He didn't give a damn.
*
Max sat in his father's old office, at his father's old desk, having a phone conversation his father wouldn't have had in a million years. It was pitch dark outside, but only one light was on, the green-shaded accountant's lamp on the desk. A half-empty bottle of pinot noir—not a Suncrest varietal—loomed over a crystal wineglass. Max was so riled he was smoking a cigarette in plain sight.
"We may very well press charges against you." David McDougall's voice was loud enough that Max could hold the phone a foot away from his ear and still hear him. "And seek damages. You traumatized my wife. She can't sleep. She's afraid to go out alone."
Max stared across the office at the dark-colored tartan sofas against the cherrywood-paneled walls. As though it were yesterday and not a year and a half before, he remembered sitting on one of those sofas while his mother paced a hole in the Oriental carpet.
The girl's father is threatening to go to the police, Max! Do you understand how serious this is? What did you do to her?
He took another drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke out of his mouth in little puffs. He hadn't done a damn thing to that girl that she hadn't wanted done. And though the details of the soiree at Cassis were a trifle hazy in Max's memory, he was convinced the same was true for Mrs. McDougall, regardless what she was telling her hubby now.
As his mother had done when she'd banished him to France to let the dust settle, Max would keep an eye on the bigger picture. He could not risk McDougall pressing charges, criminal or civil. Or, Christ, both.
He closed his eyes, imagining all the ways his life would go to hell. Everybody in the valley would think he was an idiot, or worse. His mother would be on the next plane home to grab Suncrest back out of his hands. And that stupid girl from two years ago might get wind of the whole thing and decide to get on the Press Charges Against Max Winsted bandwagon. In short, he'd be royally screwed.
He stubbed out his cigarette and took a deep breath. "David, as I said before, I am tremendously sorry for what I did and how much I upset your wife. If there was any way I could make it up to her, and to you, I swear I would." He paused, both trying to gauge if he was getting through and gearing up for the words he found so very difficult to say. "Please, I'm asking you not to press charges. I had too much wine, I behaved like an ass, I made a stupid mistake. But I'm already paying for it."
McDougall sounded truculent. "How do you figure?"
"Well, of course there's no way Cassis will carry Suncrest wines now."
"You got that right."
"And I embarrassed myself not only at your restaurant but in front of my friends. My reputation's taken a serious hit."
"If I had anything to say about it, that wouldn't have been the only hit you'd taken."
Max had to stop himself from chuckling. McDougall was fifty if he was a day, but he was threatening to punch out a guy half his age? No wonder the guy was so pissed: he could probably tell that his wife wanted to sample some younger flesh.
But something in that comment gave Max the sense that McDougall might be softening. He shifted the phone to his other ear and prepared to deliver what he considered the most potent weapon in his arsenal. "David, I'm asking you to cut me a break. I've just taken over the helm here at Suncrest, I'm following in my dad's footsteps, and I've got to tell you, it's not easy. You got kids, right?"
"Well, from a prior marriage, yes."
"Then you know what I'm talking about. They've got to make their way in the world in the shadow of a very successful parent. I'm here to tell you, it's not easy." He let that sink in. Then, "I'm asking you not to press charges, David. Please. I'm begging you. Believe me, I've learned my lesson. I'll never do anything like this again."
Silence. Max waited, barely breathing. His father's brass clock ticked away the seconds of his life while his fate balanced in David McDougall's hands.
Then, "I'll tell you what," McDougall said. "I'll talk about it with Barbara."
Max nearly yelped. He felt as if a life preserver just got tossed in his direction.
"It's up to her to make the decision," McDougall went on, "but I will tell her what you told me."
"Thank you, David. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this."
"Get your act together, Winsted."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." But McDougall missed the final sir by hanging up.
"Yes!" Max let out a breath. He'd been that close—that close!—to disaster. He paced a bit to let off some steam. Man, he'd dodged a bullet. He sloshed some more pinot noir into his wineglass and threw it back, then poured water into the glass and drank that, too. The French said you didn't get drunk if you downed as much water as you did wine. Max believed them.
