"Can you fix the fermentation tank?" she asked, swirling the Scotch in her glass before taking a long sip.
He watched the way her throat moved as she swallowed, tried not to look at her lips on the edge of the glass, to think about what they might feel like on his mouth, his body.
"No," he said simply. "And I can't afford to fix it, either." He was silent for a moment, his mind racing between thoughts of his obvious defeat and his delusional desire to pull this woman into his arms and ravish her. "Our best bet is to sell this year's harvest and hope we can break even, hang on for another year."
"No." She was glaring at him, a fire alight in her green-brown eyes.
He stared at her openly.
"I didn't come here to help you package grapes to sell," she said. "That's not what a winemaker does."
"Maybe not," he agreed. "But when a winemaker can't afford to make wine, he adapts. There's always next year."
"Not for me, there's not!" she cried. "Why did you take on an apprentice winemaker if you're not going to be making wine?" She stood up then, drained her glass and slammed it on the desktop. "I drove three thousand miles to be with you!" She looked embarrassed then, and amended her statement. "To make wine with you. To make Rhône varietals."
"Well, I'm sorry about that," he said. He was finding it difficult to look into her face. He felt he had failed again. Charlotte had left because he couldn't provide the life she desired. Here was another woman, angry with him for failing to fulfill her expectations. "I'm sorry," he said again.
"Well, don't be." Her voice softened then. "Maybe there's another solution," she said.
"Isabella, there's not. I've been through this for months. I knew it was coming. The fermentation tank blowing was just an acceleration of the inevitable."
"There is another solution, actually. You just don't know it yet." She was quiet then, and rose, walking purposefully around the room, her eyes trained on the floor in front of her. She seemed to be deciding something. "Listen," she began, her eyes searching his face. He noticed that they were browner in the relative darkness of the night. They'd been almost green out in the vineyard that day. "I have some money," she said.
"No. Let me stop you right there." He was not about to have this woman scrap together every cent she owned to save him.
"Let me finish." Her voice was stern and her gaze didn't falter. "I have some money. And your prospects at this point are tied to my own. I want to make a Châteauneuf with you. I want to prove it can be done." She paused, looking around for a thought. "I want to prove it can be great."
"I have no idea how much that will take," he said honestly. "Are you independently wealthy?"
"I might be." She walked back to the desk, took his pen and scrawled a number in the side of his ledger. "A loan. To fix the fermentation tank. To get us the help we need to get through harvest, and to blend what you've got out there in those barrels."
"I can't take your money," Jonathan said, feeling his pride sifting slowly out of him.
"You can. You have to," she said. “It would be a selfish act on my part, to help give a winery a chance so that I can get my foot in the door. I wouldn’t be doing it for you. Think about it.”
He watched her walk away from him, down the hall, and when the influence of her presence was finally removed, allowing him to think clearly, he realized that he had few other options.
This isn't right, Jonathan told himself as he sat at his desk in the dark, holding his head in his hands. I can't let a stranger rescue me. It isn't right. It's not...manly. Jonathan wasn't sure if he was opposed more to the idea of someone rescuing him or to the fact that it was Isabella. He couldn't stand the idea of her seeing him as weak. And she'd learned enough about him tonight to never be able to see him as anything but needy and dependent. Dammit, he cursed. Why did Vicki have to bring up Charlotte?
He stood and switched off the light once he was sure that Isabella had gone to bed. He walked softly down the hall, physically forcing himself past the closed door to her room.
It would be an early day tomorrow, and if he was going to turn the winery around, he'd need to be well rested.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Isabella
Isabella retreated to her room that night, leaving Jonathan sitting exactly where she'd found him—at his desk, in the dark. She knew he had some thinking to do, and was surprised she didn't feel the need to do more heavy thinking herself. She'd just committed most of what she had in the world to save a winery that she didn't even own; didn't have a real stake in. And yet she felt absolutely certain that she'd done the right thing.
She got dressed for bed quietly, and slipped out to the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face. When she came out of the bathroom, she peered down the hallway toward the living room. The soft amber glow of Jonathan's light still shone. She pulled her bedroom door shut, picturing him sitting at the desk, his dark head held by the big strong hands. He'd looked so vulnerable, sitting there alone as she'd left the room. She knew that she'd forced him to a decision he didn't want to accept, but she didn't see that either of them had much choice. She did, maybe. She could just pile her things back in her car and leave…but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't imagine herself doing that.
As Isabella climbed under the comforter and switched off the light next to her bed, she willed her body to relax, told her mind to welcome sleep. But sleep did not come. It was too hard not to think about all that had changed in the past months. Isabella had accepted the internship, more than ready to escape the reality that had become hers in New York. She'd driven over four days, through day and night, over the constantly renewing landscape of the United States, barely noticing the scenes flying outside the window of her car. She knew that in some ways she had been running away.
But as she pictured the strong hands holding that dark head at the desk just a few feet from her door, she decided that maybe she had also been running towards something.
