“Sorry. Got busy settling in and time got away from me. Don’t you ever sleep? It must be the wee hours of the morning there.”
“You had lots of calls today. I told them you were out,” she said, ignoring his comment.
“Thanks, Carol. Only you and Kevin know where I am and why. I’m not ready to deal with buyers yet.”
“Okay, but remember…word gets around fast in small towns. Are you sure you have everything you need? I can increase the cleaning schedule. Do you need a cook?”
“I can take care of myself. I still know how to cook, and I can even use a mop.”
“Uh-huh. A man of many talents. If you don’t need anything further, tough guy, I’ll say good night.”
“Tell Kevin I’m happy to leave things in his capable hands—and yours, of course.”
“Sure you are, Mr. Control Freak,” she said with good-natured skepticism. “We’ll see how long before you call here.”
“Good night, Carol. Get some sleep.”
He ended the call and turned on his side. For a second, a wave of nausea reminded him to move slowly, to support his ankle. Or maybe it was the other problem, the one he had only mentioned to Kevin. The one he didn’t want to think about. The one that raised fears so strong he was like a man in a room full of scorpions, waiting for the strike.
The vertigo was occurring more frequently. Hell, he knew what this was—Huntington’s, the genetically transmitted disease that killed his father. He’d put off the tests as long as he could, knowing once he was diagnosed it would be life changing. Medications to ease symptoms would make his brain fuzzy. He wouldn’t be able to drive or make critical decisions. He’d have to relinquish control of his companies.
And still the damn tests had been inconclusive. He’d gone to a prestigious clinic, and after sitting through sessions with psychiatrists and neurologists, they told him to come back when more symptoms appeared. Even a genetic test could only tell him if the gene was there, not if the disease would present itself.
And he knew he could not in good conscience father any babies.
Ten years ago he’d been a cocky twenty-three-year-old who thought he owned the world because he’d just started his first company, one that went public in less than a year and made him millions in the biomedical field. But new technologies needed constant updating, and in the economic downturn, orders had fallen off sharply. When he added Pantheon, a research and development firm, it had helped. But he wasn’t back where he wanted to be yet.
As he turned out the light, a white card fluttered to the floor. Paige’s phone number. He’d retrieve it in the morning. She said she would be by early to check on him, even if he didn’t call.
Jake closed his eyes, but he wouldn’t sleep, not right away. Tonight had been terrifying. He’d been in the middle of an episode when Sam charged him, waving the broom. Normally, he could have ripped the broom from the man’s hands, but he had been trying to stay upright. How long before his body jerked uncontrollably and his speech slurred? The doctors told him it could take twenty years to die, and it wouldn’t be pretty for those charged with taking care of him.
He shut off that line of thinking and instead thought about the woman who bent over him tonight in her bare feet, gently touching his swollen ankle, all efficiency and concern, trying to coax a smile from him. Paige Reynoso was used to being the one in charge.
The next few days were going to be interesting.
Chapter Two
“Sauvignon blanc is a slightly tart, fruity wine with overtones of citrus; when in perfect balance, it is light, crisp, and refreshing. Great with Caesar salad or anything with garlic.”
—from Paige Reynoso’s tasting notes
Sleeping completely through the night was one of Paige’s treasured feats. It gave her energy and focus and helped her solve the numerous problems inherent in raising quality grapes. Exhausted at the end of the day, she prided herself on being able to close her eyes and not wake up until summoned by her alarm.
But not last night.
She’d tossed and turned until the sheets were tangled. At one point she got up and did an internet search, trying to determine why Jake Madison had shown up. She found a not-too-recent biography and numerous tabloid photos linking him with various women.
One article chronicled the rise of his company, Madison International, and two more recent ones hinted the firm was in trouble. It had something to do with a bug in the software they produced that detected genetic anomalies through a handheld scanner. Another article said a recent acquisition—a company with software engineers specializing in biogenetic programs—might solve the problem, but the time frame was tight.
Biogenetics? Rotating vectors? Replication chromosomes? It was enough to make her cross-eyed. And still, nothing told her why he was in Napa. Maybe she was being overly suspicious. Jake’s visit was probably nothing more than an overdue vacation. The most logical answer was that he’d come to rest or work out a problem in a different setting.
Or he might be avoiding a jealous husband.
She snickered. Reading tabloid articles in the middle of the night put all sorts of ideas in one’s head. She climbed back in bed, her brain refusing to shut down until almost dawn.
At precisely five o’clock in the morning, Paige reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. Eyes bleary and head fuzzy, she forced herself to roll off the mattress, knowing she had a busy schedule. Two rented tractors were coming to supplement the one owned by the estate. They were due around six o’clock. She hoped Jake was an early riser because the noise would wake him up. Jake had probably been restless, too. Aspirin wore off. If he’d allowed her to take him to a doctor, he would have been more comfortable.
She checked her list for the day, grabbed a cup of coffee, and went out. Orange streaks announced the arrival of the sun, and crisp air filled her lungs.
The front gate on the highway was propped open, which meant Mike and Juan had arrived for work early as usual. Paige remembered her doubts when she brought them on board, not knowing if they would tolerate working for a woman. They accepted her from the beginning and remained when they could have gone elsewhere.
