“You know me well already.”
“Do you even own a pair of jeans?”
He hesitated.
“Seriously, Masini? No blue jeans? Everyone has a pair.”
Margaret gave him lip about his lacking wardrobe, made a quip or two about his ties, and simply took his mind off his problems for fifteen minutes.
“How is it I miss you already?” he asked when their conversation started to draw to a close.
“I’m a missable kind of girl.”
“Humble, too.”
“Bite your tongue, Masini. You of all people know it doesn’t pay to hide or pretend to be something you’re not.”
He rolled his eyes to the empty room. “Like the girlfriend of a famous movie star?”
“Ahh, ouch. Points for you. To be fair, that didn’t really pay off. Not in this case.”
“True. Without your ruse, however, I might not have ever met you.”
She sighed into the phone. “Coming from anyone else, that would sound like a line.”
He loosened his tie. “But coming from me?”
“You’re too controlled to deliver bullshit.”
“You’d call me on it if I did.”
“You know it.”
He liked their easy banter and lack of bullshit, as she so eloquently labeled it. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he told her. “Sooner if need be.”
“Good plan.”
“Good night, cara.” He didn’t want to hang up, felt like a teenager with a crush.
“Good night, Val.”
He moved the phone away from his ear.
“Val?”
He jumped to put the phone back.
“Yeah?”
“I miss you, too.” Then she hung up.
He couldn’t stop smiling.
“It’s been three days . . . how long does it take to find one dress?”
“Alonzo,” Gabi said with a sigh.
“I miss you.”
“There are weeks that go by where I don’t see you.” Gabi snuggled into the guest bed, her cell phone tucked to her ear.
“We fought. I hate when we fight.”
How she needed to hear those words. “We spend too much time apart.”
“I agree. I need to change that.”
Some of the doubt a fight forced into one’s head dissipated.
“I know it’s not an excuse, but there have been a few miscalculations with the new vineyard that have made me less than agreeable with you. I want it perfect for us.”
“I’m not looking for perfection, Alonzo.”
“I told your brother to expect me to take you away when you return,” he said, changing the subject.
She bit her bottom lip . . . smiled. “Where are you taking me?”
“It’s a secret. I will tell you this. It’s just us. Only us.”
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine just the two of them. Seemed they’d only ever been together with others around them. There were times, intimate times, they managed to carve away from the island, or Alonzo’s life . . . but not many. “I’d like that.”
“So come home so I can take you away.”
“Alonzo . . .” Torn between her new friends and her future life . . . she looked at the ring on her left hand, remembered her promise to her fiancé. “I’ll arrange a flight. Meet me in Key West?”
“Yes,” he sighed. “Text me the time, I’ll be there.”
More confident by the minute, she snuggled farther into bed. “Tell me about your day.”
“I’ve been arranging our trip. Making sure everything will go without interruption.”
“You’re teasing me. Are we going on the yacht?”
“For a time.”
“And then?”
Alonzo’s voice shifted away from the soft tones he’d been using. “It’s not a surprise if I tell you, now is it?”
Her heart skipped a beat. “I suppose not.”
“Tomorrow, Gabi. I’ll see you tomorrow.” His tone was delicate again. Delicate with a trace of sugar. “By morning I will taste your skin.”
Michael drove up the coast, his Ferrari taking the curves like she owned them. Past Santa Barbara he headed east, found the 101, and continued north. Vineyards dotted the landscape of Napa and Sonoma Valleys, the green leaves and plump grapes nearly ripe for the perfect harvest. He loved the countryside, the silent insects buzzing around, the lazy way the sun moved over the land. The stark contrast to his daily life didn’t go unnoticed.
The walls of his estate in Beverly Hills had closed in on him since his return from the island. He’d managed two conversations with Ryder, both of them sweet and strained.
He was worried. They both were worried. Rick had yet to find anything and no new photos had managed to circulate.
Like a crackhead looking for his next hit, Michael couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop moving. Driving up the coast felt right. Like he was doing something.
It might not be the right thing, but it was something.
He wound his way up an oak-studded drive that opened to the Windon Estate. Natalie and Chuck Windon were some of the best people Michael knew in the wine business, not to mention they had a superior product that topped Michael’s table more times than not. Instead of pulling into the parking lot for the many wine tours that drove up for tasting, Michael pulled into the private drive of the proprietors.
He took the brown paper bag from the passenger seat and jogged up the steps.
Natalie stepped from inside the house, her smile greeting him. “Michael. Did we know you were coming?”
Michael left the bag on the step and kissed both of her cheeks. “Last-minute decision. I hope it’s OK.”
Natalie was all of five feet four inches tall, her good cooking evident by her slightly plump frame. She opened the door to the house and welcomed him in. “You’re always welcome.”
He stepped into the air-conditioned foyer and followed her into the back of the house.
“Chuck is in the field with the foreman. He should be along shortly.”
The Windons’ kitchen was built for someone who loved to cook. Natalie had been a master chef before she met her husband. Together they decided to buy the winery nearly twenty years ago. Now, with their children grown, one son following in his father’s wine-making business, and the other at a university on the East Coast, the house was quiet.
