“He’s hiding something because you don’t like him?”
Margaret moved from Val’s lap and walked to the drapes closing off the view of Rome. She opened them and ambient light flooded the room. “I don’t like him, so I looked into him.”
That caused Val to pause. “Looked into him?”
With her back to him . . . a back clothed in slacks and a silk shirt, her feet still bare . . . sexy. “He spends more money than he makes,” she told him.
Val realized his finger was tapping against the table. He knew Alonzo lived with extravagance. He took the man’s lifestyle into account when he accepted his desire to marry his sister. Gabi deserved a man who could provide for her.
She also deserved her privacy, and that was something that kept Val from doing a complete background check on her fiancé. His eye started to twitch. “How do you know this?”
“Because I’ve been checking up on him.” Margaret turned, leveled her calm gaze Val’s way. “The man is hiding something, Masini . . . and we’re here to find out what that is.”
He gripped the coffee cup tight before setting it down. “Even if he is, what does this have to do with pictures . . . with the two of you?”
Margaret shrugged. “It might have nothing to do with us. Or the man knows we’re on to him and he wants leverage to keep us quiet. Hence, the pictures.”
“Alonzo wasn’t on the island when the pictures were taken.” Yet even as the words left his mouth, Val remembered one of Alonzo’s shipmates had been. His future brother-in-law, and his crew, didn’t go through the rigorous scrutiny that all Val’s employees and guests did.
“If we’re wrong . . . we leave Italy with a full belly and a case or two of wine. But if we’re right . . .” Michael glanced at Margaret.
“We prevent a friend from making a huge mistake.”
“You mean Gabi.” Val found his smile once again. The fact that Margaret would work hard to make sure his sister wasn’t jumping for the wrong man left him pleasantly warm.
“Gabi is too trusting, gullible. Either Alonzo is crazy amazing in bed, or she’s—”
“I don’t want to hear of my sister’s sex life,” Val interrupted.
Margaret moved toward him, sat back on his lap, and kissed him soundly. “Let’s make sure your sister isn’t making the biggest mistake of her life.”
Val wove his hands around Margaret’s waist, loved the feel and scent of her. “And if Alonzo is legit and we’re here searching for his faults?”
“How will they know? Aren’t they out messing around on his—”
His back teeth ground together. “Again with my sister’s love life.”
Margaret took mercy. “She won’t know . . . unless we find something. And even if she finds out, I can take the fall. You followed me and had no choice but to follow along. Or you can go home and have nothing to do with this.”
“And leave you in Italy without knowledge of the language? What do you expect to find out when you can’t tell if someone is telling you the truth or calling you a stupid tourist?”
Michael waved in their direction. “He has a point. You can pretend a lack of knowledge of the language and we can play tourists.”
“And when the time is right, you can ask all the right questions to the locals. It’s worth a shot. Worse case—”
“We leave with a full belly and a few cases of wine,” Val finished her sentence.
Chapter Twenty-One
The man was sexy, confident . . . and completely in his element as he negotiated with the rental car company before they set off from the hotel. Seemed Michael and Val had something in common when it came to cars that moved. Of course that meant Meg was stuck in the backseat of a car that barely had one as Val sped over the highways and byways of Italy. While the road signs weren’t completely foreign, they did take a minute or two for her brain to process. Val, on the other hand, shifted gears, veered left and right as if he was right at home.
It didn’t take long for the city to fall behind them and the countryside to open to massive space and yes . . . vineyards.
Michael hadn’t stopped smiling since they left the hotel.
“It’s like midstate California, only better,” Meg voiced from the backseat.
Michael nodded. “Optimal grape production. California produces over eighty percent of America’s wine. But this is where wine was born . . . well, here and France.”
“But no one likes the French.” Val’s joke made everyone laugh.
Meg didn’t know anyone who was uniquely French, and didn’t hold an opinion.
“It’s the history . . . the years of production that make each region unique. New winemakers study it . . . make it their business to know the subtle differences.”
Val liked to drive fast. He made the swift curves of the road his as he guided the sporty coupe to his whims. “You’re an actor . . . what do you know of the subtle differences?” Val questioned.
“Hollywood.”
Val managed a peek at Michael before returning his eyes to the road.
“Before I was old enough to drink, Hollywood was offering me everything. I was twenty when I shot my first film. When we wrapped up production there were lines of coke and shots of Patrón on the bar.”
Meg hadn’t heard this story. Knew for a fact her best friend Judy hadn’t heard it, either. She leaned in to hear every syllable.
“The coke wasn’t an option. Didn’t even look at it twice, but the tequila . . . that’s another story.”
Meg laughed. “Bit you in the ass, did it?”
Michael shook his head as if remembering the pain. “I don’t know what people see in that crap. I was sick for a week. After that the after-parties continued and I noticed wine, champagne . . . all lined up with the drugs and hard stuff. I wanted to be grown-up but didn’t want to burn for a week after. Hollywood could afford decent wine. I soon learned what I liked and what I didn’t.”
Meg smiled, liking the fact that Michael shared a personal story with them. “So why do you hide your love for wine? Your wine cellar is stocked yet you drink beer in public.”
