by Marina Adair
The humbling part: They’d always made room for Frankie in their group, especially after the divorce. Going out of their way to include her in all of their plans, their crazy and sometimes illegal schemes, to make her feel a part of something. Which was why, when Frankie looked up from her nearly devoured dinner to find the grannies’ plates virtually untouched and all bifocals on her, she stopped, fork in midair. “What?”
They exchanged worried looks, then Luce spoke. “How are you doing? After today?”
“Great,” she lied, taking another forkful of green. Usually she hated anything green on her plate, but Lexi always managed to make it taste just like bacon. And Frankie loved bacon.
“Stubby seemed concerned with your money flow,” Luce said, referring to Judge Pricket. After a very brief and, according to Luce, unsatisfying affair during the Nixon administration, she’d resorted to calling him Stubby.
Frankie almost reminded them that there was to be no stupid men talk, then decided it was a waste of breath. If they wanted to talk about the land or Charles, they were going to talk. And talk. And talk. Until Frankie answered.
“Besides the small issue with the water tank and sharing soil with a DeLuca”—she looked at ChiChi—“no offense”.
ChiChi waved a dismissive hand. “None taken. I know how rigid my Nathaniel can be.”
“Which is why I need to know if you can do this,” Luce said. “You two have been at each other since high school when he won first in the science fair for his studies on Motzart’s effect on Merlot.”
“It was rigged,” Frankie insisted. And the biased science fair wasn’t the issue. It was that Nate had felt Frankie up on a Friday night in Saul’s vineyard, ignited civil war within her family on Sunday, and asked Sasha Dupree to prom the following Tuesday—in front of everyone. “His dad was a judge.”
“So was yours,” ChiChi countered, forgetting that having her father on a committee in a contest that he felt should be a man’s challenge wasn’t the same thing.
“And you both want this land,” Luce went on. “But Stubby was serious. If you two can’t make this work he’s going to rezone the land to residential.”
Frankie stopped chewing. “Rezone it? He didn’t say anything about rezoning it in court.”
God, if he did that then there would be a big ugly tract of identical taupe boxes stinking up the land between the Baudouin and DeLuca vineyards. Talk about running the property value into the ground.
“He can’t do that. The traffic, the noise, the everything.” Her heart started thrashing in her chest. “It would ruin everything.”
“I know, dear.” Luce reached out and uncharacteristically squeezed Frankie’s hand. Which was weird because, like Frankie, Aunt Luce wasn’t one for public displays of affection. “That’s why he said he’d do it. And I think if you two make even one wrong move, he will send in the bulldozers and we all lose.”
No kidding. If the judge rezoned the land as residential, put it back on the market, and blocked the DeLucas from making another bid, there was no way she could afford to buy the other parcel. Then her dream, not to mention the beautiful vineyard next door that she grew up loving, would be ruined.
Talk about pressure. Frankie looked out the kitchen window, past the fence, and felt her breath catch at the never ending rows of vines, heavy with grapes, their leaves already turning the color of fire were swaying in the breeze. She’d spent her life working that land and even though her grandpa didn’t think she belonged there anymore, a part of her would die to see it ruined by a bunch of yuppies with their hybrid kids and entitled SUVs.
More importantly, that vineyard meant everything to her aunt. Luce didn’t have kids or grandkids or a husband. Her life’s work had been preserving the land and traditions that her father had handed down to her and Charles. Frankie didn’t know what Luce would do if neighbors moved in and ruined what she’d worked so hard to create.
“Don’t worry, Auntie. I’ll make it work with Nate. Pricket won’t get the chance to put any McMansions up. And neither of your vineyards will be ruined.”
Luce shifted in her seat, ChiChi cleared her throat, Pricilla started pulling out truffles from her bag, and Mr. Puffins’ ears went back. And suddenly Frankie knew her day was about to get worse—if that was even possible.
“That’s good to hear because we were wondering just how things with you and my grandson are… progressing?” ChiChi asked, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.
