by Meg Benjamin
Morgan nodded quickly. “I know, believe me, I know. I’ll call Dad tonight and see what I can do. We’ve got some nice sangiovese left and some Morgan’s Blend.”
Lee approached from her other side and slid his arm across her shoulders. “Personally, I love Morgan’s Blend. Come and sit down, babe. You can work this out later.”
Morgan managed a smile that was almost sincere. “You know Erik, right?”
Lee gave him a dry grin. “Oh, yeah, the chief and I go way back. He kicked Otto Friedrich’s ass in our parking lot. Made us the stuff of legend.”
Erik dipped his head. “Glad to oblige.”
Two minutes later they were at a side table, the one where Lee usually put Cal and Docia. Morgan wondered about the significance. Probably just a coincidence. She flipped open her menu and tried to pretend she was hungry.
“Okay.” Erik’s voice was low. “What are you upset about, and why are you trying to pretend you’re not?”
She blinked at him. How on earth had he noticed? Nobody else ever seemed to. Or maybe they just didn’t care. She let herself slump back against the banquette. “Like I said, Brenner’s is one of the winery’s best customers. I don’t want to lose them.”
“Doesn’t sound like you will.” His lips thinned slightly. “Everybody calling everybody ‘sweetheart’ and all.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. We like each other, the three of us. But they’re in business, just like the winery. If I can’t get them the wine, they’ll drop Cedar Creek off their wine list. And they may not be too excited about putting us back on it if they can’t rely on us to keep them supplied.”
“The wine’s not ready?” He leaned forward, watching her face.
“I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. Dad’s the one who decides. He’s the wine master.” Dad—who hadn’t been to the winery in three months. And who still wouldn’t be able to come for a few more weeks, according to his doctor. The band of tension drew tight across her shoulders again. “He hasn’t been healthy enough to come back to Cedar Creek yet.”
“Is the wine still in the barrels?”
Morgan shook her head. “It’s been bottle-aging for a while.”
“So take him a bottle.”
She sighed. A sensible thing to suggest that would work fine with a sensible man. Her father, on the other hand, was a wine master. Sensible was not in his vocabulary. “Maybe I’ll try that. He’s pretty much bored out of his skull by now. Maybe he’ll agree to release it without actually being at the winery when we do.” But I doubt it.
“Morgan, my love.” Lee put a plate on the table between them. “Mushroom empanadas with a touch of manchego. No frowning. No sighing. Eat.” He grinned, his dark eyes dancing. “Ken wants to bring you some wine, but he’s nervous. Tell me you’re not upset about all of this stuff with your wine. Trust me—it’s going to be okay.”
“I’m not upset.” Morgan tried to make herself sound perky. Erik narrowed his eyes at her. Apparently, she didn’t do perky very well. “Honestly.”
Across from her, Erik snorted in disbelief and broke off a piece of empanada. “Good stuff,” he said, chewing.
“Thanks.” Lee raised an eyebrow. “Dinner?”
“Right.” Erik’s gaze seemed to bore a hole into her chest. “Bring us something she’ll eat every bit of, okay?”
Morgan saw Lee’s mouth edge up in that same kind of knowing smile she’d gotten from Allie. God, could people be any more obvious? He was just a guy, after all. Right, Morgan, and Chateau Margaux is just a red wine.
Ken slid a glass onto the table, smiling apologetically. “I know it’s not yours, Morg, but it’s still good. I thought maybe you’d like to give it a try. New Zealand sauvignon blanc.” He poured pale golden wine into the glass in front of her, then set a glass of iced mineral water with a lime slice in front of Erik. “Here you go, Chief.”
Morgan took a sip, letting the cool, slightly citrus taste fill her mouth. She closed her eyes. Maybe it was easier to talk if she didn’t see Erik Toleffson’s deep molasses gaze. “Good flavor.” She glanced in his direction again. “Would you like a glass?”
Erik shook his head. “I’ll pass. Thanks.”
Morgan blinked at him. “You don’t drink?”
