"I don't have any other plans," Isabella said, hoping to see the dimples again.
Jonathan smiled, not the huge open smile, but Isabella was glad she'd put his nerves to rest.
She wandered to the bathroom feeling like she was preparing herself for a date.
CHAPTER TEN
Jonathan
Jonathan hung up the phone after scheduling the fermentation tank repair for the following day. He shook his head as thoughts about the money that would make it possible took up their dark corner in his mind again. There was no choice, he reminded himself. And I'll pay her back when I get the university stipend.
For a moment he stared absently down the hallway, marveling at his own ability to forget everything that had happened recently when Isabella was near. She'd been in his life just two days, and he felt like an eager puppy, working for her attention. He reminded himself that they were practically strangers, that he knew almost nothing about her. And as he walked down the hall to get cleaned up in his own room, he tried to ignore the sound of rushing water through the bathroom door. It took everything he could muster not to conjure up an image of her bare flesh beneath the unrelenting pulse of the shower.
Once he'd washed and pulled on a clean pair of jeans and his favorite loose plaid button down shirt that had seen better days, Jonathan wandered barefoot out to the kitchen. He dug through the freezer and refrigerator, trying to decide what to make for dinner. He began pulling things from drawers and cabinets, and got to work. By the time Isabella entered, there was steam rising from several pots and rolls were warming in the oven. Jonathan was stirring something over the stove.
"Wow," she said. "Looks like you know your way around the kitchen!"
"Wine?" he asked, holding up the glass he'd poured for himself while he worked.
"You don't really have to ask, do you?" she smiled.
He poured her a glass from the carafe they'd blended earlier. "Hope you like it young."
"That'll work," she said.
"I thought we could get another taste of it while our palates are fresh and then I'll open something else for dinner."
"You’ll get no arguments here." Isabella accepted the glass, and looked around the kitchen. "Can I help with something?"
"Nope," Jonathan said. "But you could keep me company."
Isabella smiled and settled herself on a stool across the countertop from the stove.
Jonathan felt himself smiling hard and tried to relax his face. Isabella's presence made him happy, and he wondered why he felt so suddenly out of control. It wasn’t like him. Even when he was deeply involved with Charlotte, he’d always been in control.
Isabella sat at the counter, sipping the wine, and he tried not to stare at her. The dark curls were still damp, but they framed her face perfectly. Her skin looked as if it was illuminated from beneath, a faint flush on her cheeks. God, she's beautiful, Jonathan thought, and then tried to force himself to concentrate on cooking.
"Risotto?" Isabella said, one eyebrow raised. "I'm impressed."
"My mother was Italian," he told her. "She and my father met at the Château where he worked in Burgundy. She was the cook; he was one of the cellar hands. She had mastered French cooking, but we got Italian at home. When we were tiny, she took me and Vicki to work with her and we helped out."
"You're lucky," Isabella said. "I'm not much good in the kitchen. I can boil water and I make a mean slice of toast, though!"
Jonathan laughed, noticing how her eyes gleamed above the lip of her glass.
"So your mom didn't cook much," he said.
Her face darkened, then she looked up again. It was as if a cloud had passed over her. "No, not really. She was a dancer. She wasn't often home in the evenings because she was at rehearsals or at class. She danced with American Ballet Theater."
Maybe that explained Isabella's long lean figure.
"And your dad?"
"He wasn't much of a cook either, though he kept my brother and I fed. He could put pretty much anything in white sauce and serve it on toast."
"Shit on a shingle, huh?"
"He learned to cook in the Army."
"I see. So you were an Army brat?"
"No, Dad got out before he married my mom. He taught at the City College. Economics."
"You grew up in New York City?"
"For the most part. My parents retired to Connecticut eventually, but I was in college by then."
"And are you close with your folks?" he asked, adding more stock to the risotto and stirring.
"Not now," Isabella said, and took a long sip. "Which blend is this?" she asked. "I think we overdid the Mourvèdre. There's an awful lot of 'barnyard' here."
"I think it just needs some time." Jonathan paused to take another taste, rolling the wine in his mouth and letting it coat his tongue. "The Mourvèdre might end up saving it if it matures right. Might end up more leather and tobacco than horse and dung."
"I hope you're right!" Isabella laughed.
"I'm always right," he said, winking playfully.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Isabella
Isabella leaned back in her chair at the table, stretching her arms over her head.
"Dinner was amazing," she told Jonathan, who sat across from her looking as blissfully full as she felt. "The risotto was really incredible. Maybe you could teach me how to do that?"
"I probably could," he said, his deep brown eyes catching the soft light from above.
Isabella took her wine glass in her hand and eyed what was left of the ruby liquid it contained. She swirled it, watching the viscous liquid climb the sides of the globe and then settle back to the bottom.
"You look like you're contemplating a swim in it," Jonathan's voice was low, teasing.
"I probably would if I could!" she smiled. "I’m just amazed at my own capacity to be completely seduced by a great glass of wine." She shook her head, feeling silly. "I mean, you've devoted your life to wine, I guess you understand."
He was watching her intently across the table, so she went on.
