Seduced by Sunday

by Catherine Bybee

  “I say we switch it up,” Margaret suggested. “The next stop, you stay in the car,” she told Michael. “Val and I can go in . . . I’ll be a tad tipsy and my Italian hottie will be working hard to get lucky by getting me into Alonzo’s winery.”

  Alonzo didn’t have a tasting room, which in and of itself wasn’t completely unheard of . . . but with so many wineries in the region, it wasn’t the best business practice.

  Margaret unbuttoned the top buttons on her blouse until the creamy expanse of her breasts met the warm Italian air.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Stacking the deck,” she said before applying a fresh layer of lip gloss. She teased her hair and blew Val a kiss.

  She was lovely. Even in her attempt to look like a common good time. Val knew the woman beneath. She was more frustrated with the roadblock they’d managed to find than he was. Gabi meant something to her. We’re not going to let her make a massive mistake if Alonzo is playing her. Her words resonated in Val’s ears. He’d been so wrapped up in his own life, his work, that he hadn’t done his job protecting his sister. He should have investigated Alonzo more. In the effort to ensure his sister’s privacy, he’d taken everything Alonzo presented him as truth.

  Val had checked out the fact that Alonzo actually had his name associated with the vineyard. But that was as far as Val checked.

  Now, months later, he was traversing the Italian countryside to find fault with his future brother-in-law. The man sleeping with his sister.

  Val cringed. His sister was, right at that moment, alone with the man.

  A short vacation, Alonzo had called it. A way to reconnect with his future bride . . . Why would a fiancé need to reconnect with his future bride?

  Michael drove up to the parking lot and Val guided Margaret out of the backseat.

  The second they left the car, Margaret started giggling and stumbling into him.

  “Are you OK?”

  She sent him a sobering look. “Work with me, Val.”

  He pasted on a smile and led her into the tasting room.

  Loud and American was an art form, and Margaret had it down.

  “Oh, this one is pretty,” she said as they walked into the air-conditioned tasting room.

  “The last one was lovely, too.”

  There were a few patrons standing along the tasting bar, swirling wine and sipping. Most drank, where a few of them spit out their offerings.

  Margaret zeroed in on one of the male servers and squinted her eyes at the man. Val didn’t consider himself a jealous man, and he knew Margaret was doing her best Hollywood performance, still he didn’t care for the attention she was turning on the young man behind the wine counter.

  “What wine is this place known for?” This was how she opened the conversation?

  The other man passed his eyes to Val.

  “We’ve been all over the region today,” Val told the man in English.

  “Our whites are award winning,” he said in English. “Not that you’ll tell the difference with all you’ve had,” he said in Italian.

  Val didn’t bother pretending he didn’t understand the man.

  The two of them laughed and smiled sweetly at Margaret.

  “What did he say?” she asked as she slipped onto Val’s lap like the family dog.

  “He said you’re lovely, cara.”

  It was the attendant’s time to laugh under his smirk.

  “Bring us a sample of your award winners,” Val told the man in Italian.

  The attendant lined up glasses and started to pour.

  Margaret swirled the white and grinned. “Am I doing it right?”

  Val wanted to bite his lip, but didn’t. “Only with red, bella. Just smell.”

  “Oh, OK.”

  Margaret smelled and gulped.

  “Tastes like roses.”

  Val turned to the attendant, who shook his head with a subtle movement.

  Val took his turn, spit out the wine. There wasn’t a hint of floral anything in the mix. Not to his palate in any case.

  On the third taste, Margaret exclaimed, “Oak . . . I smell oak.”

  Again, the attendant shook his head. “We don’t cask our white in oak.”

  Margaret tossed out her bottom lip and put out her best blonde moment. “Sucks. I thought I had that one. I bet the winery up the way has oak. What was the name of it?”

  “Picano. We’ll go there next, cara. No worries.”

  The attendant shook his head. “They don’t have tastings,” he told them.

  Margaret offered an even bigger pout. “Why not? This is Italy, isn’t it? Home of wine and love?” She nuzzled Val’s neck long enough to make the man behind the bar squirm.

  “I’m not sure why they don’t host tastings.” The attendant removed a red from behind the bar and presented it to Val. “For the lady?”

  Val offered a short nod and said, “I know I’ve sampled their wine in the States. Is there a place to purchase?”

  If the discussion about another winery’s brand bothered the kid behind the bar, Val couldn’t tell. “Not locally. I believe they export exclusively.”

  Margaret sipped the wine and listened.

  “Is that normal?” Val asked.

  The attendant lowered his voice to a whisper. “I think they might be intimidated by all the names surrounding them. The new owners are seldom there . . . chances are the quality isn’t where it should be.”

  Margaret slid her glass to Val. “This one is good.”

  Val tasted and agreed. After buying a few bottles of the red Margaret said she enjoyed, they walked back to the car.

  They told Michael what they’d learned as they drove to the final surrounding vineyard to the Picano property.

  “Who makes Italian wine and doesn’t sell it to Italians?” Margaret asked.