Isabella rose when the first rays of sunlight draped themselves in gold and orange across the foot of her bed, and she pulled on a pair of work jeans and a thin long-sleeved shirt. Despite the heat, she knew that her skin wouldn't fare well in the unforgiving sun if she didn't keep it covered.
She emerged from her room and passed through the bathroom before wandering to the kitchen where she could hear low voices. Roberto, Vicki and Jonathan were up already, and a hush fell in the room when she entered.
"Coffee?" Vicki asked, awfully cheerful considering the early hour.
"Please."
Vicki handed her a mug and nodded toward the table where the men sat. "It'll be just a couple minutes." She waved her hand at the bacon and pancakes on the stove.
Isabella could feel Jonathan watching her as she walked back to the kitchen table, and it made her self-conscious. As a woman, she was comfortable in her body, but his intense appraisal brought back memories of her youth—all long limbs and gangly awkwardness.
"Good morning," she said to the table as she took a seat on the bench across from Roberto.
"Good morning," both men said in low voices.
They drank coffee in silence for a few moments.
"I thought that today we could have a look at what's out in the barrels," Jonathan told her. "I've talked to Roberto about doing a more severe green harvest in the Grenache."
Isabella was surprised. She looked at Jonathan, and there was something in the set of the strong shoulders that was more relaxed than he'd been the day before. Perhaps he was getting used to her.
"That sounds great," she said carefully.
"I need to get you familiar with the rest of the acreage today or tomorrow," he said. "I'll be interested in your thoughts on the Syrah and Cinsault as well. And Dad had put in five acres each of Mourvèdre and Rousseau. I haven't given much thought to them since he died."
Vicki put a steaming plate down in front of Isabella, and she instinctively closed her eyes and let the warm smell of bacon invade her senses. It had
been a while since anyone had made her a real breakfast, and being taken care of like this reminded Isabella of her mother. For a moment, emotion clogged her throat and she was afraid to open her eyes, worried that the tears threatening to escape might spring forth.
"Sounds good," she said quietly, putting images of her mother's kitchen from her mind. She took a breath and looked up at Jonathan.
He was watching her with interest, and his eyes held a question. He'd seen her momentary crack of emotion.
She ate, keeping her eyes on her plate for the rest of the meal, though she could feel Roberto and Jonathan both gazing at her from time to time.
As she finished up, Vicki finally sat down, bringing a plate for herself.
"Will you guys be okay on your own for dinner?" she asked them.
"I'm sure I can find something to keep us from starving," Jonathan said. "Where ya headed?"
"I have a date," she said, smiling.
"Vicki dates a man who runs one of the antique shops in town," Jonathan told Isabella. "Quentin Waverly."
Vicki smiled at Isabella, and then returned to eating her meal.
"Is there much of a town here?" Isabella asked. She'd driven straight out to the house from Los Angeles when the interstate had finally dropped her in California. "I didn't see much of anything on the way up."
"There's not much," Vicki told her. "But there is a cute little town square, a couple restaurants and some shops. I'll take you in later on this week if you like."
"I'd like that, thanks," Isabella said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jonathan
Once they'd finished breakfast, Jonathan led Isabella back out to the barn as Roberto headed for the fields. The room was cool and drafty compared to the heat of the morning air.
Jonathan showed Isabella to a wall of several large barrels. "These are all Grenache," he told her. "The bigger barrels work better than the sixty gallon ones," he pointed at the racks on the far wall. "The bigger barrel lets less oxygen through and Dad learned the hard way that Grenache oxidizes quickly if you let it."
Isabella was scrawling notes in a small notebook she'd pulled from her pocket.
"We've got two years' worth here," Jonathan said. "We only made Syrah last year, and not much of it. Dad got sick the year before that, and things really slowed down. Some things just didn't get attended to. We'll need to see what's going on in these barrels at this point."
"So the Syrah's on the far wall?" Isabella asked, pointing at a rack of barrels that climbed the wall.
"Yeah. The Syrah gets fermented over there," Jonathan motioned to two large open-topped tanks. "The oxidation helps it soften up."
Isabella nodded.
"We've also got small amounts of the Cinsault and Mourvèdre out here. And Dad sourced a little bit of Counoise from another winery that's been experimenting with it." He indicated a few barrels set apart from the others."
"So you haven't done any tasting or blending in a couple years?" Isabella said, not doing a very good job of hiding her shock.
"There's a reason we signed on to the apprenticeship program, Isabella," Jonathan told her, turning to face her. In the relative dark of the barn, her wild curls looked almost black and made the contrast with her pale skin more noticeable. Jonathan fought an urge to run his hand along the smooth curve of her face, to trace the high cheekbones with his thumb. He took a purposeful step back. "I need some help out here."
"Roberto?" Isabella asked.
"He's great in the vineyard, and he used to help Dad with the blending, but he doesn't like to come in here now. I think he was as upset about my dad's death as we were." Jonathan searched her face. He saw something flicker at the mention of his dad's death, but it didn't look like sympathy. Her dark eyes were more liquid; she looked sad. She hadn't even known his father. He wasn't sure why she'd be so sad hearing about his death.
"Are you alright?" he asked her.
