“I didn’t say anything about us dating,” he said, inwardly pleased when she shifted her gaze to the coffee table. A tell tale sign that it wasn’t the answer she expected—or perhaps desired. “Not that there would be anything wrong with it. But I think we have a few things to get out of the way first.”
“What are you talking about? I said we weren’t dating and that’s that.”
“I need to know how you feel about this Italian dude. He’s much more to you than you let on.”
She lifted her head and her mouth opened but nothing came out for a second. He could see she was mentally sifting through the information. He’d blind-sided her. “Who have you been talking to?” she demanded.
“I saw him here again today in his fancy car. I was worried about you so I asked Billie about him.” He didn’t want to bring his sister into it, but he’d never been good at lying. “She told me he’s Davy’s father.”
Margaret jumped up from the couch and glared down at him. “How dare you? You blow into town and start tearing into my life like you have a right. You don’t. I don’t care if you are Billie’s brother. My personal life is not open to scrutiny.”
He stood up and faced her, wanting to reach out and pull her close, but restrained himself. “This has nothing to do with Billie. This is totally about us. You and me.” He took a step closer. “I enjoy spending time with you and I’m attracted to you. I think if you admit it to yourself—you’re attracted to me too. This two-year age difference is not a breaking point. It’s not as if I’m an inexperienced frat boy trying to bed an older woman. You’re twenty-five—not forty-five.”
She licked her lips, her gaze riveted to his mouth. She moved in close and placed her hands flat against his chest. Close enough to kiss, but a breath shy of actual contact. “Is this what you want?” she asked softly. “Passion, excitement, the thrill of seduction?”
He pulled back and gently pushed her hands away. He knew a test when he felt one. “Of course it’s what I want,” he said, his voice thick with need. “What red-blooded man wouldn’t want you? That’s not what I came for though.” He wanted to be absolutely truthful. She needed to know where he stood. “You’ve made your point. I am inexperienced. In relationships, in love, in life.” He shook his head. “But not anymore than you are. Okay, you had sex with that guy and conceived a son, but were you in love with him, or was it just teenage hormones raging out of control? I’ve had that too. It wasn’t anything to write a memoir about.”
She turned away and moved out of reach. Sitting on the edge of the piano bench, she crossed her legs and released a quiet sigh. For just a moment he thought maybe she was giving him the silent treatment, but then she started taking. “Agosto was twenty when I met him. I was fifteen, going through a hell-bent rebellious stage. My parents were no longer around and Handel was my keeper. He tried to do right by me, to make sure I went to school and brushed my teeth and stayed away from bad influences, but he was busy with law school and had no idea what went through a teenage girl’s mind.” She made a self-deprecating sound and looked down at her hands twisting in her lap. “I just wanted to escape my life. Agosto seemed like the perfect channel.”
“Did you love him?”
She looked up. “I thought I did. I was fifteen. Remember? But it didn’t matter, because to him I was just a fling, a diversion to keep him from being bored while he was here. When I told him I was pregnant, he accused me of …” she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “Doesn’t matter anymore. The short version—I was an American tramp he could never take home to daddy. So he left without acknowledging his son and now he’s returned—supposedly a more mature, responsible version of himself—and wants to get to know Davy.” She fell silent, staring across the room at the cold fireplace.
Adam didn’t know what to say. The raw pain still evident in her voice, said it all. He picked up his guitar and scooted to the edge of the couch. His fingers moved over the strings, holding, strumming, plucking a bluesy tune from memory. He closed his eyes and played, feeling the music vibrate through his fingers and fill his chest with the familiar ache of sadness and loss. He moved on to something a little jazzier and then riffed into a rendition of Heart’s Crazy on You. The music tore through his fingers like a surge of electricity and up his arms. He stopped abruptly, his hand muting the strings vibration.
When he looked up she was staring at him like he had two heads and one of them had grown horns. “Wow,” she drawled. “Wish I had a cigarette lighter, but this will have to do.” She stood up, flipped open her cell phone and held it up, swaying to a silent beat.
Feeling embarrassed, he shook his head and set his guitar against the books piled on the table. “Thanks. A standing ovation from an audience of one. That’s probably a first.”
She smiled and snapped the phone closed, laid it on the piano. “Not possible. I’m sure you’ve had many standing ovations of one. Hasn’t your mother listened to you play?”
“She thinks I’m wasting my time. Maybe she’s right.” He stood up and moved to the piano. She stepped back and watched him play chopsticks with robotic flair. He finished and turned to face her. “Music is a pipedream. Number crunching is a solid career. ”
She moved in so fast he didn’t have time to anticipate. Her fingers sank into his hair and pulled him close. Her lips were soft and supple and searching and he kissed her back with all the urgency she gave. She smelled of shampoo and tasted of wine, and he couldn’t get enough of her.
The sound of the garage door opening outside was like a gunshot in a prison ward. She went stiff in his arms and pulled away, smoothing her hair and straightening her top. He moved off to stand at the bookcase and peruse the large collection of books and magazines. He didn’t know if he looked innocent when Handel appeared in the doorway moments later, but he felt less than honest.