“You’re just in time for lunch.” Natalie moved to the stove, stirred a massive pot, and dipped a tasting spoon inside. She held it up for Michael to taste.
A broth soup with a hint of spice, a chunk of sausage, and potato. “Mmm, so good. What is it?”
“Portuguese sausage soup. Lovely, yes?”
“Perfect.”
Michael pulled out a chair at the kitchen counter and made himself at home. “Can I help with anything?”
Natalie glanced over her shoulder and rolled her eyes. “Wine or tea?”
“Tea.”
She moved around the kitchen, collecting bowls, removing bread and fresh butter.
“How does the harvest look?”
“The drought has given us a hit so the quantity will be down.”
“But you’re doing all right?”
“We’ll be fine, Michael.”
He sipped his iced tea while they talked grapes, wine, and the weather.
Handshakes and back patting commenced when Chuck entered the house. They caught up during lunch, talked about college kids and future movies.
When Natalie left them on the back veranda, which overlooked the row upon row of grapevines, Chuck kicked back with his feet up on a cushioned chair. “I don’t think you drove all the way up here for lunch and a visit.”
“Lunch was divine,” Michael said.
“No argument there.”
Michael reached into the bag at his side and removed a bottle of wine before handing it to Chuck.
“What’s this?” Chuck sat forward and peered at the bottle.
“Have you h
eard of this label?”
Chuck turned the wine around to read the back. “No. Why?”
Michael took the liberty of stepping to the wine cart and grabbing two glasses and a wine opener. If there was a partner in wine crime, Chuck was it. The man knew more than God on the subject.
With practiced ease, Chuck took the offered sample, swirled, swished, sniffed, and finally sipped. An appreciative smile slid over his face. He picked up the bottle again. His smile fell to a puzzled squinting of his eyes.
“You taught me wine by regions. Where is this one from?” Michael asked.
“Umbria. No doubt.” Chuck circled the wine bottle again. “But I’ve been all over that area and don’t know this name. Is the winery newly acquired?”
Michael leaned against the outside serving station and poured a splash of Alonzo’s wine into a glass. “I’m not sure of the age of the winery, but the man behind the bottle told me this is from Campania.”
“No, no . . . unless the grapes were grown in Umbria and processed in Campania.”
Like any bum on the street, Michael opened a second bottle of wine and kept the label hidden inside a plain paper bag. He poured a splash of the new vintage in a glass and handed it to Chuck.
Swirl, smell, sip, spit. “It’s identical.”
Michael offered a short shake of his head while he pulled the second bottle out of the bag and showed it to Chuck.
“How can that be?”
“Wine can taste the same.”
“When they’re from the same region, maybe. But smell the oak?” Chuck shoved his nose deep in the glass and closed his eyes. “Umbria. I’d stake my reputation on it.”
It was nice to have his doubts justified, now the question was why . . . why did Alonzo Picano claim his vineyard, in Campania, grew the grapes used to make the wine in Michael’s hands? And how was it the wine tasted identical to a much larger winery, with a solid reputation?
Chapter Nineteen
Val accompanied Rick back to California. His mother took a much-needed extended trip to visit her sister in New York while the weather was still warm. The island was functioning as normal without any new pictures showing up online or off. Security had been doubled, and everything was painfully quiet.
He didn’t tell Margaret that he was returning with Rick. If Val needed an excuse, he would use the desire to accompany his sister back to the Keys.
Judy picked them up at the airport. She nudged her husband. “You didn’t tell me he was coming with you.”
“You didn’t ask.” Rick kissed his wife and whispered something in her ear. Her gaze fell on Val and didn’t shake loose.
“So you flew all the way here to see Meg?” Judy asked as they wove through hoards of people en route to baggage claim.
“I was hoping to surprise her.”
Judy started to laugh.
Rick narrowed his eyes. “What’s so funny?”
They found the circular baggage drop and waited for the conveyer belt to start emptying the cargo hold of the commercial airline.
“Well,” Judy looked at her watch. “You’re about an hour late.”
“An hour late for what?”
“Meg and Mike flew out an hour ago.”
Val stopped looking for his suitcase and stared at Judy. “Where did they go?”
“Italy.”
Rick shook his head. “Italy? Why?”
“Mike said he had a lead he wanted to follow up on. The two of them started talking and the next thing I knew Meg was asking me to water her plants . . . again.”
Well hell. “Did Gabi go with them?”
“Gabi left early this morning, said she was flying back home and then hooking up with her fiancé. She didn’t tell you?”
Val removed his cell from his pocket and released the airplane mode mandated on commercial flights. How could so many people have moved so far and wide in six hours? Sure enough, there was a text from Meg.
Taking a quick trip overseas. I’ll call when we land if it isn’t too late.
Then there was a voice message from his sister. “I didn’t want you to worry. I’m meeting Alonzo in Key West for a romantic weekend. Love you.”
Val watched as his suitcase rounded the corner of the rotating belt.