"I'm fine," she said, rubbing her nose with the edge of her palm in a nervous way. "Shall we get started?"
"Absolutely. We'll get back in here and start some tasting this afternoon. I want to show you the way things are laid out in the vineyards first."
"Sure thing," she said.
Outside the barn, Jonathan nodded towards a four-wheeler that was splattered with mud and looked like it had seen better days.
"You mind if we use that? There's a lot of land to cover."
"Okay," Isabella said, sounding doubtful.
Jonathan slid a leg across the seat and started the engine. After a few moments of sputtering uncertainty, the ATV sprang to life. "Hop on," he told her.
Isabella approached slowly and threw one leg carefully across the seat, sliding on behind Jonathan.
"You're going to have to hold on," he told her.
She looked around for a handle, her hands searching the sides of the seat.
"You're going to have to hold on to me," he corrected.
He could feel the length of her thighs pressed against the backs of his legs as she slid forward, and the heat radiating from what lay between them was almost more than he could take. He tensed as her arms went around his waist and he felt the careful distance she was keeping between them.
As he nudged the vehicle forward, she gripped him tighter, and as they flew down the narrow lanes, he tried to focus on avoiding the ruts and ditches, and not on the firm breasts he could feel pressing tightly against his back.
CHAPTER NINE
Isabella
Isabella removed herself from the back of the four-wheeler as they pulled back up outside the barn. She'd had her body practically wrapped around Jonathan's for the better part of the day as they'd toured the vineyard, and she felt as though she'd been trying to hold back a tidal wave with a teaspoon as she sat behind him, their bodies pressed tightly together. She'd had to restrain herself to keep from laying her head against his strong broad back; had to remind herself that the tan neck was not hers to kiss, the dark hair on the nape of the neck that was just beginning to curl there was not hers to finger. There was something about him, his strength and his silence, that drew her to him.
They'd eaten a hurried packed lunch of fruit and cheese as they looked around the fields, making notes of how things were developing and jotting down best guesses at when harvests would occur in the fall. Isabella felt overwhelmed, but it was a welcome sensation after so many months of uncertainty. Departing New York had been an emotional necessity, but until now, she wasn't sure just where she would belong once she had put that place behind her.
Inside the barn, Jonathan went to a low cabinet at the back of the room and pulled out the thieves—the long tubes they'd use to pull wine from the barrels. He bent down again and found the cups they'd use for tasting.
"Shall we try the Grenache first?" he asked.
Isabella felt excitement rising in her. This was why she wanted to make wine—she thrilled at the idea of taking the raw product of the fields and turning it into something magnificent.
"So this is the 1988," Jonathan said, tapping the last year's huge Grenache barrels. "I'm worried that I've left it too long."
Isabella raised the glass to her lips, letting the vapors rise to meet her nose, closing her eyes and seeing the warm sun, the transformation from the fat ripe grape on the vine to the living juice in the barrel. She swirled the glass, letting the oxygen mix with the juice and watching the color darken slightly. Finally, she took a small sip on her tongue, breathing deeply through her nose and letting the wine oxidize further on her palate. She rolled it around her mouth, and swallowed, eyes still shut. She noted the lingering finish on her tongue, around the sides of her mouth.
She opened her eyes to find Jonathan staring at her openly.
She smiled, and felt her embarrassment at being watched creep up the sides of her face.
"What do you think?" he asked, the amusement still evident in the crinkles at the sides of his eyes, the laugh lines around his mouth.
"It's not bad," s
he said, pushing her embarrassment aside. "It's not flabby, so I don't think you've left it too long. There's a decent amount of structure to build on here. There’s some good fruit and a bit of berry. I guess it's all gonna depend on what you've got in the Syrah."
"Let's find out," he said, leading her across the room.
The long hot day in the fields turned into the kind of afternoon that Isabella had dreamed about during her studies. Reading about wine and theory, and tasting in cold supervised classrooms and university vineyards was one thing; actually feeling the raw product in her mouth, sensing the way that the grapes would develop and express themselves in a wine she might have a stake in was something else.
Together, the pair created several blends from the juice that had been neglected in the cool barn while Jonathan had been distracted with the difficulties the winery had faced over the past two years. They left several options under the counter to age, and proceeded inside well after dark, taking a couple of their blends with them.
Isabella headed down the hall towards her room, eager to wash the dust of the vineyards from her skin and hair. "I'm just going to get cleaned up," she said, stopping to look at Jonathan who was lingering near his desk in the living room. "Then I guess we'll need to make some dinner?"
He looked up at her then, and a smile—more open than any she'd seen from him so far—crept across the face, creating dimples on either side of the full lips. "I have some ideas for dinner," he said. "How about you take your time getting cleaned up and I'll handle dinner. Come on out when you're ready and you can keep me company while I cook."
Isabella's heart leapt at the eagerness in his voice.
"Unless you have other things you need to do. Or want to do, I mean," Jonathan was flustered suddenly, as if he'd realized how eager he must have sounded for her company.
A Rare Vintage (Wine Country Romance) Page 3