“My image drinks beer.”
Meg snorted. “Maybe it’s time to change your image. Beer is a cheap man’s drink. Wine . . . and even Patrón, is for people with money.”
Michael seemed to consider her words.
“Unless you like beer,” Val said.
“Can’t stand it.”
“Life is too short to drink something you don’t like.”
Meg agreed. Here she was in wine country, and she didn’t like the stuff. A stiff whiskey was just fine, thank you very much . . . wine?
Blah.
They drove through the countryside until they hit the Umbria region and the winery that produced what Michael insisted tasted exactly like Alonzo’s label.
There was no doubt by their stance walking into the tasting room that they were on a mission.
Thankfully, Michael’s face was known everywhere. The employees scrambled to help them, asked for autographs, and offered them more attention than anyone else in the room.
It didn’t take long for the proprietors of the winery to work their way to Michael’s side. His natural charisma and charm opened doors like no one else Meg knew.
“My friends,” Michael opened up the conversation to the two of them, “Miss Rosenthal and Mr. Masini.”
Val shook the proprietor’s hand and spoke in Italian. The incognito understanding of the language was waiting until they reached Alonzo’s region. Here, Val had free rein to speak whatever he needed to in order to find the answers they wanted.
“So you want to know more about our wine,” their host said.
“I’m afraid our famous friend has us at a disadvantage. He said you were the best. We’re here to find out why.”
Luciano, who went by Luc, pulled the three of them to the back of the tasting room for a private tour. Meg wondered, briefly, if anyone ever turned Michael away.
The rock-lade
n walls of the passageway opened to a larger room that housed a few tables and hundreds of bottles of wine. The cool space stood in stark contrast to the room above them where the average taster stood sipping wine.
Luc told them how old the winery was . . . spoke of his ancestors who had owned the winery before him. He would turn every so often and say something in Italian to Val, and then continue as if every one of them understood him.
“O-four was a fabulous year.” Luc reached a top shelf in the cool cellar and wiped off the bottle, which was already dust free. “This is the year you told me you enjoyed, yes?”
Michael studied the label briefly before handing it back to their host. “I have several bottles in my collection.”
Luc dipped his head as if in appreciation of Michael’s patronage. “Tell me what you want to know, signor. You already enjoy my wine.” He placed his hand over his chest. “Seems you’re here to perhaps find a new favorite?”
“I would love to sample more, of course, but I also want to educate my friends on your varieties and learn what sets them apart from other wines here in Italy.”
Luc extended a hand to encourage them to sit while he used a simple intercom to request help from his employees. Before Meg could scoot her chair in, three employees walked into the room and started setting up wineglass after glass. Luc pulled bottles from his collection while others were brought from the room above. A tray of crackers, cheese, olives, and a few things Meg couldn’t identify was placed on their table.
“The weather in o-four was perfection. We had hoped the next year would do just as well, but as it was, the rain the next season gave us a small yield.” While Luc explained weather conditions, he poured a tiny amount of wine into three glasses.
Instead of picking up the glass and following Michael and Val’s lead, Meg turned her attention to Luc. “I’d love to fake my way through a tasting, Luc . . . but that seems a shame. Please tell me what I’m looking and smelling for.”
“My pleasure, signorina.” Luc talked about color, and thickness of the wine. She expected the man to dip his nose deep in the glass, but instead he simply hovered the glass under his nose and drew in the scent. Luc spoke of what to be aware of when smelling wine . . . the bad things in any event. “But you won’t find any of that here,” he said. “Now . . . can you smell the oak?” Meg wasn’t sure if it was oak she drew into her nose or not. “We age this vintage in our oldest barrels.”
“You reuse them?” Meg asked.
“Yes. Many times over. New barrels have an entirely different scent.”
By the time they were ready to sip, Meg was actually anxious to taste the oak-smelling, not too thick, red but not purple wine.
She and Michael both swallowed the pleasing taste, where Val used the spittoon provided for them.
They tasted a few different blends and varieties, each time nibbling on crackers in between. Finally, the question that was burning for all of them was asked.
“What makes this wine unique to this region, Luc?” Michael asked.
“I would love to take all the credit, but the truth is too well known to fake. The unique flavor comes from sagrantino. The grape grows in this region almost exclusively.”
“Do all your blends have this grape in it?” Val asked.
“Not all, but during this year of production, we did use more of it.”
It was time for Meg to ask the obvious questions. “So we won’t find wine that tastes like this in let’s say . . . the Campania region?”
Luc offered a placating smile. “It’s not possible, signorina. Some wines might come close, but they will not match. Not to the educated in any event. For someone like yourself, who doesn’t yet know the subtle differences, you may never tell the change in regions.”
“I’ll bet Michael could tell the difference,” she said.
Luc turned his eyes to Michael. “Shall we test your palate?”
“I’m up to the challenge.”
Luc tilted his head and spoke in hushed tones to one of his servers, who disappeared only to return with several bottles hidden in sleeves.
Val and Meg sat back and watched as glasses were removed and new ones took their place.