No machismo issues with these Napa natives.
Reaching the barn, she spotted Sam checking oil in the estate’s John Deere tractor.
“Good morning. How’s our guest?”
“He’s not happy, Miss Paige. He doesn’t smile.”
“Did he say anything about how long he’s staying?”
“Not to me.”
“I hope he’s awake, because here come the tractors.”
“And here come the boys,” said Sam, pointing at the barn, where two young, dark-haired men emerged.
The diesel truck rumbled into the wide yard and parked so its ramp could be lowered and the tractors driven off the back of the flatbed. Clearing weeds from the dirt lanes between the rows of vines was important. The work would take most of the day.
“I’ll go up to the house and check on Mr. Madison,” said Paige, as Sam climbed into the old estate-owned tractor. “If I need you, I’ll flag you down in the field.”
She strolled back the way she came, passing a field of three-year-old plants in their first bearing year. She stopped and peered out over the distant vistas. It was hard to imagine these hills covered with cattle. But that’s what was here over a hundred and fifty years ago when California was still part of Mexico and the land was divided into large ranchos. Now the valley was a checkerboard of parcels planted in grapes—grapes owned by outsiders, not the Mexican families who originally settled here.
She bent over to pet Bay, who had come out to check on the activity and chose to tag along. Leaving him outside, she entered the house.
A familiar car parked outside the back door told her Sam’s sister was in the kitchen.
“Hi, Jenny. You’re here bright and early.”
“Sam said you wanted me to come over and make breakfast for Mr. Madison if I had time.”
; “Did Sam tell you anything about Mr. Madison?”
“Only that he was sour and needed sweetening.” Jenny laughed at her joke and tied on an apron. “My cinnamon rolls will fix that. Do you want one?”
“Thanks. I’d never pass up your baking.” She bit into one of the warm rolls as she talked, savoring its airy texture and cinnamon flavor as it melted on her tongue.
She beamed at Jenny, a petite woman whose round body was a silent testament to the quality of her cooking. Her gray-streaked black hair was pulled neatly into a ponytail, and her ever-present toothy grin always made a person smile.
Paige added a pot of coffee and an extra cup to the tray Jenny had prepared and headed for the master suite. Aware of moisture on her palms, she put the tray down on a side table outside the closed door and had a talk with herself.
Jake Madison may be a smart guy, but he knows nothing about vineyards. He’s not here to fire you or take over. Go in there and dazzle him with your expertise.
Taking a deep breath, she knocked.
“Yes?”
The voice sounded far away. “It’s Paige Reynoso. I have your breakfast.”
“Come in.”
She opened the door, retrieved the tray, and searched for a place to put it. The glass doors to the terrace were open, and she could see Jake propped on crutches near the stone balustrade, looking out over the vineyards. This morning he wore a white long-sleeved Henley shirt with three buttons at the neck and a pair of gray, draw-string sweatpants that rode low on slim hips. A pair of white athletic socks covered his feet. His thick hair was awry, and stubble shadowed his face, as if he’d just risen from his bed. And those broad shoulders she remembered so well were tense.
Paige walked through the bedroom and out to the terrace. A wrought iron glass-topped table was placed right outside the doors. The sound of tractors droned in the background.
“How are you feeling today?”
“Much better.” He didn’t turn, but continued staring off into the distance. “I’ve sprained an ankle before, playing sports as a kid. It won’t last long.”
“Good.” She studied his back. He leaned heavily on the crutches, with no weight on his right foot. He seemed boyish and vulnerable, like someone who needed a hug.
This is no teddy bear. This is a powerful man who is accustomed to getting his own way. He also happens to own the place. Focus!
“What am I hearing in the distance?”
“We’re disking today.” Paige set the tray down and seated herself in one of the two matching chairs. “We attach a plow to the back of a tractor that digs into the ground between the rows. It uproots weeds that might suck up the water we use to irrigate the vines.”
“Won’t that damage the mustard plants between the rows? The limo driver gave me a running discourse on the local fauna and flora when I came here from the airport.”
Was this natural curiosity from someone who lived his entire life in a city, or did he really want to know about grape production? His business manager only wanted to see income and expenditures. She sat closer to the edge of her chair, trying not to frown.
“Mustard uses water. Personally, I prefer not to have anything competing for the water in my vineyard.” She looked for a reaction from Jake as she made the correction. “Your vineyard.”
He didn’t comment, but continued to gaze over the valley as if mesmerized by the view. Paige had time to admire his profile.
“Refresh my memory,” he said. “What am I looking at?”
“We have seventeen acres of cabernet sauvignon, with one acre planted to cabernet franc and another to petite syrah. You can’t see those vines from here. The houses and outbuildings take up another acre.”
“And that produces how many tons?”
“It depends.” Was there a point to this conversation? “Why don’t you come over and eat your breakfast before it gets cold. I can answer your questions face-to-face just as easily as I can talking to your back.”
“Can you?” He turned, a playful expression on his face. “I’ve been told some men get tongue-tied just facing me across a conference table.”