“Hey you two. What’s up? Did I miss all the fun?” Handel ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “I hope you left me some food. I’m starved.”
Adam cleared his throat. “I s’pose I should be going.” He turned and caught Margaret’s eye. Her cheeks were pinker than they’d been a few minutes earlier.
“I’ll walk you to the car,” she said, her voice slightly breathless. Slipping past her brother, she said over her shoulder, “There’s leftovers in the fridge, Handel. It’s all yours.”
Outside, Margaret nervously picked at a thumbnail, until Adam put his finger under her chin and lifted her gaze. “You really haven’t dated since you were fifteen, have you?” he asked, knowing the answer.
“I’ve dated,” she said, looking away over his shoulder.
“Really? Who?”
“I’m not the kind of girl who kisses and tells.” She met his eyes.
He pushed a stray strand of hair away from her face and let his thumb gently caress her cheek. “Is that an invitation,” he asked, even as he moved to capture her lips.
She kissed him back and finally pulled away, breathless. “Don’t do that again,” she warned, her voice filled with laughter.
“Why not?”
“I can’t breathe.”
He chuckled and pulled her close, loving the feel of her in his arms, her hair brushing his face. They slowly pulled apart and he opened the car door and climbed inside.
“Goodnight, music man.”
“Night, Meg.”
Out on the highway, he remembered that he left his guitar behind. And smiled at the thought of a sweet reunion concert.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Agosto paced in his hotel suite, intermittently stopping to stare out the window. Sailboats skimmed the blue waters of the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge stretched in the distance. But he couldn’t really enjoy it. His plans were not coming together as quickly as he’d hoped and loose ends always made him nervous.
He knew Handel would be a problem. The man hated him. That’s why finding an opportunity to speak with Margaret alone had been his first move. And he’d done a fabulous j
ob of showing his vulnerable side. He stopped at the mirror and adjusted the collar of his shirt, brushed a speck of lint from his trousers. He smiled at his reflection. She was still not immune to his charm.
At first, she appeared impenetrable, hardened from past experience. But he knew American women and what made them tick. He’d said, please, and her reserve crumbled like damaged, pocked concrete. He could see it in her eyes, those blue depths that always gave away her feelings no matter how hard she tried to hide them.
He glanced at his watch. It had been two days. Why hadn’t she called? Had Handel convinced her otherwise? His sources had informed him that Handel Parker was a formidable attorney in the courtroom, that he could probably convince a jury that Charles Manson was innocent if he tried. But he was Margaret’s brother, not her attorney, and from what he remembered, she didn’t like to be told what to do—especially by men.
His only option was to return to the Napa Valley and see this through personally. If she wouldn’t initiate a meeting between him and his son, then he would just have to manage one himself. He picked up the phone and dialed the hotel desk.
“This is Agosto Salvatore. Please have my car brought round and have someone come and collect my bag in ten minutes.”
He opened the closet and found his suitcase, threw it on the rumpled bed and began filling it with clothes from the armoire. He heard the water shut off in the shower and a minute later the door opened, releasing a cloud of steam and a tall, thin woman wearing one of the hotel’s plush oversized robes. Strands of damp hair framed a face worthy of the ten-o’clock news. “Agosto,” she said, her smooth brow wrinkling unattractively, “what are you doing?”
“Checking out.” He turned to survey the closet, chose two pair of shoes and a suit, zipped them into a suit bag. He looked up and she was still staring at him as though he’d lost his mind.
“You said we were going to the track and then tonight you’d take me out for dinner,” she said, tugging the belt of the robe tighter. “What’s going on?”
“Get dressed and go home. I don’t need you anymore.” He snapped the suitcase latches closed and moved around her to get his things from the bathroom vanity.
She grabbed his arm. “Why are you doing this? I thought we had something…” her voice trailed off as she met his eyes, hard with impatience.
“We did. Now it’s over.” He pulled away and gathered his toiletries.
A knock at the door came sooner than he’d expected. He went to open it and saw that his reporter lady had already managed to throw her clothes on and yank the door open for the skinny bellboy. She slung her purse over her shoulder and moved quickly past him out into the hall. Agosto gestured toward the bags waiting on the bed. While the bellboy positioned them on his trolley, he followed her into the hallway.
“Thank you, Jane Goodall. I had a lovely time. Perhaps when I’m in town again…”
She flipped him her middle finger and stepped into the elevator.
He laughed softly and shook his head. American women.
The bellboy trailed him into the hall and stood attentively.
“I’ll be downstairs in a minute. You can put those in the trunk of my car.”
“Yes sir.”
Inside the room, he dialed his assistant, explained where he was going and demanded everything would be ready when he got there. Handel might think he could control things for Margaret, protect her from the big bad wolf, but he’d just made the wolf very hungry.
*****
“We need goats?” Billie repeated blankly. “Nubian goats? Whatever for?”