“I drink water.” He took a sip. “Also tea, coffee and more Dr. Pepper than is good for me. It’s hard to find in Iowa—did you know that?”
Morgan opened her mouth to ask him why he didn’t drink wine, but he cut her off. “Tell me about your father.” He watched her, eyes half-closed.
Looking at him definitely made it hard to think. “What do you want to know?”
“How did he get hurt?”
“He fell off a truck.” She rubbed the back of her neck to release the tension. “He was riding in the back with some equipment and the truck hit a rut in the road. It was just a freak accident. They weren’t even going that fast.”
“But he’s still laid up?”
Morgan propped her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her fist. “His leg was badly broken. He had surgery. Twice. Now he has physical therapy, and I think my mom wants him to stay in Austin.”
“Your mom. The non-wine drinker. You said they were separated.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know if it’s permanent. The winery was always a big issue between them, and now Dad’s not out here running it. Maybe Mom can talk him into cutting down on his hours when he’s back on his feet.”
“Which would mean what for you? Running the whole thing on your own?”
“I’m not ready for that. Ciro runs things. I’m trying to learn the business.”
“Looks like you’re running yourself ragged while you do.”
She looked up, directly into that deep brown gaze. Like lava. She felt a quick jolt of heat between her thighs. Steady, Morgan.
“I’ll be okay, Chief. You do what you have to do, right?”
Erik decided his goal for the evening was to get Morgan to look at him for more than two seconds at a stretch. She was as skittish as a teenage driver in a license exam. He felt like the two of them were veering all over the road.
“So how long have you known the dynamic duo here?” He nodded at Lee and Ken, conferring next to the wall of wine cases that backed the bar.
“Since they opened up, which was about five years ago now. I started stopping in for dinner whenever I visited Dad at the winery. They were one of the winery’s first restaurant sales. I got them to try some of our sangiovese, and I gave them a pitch on stocking wine from Texas.”
He willed her to look at him. “You do the marketing for the winery?”
She grimaced. “My dad doesn’t believe in marketing. He says the wine sells itself.”
“That’d be a first. I’ve never seen anything that sells itself.”
Morgan shrugged. “I didn’t do much marketing for them before, but I’ve done a little promotion since I moved here last fall. Some winery dinners. A brunch for the volunteer pickers. A newsletter. I haven’t had time for much more.” She met his gaze for a few seconds, before her eyes skittered back to her wine. “I’m a good marketer. I’m only a passable winery manager.”
“I’d say you’re doing fine. Everyone who’s mentioned your wine has been enthusiastic about it.” Erik watched her long, slender fingers slide along the stem of her wineglass and told himself not to think about what else they could be doing under other circumstances.
Morgan’s lips twisted. “My dad made the wine we drank at the Dew Drop. He’s very good. I’m still learning.”
“What does Nando’s father do at the winery?”
“Ciro is Dad’s partner. He runs all the vineyard operations, and oversees the crush.” Morgan shook her head. “He probably could have taken over when Dad was hurt, but Dad wanted somebody from the family at Cedar Creek, and I wanted to do it. So I quit my job in Austin and moved up here to learn how to run the winery. Ciro tolerates me, but Carmen always reminds me how little I know about what I’m supposed to
be doing.”
“Is that what you want to do—the winery business?”
“Yes. But I want to do it right. And I want to get us more widely known beyond the limited distribution we’ve got now.” She took another gulp of her wine and settled back in her chair, her lips pulled into a tight smile. “Let’s talk about your family for a while.”
“Okay. What do you want to know?”
“You all come from some little town in Iowa, right?”
He nodded. “Lander. My dad teaches high school biology there. My mom’s an administrator at a nursing home.”
“How big is it?”
“Smaller than Konigsburg.” He sipped his mineral water. “It’s a few miles west of Des Moines. Out in the corn fields.”
“Did you all grow up there?”
“Yep.”
Morgan narrowed her eyes. “Come on, don’t go all western on me.”
Erik sighed. “Lander is the most boring town in the world. My folks are straight-up, true-blue, salt-of-the-earth types. There’s not a whole lot to say about either of them.”
