Alessandra shook her head to clear her thoughts, then joined her sisters at the window. Beyond the glass, it was nothing special. At least not anything she couldn’t see any morning she chose. The sun was just cresting the eastern mountains. Their ragged outline was etched in gold and that same warm light infused the fog with tawny sparkles that looked like champagne bubbles rising from the rows of leafy grapevines. A view that had been in the family for over one hundred years.
Her arms tightened on Penn’s shirt. Thanks to him, they had a shot at keeping the legacy alive. What was there to worry about when she was better off this morning than any other morning since their father died? All because of one arrogant, sexy, confident, charming man.
No wonder she couldn’t think of him without a thrill goosing her stomach. Without a smile playing at her mouth. It shouldn’t be such a surprise that she had a little crush on the man.
Was that the source of her uneasiness? She’d never had a crush before. When other girls were swooning over a boy band or their best friend’s big brother, she’d been in love with Tommy . . . and Tommy had loved her back. With a crush, though, there was no requisite for reciprocal feelings.
And Penn was too cool to crush.
Stevie and Giuliana were staring at her. “What?” she said.
“Why are you mumbling about the crush?” Stevie asked. “We’re not even to harvest yet.”
“Uh . . . I know,” she answered, casting about for some way to put them off the scent. “I was, uh, just thinking about . . . thinking about when we were kids. When Papa would put grapes in our little play pool and let us stomp them.”
Giuliana laughed. “Mom used to scold about our stained feet, but she never insisted that we stop.”
Alessandra had forgotten that. The memory rose in her mind, the squishy, warm feel of ripe grapes between her toes, the pungent, sugary smell of the split fruit, the firm grasp of her mother’s hand as she kept her steady. Their handsome, dark-haired father had stood nearby, exhorting his girls to dance like gypsies in order to add magic to the flavor of the grapes.
The magic hadn’t been in the dance, but in that moment of togetherness. All the moments of togetherness their family and their family’s ancestors had experienced at Tanti Baci. She draped Penn’s shirt over her shoulder and wrapped an arm around each of her sisters. “I couldn’t bear to lose any of this,” she said. She couldn’t bear to lose one square foot of where all that had happened. Where her heart had once been so full.
If Penn’s plan worked, she wouldn’t have to.
At the thought, the sun breached the mountaintops and its bright rays burned away the last of the lingering fog. Her apprehension evaporated with it. The sun was out early today, and it would bring sweetness to the fruit just as her days ahead looked to be very sweet, too.
Maybe she was crushing a little on Penn, but she also believed in him—more than she’d believed in anything in a very long time. Her hold on her sisters tightened. “It’s going to be okay,” she said, vehement. “I think it’s going to turn out all right.”
The phone on her bedside pealed. All three sisters turned in its direction, but Alessandra reached it first. The voice on the other end made her jump, but what Penn said before he hung up had her leaping for the bedroom door.
She glanced over her shoulder at her sisters. “Something happened at the cottage.”
Both hands occupied with cardboard cups of steaming coffee, Gil used his elbow to push open the door to the Wagon Train, one of Clare’s small chain of boutiques located throughout the wine country. Instead of a bell, the opening notes of the Star Trek theme signaled his entry. Clare looked up from where she stood at the back of the shop, unpacking new inventory.
He stopped, taking in her slender form in denim overalls and a colorfully embroidered white top. She looked a little funky and a lot geeky, surrounded as she was by the collectibles that were sold in her stores named for Gene Roddenberry’s original pitch of the classic Star Trek series—“A Wagon Train to the Stars.” Action figures, chess sets, plates, playing cards, posters, glassware, all devoted to pop culture icons such as Star Trek, Star Wars, and Batman filled the shelves. New to the scene, but with its own entire corner, was memorabilia from the Twilight books and movies. It looked like that sparkly Edward was going to make Gil’s best friend a boatload of money in lunchboxes alone.
She smiled, clearly happy to see him, and he took that in, too, his heart aching because it might be the last sight he’d have of it for a while.