Margaret opened the folder she brought to the meeting and pulled out a magazine article she’d read. Her Internet research had also reinforced the idea in her mind. Goats could be tethered and allowed to feed on the weeds of the vineyard, cutting back even more the use of pesticides and herbicides. They already had the special tractor attachment Jack purchased before he died that gently moved between the vines, tilling the weeds back into the soil. The goats would take care of the weeds in between tilling.
Billie perused the article before handing it back, her brows lifted. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. I think they would completely negate our need of weed sprays, and being a greener business would put us in a position to…”
Billie cut her off. “It was a joke. Goats. Kids. Kidding. Get it?”
Sally, sitting across the conference table typing notes on her laptop, snorted. “If you have to explain it, it’s not funny, boss.”
Billie shot Sally a scathing look, then turned to Margaret. “Sorry. I’m not laughing at your idea. I think it’s great. Just trying to bring a little levity into our day. Some people don’t know humor when they hear it.”
“Some people don’t know humor,” Sally muttered.
“Anyway, I’m definitely jumping on the green bandwagon. I don’t think we’ll survive long in California if we don’t. Regulations seem to be on everything around here. So, if goats will help save the planet while weeding the vineyard, I’m all for it. Just make sure you name one of them Sally.”
“Hey, I take offense at that!”
Margaret laughed at Sally’s supposed outrage. She’d known her long enough to know that she’d probably be proud to have a goat named after her. “Fine with me. I’ll look into buying them. You can name them.”
Billie stood up and stretched. “We’ve tackled enough new business for now. I love your idea of wineblending. We have three varieties, two going back decades, and yet as far as I know Jack always harvested and crushed them separately. If we could come up with an old family wine recipe…wouldn’t that be awesome? People like drinking a bit of history. It gives the wine respectability.”
Sally broke out singing, “R-e-s-p-e-c-t…” and carried her computer from the conference room, swaying to the beat.
Margaret picked up her folder. “You know, my grandfather used an old wineblending recipe when he owned the winery. I think he got it from the previous owners. I know it must go way back before the property split. I remember my father talking about the formula when I was little.”
“Before the property split?” Billie pushed her chair in and leaned her arms on the back. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t know?” She wondered how Handel could have left that little tidbit out of their conversations for the past eighteens months and whether he did it to protect her. He knew how much she loved the vineyard. But he couldn’t possibly think Billie would try to take it from them. “Our three acres used to be part of the winery land. When my grandfather sold out, he managed to keep a plot for his family. My small vineyard contains some of the original vines from the forties.”
“And you’ve been keeping that all to yourself?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t know it was a secret. In fact, I’m sure the winery has records of the sale. There was some dispute about the acres we kept, but when Jack bought the winery, he let it go. He thought we’d been through enough I guess, without digging up ancient boundary lines and taking us to court over them.”
Billie worried her bottom lip. “Jack did have a soft side for the underdog.”
“I guess.” Margaret moved toward the door. “I know I’ve just joined the team, but thanks for giving me the chance to prove myself. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t. You’ve already proven you know the winery business. Fredrickson’s won’t fail or succeed because of one person. It’s like you said—we’re a team.” Billie followed her out the door and into the hallway. She linked arms with her as they strolled toward the front office. “By the way, what in the world did you do to my brother last night?”
Margaret cut a glance at her soon to be sister-in-law. “Do?” she blew out a nervous laugh and shrugged. “Nothing.”
“Not what I heard.” Billie led her past the office and out the front door, mercifully out of Sally’s bionic hearing. She turned to face her, hands on narrow hips. “He raved about your cooking. To hea
r him tell it, you are the grill queen of California.”
Margaret could feel heat flush her cheeks.
“He also said you make the best wine he’s ever had. Which of course cinched the deal to hire you as our chief winemaker.” She paused. “But I don’t think it was the food or wine that made him come home singing, This Kiss. He doesn’t even like country music.”
“He did not!” Margaret knew her face was beet red. She looked away. “ It was stupid. He’s so young.”
“Margaret, he’s only two years younger than you. And he really likes you. There’s nothing wrong with that. Enjoy it.”
“I like him too. It’s just that I come with excess baggage. Not that I consider Davy that way, but all the stuff that comes with having a child—including the father who recently showed up on my doorstep.”
“I heard about that. What are you going to do?” Billie asked.
“I’ve gone over it in my mind a thousand times since I heard he was here. My first reaction was to deny him access to Davy. He didn’t deserve it. For the past nine years he was the invisible father—never reached out to his son, wouldn’t even acknowledge he was his son. Why now?” She released a sigh. “But then he came to see me yesterday. He seemed different, less cocky, maybe a little remorseful for the way he ran off.” She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know.”
Billie reached out and gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “Well, call me when you do. I’m licensed to practice in California now. Family law is what I know. I dealt mostly with divorce, restraining orders against abusive husbands, that kind of thing, but I had a few child custody cases. They can be brutal. Believe me, you need a good lawyer. I know your brother probably thinks he can handle it, but he’s much too close to the situation and it’s not his specialty. So, don’t hesitate to ask for help.”
“Thanks.” Her eyes welled with tears and she gave Billie a quick hug. “I’ll let you know.”
Crushed (The Fredrickson Winery Novels Book 2) Page 8