  “I’ve never heard of such a practice.” Michael turned up the road to the next winery. “What’s the plan with this place?”

  “I think you should go into the tasting room and gather a crowd. Val and I can take a little walk in the vineyard . . . maybe get a glimpse of Alonzo’s place.”

  “Trespass?”

  “Stumbling out of one vineyard to the next. They all look the same,” Margaret told Val with a tiny bat of her eyelashes.

  “I knew you were more devious than my background check found on you,” Val told her.

  “Life is too short to stay on the straight path all the time.”

  Michael laughed. “You can say that again.”

  There were several cars parked in the lot. They pulled away from the crowd and found a shade tree in the back. Michael slipped on his glasses before opening the door. “Give me five minutes.”

  “Go get ’em, Mr. Hollywood.” Margaret patted his back and he slid out of the car.

  They both watched him walk into the tasting room and disappear from sight. “I like your friends,” Val said.

  “Michael is good people. The entire family is grounded, genuine . . . it’s hard to explain.”

  “Does his family know about . . . him?” The two of them had yet to vocalize Michael’s sexuality, and Val wasn’t about to now.

  “You mean the Ryder factor?”

  Even Margaret skirted around the obvious.

  “Yes.”

  “Most. His parents are still clueless, his youngest sister. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  She shrugged. “Hard to pinpoint why I feel that way. He’s changed a lot in the last few years with his brother and two of his sisters knowing. We’ve talked. He knows his secrets are a burden for his family to keep from each other. None of them want to be the one who slips and screws up . . . ya know?”

  “The lies must be difficult.”

  Margaret settled her eyes on his. “I hate that we live in a society where he feels he needs to act like someone he’s not.”

  “Things are changing.”

  “Not fast enough.”
/>   There it was again, the drive and passion about right and wrong that Margaret displayed when it came to the people she loved. Val reached out and placed her cheek in the palm of his hand. “Your friends are lucky to have you,” he murmured.

  She blushed with the compliment. “None of my friends have had me . . . though I’m sure they wanted to.”

  The woman made him laugh when he least expected it. “So humble, bella.”

  “If you have it, flaunt it, Masini.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her as if he had every right. When he pulled away, she had a dreamy quality in her eyes. “I’ll let you flaunt, and remind anyone trying that they can’t have you.”

  “Oh?”

  He cocked his head to the side, reached over Margaret, and pushed open her door. “I don’t share.”

  I don’t share . . . I don’t share . . .

  Meg had to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, and act like she’d been drinking more than tasting most of the day. Truth was, she had a little buzz going and Val didn’t help with all his I don’t share talk.

  Those three words sent an unexpected wave of pleasure through her body. And since when did that happen? Sharing is caring . . . right?

  Monogamy is commitment.

  And why was commitment such a hard word to swallow?

  Something about I don’t share shook and thrilled her at the same time.

  They’d walked a few yards into a vineyard and Val stopped her. “Stand over there,” he told her.

  Lost in her thoughts, she narrowed her eyes. “What?”

  He motioned to their right and she noticed a few employees glimpsing their way.

  Val removed his cell phone and pointed it at her as if he were taking a picture. “Smile, bella.”

  That’s right, they were on a mission. Sharing, commitment, suits, artists, and all thoughts in between would have to wait. Right now, they needed to make sure Gabi wasn’t committing to a criminal, which was exactly where Meg’s thoughts were headed.

  She posed and the men glancing their way turned away.

  “Are they watching?” Val asked.

  “Not anymore.”

  Val took her hand and started up the hill, farther into the thick green fields of grapevines. It didn’t take long for them to crest the hill and disappear from sight of the tasting room, parking lot, and farm workers.

  “Is that the road to Alonzo’s?”

  A paved road ran alongside the adjacent winery, they’d seen that on the map.

  “I think so,” Val said.

  They followed the road and zigzagged in and out of the rows of grapevines to keep hidden as much as possible.

  “What exactly do you think we’ll find?” Val asked her.

  “Probably nothing. Sounds like the place isn’t swarming with people.”

  “I wonder how that’s possible. Every winery we’ve visited has had employees everywhere. The closer we are to the harvest, the more hands are needed.”

  They were slowly climbing again, the road started to curve away from them. The division between the properties was nothing more than a row of olive trees and rosebushes.

  “Let’s assume Michael is right about the wine Alonzo is passing off as his own belonging to someone else,” Meg suggested.

  Val led her around the thriving vines. “Still seems like a lot of work. And what does he do with all these grapes if not make wine?”

  Alonzo’s land was row upon row of vines, just like all the others in the region.

  “Maybe it’s not enough . . . maybe the wine sucks.”

  Val seemed to consider her words as the incline increased.

  Meg slowed down, pacing herself.

  “Time to pass over the boundary,” Val said.

  “After you.”

  They crossed into Alonzo’s land and moved far from the road but kept it in sight.

  “How long has he owned the land?”

  “At least five years, maybe more,” Val told her. “Most of these properties, the lucrative ones in any event, seldom change hands.”

  “Could Alonzo have made a bad investment and needs to make himself look good with bootleg wine?”