Michael swirled, swished, sipped, and spit without any words. He wrote his answer to the region and placed it facedown in front of the anonymous bottle before moving on to the next.
“He certainly looks like he knows what he’s doing,” Val whispered in her ear.
Meg shrugged. She could tell the difference in some whiskeys, so it stood to reason that Michael could tell the difference with wine.
Michael hesitated on the last bottle, sipped it twice, letting the vintage down his throat instead of spitting it out. “Nice try,” he said to Luc.
“Let’s see how you did.” Luc uncovered the first bottle, tilted it toward Michael. “Veneto region.” He turned over Michael’s answer and smiled. “One for one.”
The second bottle was Toscana, the third was one of Luc’s, the forth from Campania, the fifth Sicilia. “And the last one?” Luc asked with a strange look of pride.
“Napa.” Michael laughed.
“I think we can safely say that Michael knows his wine regions,” Meg told Val.
With the confirmation of Michael’s taste buds, it was truly time to doubt Alonzo’s wine.
Luc drew them from the private tasting room and encouraged them to stay for dinner. Considering all the time they’d been given, it would have been an insult to run off.
They stayed for dinner, drank more wine, and when they finally left, Michael and Val had placed large orders of Luc’s collection to be sent back to the States.
“Now what?” Meg asked as they drove back to the hotel.
“We drive south tomorrow.”
“To Alonzo’s winery?” Meg wasn’t sure that was a good idea.
“Adjacent properties. Learn what we can from his neighbors,” Val suggested.
Worry swam over Val’s eyes. Meg placed a hand on his leg as he drove. He kissed her fingers before placing her hand back.
Why was Alonzo passing off someone else’s wine as his own?
Meg’s thoughts went to Gabi. Something told her that her friend wouldn’t be wearing a wedding dress anytime soon. From the look on Val’s face, if half of their thoughts were true, he’d toss Gabi in an ivory tower before he’d let a lying man wed his sister.
The ceremony had been brief. Gabi wanted to think it went quickly because often the good things in life passed quickly. Between the sun, the sea, and the enormity of the commitment she was making, her head swam. When the captain told Alonzo to kiss the bride, her husband wrapped her in his arms and engulfed her.
One of the shipmates snapped a few pictures during the brief ceremony and again when they toasted their promise to each other.
Gabi remembered signing a paper and wondering how Alonzo had managed a marriage certificate in the middle of the ocean. Then he had swept her away to his cabin.
Hours later, she woke with a headache and a roll in her stomach. Like before, Alonzo wasn’t at her side. The sun was setting with a cool breeze that helped clear her head when she emerged from their bed.
Alonzo was holding on to the rail, overlooking the ocean as the sun set. “There you are,” she said as she slid her hands around his waist.
He covered her hand with his and kissed the top of her head. “You were so peaceful, Mrs. Picano. It was my husbandly duty to let you sleep.”
“And miss the sunset?”
He pulled her close.
Once in the crook of his arm, she said, “We’re really married.”
“We are.”
“I think that has to be the most spontaneous anything I’ve ever done,” Gabi told him with a sigh.
Alonzo pulled away and his smile fell. “You still have a headache, don’t you?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “A little.”
He sat her down and told her to wait for him. When he returned, he had another dose of aspir
in and a glass of water.
“You’re taking such sweet care of me,” she told him.
“I promised I would, didn’t I?”
Gabi couldn’t really remember if that was part of their wedding vows. She chided herself for forgetting the words so quickly. Maybe when the headache eased off, she’d remember everything clearly.
Alonzo sat beside her and let her drop her head on his shoulder. The lull of the sea and the medication made quick work of her headache. She was starting to wonder if maybe Alonzo’s medicine from Italy was a miracle worker. She’d never had such a quick turnaround of pain in all her life. In fact, her head floated a little as the pain drifted away.
“Better already?” Alonzo asked as the sun left their company.
“It must be you,” she said.
He stood and reached for her. “Come with me then. I have a meal fit for a new bride ready for you to consume.”
She floated, like the pain scattering, while they dined, drank, and even danced. The night was magical. Everything Gabi thought her wedding day and evening should have been.
The next morning, a bottle of medicine stood next to a glass of water.
Alonzo was once again somewhere other than by her side.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“It’s our third winery and no one’s talking.” Margaret nudged her head between the seats. All Val could sense was the smell of her hair. The hotel had a brand that used grapeseed and oil . . . the perfume intoxicated him. Or maybe it was the woman who used it.
“It’s almost like they’re purposely not talking.”
Michael spoke the words already swimming in Val’s head. They’d walked into the winery to the east of Alonzo’s with Margaret and Michael posing as a couple . . . Val walked in a short time later and stood to the side as they sipped wine and asked questions. As soon as they spoke of the Picano winery, the blinders went on and the smiles shifted off. The second winery to the south was the same. The northern winery held less back, but still said nothing about their neighbor. The property had changed hands a few years past, but nothing more than that. Still, Val thought there was a conversation taking place that he didn’t hear. Not even in Italian.
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