He was about to shut the office down for the night—it was already after nine—when the phone rang again. He considered letting the call go to voice mail but then picked up, figuring the Had-His-Act-Together Max Winsted would always take a business call, regardless of the lateness of the hour.
"Hey, glad I caught you, Max. Burning the night oil, huh? Joseph Wagner here."
The Wine World writer. Max cringed. Had he heard about the Cassis thing? Max took a deep breath and tried to sound cheery. "How you doin', Joe? Played another round at Cypress Point?"
"I wish. I need friends like you to pull that off. Listen, I got a question for you."
Max steeled himself. "Shoot."
"There's this story I'm hearing and it sounds kinda nuts to me, but I have to follow it up. There's a rumor going around that you guys rebottled this year's sauvignon blanc. Is that true?"
Max laughed, a forced, unpleasant sound. Shit! It wasn't what he expected but it was just as bad. He had a vague notion that the topic had come up at Cassis, too, but he was far from clear on the details. Nor could he ask anybody without raising a boatload of questions. "Wow!" he said, trying to buy time. "What a wild story! Where'd you hear that?"
"Oh, here and there." Wagner wouldn't spill that, no surprise. "But it's hard to believe because people are saying there was no problem with the wine, it was just that you guys wanted to switch bottles."
Apparently Joseph Wagner didn't think that was such a hot idea. Gabby DeLuca's voice echoed in Max's head. If it gets out that we rebottled, everyone will assume there's something wrong with the wine. And why wouldn't they? No winery would decant unless it had to!
Max's mind worked fast, as it had a tendency to do when he was in trouble. Some people might say that was because it'd had a lot of practice. "So have you tasted our new sauvignon blanc?"
Wagner let rip a huge sigh, something Max was not happy to hear. "I did. And I thought it was pretty good but not really up to Suncrest standards. It seemed a little past its peak to me. I'm going to have trouble scoring it very high. Sorry, Max, but that's where I am right now."
That's the thanks I get for showing you the high life in Pebble Beach? Max stood in the half-dark in his father's office—pissed off, frustrated, and vaguely recalling that Cassis's sommelier hadn't been too keen on this vintage, either.
Man, these wine world people were snobs! One less-than-perfect vintage and they went all judgmental on you.
Well, Max wasn't going to take the fall for that. But he knew somebody who could.
"You know what it is, Joe?" He made his voice sound confiding. "Our winemaker had a heart attack this summer. He's fine now, but his assistant, his daughter, has been filling in for him." Max paused to let Joseph Wagner connect the dots.
Which he did right away. "You mean Gabby DeLuca?"
"Yeah. She's good, don't get me wrong, but, you know, this is her first time taking the lead. There's a learning curve involved, we all understand that."
A smile cracked Max's face. He was proud of himself for so deftly finessing this difficult query. He'd just said something mildly nice about Gabby DeLuca—thereby burnishing his reputation for being magnanimous and understanding—and still was wriggling out of that pesky problem of the less-than
-stellar sauvignon blanc.
But then Wagner came back at him with a question Max hadn't anticipated. "So are you worried about this year's cabernet sauvignon, too?"
"No!" That came out too loud. Max lowered his voice. "Not at all. Cosimo DeLuca's coming along great and he'll be back in the saddle by harvest. We're really psyched about the cab grapes this year, actually," he added, though he had no idea how the fruit was ripening. "We think it's going to be a banner vintage."
"So what I'm hearing you say is, you didn't rebottle?"
He had to answer. And fast. "No," he heard himself say, "nothing of the kind."
Wagner hung up soon after that. Max wasted no time going into the employee files to look up Gabby DeLuca's address. She had to be warned that this rumor was out and about and that they had to haul ass to bottle it up. No pun intended.
He poured more pinot noir down his throat, and more water, then hightailed it to his mother's Mercedes—at least, she thought it was her Mercedes—and made a beeline for Crystal Mountain Road.