  “At the risk of going to jail? I can’t see it.”

  Maybe Val couldn’t, but Meg did. Seemed the man was bitterly cold one minute and sappy sweet the next. Her experience with people like that never ended well.

  They heard a vehicle along the road, stopped moving, and ducked into the vines. “Looks like someone is here.”

  “If workers are milling about the workhouses, we’re turning back,” Val told her as they stood and started walking again once the truck passed.

  “Not if we can learn something.”

  Val stopped.

  Meg walked into him.

  “We turn back. I won’t risk any problems with you here.”

  “I’m the one who came up with this crazy idea, now you think my being here is a bad idea?”

  “I don’t know if I ever thought this was a good idea.”

  Meg moved around him, chugging up the hill. “It’s the only idea.”

  Val scrambled beside her, caught her hand, and kept them to a slow pace.

  There was a massive barn and a small house. Much smaller than the villas they’d frequented all day. Not that the size of the home mattered.

  The closer to the barn they drew, the less they talked.

  The delivery truck they’d followed up the road was now parked in front of the largest building. Meg called it a barn in her head, but it was probably where the grapes were brought to process.

  Their vantage point wasn’t great, but she could still see the activity clearly enough. Listening in on the conversation, however, was moot.

  There was some kind of heavy equipment brought to the truck, where one of many barrels was lifted from it and onto a lift of some sort. The three men involved in the transfer were careful with the barrel. It was obvious the thing was full.

  “Since when does a winery bring in barrels of wine?”

  Val said nothing, just stared.

  The process went through several loads and then the cases started to come. Crates of wine were stacked up on the loader and transferred into the barn.

  “Seen enough?” she asked.

  Val’s jaw visibly tightened before a curt nod answered her.

  They inched back until the barn was out of sight, and then they moved quickly down the hill, around the olive trees, and back toward the car.

  Val was catching up, figuratively in any event. In an effort to show she understood how hard it must be for him to accept that his future brother-in-law duped him into believing he was something he was clearly not, Meg held on to Val’s hand.

  He squeezed it.

  And she squeezed back.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “I need to know where they are, Lou.” Back at the hotel, Val found himself cleaning up a mess.

  “Mr. Picano said it was a short trip.”

  “Where? Do we have any idea where?” Val already knew the answer, but he couldn’t help but ask anyway.

  “It’s a private yacht. There’s no saying where they are. Could be a few miles off our shore . . . Cuba.”

  Val’s head started to pound. “Our number one priority right now is Gabi. We need to find her.”

  “Missing persons report . . . abduction?”

  Yes . . . no! “Not yet. Let’s learn what we can without the authorities.”

  “You got it, Boss. Anything else I can do?”

  “No. Call, anytime.”

  Val’s employee hung up and all that remained was worry.

  Margaret moved behind him, fresh from her shower, and ran her hands over his shoulders. “We’ll find her.”

  A knock on the door indicated room service with their meal.

  Val excused himself with a squeeze of Margaret’s hand for a quick shower while she answered the door. They had both emerged from the vineyards looking like farmhands.

>   In any other circumstance, Val would have appreciated the adventure. The fact that he hadn’t thought of the day-to-day life on his island since he left was a strange relief. It wasn’t until Margaret had informed him of the true nature of Alliance that he understood the stakes at risk.

  Only now, he was worried about something, someone, more precious.

  Wearing silk pajama pants and a hotel bathrobe, Val joined Michael and Margaret for dinner in their suite.

  Michael and Margaret were eating their salads and sipping one of the many bottles of wine they’d purchased during the day.

  “Feel better?” Margaret asked him.

  “Cleaner.”

  She offered a half smile in understanding.

  Michael poured a glass of something red for Val to drink. “We’re talking motive.”

  Val hesitated when he lifted the glass. “How is it an actor, a hotelier, and the office manager of a matchmaking firm are talking motive?”

  “Because we know the players,” Margaret told him.

  “And when you figure out the motive, you have a chance at catching the bad guy.” Michael waved his fork in the air. “I’ve been in enough movies with the same general theme.”

  “Movies.” Not real life, Val mused.

  “Let’s not forget Judy,” Margaret said to Michael.

  Michael’s expression sobered.

  “What about Judy?” Val asked.

  Margaret picked at her salad before pushing it aside and digging into her main course. “A few years past, Judy had a stalker.”

  Not the answer Val had expected.

  “Who eventually kidnapped her.”

  Val’s fork hesitated over his food.

  Michael and Margaret exchanged glances. All hints of smiles fled in an instant.

  “I met Judy . . . that’s Rick’s wife, right?”

  Margaret nodded. “She survived. But . . . well, that’s not important, what’s imperative is that we think of this logically. What does Picano have to gain by marrying your sister? What does he have to gain by passing off someone else’s wine as his? The man has money, but not enough income to account for every dollar he spends . . . why is that?” Margaret kept rattling. “Is he an American? Is he an Italian national? Could he need Gabi for citizenship? Does she have money he’s after? Was he the man behind the pictures? Does he want leverage against you?”