“Lousy?” Pedro asked.
She laughed. “I wasn’t going to say that.”
“But it’s true—it’s homegrown and out of date. That’s why we need you.”
She pitied the man that tried to resist his charm. “Where does the name Kaštel come from?”
“It’s a shortened form of the Croatian name for the Zinfandel grape, Crljenak Kaštelanski,” he replied, with impressive pronunciation. “Zinfandel originated on the Dalmatian Coast of Croatia. There’s a legend that the Maras family were the first to cultivate it.”
“A legend? That should definitely be on your website.”
Lining the walls of the foyer, watercolors in vibrant shades captured the blues and greens of the Adriatic shore.
“According to Andre, the Maras family made wine there for centuries.”
“I’ve been wondering about that. The Kaštel Estate was founded in the late nineteenth century, so there have been Maras winemakers here for more than a hundred years. Yet Kos and Andre both have accents, I assume Croatian ones. Were they born here or there?”
“I am not entirely clear on the family history. You’ll have to ask Andre that one.” He winked at her.
No doubt about it, he had evaded her question. Apparently, she would have to ask Andre herself. Suddenly, insects far larger than butterflies flapped their wings in her stomach. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt nervous, and she didn’t like it.
When the sun was no longer overhead, Pedro led her outside into the vineyards.
“Does Kos live here?” Zoey asked.
“Yes, mostly. He also has a cabin out on the coast. He and Andre are close, but he escapes out there when they butt heads.”
“Kos doesn’t seem much younger than Andre. I was surprised when he introduced himself as Andre’s son.”
“I had the same reaction when I met them, but then I learned Andre is his step-father.”
Did that mean Andre had been married to an older woman? “What about you? Do you live here?”
“I have a room here. It makes it easier during harvest time when I work twenty-four-seven. There’s plenty of room and Andre is a generous host. Speaking of which, Lena is preparing dinner and she’s an amazing cook. You met her when you arrived.”
She must be the pretty blond woman who took my suitcase.
“Come down for a glass of wine around seven,” Pedro said, “and we’ll eat after that.”
Seven was hours away. Her stomach growled, and she glanced at her watch.
Pedro must have noticed because he touched her arm, steering her toward a door in the back of the house shaded by a stand of trees. “Let’s get you a snack to tide you over.”
As she walked alongside Pedro, Andre appeared above them, behind French doors that opened on a balcony. They locked gazes, but his expression didn’t change. What he was thinking? Was he pleased by this bizarre coincidence? Was he upset by her presence in his home, a far more intimate connection than the one-night stand they might have had? Or perhaps he didn’t care one way or the other. Given the intensity of his stare, that seemed the least likely option.
The kitchen was abuzz with activity. A thin woman sat at the table, appearing mesmerized by a ledger. The blonde who’d taken her suitcase earlier shoved a chicken into the oven. A petite woman with short hair came in through the back door, heading for the sink.
The blonde backed into her.
“Sorry, Lena.”
“It’s okay.” Blank-faced, Lena pushed her bangs off her forehead with an oven-mitted hand. She didn’t sound like it was okay. Zoey took in her appearance. She possessed picture-perfect beauty, marred by her pinched eyes and a pressed-thin mouth—it was the kind of uptight look Zoey expected in the conference rooms of her clients, not in the kitchen of a wine country estate.
Pedro offered Zoey an apple. “This is Lena. She’s an amazing cook.”
Her blond head bowed curtly before she spun around to stir a bubbling pot on the stove.
“And this is Susan.” Pedro’s tanned hand gestured at the petite one. “She’s the gardener.”
Andre barreled into the room, the door swinging into the wall with a bang. He surveyed the room, not stopping at Zoey. He paused at Susan, and his chest sunk as he visibly exhaled. Zoey squeezed her eyes shut; she had no business looking at his chest.
“Susan, would you help me with something upstairs?”
“Sure, no problem. Let me get cleaned up. Meet you in a few minutes?”
“Thank you.” Andre headed toward the door without another word.
