It wasn't even her looks, he thought. Though her looks definitely added to his desire for her. There was something about her. She had come in blazing that first day, told him exactly what needed to be done in the vineyard without worrying about bruising his masculine ego. His mother had been from the old world—she'd thought that women should know their place, and that that place was the kitchen. Though Vicki grew up bullheaded despite their mother's best efforts, Jonathan couldn't help but be drawn to a woman who could assert herself so confidently in a man's world. And the fact that she knew as much or more about grapes and making wine than he did…well, that just made her even more desirable. And inside that confidence there was a vulnerability that he was drawn to. There was something about tall graceful Isabella that reminded him of an injured animal—unwilling to accept help out of fear. He knew there was something broken in her, but it didn't lessen his desire for her at all.
That night he had gone to the kitchen for dinner to find Isabella already there, helping Vicki. He had a glass of wine and made the mistake of sitting down, allowing himself to watch her.
She moved around the kitchen with a feline grace that made him think only of the way she'd moved when she'd been in his arms, when he'd been deep inside her.
She laughed with Vicki, a low rumbling purr that made him think of the way she'd cried out when she came, her body tensing around him, every part of her holding him tightly, shuddering with her release.
Finally, she'd set a plate before him, her long curls falling across his face, carrying the scent of jasmine and vanilla. He'd been almost unable to stop himself from reaching up for her then, as the pressure of his steadily growing erection became painful against the thick fabric of his jeans. When she'd sat down at the table, her nearness was too much to bear. Jonathan realized that he couldn't sustain an entire meal with her so close, and his throbbing erection confirmed it. As she took a bite, all he could think about was throwing her down on the table, pushing her jeans off and thrusting himself inside her, feeling that slick tight wetness surrounding him again, feeling Isabella—wanting him, needing him as much as he needed her.
He couldn't stop the images that were dominating his mind, and his body was betraying him painfully. Finally, he growled, "Excuse me," offered some lame excuse and fled the room.
He’d walked down the hall to his room, his pants rubbing painfully against his erection. He’d locked his door and immediately taken off the restraining clothing, walking into the bathroom and turning on the shower. There, with the water running to muffle the noise, it took just a few seconds. He had gripped his shaft hard, letting his hand pull from the base up past the tip and push roughly back down, over and over, until, with a guttural moan that echoed with his desire, he came. As he had finished, he heard himself whisper her name.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Isabella
Isabella ventured out when she heard Charlotte's car leave.
She had showered and pulled on a gauzy thin sweater, drinking a glass of wine with Vicki while she helped her cook.
Jonathan appeared in the doorway just as she was laughing over something Vicki said, and he held a look on his face that made Isabella want to run to him and wrap herself around him. The coppery eyes practically smoked, and his mouth was slightly open as his muscular arms tensed. His gaze was intense—almost angry as he stared at her. When he caught her looking back, he took just a moment to recover, saying, "Got another glass of that for me?"
"Sure," Vicki had said, pouring him a glass.
He took a seat at the table, and Isabella felt his eyes on her as she tried to ignore him. She moved around the kitchen, feigning oblivion to his dark attention as she helped Vicki stir and plate the dinner. She felt him tracking her every move, and when she glanced at him, he sat dark and brooding at the table, staring openly at her.
She put a plate down before him, and her hair fell across his face as she leaned in.
"Sorry," she said, pulling it back with a hand and smiling weakly.
She sat at the table and began to eat, when Jonathan abruptly pushed his chair back.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice strained. "I don't feel well." He turned and left the room, and Isabella's heart sank. Though she had told him that nothing was possible between them, she had hoped they could at least be civil. It seemed Jonathan couldn't even bear to be around her.
For what seemed like forever, Isabella barely saw him. He missed meals, went the opposite direction from her to work in the vines, and generally avoided her.
She was surprised one morning to find Jonathan still at the table when she arrived for breakfast.
"Good morning," he said, his voice tight and his eyes in his coffee cup.
"Hi," she replied, her voice nearly a whisper. She was almost afraid to speak to him. It had been almost two weeks since they'd really talked, the distance between them humming like a guitar string still remembering a gentle strum.
She took a cup of coffee from Vicki, warmed both by the feel of the cup in her hands and by the smaller woman's ever present smile.
"Thanks, Vick," she said. Warily, she took a seat at the table across from Jonathan.
He had spent time with Charlotte and the baby almost every day for the past two weeks, and she was trying to accept that he had taken her at her word. She had told him that nothing could happen again between them, and he had stopped trying to make anything happen. All the same, she knew that he watched her when he thought she wasn't looking, and a few times she would have sworn that his eyes were lit with the same desire she'd seen in the barn when he'd taken her against the wall.
She pushed down as much emotion as she could suppress and said, "Jon, I think the entry is open for the Pioneer Festival beginning today."
"That's great. Will you handle the entry or should I?" His voice was tight, as if he was trying to control some emotion there.