Last night he’d walked away from Clare, keeping his secrets as well as those of her fiancé.
This morning he was walking back to her, determined to tell the bride-to-be that the man she was planning to marry was cheating on her. His own confession would wait, he’d decided, until their world re-steadied after that explosion.
“What are you doing here?” she asked as he handed her a soy latte.
He ducked the question by taking a sip of his own cup of house blend, no sugar, because it was certain to be a dark and bitter day. “I didn’t expect your front door to be open.”
She shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came in early and did all my backroom chores. Shelves need stocking next, which I won’t complain about, considering the slow economy.”
Money concerns had hit the wine country just like everywhere else, but Clare’s business was surviving better than many. Tourists from the Silicon Valley—a staple of the wine country clientele—loved their geek-souvenirs, and if they could afford a weekend away to taste wines and buy bottles that started at twenty dollars a pop and skyrocketed from there, they had the ready cash for their Barbie and Ken Star Trek gift set, official Yoda light saber, or sparkly Edward thermos—though what women saw in a guy who drank blood, he just didn’t get.
Clare caught the direction of his gaze. “I’ve told you and told you. It’s because he’s waited for you all his long, long life and will love you for eternity.”
It made him grin, the way she could read his mind. Then his smile died, knowing her ESP wouldn’t pick up the vital information he’d come here to impart. He’d have to tell her that. Out loud. In words.
“Clare . . .” He couldn’t stop himself from tucking a strand of her highlighted hair behind her ear. The new look was pretty, but the best part was that she’d gone against her mother’s wishes to get it. Sally Knowles had a definite way she wanted things done, whether it came to her daughter’s hair or her daughter’s wedding.
Another woman heading for a painful fall.
Clare’s brow puckered. “What’s wrong?”
Love was hell, wasn’t it? The knowledge that Clare wouldn’t be marrying cheating Jordan should make him happy, but the idea of being the delivery guy of the bad news was making Gil sick. “I’m all right.”
She set down her cup and went on tiptoe to put her palm to his forehead. “You have a fever.”
Really, how could someone so smart be so dumb? He circled her wrist and pulled her hand from his face. “Sweet Clare, you’ve just been holding a hot cup of coffee.”
“Oh.” She laughed at herself a little, then lifted up again, this time using her left hand to gauge his temperature. Their faces were just inches apart and he couldn’t miss the quizzical expression in her big blue eyes. “You’ve never called me sweet before.”
“No?” This close, he also couldn’t miss the light floral scent of her. Feminine, and it had him thinking of the places a woman put perfume, at her ears, on her wrists, behind her knees, between her breasts. His gaze dropped and there they were—Clare’s breasts. Or rather, a slight hint of cleavage revealed by the droopy bib of her overalls and the low dip of her cotton blouse.
It rose on a quick breath, and he hastily jerked his eyes back to hers. There was a new flush across her cheekbones, obscuring the light golden freckles that had been fascinating him since those three fateful nights on Daphne’s couch.
“W-what are you doing?” Clare asked, her voice uncertain.
&nb
sp; “Thinking of your friend Daphne,” he said, starting on the road toward honesty. “How is she, by the way?”
“Daphne?” Clare shuffled back and picked up her coffee, giving him a little glare over the cup. “You’re not planning to hit on her at the wedding, are you?”
“No.” A promise he could make since there wasn’t going to be a wedding.
“Oh, that’s right,” she said, still looking annoyed with him. “You have that new woman of yours.”
Her disgruntled tone surprised him. He narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out what was making her angry—even before he ruptured her bridal dreams. “What’s got your nose out of joint?”
She picked up a Princess Leia action figure, fussing with the doll’s hair as she sent him a sidelong look. “I couldn’t care less who you date.”
He blinked. Hello. Non sequitur. “Clare?”
Instead of elucidating, she jammed the tiny woman back onto her display stand, nearly causing fatal injury in the process. He winced, glad the figure survived, since it was likely worth more than the price of a Super Bowl ticket, God only knew why.