Pedro barred his exit. “I invited Zoey to have a glass of wine with us before dinner, at seven. I thought I’d bring up a decanter of the Šoltan so she can taste it while we fill her in on the project.”
“Yes, good idea. I’ll be there.”
Zoey must have blinked, because it seemed like he vanished into thin air.
“I’m going to do some work in my room.” Zoey tossed her apple core in the trash can. “Thanks for the snack.”
Upstairs, she opened the window to her room and a warm breeze blew in, carrying the scent of dry earth and heating her skin. She liked the heat. Outside, some of the hillsides were covered in golden grasses and others with green rows of leafy, trellised vines. Putting her hand on the windowsill, she could feel the tension in her shoulders ease. It was nice to be out of the city.
The spacious room had pale yellow walls, honey-colored oak floors, and big windows to let in the late-day sun—the kind of light just right for reading novels and making love in the afternoon. An intricately embroidered quilt in reds and oranges lay on the bed. Two woven wall hangings matched it. The folk art was probably Croatian, like the rest of the furniture in the house. She hugged her arms across her chest. The warm colors enveloped her in a feeling of well-being. Come to think of it, the whole house did.
She dropped into the desk chair, remembering another sunny house—the one bedroom cottage in the Mission District that she’d shared with Michael. She’d loved that scrubbed-clean dump, at first. It was so tiny that they called it the cocoon. Too bad she hadn’t emerged from it a butterfly.
On the day she’d moved out, her hands had trembled as she zipped up her sweatshirt, locked the door, and put the key back into the mail slot. A McGuire Irish Movers’ van was double parked on Capp Street. Her second-hand furniture was nestled tightly inside. Michael’s parents had loaded his clothes and his books into their minivan. They wouldn’t look at her; they hardly spoke. She shook his father’s hot, dry hand, and never heard from them again. Across town, the movers carried everything up her new, narrow stairwell. They must have guessed something of her turmoil; they both enfolded her in sweaty bear hugs before they drove off.
Suddenly, her breath came short. Her fingers went cold. She opened her eyes to see the Kaštel Estate vineyards out the window.
Idiot. What was she thinking, dredging up all those off-limits memories? It must be the birthday. With careful, slow breaths, she forced them down.
Her eyes caught on her trusty laptop, sitting on the desk. Its shiny metallic case was an uninviting contrast to the rustic desk and the earthy swath of fabric above it on the wall. Still, it was her salvation—work.
She opened the winery’s dinky website and poked around. The site was shockingly bare and tacky, with a mismatch of fonts and colors that made her eyes cross. Why wasn’t there a picture of Andre, or even Kos or Pedro? That was a serious marketing mistake. Men that pretty could sell anything. She’d even buy a box of tampons with Andre’s face on it. Her fingers went to her lips, suppressing the urge to smile. A man like him wouldn’t find the compliment flattering.
Her phone buzzed in her purse. Ethan. Not now. She stilled the vibration and tossed it back into the oversized bag. Before she’d even set her purse down, the damn thing was ringing again. Bending over to rummage for the phone, a lock of her hair fell into her eyes. She blew it out of the way and tucked it behind her ear.
“What?�
�� she said.
“Hello to you too.”
“Sorry.” Not really, but she should pretend. Still, it was all the apology she could be bothered with. She waited, wondering if he might say happy birthday. But he could only know that if he’d looked for it in her files, and she knew beyond a doubt he wouldn’t have.
“What have you learned?” he asked.
Her scalp tingled. Could steam really come out of a person’s ears? “Are you checking up on me?”
“No, of course not. I simply wanted to offer my support, and see if things were off to a good start.”
Oh. He was just being nice. “More like a slow start. I’ve toured the estate, but I still don’t have a feel for what Maras wants.”
“I see. Well, let me know if I can help.”
“Will do.”
She hung up, knowing he wasn’t finished with the call, but his voice rankled her in a way it hadn’t before. It was definitely time to break it off with him.
