her sister, now bent over her theodolite. Finally they could go somewhere and get a latte. The air was cold, even in spring.

  The alpaca gurgled and a gooey mass hit the side of her shirt.

  "Ugh! No! Gross!" Her screech pierced the air, and she jumped up and down, tearing at her shirt. She wrenched it off and threw it on the ground, checking her pants to see if any globs of goo were sliding down her leg.

  "Okay, okay. Don't panic. The alpaca spit at you. It's nasty, but you won't die. I'll go to the jeep and get you a sweatshirt. Stay put. It's moving away."

  "You're not leaving me here with this...this...ill-mannered creature," she squeaked.

  "It's not going to hurt you. It's trying to dominate you...thinks you're part of the herd. Keep squealing, and it’s sure to come back." Cassie's mouth twitched as she trudged off toward the car parked on the gravel road near the field.

  Victoria watched her retreating back, then squeezed her eyes shut. Was her sister laughing? This was no laughing matter.

  "Nice bra."

  She jumped. The voice came from behind. It was deep and male, like it belonged to someone who spent a lot of time shouting orders or singing in smoky bars. Not one bit embarrassed by being caught in her underwear, she turned to face the man who sauntered toward her. She was a model, and she'd worn swimsuits that bared more than this bra made of faux leopard skin.

  "Where did you come from?" She narrowed her eyes and slammed her hands on her hips. But her annoyance didn't seem to faze him. He was focused on the animal.

  "I've been looking for this little gal. She escaped from the ranch down the road." He gestured vaguely and headed over to the creature, cooing like a lover.

  "Come on now, Lilly. You know your little escapade is over. Your corral mates miss you, darlin'."

  He slipped the bridle over Lilly’s head, tightened it, and drew a small carrot out of his pocket. "Want a treat? Then come along."

  He put it back in his pocket.

  "Aren't you going to give it to her?" Victoria might be pissed, and she knew she stank, but nobody teased an animal in front of her. “Anyone who’s mean to animals in front of me gets reported to the Humane Society.”

  "I’ll give it to her, but not until I get her back through that hole over there." He pointed toward tall bushes. "I've got some tools to patch the fence, and she'll stay put while I do my work if she thinks she's getting the treat."

  Vickie’s attention wandered over his muscular arms to the tool belt slung low over his hips. Long legs ended in worn leather cowboy boots. The buttons on his flannel shirt stretched over a well-formed chest, and his tawny hair was thick and slightly longer than the edge of his collar.

  But his eyes were what drew her. They were as green as a mossy bank, with little gold flecks, and a hint of merriment. She checked his mouth, and saw the corners were quirked up. He knew she was checking him out. The man was going to laugh at her any minute.

  "It's not funny."

  "If you saw the expression on your face, you wouldn't say that." His eyes swept her body, lingering on certain spots long enough that her cheeks heated. He paused at the little heart tattooed between her breasts and stopped at her Gucci loafers. He nodded toward her feet. "You missed a spot."

  "No," she squealed. "Not my shoes." She grabbed the wadded-up shirt, bent over and scrubbed the alpaca goo off her loafers.

  Damn it! They were new, cost six hundred dollars, and she loved them. Now they would always remind her of her stupid decision to help her sister with her last survey before she went out of town to join her fiancé. Did alpaca spit stain? God, who’d want to live in this backwater?

  She huffed as she finished swiping at the mess.

  To be fair, St. Helena was a charming little town in the heart of the Northern California wine country, crawling with tourists. Her sister loved it here, and after Victoria got in a fight with an ex, she fled here to hide out.

  Cass and her fiancé, Nick, owned Plumb Crazy, a civil engineering firm in St. Helena. Cassie was flying to Southern California tonight to meet Nick's father. Nick had flown on ahead and was already there.

  Big sis would never admit it, but she was nervous. While they'd never been friends growing up, you didn’t live with someone for most of your twenty-four years and not know what scared
them. Besides, Victoria made good use of the information growing up.

  What an insufferable brat I was.

  Cass was insecure, although in the short time Victoria had been here—after showing up unannounced, of course—Victoria could tell her sister had changed. Nick must be good for her. Cass seemed more sure of herself, more in control, and a hell of a lot more accepting.

  Maybe I'll find someone someday who'll be good for me.