“Fine, I’ll admit it,” Gil’s best friend finally muttered. “I don’t think I like her.”
But she’d never met the woman.
Wait—there was no woman.
He shook his head, trying to figure this out. “Clare?” When she wouldn’t even look at him, he turned her to face him with a hand on her shoulder. “What . . . what don’t you like about her?”
Her mouth pursed. He focused on her lips, soft and pink, soft and pink and now wet, her tongue darting out to moisten them. His shoulders tensed, his gut, his thighs, every muscle everywhere going hard at the sight of the very same tongue that Clare used to stick out at him when he teased her.
Now he wanted to tease it.
Swallowing a groan, he forced himself to look away. On a shelf at his right, Spock stared at him from the side of a mug, one of his Vulcan eyebrows raised in that mocking manner of his. Yeah, Gil responded silently to the Starfleet science officer, emotional attachments are a pain in the ass.
And definitely not logical.
He heard Clare’s sigh. She put her hand on his forearm and he felt the light touch all the way to his marrow. “I find myself . . .” she started.
Spock couldn’t keep Gil’s interest, not when he heard such confusion in his best friend’s voice. When he looked her way again, it was to find another flush on her face. “We’ve always been honest with each other, right?” she said.
Guilt shouldn’t pierce so deep. He was going to tell her the piece of news he’d been sitting on. Any minute. Though he’d decided—and not without some relief—that it wasn’t his own truth he would tell today, but Jordan’s.
“Yeah,” he answered, while guilt poked him again. “We’re honest.” Mostly.
“I’ve been thinking of your new woman and you and . . .” She trailed off, then looked away from him and out the plate-glass window. “And I’ve been thinking of you kissing me.”
It came out so low and so rushed, he thought he’d imagined it. “What?”
She still wasn’t looking at him, but she spoke more clearly. “I’ve been thinking about you kissing me.”
His heart bonged in his chest, like the first strike of the grandfather clock in his parents’ living room. It reverberated in his body, making his muscles tingle and his brain quiver. This wasn’t like when she was fifteen and willing to pay for an experiment. This was a woman talking . . . no, he knew enough about the gender to know this was a woman asking.
Oh, God. This morning wasn’t supposed to be about him and Clare. It was supposed to be about Clare and Jordan. Gil’s heart bonged again, a knell signifying something. He wasn’t prepared. He hadn’t thought he’d be honest today about this . . .
But a kiss, he told himself. A kiss was a whole other way of communicating. He leaned close . . .
The blasted Star Trek notes sang out again. Gil jerked straight, Clare stumbled back, Jordan Wilson walked in.
Gil cursed, then backed away from Clare as the other man approached. The interruption meant his original plan was best. Get Jordan out of her life, then address changing Gil’s relationship with his BFF. Breakup first. Kissing Clare second.
Relief, frustration, and an urge to kill had Gil concocting a quick excuse to leave the shop. He’d be back, he promised himself, and he’d tell her about Jordan’s betrayal then. God knew she deserved the truth.
He was only as far as the corner when he heard his name. Turning, he was forced to confront the fiancé who didn’t deserve Gil’s best friend. “What the hell do you want?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
Jordan grimaced. “Damn, I had a feeling . . . You know, right?”
“That you’re lower than a worm? Yeah, I know.”
“I’m going to tell her about the woman,” Jordan hastened to say. “I’ve just got to find the right time and place. You’ll give me the chance to do that, right?”
Gil should have said wrong! But he didn’t, because . . . because it was Jordan’s failing, damn it. And Gil was not so eager—if he was honest with himself—to rush into heart-to-hearts with Clare. With the wedding off the table, Gil could wait for his own right moment to make his confession to her.
It was only later, when he was elbows deep in grimy car engine that an even dirtier thought occurred to him. Jordan said he’d tell Clare about the other woman. But he hadn’t mentioned anything about ending the engagement—only about admitting to the affair.