*
Better mad than sad, she decided. Gabby stomped upstairs, stormed inside her bedroom, glared at the mess Will had left behind. Pillows topsy-turvy on the floor. Bedspread half off, bunched and bundled. Window left wide open, as if it weren't forty-five degrees outside.
She began to straighten, plump, restore. I should have trusted my instincts! It hugely galled her that Will had all but accused her of two-timing him with Vittorio. What did he take her for? Well, she knew what he was. She'd seen the cold capitalist's heart beneath the knight-in-shining-armor veneer. All he cared about were his precious deals. And apparently that was Vittorio's priority number one, too. The two of them deserved each other.
Once the bed was remade, off came the sexy peach-colored camisole—new—she'd worn especially for him, though of course he hadn't noticed. Off came the sleek black trousers that had just enough spandex in them to highlight her curves. With brisk efficiency she removed her lacy bra and panties—also peach, also new—that she'd imagined would be peeled off in quite a different manner, in quite a different mood. On went the floor-length black negligee she'd picked up in anticipation of future seductions. Might as well wear it, she thought grimly. It won't get used any other way.
Anger propelled her down the stairs and into the kitchen. She pulled open the fridge and yanked the cork out of the chardonnay she'd hoped to share with him, poured herself a second glass. But standing there in that kitchen—empty, fluorescent lit, clinically clean after the furious scrubbing she'd given it—the words he'd roared at her seemed to echo from the white-tiled walls, lashing her heart in a cruel rhythm.
Blackmail. Blackmail. Blackmail.
Did he honestly believe that? Was that how little he understood? Of her, of this valley that she loved and was only trying to protect?
Though it was true that the trouble Suncrest was in had nothing to do with Will and everything to do with Max.
You know what, Gabby? Will's voice blared again, harsh, accusing. I'm not the cause of your problems. But right now you are the cause of mine.
Tears came, pricking behind her eyes, defying her rage and threatening to turn it into heartache. Right now you are the cause of mine. You are the cause of mine ...
She didn't know how often the buzzer sounded before she heard it and recognized it to be the doorbell.
She stilled, frowned, tried to decide if it was her imagination. Bzzzz.
No, it was real. He's come back. To apologize. Her heart leaped in a jig of relief. Will wasn't really the jerk he'd acted like before, he couldn't be.
She knew, as she raced to the door, that she'd forgive him. She'd say she was sorry, too. She was. She hadn't exactly been on her best behavior herself. She knew that if she weren't so stressed, she wouldn't have gotten so upset. Normally she'd be able to absorb a disruption in her dinner plans, maybe even tolerate cold pasta she'd spent hours making. Next time she would.
She whipped open the door. Her elation crashed and burned. "Max."
Down his eyes flickered, then up again. "Hi, Gabby. Glad you're home. Mind if I come in?"
She peered around him, as though Will would be standing in his wake, hidden in the shadows. But that was stupid. Who was she kidding? There was no Will. He was halfway to the city by now.
Anger—at Will, at Vittorio, at Max, too—flared up again, stiffening her back, raising her chin. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, flimsily covered by the black silk of her negligee. "What are you doing here? And at this hour?"
"May I come in?" he repeated.
She wanted to get out of the cold herself but didn't want to let him in. The thin layer of fabric she wore, with nothing beneath, did little to shield her from the mountaintop's foggy night air or from Max's roving eyes. She watched them drop again to her chest, then return to her face. Why had she been such a numskull as to answer the door dressed like this?
Because at ten o'clock on this Friday night, there was only one person she could have imagined standing on her stoop.
Fooled again.
"Max, just say what you have to and then go."
"I will." He laughed, then shouldered past her into the living room. "But I'd kind of like to do it inside, where it's not freezing cold."
She gritted her teeth, slammed the door shut, then pointed a finger at Max's face. "You are not staying long." She grabbed an afghan from the couch and threw it over her shoulders while he halted in the middle of her living room.
"Nice place you got here," he said.
"Save it. What're you here for?" She knew she should take care how she spoke to Max Winsted: he was her employer, after all. But by now her patience was as thin as her peignoir.