  The thought brought her back to the stranger who shrugged out of his shirt and handed it to her. His well-formed pecs were outlined under a long-sleeved T-shirt with Go Ryo imprinted on the front. She reached out and took the flannel, checked the label out of habit, and put it on. It was warm from his body, and smelled a bit like rosemary.

  Must be the thick bushes.

  "Thanks."

  "Actually, I preferred what you were wearing before. I'm kinda partial to leopards. But you'll be a hell of a lot warmer in my shirt."

  She watched him lead Lilly toward the next field, where neat rows of grapevines marched up a slight incline, their light green leaves stretching across the trellis wires. The scene looked like a carefully staged movie set.

  Complete with sexy hero.

  "Hey, was that Matt Simmons?"

  "Don't know. He didn't tell me his name."

  "He gave you his shirt?"

  "I'm freezing out here." She dared Cassie to be critical. "Since mine was covered with alpaca spit. I'm not wearing the disgusting thing ever again."

  Cassie raised her eyebrows and tossed Vickie an old grey sweatshirt. "Then I guess you still need this." Vickie caught it and pulled it on over the shirt. After spending the last few weeks in the much warmer tropics, she hadn't acclimated to the chilly Northern California spring yet.

  "Are we through? I need a shower. Damn, I loved these shoes."

  Cassie put away her equipment and started back toward the road. "I told you to wear my old boots. Can you carry the tripod? It's not heavy."

  Vickie eyed it, tested its weight, and pulled it up onto her shoulder. "Got it."

  She couldn't remember ever carrying anything heavier than a makeup case and a laptop. From the time she was diagnosed with a mild case of rheumatic fever at the age of six, her parents had spoiled her rotten. She was their pampered little princess who could do no wrong, and she’d made very good use of her position.

  Even when the disease subsided and she was pronounced healthy, her parents—and Cassie—watched her for recurrences. By the time she was sixteen, she was five foot ten and a hundred twenty pounds, with the features of a young Anne Hathaway, and was already doing runway shows for a local fashion designer in Seattle. The job required stamina, but she'd been fine.

  When an agent spotted her six years ago, she signed, went to New York, and her career took off. Now she was in this podunk town, hiding from her ex, sponging off her sister, and ashamed to tell her why.

  Because of her pride, her stupidity, and, yes, her vulnerability.

  She handed Cassie the tripod and climbed into the front seat of the old military-style jeep her sister called Bomber. The seats were worn almost to shreds, and the body was covered with decades of dents and scratches.

  "Why don't you get a regular pickup? You own a company, for heaven's sakes. You need to look successful."

  "I am successful, and Nick and I are going to get a new truck next fall. In the meantime, Matt keeps this baby humming, and as long as Bomber runs, I'm keeping her."

  Vickie eyed the dirt on the floor and the rusty gearshift. "You mean Matt, as in the guy who loaned me his shirt?"

  "Best mechanic in St. Helena."

  "He works on cars?"

  "Part time. He owns a couple of acres of chardonnay he sells to Ryo Estate Wines, and he operates a landscaping crew...weed control. He's also an all-around good guy, if you need a friend while I'm gone. Just sayin'."

  "Why would a guy who owns a vineyard work on cars or pull weeds?"

  Cassie rolled her eyes. "Why do you, an introvert, plaster your face all over magazines?"

  It was a good question, one she'd asked herself a lot lately. At first it was glamorous, and she was thrilled to be chosen for the Purity Cosmetics ad campaign. Photo shoots were more personal than runway work.

  But the Purity ads appeared regularly in Vogue, Teen Vogue, Elle, and all the top fashion magazines, and now people stared at her in restaurants and tried to engage her in conversation in espresso bars. Sometimes they wanted to touch her.

  She received emails and letters from strangers who somehow found her address. And she'd been hounded by at least two stalkers and received five marriage proposals.

  Modeling wasn't fun anymore.

  She'd decided to change careers.

  Just one week more.

  Then she’d have to deal with her problem. If she didn’t fix it, she'd have to live in a cave.

  ・・・

  Matt coaxed Lilly into a pen and called Alberta’s Paradise. The alpaca farm was a popular St. Helena venue, but someone neglected to fasten the gate, and all the furry tourist attractions had galloped to freedom, scattering like leaves in a brisk wind. Lilly was the last to be returned.