"It's just incredible to me how wine can be one thing when you open the bottle and taste it, something else when you are at the bottom of the first glass, and something completely different by the time you pour the last glass from the bottle. It's magical to me."
The wine and the low lighting combined to make the atmosphere feel relaxed, almost dreamlike.
"I feel a little silly talking like this," she said. "Do you think I'm an idiot?"
"No," he said slowly, looking into his own glass. "You just put into words so much of what compels me to making wine." He took a sip and looked at her, then back into the glass. "I think wine is interesting to me for exactly that reason; you can believe that you know it, and then it surprises you. It's a living, breathing thing. The challenge is to work with it, let it do what it's going to do anyway—not to try to contain or control it."
"Right," she said, her voice low. She drained her glass and then began clearing plates from the table.
Jonathan stood and picked up the serving dishes. He followed her to the sink, where they worked side-by-side, making quick work of the dishes. As she scrubbed and handed him plates and silver to dry, their hands touched from time to time, and Isabella was surprised with each touch at the warmth she felt whenever his hand touched hers. Once, as she bent forward to pull a plate from the soapy water, she felt his eyes on her, and turned to find him watching her, a hungry look burning in his eyes. She fought the urge to lean into him, to reach up and push one of the longer locks of his hair back from his forehead.
"I…" she stumbled, not knowing what to say.
"Here, let me take that," he said, defusing the moment by taking a plate from her hand.
When they were done, he shook out the dishtowel and folded it, then leaned back against the sink, crossing his arms over his chest.
"I suppose it's time to head on…” she began.
"Shall we open another bottle?" He asked, grinning.
<
br /> She smiled. "Sure, why not?" She pulled their glasses from the drying rack and set them on the counter.
"Want to pick?" he asked, looking over his shoulder as he headed for the wine cellar.
"Sure," she said, following him through the arched doorway and down the stairs.
The cellar wasn't a true cellar. Jonathan explained that there were few basements in central California, in large part due to their situation upon the many fault lines that jostled the state on a regular basis. Instead, the cellar was a sunken room with no windows or external doors, and a few extra layers of insulation to keep the temperature as steady as possible.
Side by side, they scanned the higher racks, where hundreds of bottles of red lay on their sides waiting for their day to be opened.
Isabella scanned the labels. "Is this one of your dad's?" she asked, picking up a Burgundy.
"It is," he said quietly. "That was the second year he helped in the blending. That blend garnered a lot of attention." He smiled sadly at her, his eyes searching hers. "Let's open it."
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"Do you like Burgundy?" he asked, holding the bottle gingerly.
"Of course."
"Come on."
They opened the bottle in the kitchen and then wandered to the living room with generously full globes of deep crimson wine. Isabella sat at one end of the couch, tucking her legs underneath her, and leaned forward, holding out the glass.
"To your dad," she said.
Jonathan extended his glass and the sound of the glasses touching seemed to echo through the still room.
"To continuing to build what he began," she concluded.
Jonathan took a sip, his eyes never leaving her face.
Isabella found herself breathing more heavily, as if it took a great deal of effort for her to sit here on the couch next to this wildly attractive man, drinking wine. He’d gone from being arrogant and closed-off to open and generous in one evening. She wanted to slide across the couch, wrap her arms around his neck and pull him to her—to feel his weight on her. The more she tried to focus on behaving normally, the more difficulty she had quelling the butterflies that were careening around in her stomach. She tore her eyes from his face and found herself staring at the muscular chest evident under the thin western shirt instead. Get a grip on yourself! She chastised.
Jonathan had been watching her, his gaze never leaving her face, and he seemed to sense her struggles to maintain control over her suddenly flaring desire. A smile began on his lips and he put his glass down on the coffee table in front of them. His eyes darkened.
"Isabella," he said. "I know you've just gotten here…"
She was not usually a forward woman, but something in his voice dampened her fears. She put her glass on the table and slid across the caramel leather of the couch until she could feel the warmth radiating off of him. She looked into his eyes, not entirely sure of herself until she saw the barely-contained desire in his gaze. She felt a shift in the air as her own physical desire negated her efforts to maintain conscious control of the situation.
"Jonathan," she breathed as her arms wound around his neck. His breath was hot on her neck as she pulled him gently toward her. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around her back as he laid her down. They slid back slowly until the full length of their bodies was pressed together, and finally, his lips found hers. They kissed softly at first, and then Isabella felt Jonathan's control falter as he let out a low groan and began to kiss her hungrily. He pushed her lips apart and his tongue plunged into her mouth. She tasted the wine lingering there, and she opened her mouth to him eagerly, her own tongue meeting his while her hips pushed upwards against him, feeling the hard urgency of his erection pressing against her hip through her jeans.
He groaned again, a low guttural sound filled with desire, and she began to feel the edges of her consciousness darken as the remnants of her self-control faded into her desire for him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jonathan
Jonathan struggled to control himself, but Isabella's perfect skin, with its smell of soap and shampoo, the mass of dark curls spread over the couch, and the hungry encouragement of Isabella's mouth on his made it nearly impossible. He groaned, knowing that he should end this; that they worked together and it should be nothing more. He knew it couldn't be more, but his body seemed to be telling him otherwise, his erection straining uncomfortably against the fabric of his jeans.