Morgan raised a questioning eyebrow. “And their son’s a cop? Seems logical. Isn’t it?”
Lee Contreras appeared tableside before Erik could think of a good answer. He watched Contreras bustle around Morgan, putting a plate of chicken and rice in front of her with stern orders to eat it all. His own bowl of paella smelled like nothing he’d ever tasted before. Not that that was a problem.
Conversation became a series of yums, mmms and blissful slurping. As meals went, this one rated up near the top of anything he’d ever tasted that wasn’t covered with barbecue sauce. He noted with approval that Morgan’s plate was also mostly empty.
Finally, she leaned back in her chair. “So tell me, Chief, how did you become a lawman? And this time I won’t let you slide around answering.”
Her eyes danced. For a moment, Erik considered coming up with a polite lie, one that would keep that sparkle going. But he’d decided a long time ago to stick to the truth whenever he could. Or at least a part of it.
“It was a good alternative to jail.”
Chapter Seven
Morgan blinked at him but stayed silent. Okay, so far so good.
“I said my parents were true-blue, salt-of-the-earth types. I didn’t say I was.” Erik took another sip of water, settling back in his chair. “In point of fact, I was a punk. And not even a smart one, not that most punks are.”
It had been the logical next step after his bullying had come to an end once his brothers had begun fighting back. Moving on from simple assault to bigger crimes. He felt like wincing at the memory of his seventeen-year-old self—greasy hair down to his shoulders, black shirt, black jeans, chain wallet, Doc Martens. Oh, yeah. Mr. Cool is in the house.
“Most of what I did would fall under the heading of stupid crap.” He counted off on his fingers. “Stealing a couple of six-packs from a Stop-N-Go, drag racing on the highway, vandalizing the bleachers at the high school football stadium. The high school where my dad taught, you understand. I had a real genius for screwing with my family.”
He glanced up. Morgan was watching him with narrowed eyes. Terrific. At least he’d finally managed to get her full attention. “But I had some friends who weren’t so small-time. I had a part-time job as a mechanic at a garage in West Des Moines that doubled as a chop shop, not that they ever told me what was happening straight-out. I had a pretty good idea what was going on, though. And I didn’t try to do anything about it or tell anybody.”
Morgan frowned. “Why?”
Erik sighed. “It was good money. And the guys who were running it didn’t care if I knew or not. I wasn’t what you’d call a poster kid for ethical behavior even though I came from the kind of home where ethical behavior was a big part of life. I was sort of odd man out in my family.” As his brothers could all testify. With any luck he wouldn’t have to talk about the complicated dynamics of that relationship. At least not tonight.
“What about your brothers?”
Erik managed to keep his expression flat. So much for vain hopes. “What about them?”
“How did they feel about you?”
“We didn’t have much to do with each other. I was older—they mostly stayed out of my way. Except for Pete.” Who had, of course, been the big brother Erik should have been, the one who looked after his younger siblings and took the brunt of Erik’s violence. “We went at it a lot of times when he was growing up. If you really want to know what kind of kid I was, ask him.” Only he profoundly hoped she wouldn’t. At least not yet—not until he’d had a chance to prove that Mr. Hyde was currently under control.
Morgan’s forehead furrowed. “What happened?”
“The guys at the chop shop got caught, and I got dragged in with them. The cops couldn’t prove I had anything to do with it, but I couldn’t prove I didn’t. And they didn’t exactly care what they could prove—they just wanted all of us in the slammer.”
“Did you go to jail?”
He shrugged. “I would have, but I caught a break. Technically, I was still a juvenile, albeit a dangerous one, so they sent me to juvie court. The judge there was a friend of my father’s, and he had some leeway. He pulled me out of the courtroom and sat me down in his office. Told me I was headed for jail if I didn’t get my act together. And if I went to jail, it would destroy my parents, who didn’t deserve it. For some reason, I listened to him. He suggested the military as a way out of Iowa, since by then my rep would have made it impossible for me to get any kind of honest work around Lander, plus I was considered one of the up-and-coming criminals in town. I took him up on it.”