  He punched Alberta’s number into his cell phone and left a message. "Matt here. Found Lilly. I've got her in my sheep pen. Pick her up anytime." Ending the call, he pulled the carrot out of his pocket and let the alpaca eat it from his hand.

  "Your adventure is over. Be a good girl and don't harass any of my wooly weeders."

  He studied the thick-pelted sheep milling at the far end of the pen. They were one of his side businesses. He rented them out to farmers and to the racetrack in Sonoma for weed control. When he let them loose on acres of property, they munched to their hearts’ content, and kept grasses and weeds from becoming a fire hazard.

  Right now he was due back at the shop. A classic 1957 Thunderbird was in for routine service, and its owner didn't want anyone but him to touch it.

  On his way back to the house, he took a detour through the vineyard, stopping to check on new growth reaching across the top of the trellises. By late spring they'd be leafed out with tiny grape clusters.

  He paused a moment to enjoy the sight of the healthy plants and the green hills, fresh from a spring rain. He'd grown up on a cattle ranch in southwest Texas, where the only green things were sagebrush and the water-sucking salt-cedar trees along the Pecos River.

  St. Helena had called to him the first time he swung through here with a passel of fraternity brothers doing a wine country weekend. Once he finished school, he took money out of his trust fund and bought this acreage for its view of low hills and running water in a ditch they called the Napa River. Buying every book he could find on viticulture, he planted his five acres in chardonnay and, to make ends meet, he took a job at a local garage. Now he owned the garage, too.

  Best investments he ever made. And far more fun than being the chief financial officer of the family business like his daddy wanted him to be.

  He closed the gate and gazed toward the far ridge. Who was the little gal with Cassie? Not someone from around here...and not little. She was almost as tall as he was. He’d make some inquiries when he got to town. She was definitely someone he’d like to know better.

  ・・・

  Victoria shuddered. She'd showered twice since they got home, but the god-awful odor lingered.

  Probably my imagination.

  Opening Cassie's shampoo bottles, Vickie found one that reeked of cheap perfume. She doused her head and worked the lather into her long hair. Not much better. Now she smelled like a brothel.

  Toweling off, she dried her hair and snuggled into Cassie's Seahawks robe. It was one size too big and a little short, but was warm and cozy. Time to make herself a cup of tea and decide what she was going to do about the rest of her life.

  Damn Mario.

  She filled the big red teakettle with water, dressed, and sat at the kitchen table, brushing out the knots in her long hair. Cassie had
dropped her off at the house and gone to run errands. She was taking the Airport bus from Napa and would be gone ten days, leaving Vickie car-less, since she wouldn’t be caught dead driving Bomber.

  At least she'd be comfortable here while she figured things out. Not like the fleabag hotel in Belize.

  She looked around. The house was an old Craftsman cottage in the heart of St. Helena's residential district. Cass had pointed out the Victorian she lived in before she and Nick decided to move in together. The apartment was convenient, but too small. So they rented this little two-bedroom house with wood floors and lots of built-in cabinetry.

  It reminded Vickie of their parents' house in Seattle.

  The teakettle whistled, and she poured the water into a chipped mug with Cork Crawl written on the side of it. Must be one of the town's many events.

  The door flew open and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Her heart thumped in her chest, and she reminded herself to take deep breaths.

  "Hey, can you get the other bags out of the jeep?" Cass breezed in carrying two cloth bags full of groceries. "They won’t be heavy."

  Vickie didn't move.

  "You okay? You look like you saw a ghost." Plunking the grocery bags on the counter, Cass came over to peer into her face.

  "You startled me coming in the back." She slipped into a pair of flip-flops and went to the door. The garage was in the back of the house, accessed by an alley. No one would see her in Cassie's robe.

  "I don't knock on the door of my own house." She narrowed her eyes. "You are jumpy, aren't you?"

  "I'm fine. Be back in a sec." The sun was still bright in the sky. It set later now it was spring, but eventually darkness would fall, Cass would be gone, and she'd be alone with her misery.

  Misery of my own making.

  One bag held produce, and the other boxes of cereal. Both were light. Her sister was like the parents, still watching out for her, although she'd never experienced a recurrence of her illness. "Where do you want these, Cass?"

  "On the counter. I'll put the stuff away, and then I've got to head out."