She went back to work. The webpage about this history of the winery was begging for that photo of Andre. A green background would make his eyes shine. She leaned closer to the nearly blank page, trying to picture it. No, a headshot wouldn’t suit his characteristic scowl. A candid would be better, shirtsleeves rolled up and holding a glass of wine to look through, or examining a bunch of grapes with Pedro. She would suggest that at dinner.
Her heart sped up a little—the excitement of inspiration, or was it seeing him again? She had no business getting fluttery about him. Work hard, kick ass, go home. That was her plan.
Standing, she shoved the chair behind her and started walking circles around the room. Movement always helped her to think. Ideas about the project took shape, cascading through her mind. She paced faster and faster. Maybe a wine label echoing the estate’s architecture, and a Croatian-sounding name. That would be exotic—like him.
But why the new brand?
She came to a halt, her foot hovering over the floorboards. The puzzle pieces weren’t lining up. Pedro must have neglected to tell her something important, and she couldn’t be successful without knowing what it was. Getting answers was simply a matter of determining the right questions. And there were only two that occurred to her: What did Andre really want to accomplish with this project? And why wouldn’t anyone just come right out and tell her?
Chapter 8
ANDRE COULD NOT GET THE IMAGE of Zoey out of his head. She had changed into a sundress—unfortunate that it was not the rainy dead of winter. From where he had gazed down on her earlier, that strappy slip of fabric had afforded him a better view of her breasts. They were the ideal size for her body, just big enough to fill his large hands. Her features were expressive and her smile engaging, even though it did not reach her eyes. Her dark brown hair was glossy and plaited in a thick braid. She was certainly beautiful, but there was something else that drew him to her—the spark, the mutual recognition. Every time he looked at her, he expected it to be gone. Every time he was wrong.
Worse, he already hungered again. She had only been there for a few hours and he smelled her throughout his house. Early in his exile, he had trained himself to ignore the constant hunger. But smelling Zoey made him think about sex, and thinking about sex made it impossible to forget his need for blood. He was newly aware of the ache in his starving muscles, the stinging fatigue of his eyes, and the sluggishness of his thoughts. He needed to feed, even if it would not satisfy for long.
Andre could hear Zoey pacing in her room. More often than not, he wished his ears were not so keen. She was not exactly stomping, but the sound thundered because every footstep brought to mind her sexy legs scissoring as she walked, her breasts bouncing slightly in her dress.
The rap of knuckles on his door told him Susan had arrived. He hadn’t even heard her approach because he had been listening to Zoey’s footsteps.
With Lena, he always avoided the bed. With Susan, he simply sat down and indicated she should join him.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Sure.”
He leaned into Susan and licked her skin where he could see her pulse. Salt lingered on her skin where perspiration had dried. She smelled clean. Under his tongue, her pulse raced in anticipation. He opened his mouth wide and extended his fangs, penetrating her delicate skin. She sighed quietly and relaxed into him as he began to draw warm blood into his mouth. He could sense her arousal, but she made no attempt to turn the feeding into a sexual act.
Tingling energy spread through him as his belly filled with her blood. It tasted so good, he could almost forget her blood lacked something. Would Zoey taste so good? How would she react to his bite?
She had only been in his home for a few hours, but a year’s worth of barely repressed desire for her had been uncoiling through his body since seeing her again. He imagined Zoey’s neck, her body against him. Suddenly, a large portion of that blood headed straight to his cock, pressing along Susan’s thigh.
“Honey, I know that’s not for me, but I think you’ve had enough.”
Davo. He coughed a little and swallowed the last mouthful. That was the last thing he should have let happen. Susan was his one safe meal. He sealed her wounds with his tongue. “Susan, I’m so sorry—”
“Andre, I saw the way you didn’t look at the businesswoman in the kitchen. It’s obvious to everyone.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “I don’t mind at all. However, Lena…she minds.”
It was time to do something about her. “Susan, can I ask you a question?”
“Okay.”