She risked a look at his face. It was a mistake. As soon as her eyes lifted, they were locked to his, which smoldered like smelted bronze. With the connection reinstated between them, Isabella's body caught fire. A deep pull ignited inside her stomach, her breasts ached and she was immediately wet.
She tore her eyes from his face and stared into her coffee cup. "I can do it," she said.
"Shall I come with you? We made the wine together, maybe we should enter together."
Oh God. She could barely handle sitting across the table from him. She tried to imagine a car ride into town.
"If you like," she said, wishing she could run away. Wishing even more that she could leap across the table into his arms.
She raised her eyes to his face once more, and would have sworn that she could see the same deep longing there that she was feeling, though his words and actions in the past weeks were much, much colder than they had been before she'd told him that she needed space.
"We'll go at noon," he said.
"Okay," she replied. "I better get to work." She rose and went out into the morning air, taking deep breaths to try to quell the almost unbearable desire that Jonathan's nearness had ignited in her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Jonathan
He’d gone on trying to ignore her as long as he could. But the morning when she brought up their entry to the Pioneer Competition, sitting across the table from her, Jonathan had felt something break. He couldn't keep pretending that he didn't care. He couldn't keep teetering on the edge of this abyss of desire every time she was near, knowing he'd never touch her again. He had to know the truth. From her own lips. She might not want to be with him—she'd made that clear. But he needed to hear exactly why.
His relationship with Charlotte had warmed slightly, though the lawyer advised not to discuss custody or other arrangements until the results of the paternity test were in. He knew that keeping her close was the one route to knowing his son. And he was sure that Thomas was his son.
He felt as if he'd pushed Isabella into going to town with him that day. And it was ridiculous, he knew, bu
t the promise of an afternoon spent in Isabella's company had Jonathan humming and happy all morning. He pushed himself not to think too hard about it; because when he did, dark thoughts replaced the tingling anticipation of time spent by her side.
I will ask her about the ring, he promised himself. I will make her tell me that she loves someone else. And that would be the end of it, he hoped, though the anxious feeling of desire that coursed through him when he thought of her made it difficult to imagine ever being able to be near her without his body catching fire. Since he'd been keeping his distance, he'd had to excuse himself to his room several times for relief. No woman had ever had such a strong and immediate effect on him. She didn't have to touch him, or even look at him to cause him to become immediately, painfully hard. She didn't even need to be in the same room. He only hoped he hadn't been too obvious in his need.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Isabella
Isabella worked in the barn through the morning, trying to keep her hands busy enough to still her haunted mind. She carefully prepared the three bottles that would constitute the entry of Château Sauvage to the Pioneer Wine competition.
They'd settled on a new world version of the famed Châteauneuf-du-Pape. The traditional wine, made in a tiny appellation in Southern France where Pope Clement V built himself a palace during violent times in Rome, was traditionally blended from any of thirteen varieties of grape, heavily reliant on Grenache as a foundation. The wine that Isabella and Jonathan had made, though heavy in Grenache, was blended from four additional Châteauneuf varietals grown at Château Sauvage. They had chosen to name their blend "Savage Red."
As Isabella worked, she tried to understand what Jonathan could be thinking. He'd avoided her for weeks, focusing—rightly, she told herself—on Charlotte and Thomas. And now, suddenly, he wanted to spend time with her? Ride into town with her? Maybe he'd decided that they could be friendly after all. Maybe he'd gotten over whatever lustful connection they'd had and found himself able to move on. She wished that she were so lucky.
She'd spent the last two weeks eating dinners early and having her breakfasts late, trying to avoid sitting at the same table with Jonathan. On the occasions when she'd been unsuccessful, they'd sat across from each other, neither looking up, a dark electricity firing between them. She was sure it hadn't been just her that felt it.
Isabella took the bottles and walked to the house, practically running into Jonathan as he came out the door.
"Ah," he said, a warm smile on his face. "I was just coming to find you."
His hand was on her arm and she had to force herself not to focus on the warmth of his touch, the comfort that his nearness sent through her.
"I just finished preparing the entry," she said. "I thought I might clean up before we head into town."
"Sure." He took the bottles from her hands and opened the kitchen door for her. "Vick made some sandwiches."
"I'll just change my clothes and grab one on the way out," she said.
Jonathan gave her a look then that made her feel that maybe she'd already removed every last stitch of clothing without realizing it. She flushed, suddenly embarrassed under his gaze, and headed to her room.
As she pulled on a pair of white linen pants and a bright yellow tank top, she admonished herself. He has a family. He is not yours. Control yourself.
She tamed her hair in the bathroom, put on a touch of lip-gloss and walked back into the kitchen, ready to go. Her appearance seemed to have a visible effect on Jonathan. His hand, which had been supporting his weight as he leaned against the counter, was suddenly white-knuckled, and there was a tightness around his mouth. She pulled her eyes from him, worried that she would betray how much she wanted to run and press herself into his arms. When she contemplated his reaction to her, she realized that he'd seen her sweaty and dirty, and freshly showered, but that he'd never seen her dressed up at all, ready to go somewhere. She was glad she'd taken the time to put on some makeup. Maybe it would provide her with some armor to protect her from her own feelings.