Isabella's body was firm and taut beneath him, and he longed to undress her slowly, to let his hands linger on every curve, every line of her body. Unable to resist, he let one hand trace the curve of her breast through her thin shirt as he kissed the soft skin beneath her ear.
She moaned in response and the sound sent licks of fire through his abdomen. Soon, he knew, he would not be able to stop himself. He felt his control slipping as she wrapped a leg around him, pulling him into her.
With a groan, he pulled away, untangling himself and standing up next to the couch where she lay.
Her eyes opened and he tried not to see the hazy desire lingering there; tried not to picture himself picking her up and carrying her to his bed.
"Isabella, I'm sorry, I…"
She sat up, brushing at her clothing as if to push away what had just happened. "No, no, I'm…I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…"
"It wasn't you," he assured her. "But we have to work together, we can't…"
"Right. Of course," she smiled, her pale skin still glowing. "I know." She stood then, nodding uneasily at him. "I think I'll go to bed now," she said. She turned and walked around the couch the long way to reach the hallway, avoiding the need to step around him.
"I'm sorry," he said again. I'm such an idiot, he told himself. His fists balled and he cursed himself again when he realized how embarrassed she was, how he'd just made her feel like maybe she had misread him.
How could he explain to her how beautiful and desirable he found her and still restrain himself from acting upon it? Frustrated, he picked up his wine glass and drained the valuable vintage in one long, distracted gulp. Wasted, he thought, the wine, the opportunity for a professional relationship…something more… He berated himself as he headed down the hallway to his room, walking quickly when he passed the silence coming from Isabella's room.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Isabella
Isabella woke the next morning cringing before she even opened her eyes. It hadn't taken her long to drift off, thanks to polishing off several very large glasses of wine. But in the bright light of morning, the error of her actions the night before came crashing in, ushered by waves of a red wine headache. Isabella pulled the covers to her chin and pretended that she had the option to linger in her bed, that she could pretend to be sick, as she had when she was a child.
No, she reminded herself. You are an adult. You made a bad choice, and you will need to handle it. You are here to grow your career. Focus on that. Isabella swung herself out of bed, dosed the headache with aspirin and pulled her hair back. She got dressed and walked to the kitchen with renewed purpose. Jonathan was not some attractive man she’d met on the street or in a bar, he was essentially her employer. And she would remember that and maintain an appropriate distance from now on.
She accepted a steaming mug of coffee from Vicki, and took a seat at the table. With disappointment that she immediately tried to push away, she noted that Jonathan was not there.
"Jon's gone out into the vines already," Vicki told her from the kitchen.
"And I'm on my way out," Roberto said.
Isabella watched him leave through the kitchen door. Roberto was an enigma. He didn't say much, but she had a feeling that he knew everything that happened at Château Sauvage.
"How was your night, Vicki?" Isabella asked, feeling a fondness for the petite woman bustling about over eggs and bacon.
"It was amazing," she said, beaming over the skillet at Isabella. She held a hand out in front of her, and a sparkling diamond caugh
t the light, glittering.
"Oh my gosh! Congratulations!" Isabella pushed herself to gush appropriately. She'd never been much of a girls' girl and found it hard to manufacture over-the-top enthusiasm. "That's wonderful!"
"I'm not sure Jonathan thought so," Vicki said, bringing two plates to the table and sitting down. "He didn't seem very happy about anything this morning, and got up and left right after I told him."
Isabella wanted to tell her that it probably wasn't her that had made Jonathan want to hurry out of the house, but didn't want to confess her own mistake to his sister.
"I think it just reminded him of Charlotte," Vicki said, taking a bite of eggs.
"Oh," was all Isabella could manage. "He proposed to her?"
"She didn't accept the offer. She left right after."
"Ouch."
"Exactly. It's been over a year, but I haven't even seen the slightest hint of moving on from my brother. Maybe its unfair that I'm so happy."
"Of course it's not," Isabella said. "Your life has to be your own. You can't stay here taking care of your brother forever. He's a grown man."
"I know." Vicki was quiet then, and the two women ate in companionable silence.
Finally, Isabella rose to take her dishes to the sink.
"Do you want to go to town later?" Vicki asked as Isabella walked toward the door. "I need to get to the store, and I can introduce you to my fiancé."
"That'd be great," Isabella said. She had a feeling that it would be a relief to get out of the house and away from Jonathan at the end of the day. "I think we're out in the vines all day. What time are you thinking?"
"Maybe around three?"
"I'll be sure to get in and get cleaned up by then."
Isabella entered the cool darkness of the barrel barn to find a repairman high on the ladder by the fermentation tank, Jonathan standing beneath him at its base. She felt an unwanted thrill rush through her at the sight of the muscled back, the dark hair. She tried to push away images of him pressed against her on the couch the night before.
A Rare Vintage (Wine Country Romance) Page 4