“Lena finds it very…frustrating when I feed from her. You, on the other hand, don’t seem bothered. I can sense you enjoy it, but—”
“Really—you don’t know?”
He scratched his chin. “Know what?”
“That I like girls. Ally and I have been together for years, since you first hired me.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Andre, can’t you smell her on me or something?”
She had a point. He clearly wasn’t paying much attention to her, because as soon as he leaned in and sniffed, Ally’s smell was so strong she could have been in the room.
“Feeding you is like foreplay. You get me all hot and bothered and Ally seals the deal.”
Andre raised an eyebrow. They were two beautiful women and the image that flashed in his mind was tantalizing. He flashed a deliberately naughty grin. “Can I watch?”
“I’d slap you if I thought you were serious.” She laughed and swatted at his arm. “But, Andre, even if I wasn’t with Ally, I don’t consider myself entitled to your affections. I think Lena’s off the mark there.” Susan stood, her face a little flushed.
Had he misled Lena? It had become commonplace for vampires to employ skilled labor and compensate them beyond their professional wage. Yet, Lena seemed to believe she had signed up for the old way of doing things. She must have read too many vampire novels.
Running her fingers through her short hair, Susan went on. “You need to feed from us and you certainly pay us well for our service. It’s lucky for your kind it feels so good. Otherwise how would you survive?”
Andre scratched his chin. “Sheer force, I expect. But I prefer the power of persuasion.”
“Well, off to find Ally.” She winked at him.
He stood and kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”
As soon as she left, Zoey’s pacing feet became audible again. It was all he could do not to burst into her room and bend her over the bed. But worse, even full of Susan’s blood, he still craved Zoey’s, which meant it was neither hunger nor lust cranking him up.
Davo. The blood bond was the worst part of being a vampire.
Hell could freeze right over. He was determined to remain un-bonded no matter what. He’d learned his lesson long ago, when Mila broke their bond and nearly ripped him apart. But he could satisfy his desire for Zoey without tasting her blood. He had been with thousands of women without biting. Why not her?
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Chapter 9
ETHAN BENNETT PASSED THROUGH the stone columns of the North Gate onto the campus of the University of California in Berkeley. The directions said to veer right, but there were two paths. He approached a loitering adolescent.
“Excuse me, which way is Dwinelle Hall?”
The oily-haired kid only looked up for a second, the arrow of his finger pointing to the second path on Ethan’s right. There were an astonishing number of students wearing blue and gold sweatshirts. Most human beings were sheep in need of a shepherd.
Inside Dwinelle Hall, Ethan found the History Department’s receptionist. He lifted a metallic case and set it on her desk. “This is for Professor William Oliver. Please make sure that he receives it and that no one else opens it.”
“Of course,” she said, staring fixedly at the case.
She looked too fascinated for Ethan’s liking. The nameplate on her desk revealed her to be one Gladys Browns. “Ms. Browns, Dr. Oliver assured me that inside this case is perhaps the most ancient and priceless historical object he has ever seen. I trust you’ll treat it with suitable caution.”
She reached forward quickly, but Ethan didn’t let go of the case. He held her eyes with his gaze until she blinked in submission. Then he let go.
He had always been confident the plan would work, but with Zoey inside the Kaštel Estate it was finally coming together. Soaring with optimism, Ethan had made the snap decision to put the next steps in motion earlier that day. He contacted William Oliver for help translating a book he had stolen from his father’s collection of artifacts. To Oliver, Ethan had described the illustrated text as a family heirloom written in what he thought was a form of Gaelic. Doubt poured out of the telephone as Oliver explained the impossibility of such a book existing. Ethan scanned a page and emailed it to the professor, who called him back immediately.
“I’d like to see the codex first hand.” The doubt had disappeared from his voice.
“So it’s unusual?” asked Ethan.
“I can’t say for certain until I see it. However, what you sent me seems to be written in the ancient language Brittonic, which predates Gaelic by many centuries. It’s clearly a Celtic language that I cannot otherwise place.”
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