“Where in Italy?”
“They flew into Rome. I’m not sure where they’re staying. Sam might know.”
Val checked his briefcase, making sure his passport was inside. They left the arrival level of LAX and he rounded the stairway to the departure and ticketing floor.
“What are you doing?” Rick asked.
“Flying to Rome, apparently.” Val waved his cell phone in the air. “Call me when you find out where Margaret is staying.”
“But you just got off a plane,” Judy argued.
“If Michael and Margaret are following a lead in Italy, it might help if one of them spoke Italian.”
“He has a point,” Rick said.
“Any idea what kind of lead they have?” Val asked.
Judy shrugged. “Something about Alonzo’s wine tasting like someone else’s. That’s all I heard.”
“His wine?”
What do you have, Margaret?
Val moved to the escalator. “Call me,” he said, pointing to Rick.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Rick called after him.
“I’m chasing a girl to Italy.”
Rick tossed his head back with a healthy laugh. “Meg’s going to love that.”
Val wove his way through excited travelers, located the international airline he most often used and stood in line. Something told him he was in for a long night.
Her internal clock said it was four in the morning. The clocks in Rome said one in the afternoon.
She and Michael had a two-bedroom suite with a middle great room that overlooked the lights of Rome. They agreed to snag a couple of hours of sleep and then do their best to stay awake as long as possible, grab some food, come up with a plan, and head out first thing in the morning.
They were dragging their eyelids at nine in the evening, doing their best to move past the jet lag as soon as humanly possible.
Meg tossed her purse onto the coffee table when they stumbled into their room.
“I’m dead,” Michael managed.
“If you wake me before nine, I might not be responsible for my actions,” Meg warned.
Twelve hours of sleep sounded like a slice of heaven.
Michael managed a slight wave and headed to his room.
Meg moved into the bathroom inside her room by braille. She washed, brushed, and flushed before making her way to her bed. While in the process of unbuttoning her shirt, a grunt, or maybe it was a grumble, sounded from the other side of the room.
The room was lit by the lights of the city filtering in from the window. The outline of someone lying on her bed forced her eyes open.
She clicked the closest light and felt her heartbeat slow.
“Val,” she whispered.
What the? She’d sent a text when she’d arrived in Rome and hadn’t heard from him . . . assuming that he was in bed. In Florida.
In bed . . . but not Florida.
Lying on top of the sheets, he still wore a dress shirt, minus the tie; his slacks hid his long legs. A day’s worth of stubble stood out on his chin, his mouth was open a sliver as even breaths told her he was sound asleep. Equal parts sweet and sexy, she contemplated his presence.
Why was he there and why was he in her bed?
With a silly smile on her lips, she quietly turned off the light, retrieved her nightgown from her suitcase she’d yet to unpack, and slid quietly back into the bathroom to prepare for bed.
Meg pushed back the covers and slid under them. “Val?” she whispered his name again, wanted to wake him enough so he knew she was there. “Val?”
He mumbled something in Italian.
“Val?” Her voice was louder this time. She placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Cara?
” He rolled toward her.
“What are you doing here, Masini?”
He didn’t open his eyes. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure he was even aware he spoke. “Airports . . . Italy . . . the rooms were full. So tired.”
She understood the last part. Exhaustion threatened her sanity. She moved close enough to reach his shirt and started to unbutton it. “Take this off, Val. You won’t sleep well in it.”
His hands followed hers even though his eyes were closed.
Half-dead, she admired the view as he sat up and shrugged out of his shirt.
He started to lie back and she kept him upright a little longer. “Pants. The belt in bed might be exciting another time . . . but not tonight.”
A smirk managed to cross his lips and one eye cracked open. Val’s next words were once again cloaked in Italian.
Val wore boxers was her thought before he moved under the covers beside her.
She started to lie down when he pulled her into the nook of his arm and kissed the top of her head.
“Sleep, bella. Thank you for not kicking me out.”
“Too tired to kick anything.”
He squeezed her closer and she sucked in his scent. Maybe in the morning she could tell him that she didn’t do the sleepover thing with men.
Gabi woke to the ocean surrounding her.
She’d fallen asleep in Alonzo’s arms after a romantic on-deck dinner the chef had prepared.
She loved being on the sea. The vast open space felt safe on the yacht as gentle waves lulled her to a sense of serenity land couldn’t offer.
Alonzo had met her at the airport in Key West and swept her onto his yacht and out to sea within an hour. When she asked where they were headed, he didn’t say . . . simply handed her a glass of champagne and told her not to worry. Between the sun, the wine, and the amazing meal, she found herself falling asleep under the stars. They were both tired when they’d crawled into bed, yet Alonzo had made love to her with her eyes half-closed. The act was nearly over before it began but Gabi was too tired to care.
She woke groggy and found a bottle of water and two pills by the bedside. For your headache was written on a note next to the bottle.
How did Alonzo know she’d wake with her head cracking from the inside? Maybe it was the wine? Or maybe the sea managed to dig deep.
Seduced by Sunday Page 16