"You look ready to go," he said, and she felt her heart deflate slightly as she realized that she'd been hoping for a compliment. She chastised herself for being silly and took a deep breath.
"I am," she said, taking a ham sandwich off the platter on the table and wrapping it in a napkin.
"Shall we?" he asked. His attitude felt strange, but it was light, friendly.
They got into his truck and made their way down the rutted lane towards downtown Paso Robles, Isabella holding the bottles in her lap.
"Iz," Jonathan said, turning to look at her for a moment. "I've wanted to talk to you."
She cringed. What more could he possibly want to say? Hadn't they run this into the ground already?
"Okay," she said slowly, her voice almost a whisper.
"Look," he tried to begin again. "The night that you told me…that you said we couldn't be involved…"
"Yes?"
"I…well, I have to tell you something. I'm not very proud of myself." He kept his eyes focused on the road before him as he talked. "Look, when you went into the bathroom, I stood in your room for a moment. And I noticed a jewelry box."
She looked out the front windshield, tried to keep her face unreadable.
"And I couldn't help it. I opened it."
She remained silent. She wouldn't look at him.
"So I guess I understand why…"
"You understand what?"
"Why we can't be together. Why you said it was more complicated than I knew."
She answered this with more silence, though she was staring at him now, furious that he would invade her privacy. Her mother's ring! How could he understand anything? What did he think he knew? The possibilities were endless, and considering them exhausted her.
"I'm glad you understand." Her voice was flat.
"Okay," he said, clearly trying to coax her to say more. "Okay," he said again.
Isabella stepped from the cab at the first possible opportunity once Jonathan had parked. She felt like she wanted to run, just needed to get away from him. There was so much confusion between them. She knew that he most likely believed that the ring belonged to her, that she was potentially engaged to someone else, or had been. But she felt like having to explain that would require her to explain everything else—about her mother, her family. And she couldn't bear the idea of seeing pity in his dark eyes. She didn't need to add to his already difficult load.
Together, they walked to the market, where applications were being accepted for the upcoming competition. As they entered the store, Isabella turned to him, handing him the bottles.
"I think you should do this," she said, shaking her head. "I have something else I need to do." She turned and went back out the door.
Isabella fled the market, no real direction in mind. She knew only that she couldn't stand next to Jonathan, couldn't be a part of building anything with him when she knew that being with him was an impossibility.
She walked down the sidewalk, crossing the street without thinking and finding herself in the central park in the middle of the town square. She walked the perimeter of the park, lost largely in her own thoughts, until she recognized a familiar car. It had been parked in front of the house often over the past two weeks. And in the front seat was a familiar blonde head, slumped over the steering wheel. Charlotte.
Isabella walked quickly to the driver side door, fearing that Charlotte was hurt. Then she noticed the shaking shoulders. Charlotte was crying. Thomas sat in his carrier in the back seat, sucking a finger and looking around him, wide-eyed.
She turned quickly and took two steps away, planning to pretend she'd never seen them here. Until her sympathy kicked in. Completely against her will and her better judgment, Isabella walked back to the car and tapped gently on the driver side window.
Charlotte jerked her head up, abruptly, then rolled down the window. She flushed. "Oh, hello."
"Hi. Is everything all right? Is ther
e anything I can do?"
Charlotte laughed then, an almost unhinged sound that held no humor at all. "No, there's nothing you can do." She shook her head.
Isabella shrugged and began to walk away.
"Oh…look, wait." Charlotte got out of the car. "No, I…" She shook her head. She had a look on her face of deep sorrow, desperation even. "I just…" tears began rolling from her eyes again as she glanced back at the baby in the back seat.
"Hey," Isabella said gently. She didn't like Charlotte, but she'd rarely seen someone so clearly broken and bare in front of her. She couldn't just walk away now. "Hey," she repeated softly. "It's okay. Why don't we talk for a minute?"
Charlotte shook her head. "It just figures," she said quietly, through more tears. "That it'd be you who would find me here. That's my exact luck." Her breath caught then, as she stifled a new sob, leaning against her car and burying her face in her hands. "I just…I don't know what to do."
"Maybe I can help?" Isabella wasn't sure what her role should be. Clearly, Charlotte wasn't excited about confiding in her. "What's wrong?"
"Oh," said Charlotte, smiling a sardonic smile through the tears that coursed down her thin face. "Pretty much everything."
"Do you want to go sit for a minute in the park?" Isabella asked.
"I…I don't know," Charlotte said, eyeing her warily. "Okay," she said finally. She opened the door and removed the carrier from the back of the car, then leaned in the driver window to turn off the engine.
As they walked toward the green grassy expanse, Charlotte continued to sniffle and cough, tears still making tracks down her pale cheeks. They sat under an expansive oak with limbs bigger than the torsos of grown men, and Charlotte stared at the grass beneath them.
Isabella was silent as she waited, watching the baby stare and smile up into the tree's limbs.
A Rare Vintage (Wine Country Romance) Page 11