Luce puckered her lips and made kissy noises.
And Pricilla, hand over heart, pretended to swoon.
Frankie was glad she’d already swallowed her wine or she would have choked. “He kissed me! End of story. No progression.”
“Is that right,” Pricilla said, a blatant liar liar in her tone. “Because that looked like some kiss. I mean your hands were—”
“Trying to push him away,” she cut in. “And it doesn’t matter anyway, I’m not his type.”
“Rubbish,” Luce snapped and Mr. Puffins growled, low and throaty. “You are a strong, independent, beautiful young woman.” All of the adjectives not associated with what a man like Nate was looking for. Not that she cared, but Nate tended to date willowy, elegant Soccer Moms in training. They were highly qualified, highly respected, and high maintenance.
“Child, you have—” ChiChi made billowing gestures toward her chest region. “You’re his type.”
“Yeah, well, he’s not mine.” Which was true. Even if she could ignore the fact that the man wore loafers—which was a big if—she knew stoic, starched, analytical types weren’t her thing. Even though that guy had more pent up passion than an Italian army, with a butt that made most women weep…
Walking sex god or not, Nate DeLuca was not what Frankie was looking for.
“If you say so, dear,” Pricilla said as she glanced at the other grannies, clearly not believing her at all.
* * *
Sorrento Ranch’s house was an old Victorian built back in the late eighteen hundreds. Even with its olive clapboard siding, steeply pitched roof, and massive stained glass windows, the only descriptor that stood out was old. As a kid Nate had thought the house was impressive. As its newest owner, he had to admit it looked more like a terrifying theme park ride than a piece of prime real estate.
And it was all his. Well, half his.
After the disaster of a verdict, Nate had spent Friday and the better part of the weekend trying to get a handle on how much power Judge Pricket really held—apparently quite a lot. And how close to empty Frankie’s bank account was—bad but not dire. Now he wanted nothing more than to spend his Sunday evening sprawled out in bed, reading a book, in the blessed silence of his sprawling, modern, and mothball-free house. Only every time he’d turned the page, instead of words, all he saw were Frankie’s lips, full and luscious, mouthing Bite me! Which was why he decided to pack up a few weeks of clothing, hop in his car, drive over to his other house, and change the rules—unannounced.
When he arrived, the curtains were pulled, the lights dialed to go away, and the door locked. He was pretty sure Frankie was out, but just to be safe, he knocked. Twice. Then let himself in. He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face when she came home to find him in her bed—screwing up her weekend.
He kicked the front door shut, flicked on the light switch and—
“Do you have a death wish or are you really this stupid?” Frankie asked.
Stupid. He must be. Because one glance at her and he felt his inner Neanderthal, the testosterone driven idiot who grunted gibberish and only seemed to come out around Frankie, raised his nasty head.
She was wearing a tank top again, although it wasn’t black or wet. No, tonight she’d gone for white and thin and impossibly tight. She also wasn’t wearing a bra, thank you, and had the cutest case of bed head he’d ever seen. Her black hair was sticking up in the back while her bangs and, what looked like sheet prints, were plastered to the right side of her face. But what had him panting
like a dog was what she had on below.
Or what she didn’t have on. Pants. There was a serious lack of cotton and flannel going on down there. And way too much pink. Pink boy shorts to be exact. Which made a whole lot of goings-on happen in his own shorts.
The silky fabric rode high on her thighs and aggressively low on her hipbones, hugging her skin and screaming to be caressed. It wasn’t a loud pink or even an angry pink. Frankie was sporting soft pastel pink that was delicate and surprisingly feminine. She was also holding a very dangerous wooden bat, and he knew for a fact she had one hell of a swing.
“What, no gun?” Nate said, dropping his duffle bag to the floor and crossing to the couch, where he leisurely took a seat. A decade of dust bunnies and lint flickered in the light.
“And risk Judge Pricket turning this place into a strip mall, or worse, Stepford Lane?”
“You heard about that too?” Nate leaned back and swung his feet up on the coffee table.