12
Braced against the exterior wall of the cottage, Penn shoved his hands through his hair, his gaze on the road leading to Alessandra’s farmhouse. Waiting for her . . . again.
Last night he’d been attempting that, too. Waiting for her to break, for that restrained façade to shatter and release a wild passion. He’d assumed she’d have no defense against his expertise.
She’d shattered him and his ego instead.
Quite the wake-up call for a confident man, and the fact that it bugged the bleepin’ hell out of him had set off yet another alarm. He shouldn’t be so concerned with one little nun who lived like an enchanted princess in her forest of grapevines.
So this morning, rising from his bed in the Bennett brothers’ home—he’d not lingered long with Alessandra—he’d determined his next step. And that was getting the cottage buttoned up and then getting himself back to his real life in L.A.
He’d rushed to the Baci vineyards . . . and run into trouble.
Now three dark-haired beauties were flying toward him. He didn’t focus on any particular face, but instead turned his back on them as they breached the porch steps in order to lead the way inside the cottage. There, he gestured with his hand at the gouges and holes in the newly installed and taped sheets of drywall that had been waiting for paint. “This room, the bride’s boudoir, the groom’s waiting alcove—all the same,” he said. “Someone vandalized the place.”
Giuliana’s head was tipped up.
“Yeah,” Penn confirmed. “The ceilings, too.”
Alessandra made a little sound of frustration—more noise, Penn noted despite himself, than she’d let loose last night in his arms. Without looking at her, he said, “Yeah, it sucks. Worries me, too.” Understatement.
“Worries you?” Stevie echoed, sounding surprised.
“Well, sure.” The princess slept alone while a mere quarter-mile away crowbars or something very similar had created this destruction. He should have nailed plywood over the front entrance, but he’d been expecting the new doors to be delivered any day.
“I’ve called the cops already. Can you think of anyone who’d want to trash the cottage? And why?”
“You didn’t hear anything last night, Allie?” Giuliana asked.
He didn’t dare look her way. A guilty flush would piss him off, a careless shrug even more. Her quiet in the sack made him nuts . . . if she maintained it the morning after he might give everything away. Blow
their goddamned secret.
“I guess I slept too well,” she said. “I must have been worn out.”
The thought of that only slightly mollified him. “Back to my question—who and why?”
“That’s easy,” Stevie said, without a trace of doubt in her voice. “The why is the treasure.”
Giuliana groaned. “Not the treasure,” the oldest Baci girl went on to plead. “Please don’t bring up the treasure.”
Stevie struck a stubborn pose, her arms crossed over her chest. “I didn’t say it was real, I just said somebody believes in it enough to be looking for it.”
Looking from pretty face to pretty face to pretty face didn’t provide Penn answers to a slew of new questions. “What treasure are you talking about? And why the cottage? I know the locals have used it as some sort of trysting place . . .”
“I blame Stevie for that, too,” Giuliana said. “She and her little friends used to sleep out here at night and they made up stories they told all their other little friends that—”
“Lovers came to the cottage even before I was born,” Stevie protested.
“Yes,” Giuliana agreed, “but in greater numbers after you and your goofy group circulated the story that if the one you kissed at the cottage was your ‘True Love’ ”—she air-quoted the two words—“then the ghosts of Anne and Alonzo would appear in approval.”
“Papa told us that story,” Alessandra said. “He swore it was true.”
Penn snorted. “Ghosts. True Love. You guys gotta be kidding me.”
“Visitors eat it up,” Alessandra added.
But she didn’t say she didn’t believe it. Though he had to admit the ghosts-love thing did have a commercial appeal. “Sorta The Bachelor meets The Blair Witch Project,” he mused aloud. “We should tell the Wedding Fever people . . . Wait, wait, wait. I’m getting off track. Treasure?”
“It’s a twist on the Tanti Baci legend,” Alessandra said. “While we know that the original owners, Alonzo and Liam, had a falling out over Anne, there are those who say that argument was aggravated by some silver that went missing—the last load from their mine.”
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