She gave him a half-smile. “Army or Marines? Somehow I don’t figure you as the Air Force or Navy type.”
“Army.” He tore off a piece of bread and dipped it into the bowl of olive oil Lee had dropped off earlier. “I did two tours with the MPs.”
“Did you like it?” She was frowning slightly, maybe worrying about his worthless young self. Maybe.
“Yes and no. It helped me get my shit together, but I’m not big on authority figures. Which is to say I’m good at giving orders but not at taking them.” He shrugged. “On the other hand, I figured out I liked police work, weird as that seems. And I got a GED and some college hours out of the deal, so that helped.”
Plus he’d convinced his parents he wasn’t quite the miserable excuse for a son they must have thought they’d produced. He remembered his father’s expression the first time he’d come home in uniform, that strange mixture of fear and pride flashing across his face.
Sorry about all the crap, Pop. I’ll try to make up for it someday.
“When I got out, I went to work for a private security company in Davenport while I finished my degree in Criminal Justice. Then I went to work for the cops there.”
Morgan reached for her wineglass. “So did you like that job any better than the army?”
He picked up another piece of bread, trying to decide how to answer. “Yeah, I did. But it was still Iowa.”
“Why do I feel like there’s more to the story than you’re telling me?” She narrowed her eyes. “Why is Iowa a problem?”
Erik shrugged. “I’ve sort of done Iowa.” And I needed a real second chance. With my family. They’d been the ones he’d hurt most, the ones he had the most to make up to. He wasn’t sure he’d really been able to do that yet.
“So you came down here.” Morgan gave him a dry smile. “I’d say you hit Konigsburg at the right time. The whole police department was an unholy mess after Brody took off. The place was a shambles as far as law enforcement was concerned. And Olema didn’t strike me as much better, even if he was more honest.”
“Olema wasn’t the brightest bulb on the tree, but he had his points. He hired me, after all.”
“And now you’re in charge.”
“For the time being. I’ve got two months to prove I can do the job. That I’ve got the experience and the will.”
&
nbsp; Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “So this is your chance to prove yourself?”
“Yep, more or less.” Again.
“But you’ve done so much already. You’re the one who arrested the person who tried to kidnap Jess Carroll’s baby—even if Olema did screw up and let her go. And you’re the one everybody calls if they’ve got trouble. You or Nando. You’ve had over a year to prove yourself, and you’ve done it. People around here trust you.”
Erik sighed. “Honey, law enforcement is a lot like show business—most people only remember what you did last week.”
She leaned forward, so that her hand was only a couple of inches away from his. Surreptitiously, he moved so that he was touching her, feeling a little jolt of heat in his fingers.
“So you’re trying to be the perfect chief of police?”
“Yeah, maybe I am. But maybe that way I’ll at least get some things right.”
“And that’s why you’re so worried about the bikers.”
He leaned back again, letting his hand slide along hers as he regarded her through half-closed eyes. “That’s one of the reasons.”
Her mouth spread in a slow smile. She slid her hand over his so that their fingers were lightly interlaced.
Erik felt himself tighten all the way down to his heels. Lord above.
“What’s the other reason?”
It took him a moment to remember what she was talking about. Bikers. Right. “Something feels off about that rally, but I’m not sure what. I’ve just got a gut feeling. It’s bad news.”
“You’re a good cop, Chief Toleffson, at least as far as I can see. You’re a hell of a lot better than what we’ve had to put up with around here for the last few years. My guess is whatever you do with the bikers, the town will be behind you in a big way.”
“Thanks.” His voice felt rusty in his throat, and he tossed back the rest of the water in his glass. Unfortunately, that finished everything on the table.
He considered ordering more food just to keep her sitting there with him, her hand covering his. But he figured it wouldn’t be a good idea for the chief of police to be seen spending the entire evening at a tête-à-tête in Brenner’s restaurant instead of chasing criminals. Never mind that there weren’t any criminals around to be chased at the moment.