Frankie choked up on her grip. “Plus a bat works just as well. So I suggest you crawl back into whatever hole you crawled out of before I show you my award-winning swing.”
“As long as you promise to show me your award-winning backside, I’m game.”
She looked down, blinked. She opened her mouth to say something then closed it, all the while her eyes wide with confusion and—fluster?
The bat drooped slightly.
Yup, she was definitely flustered. So Nate folded his hands behind his head and sent her a wink.
After a practice swing—man, she did have a great arm—Frankie took a step forward. “Get the hell out!”
Hands in the universal gesture for I come in peace, Nate said, “No need to pull out the fancy welcome mat, sweet cheeks. I don’t expect you to wait on me. Although I’d love a beer if you have one.”
Another swing. This time it was aimed at his head.
Nate ducked and rolled to the other side of the couch, pushing to his feet. “But I can see that you’re busy so I’ll get it myself.”
Narrowly missing the swinging bat, Nate started for the kitchen. He opened the fridge and laughed. Frankie lived like a bachelor. Nothing but takeout, a half-empty bottle of Riesling—Baudouin, of course—enough pudding cups to amp up a kindergarten class, soy milk and, ah, beer.
“You break in and now you want to steal my beer?”
“Hard to break in,” he said reaching past the paper to-go box and grabbing the bottle by the neck, “when you own the house.”
“Half the house.”
“Yeah,” he smiled. “I remember.”
She rolled her eyes and snagged the beer back, which was all right with him since he didn’t really want the beer so much as to annoy her, and because she’d lost the bat somewhere between the living room and kitchen.
“You already have a house. A big, obnoxious overcompensation on the other side of town.” She twisted off the beer cap—on her arm—and flicked it at his head. “Where people actually like you.”
He caught the cap and tossed it in the trash can.
“House, yes. But roommate, no.” He hopped up on the counter, waiting for his words to settle. Her eyes went wide, then fuming mad. God, she was hot when she was riled. “I know this is a little weird. I mean, I haven’t had a roomie since college, so I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I got to say, sweet cheeks,” he purposely let his gaze drop and he flashed her a wicked smile, “this is blowing away all my expectations. Talk about a welcome home.”
She paused for a moment, as though trying to figure out if he was messing with her or being serious.
It was both. Not that he’d tell her that.
He’d come here ready to throw her off balance, but one look at her in her tank and itty bitty undies and his brain had been scrambled.
It was her amazing rack, he decided. A powerful weapon he’d have to steer clear of.
“Ha ha. Nice try, DeLuca.” She hopped up on the island facing him, exposing what seemed to be a mile of the most incredible legs he’d ever seen. “Whatever your game is, it won’t work. We both know you and your golden boy loafers won’t make it here. There’s no cable, no housekeeper, and no pansy-ass Frappuccino maker. You’re just here to irritate me.”
“Although irritating you is a surprise bonus, I’m actually here to prove to Judge Pricket that I am serious about this land and serious about making this work. We only have thirty days to change his mind or we both lose.”
“You lose,” she reminded him, tipping back the beer and taking a long pull. He watched her throat work. Her eyes locked on his over the rim of the bottle and he found himself thinking that thirty days was a hell of a long time to keep his hands to himself. Especially if this was her usual nighttime attire.
As if reading his dirty mind, Frankie’s face flushed and she shifted on the counter.
Interesting. She was as uncomfortable with the sexual heat that seemed to sizzle between them as he was.
“I lose and we all lose, Frankie,” he said hopping down and slowly making his way toward her, sliding between her legs and taking the beer out of her hand. Noticing she kept her gaze on his mouth, he took a sip and continued, “So unless you want to explain to your family how we let a bunch of Joe Dot Coms move in with their trophy wives and designer dogs, then you had better get used to me and my golden boy loafers, because we’re moving in.”
He didn’t mention that his pansy-ass Frappuccino maker was in his trunk. Or that his plan to mess with her somehow backfired, because he couldn’t seem to stop looking at her lips.