“I’m not a man.”
“No, you certainly are not.”
For a moment their eyes met, each taking the measure of the other. Silence stretched between them. Paige forgot to breathe and felt her stomach doing odd little somersaults. Birds chattered noisily from the branches of a nearby tree.
She was the first to look away, surprised by her reaction.
Jake hobbled over to the table where she took the crutches from him and helped him lower himself onto a chair. He held her arm to steady himself, leaving a patch of warmth on the skin under her sleeve.
“Thank you, Miss Reynoso.”
“Call me Paige.”
“Paige…Paige.” He furrowed his brow. “Somehow I recall seeing paperwork signed by someone named J.P. Reynoso. Is that you?”
“Yes, it is. Juanita Paige Luisa Teresa Reynoso. Paige for short.”
“That’s quite a name. Paige it is, then. And I’m Jake.” He poured himself a cup of coffee, ignoring the cream and sugar on the tray. “Would you like some?”
“Thanks, I would.”
“Did you bake these rolls?”
“No, Sam’s sister, Jenny, did. She works for your neighbor, John Sims. He’s away on a business trip, so she’s available for a few days. I’m afraid my talents don’t extend to baking.”
“What are your talents, Paige?”
He took a bite of the cinnamon roll. A piece of crystallized sugar caught at the corner of his mouth. She watched in fascination as he tried to retrieve it with the tip of his tongue. She had a sudden urge to lean over and do it for him.
Drat the man. His tousled hair and golden eyes distracted her. Part of her wouldn’t mind climbing into his lap and running her hands through that thick hair, feeling its softness against her fingers. The other part wanted to strangle him for showing up without warning, for making her fret over why he was here, imagining the worst.
“My talents? I know how to get a vineyard to produce quality grapes that bring in top dollar.”
“And where did you learn to do that?”
“In the viticulture program at the University of California, Davis,” she said. “And from my father.”
“Your father grows grapes?”
“Other people’s grapes. My father is Pete Reynoso, who is rather famous in the Napa Valley. He owns a vineyard management company. My mother’s family has been in the valley for several generations.”
“And you followed in your father’s footsteps.”
“You might say so.”
“But you don’t work for him.”
“No. I work for you.”
“He must be very proud of you.”
Proud? Papa was old-fashioned. As a young girl, she had followed her father around in the vineyard, watching him pass on his knowledge of wine grapes to his male protégés, expecting one of them to take over when he retired. It would not be one of his three daughters. Women did not belong in the fields.
“He appreciates my skills,” she said, choosing her words carefully.
“Break it down for me. What do you do on a daily basis?” Jake’s commanding voice brought her back from her lapse. He took a tiny notebook and pencil from his pants pocket and scribbled a few words.
“Why do you want to know all this? You’ve never even visited before.”
“I own this place. I want to know everything about it.”
“I see.” She didn’t see.
“Continue…please.” He took the edge off his brusque tone with a broad smile that revealed the dimple that should be packaged and sold as an aphrodisiac.
Paige’s heat level rose, and she had to bite her lower lip to keep from squirming. She reached over and broke off a small piece of the leftover pastry, dragging her gaze from Jake’s face. Plopping a bit of cinnamon glaze into her mouth, she swallowed, instantly feeling better.
Ah,
sugar…the great distraction.
“Vineyards are seasonal,” she continued. “In winter the vines are dormant and are pruned. In spring we repair trellises, make sure new shoots are pointing upward, and control frost.”
“How do you do that?”
“With those gas-powered windmills you see on the property.”
His head bent in concentration, Jake looked like a schoolboy taking lecture notes, not a corporate CEO. His long-fingered hand held the pencil loosely, and he used some kind of shorthand. She resisted the impulse to reach over and push back the lock of hair that kept falling over his forehead. Instead she thrust both hands into the pockets of her jeans.
“What about summer?” Pencil poised, he gazed directly into her eyes.
“In summer we watch for veraison. That’s a term that means the grapes are ripening and are adding color. The actual depth of color depends on the varietal. We also pull leaves to let the sun ripen the fruit.”
“And what happens now?”
Was he testing her? He’d never indicated he had any interest in grape production. As long as profits were steady, he should be satisfied to let her worry about the process.
She stiffened her spine and answered, hoping she didn’t sound too annoyed. “We test the sugar in the grapes until they reach the level desired for harvest. We’re in a critical time. If we wait too long, or if early September is too hot, they can oversugar and we’ll get raisins.”
“What if it rains?”
“Disaster. We can lose the crop. Picking grapes after a rain dilutes the flavor. Plus you might get mold. If it rains in the summer, you can dust with sulfur to control rot. But not when it’s time to pick. The window closes quickly.”
“Sounds like a touchy business.” Jake set his pencil down and regarded her warmly, the smile she’d seen earlier softening his face.
The flutter returned and Paige swallowed hard. This attraction was warring with her annoyance. The man was to-die-for handsome when he smiled. If she wasn’t so concerned about his reason for being here, she’d want to memorize him like this, sitting back in his chair, gazing at her like she was important to him.
A Kiss of Cabernet Page 2