His eyebrows flew up. "Somebody's in a bad mood."
She stepped closer, unwilling even to try to mask her anger. "Max, thanks to you, I've had one hell of a day. And Monday's not going to be any better. We've got a vineyard half-ruined by weed killer. We're a laughingstock because of what you did at Cassis. And thanks to that damn rebottling, I've got a vintage of sauvignon blanc that tastes like—"
"All right already!" He frowned. "It's that last thing I want to talk to you about."
"What now?"
He looked away from her, finally, down to the hardwood floor. "Joseph Wagner called to ask if we rebottled. Said there's a rumor going around that we did."
"Oh, shit." She threw back her head. From bad to worse, this night, her life, everything. "How in the world did that get out? Did you say something?"
He hesitated, still staring at the floor. Then, "No."
I'll bet. "What'd Wagner say when you explained?"
"I didn't explain." He met her eyes. What did she see there? Belligerence? Challenge? "I denied it. And so should you. That's our story and we're sticking to it."
"What if he starts calling around to the companies that lease decanting equipment? If he's any kind of real reporter, that's what he'll do. What then, Max?" She saw a flicker of fear in his eyes before he cocked his chin defiantly in the air. "You didn't think of that, did you?"
She was going to make him angry. She was amazingly good at that tonight. Somehow, after the queer turn the evening had taken, she was even enjoying that ability. It appealed to a base part of her she rarely investigated and didn't much care for.
Max stepped closer. "You think you're so smart."
"I'm smarter than you! I told you not to do that rebottling. I told you it could hurt Suncrest. And it sure as hell looks like I was right."
"You're always right, aren't you?" He stepped closer still. "Just like my mother."
She didn't like the sound of that. Nor did she like the vein bulging on his neck, the quick beat-beat of the pulse evident even on his skin's surface. She turned away from him, put the couch between them. "Okay, you said your piece. Now go."
"I'm not ready to go." Instead he moved around the back of the couch, too, staring at her, his gaze unwavering. She thought she'd never seen such focus on Max Winste
d's face in her entire life. Through her surprise and incredulity she realized that this must be how a rabbit felt being chased by a fox. No, not quite that. She wasn't being chased. She just had the odd, disconcerting sensation that she should get away, now, while she still could …
A beat later she tried to make a dash for the front door—But what am I going to do? Run down the mountain? Barefoot, in a negligee?—when the next shock came. Max's hand shot out to clench her arm, viselike, and she found herself twisted entirely around, toward him, against him, his beefy face inches from hers, his breath, which stank of alcohol and nicotine, puffing in her face.
This isn't happening. This isn't happening.
But it was. "Don't give me the innocent act," he was saying. He had her by her upper arms now, squeezing them in a killer grip. "Look what you're wearing." His spittle hit her face. His eyes were dark and wild. "You damn women. You never admit you want it."
"I don't want a damn thing from you, you asshole!" Somehow, even as they wrestled and the afghan she'd thrown over her shoulders tumbled to the floor, she was more angry than scared. She got one arm free of Max's clutch and slapped his face, hard, leaving an angry red stain that buoyed her. He stumbled back a step like a drunken sailor but then lurched toward her, chortling, and grabbed hold of her again, harder this time.
"You like to fight, huh? You like it rough?" Then his mouth came down on hers. She twisted her head away, heard a shriek she realized yowled from her own throat. Then she had a better idea.
She gathered herself—one, two, three—then hard as she could, jammed her knee up into his groin.
He yelped and let go of her. She watched, panting, as he stumbled backwards, doubled over. Bewildered, in a sort of stupor that had her thinking at half-speed, she then realized the front door was rattling and a loud male voice was yelling her name.
Will. She flew to the door and wrenched it open.
He burst in and stared at her, his features contorted. Like hers, his breathing was harsh and fast. "Sweetie, are you okay?" Then his eyes turned toward Max, who by now was prone on the floor in the fetal position. "What in the world is going on here?"
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