“Oh, yeah?” A totally cool, almost bored expression crossed her face as she casually leaned back on her hands. The movement made her legs open a little wider, slide a little closer to home. “And just how do you think this will work?”
Damn it. Now she was screwing with him, trying to pretend she wasn’t the least bit affected. Too bad her breathing was just as labored, her eyes just as dilated.
Nate rested his palms on the counter, leaning in until their mouths were just a breath apart. “Do you need a diagram or would you prefer a demonstration?”
His voice came out totally unaffected, an effect that would be ruined if she scooted herself any closer because his southern region was already manning up.
“Dream on,” she said and Nate smiled because there was a small stutter in her normally tough voice. “Because in the end, that tab and slot you’re talking about would still belong to you and me.”
His gaze slid down to the base of her neck. For several long seconds he watched as a pulse leapt beneath her creamy skin. Oh yeah, Miss Untouchable was aware of him, hyper aware of him. And suddenly Nate knew that making this work wasn’t the problem. He was more concerned about what happened if it did. Because she was right. Come tomorrow morning, they would be staring at each other across the kitchen table, a legal pad full of new emotions to add to the already complicated list.
They both had a lot on the line, him even more so. And doing something as stupid as following through on this, whatever it was, would only backfire. He needed to focus on getting those other ten acres.
Giving her this one win, he pushed off the counter and stepped back—away from temptation. Ignoring the victorious smile on her pretty lips, he made his way into the front room, grabbed his bag, and walked to the front door.
“Leaving so soon?” she asked. He could hear the confusion in her voice, disbelief he had caved so easily.
“Nope, just locking the door. Wouldn’t want to get any unwanted visitors.” Swinging the duffle over his shoulder, he strode past a very pissed off Frankie, narrowly missing an elbow to the ribs, and headed down the hallway. “If you don’t have a preference, I’ll take the master.”
“Too bad, DeLuca. I’m already in the master,” Frankie said, shuffling past, her feet slapping on the hardwood floor and the lace cupping that backside shifting higher with each step, before she slammed the door.
He turned the knob and, no surprise there, it was already locked. The sh
uffling of furniture sounded as Frankie barricaded the door.
“I hope that bed is a king,” he laughed outside the door. “Since this happens to be on the north half of the property, tomorrow night that bed is mine, sweet cheeks.”
CHAPTER 5
The water tank’s only part of your problem,” Walt Larson, the hardware half of St. Helena Hardware and Refurbish Rescue, said as he took in the disaster that used to be Frankie’s well. “In fact, I’d say that llama of yours did you a favor.”
An odd keening sound followed by a belligerent “Wark” echoed across the property moments before a low rustling came from the general direction of the tool shed. Mittens peeked his little Rastafarian head out, ears peeled back, dentures bared.
The second Walt had arrived, truck tires crunching down the gravel drive, Mittens, afraid he was about to be tranquilized and carted off to Alpaca Paradise, had hightailed it across the property and taken up residence behind Saul’s old rusted-out tractor.
“Alpaca,” Frankie corrected Walt, and Mittens snorted, then went back to chewing on the tractor seat. He was a nervous eater. “And I know that the property needs a lot of love, but right now I can only afford the water tank.”
“Well, first you need a new water pump,” Walt said, whacking the metal pipe that was connected to the wellhead with a wrench. “The motor’s working too hard just to supply the house and few vines you have.”
Poppycock.
“How long do you think this one will last?” Frankie mentally estimated how much a new motor would cost and then doubled it because that was how her luck seemed to be going. They hadn’t even started the water tank portion of the visit and already she was out of money.
“It won’t.”
“What do you mean it won’t?” she asked, suddenly wondering if the old man was taking her for a ride. “You haven’t even pulled it out to look.”
“Don’t need to. You hear that clanking noise?” Walt yelled over the awful grinding, as though to prove his point. “That’s the motor, struggling. Telling me it needs to be replaced.”