Summer in Napa (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel)

by Marina Adair

  “Wait.” He pulled back enough to look her in the eyes. His were weary and hopeful and so full of love it made her breath catch. “Is that a yes?”

  She nodded.

  “God, I love you.” He kissed her nose, the corners of her mouth, her lips. “And your apron, do you know how much I love your apron?”

  By the time they eased back, her hands were tangled in his hair, his were suctioned to her bottom, and they were both stuck in the pass-through. Marc tugged and Lexi pulled, but it was no use. The width of his arms around her hips had them wedged in.

  Lexi laughed. “We’re stuck.”

  “Right where I want to be.” Marc flashed that bad-boy grin that had everything inside of her melting, especially when his hands started making little circles on her backside. With a quick peek at the tray on the icemaker, he asked, “Any éclairs left?”

  Lexi took account and shook her head. “Nope, but there are some cream puffs.”

  “My favorite,” he whispered right before he captured her lips with his and took a nibble.

  Sneak peek at

  Autumn at the Vineyard

  It had taken eighteen months, some tricky negotiating, her entire life savings, and a lot of ballbusting—but Francesca Baudouin was finally a vineyard owner. Well, she was the owner of fifty acres of prime St. Helena appellation soil, which would take another five years of sweat and, quite possibly, selling off a few of her vital organs before it became a quality producing vineyard.

  But Sorrento Ranch, the most sought-after property in the valley, and all of its belongings, was hers. She bought it right out from under the DeLucas’ noses. In part because Mrs. Sorrento played darts with Frankie and her great-aunt every Thursday night, but mostly because she knew selling the land to either family involved in the great DeLuca-Baudouin feud would piss off her ex-husband.

  “One more inch and I’ll shoot,” Frankie said to the four-legged garbage disposal in front of her, whose mouth was currently wrapped around the plastic casing of the water tank. She stomped her ballbuster, steeled-toed combat boot in his direction for added emphasis.

  The alpaca’s beady eyes narrowed and dropped to her feet. Extending its lips in her direction, he made a loud raspberry sound and then went back to nibbling. Yeah, ballbuster or not, hooves beat boots.

  But Frankie wasn’t about to let some hardheaded mule with shaggy hair and buck teeth stick it to her on her first week in business. Being the youngest of four, and the only girl, Frankie was a pro at dealing with stubborn males who excelled at ignoring her completely, while messing with her life wholeheartedly.

  She cocked her rifle.

  “The only thing separating you from becoming next season’s sweater-set is my trigger finger, Camel Boy.” Because the only thing separating them from fifteen thousand gallons of rainwater was the thin plastic seam-binding on the water tank, which “Sweater-Set” had managed to chew loose. She didn’t want to deal with the cleanup and couldn’t afford a new irrigation tank. “I mean it, one more bite and the only identifying male trait you’ll have left is stupidity.”

  That got his attention. In fact, the animal straightened and fluffed out the fur around his face, making him look like a cross between a camel, a koala, and Clifford the Big Red Dog. When he wasn’t destroying her property, he was kind of cute. In a big, dumb, oafy kind of way.

  Sweater-Set was the sole remaining alpaca from Mrs. Sorrento’s alpaca farm. The rest of his hooved brethren were living it up at Alberta’s Paradise Alpaca Farm and Pet Sanctuary. Sweater-Set hadn’t even placed one hoof in the back of the moving truck when the rest of the heard gathered their spit and took aim. The poor thing had been kicked out of his own family, and before Frankie or Alberta had been able to catch him, his fluffy butt had disappeared, and Alberta had left instructions to call when Frankie had the runaway secured. That had been four days, two patio chairs, and a motorcycle tire ago.

  “See,” Frankie said, lowering her rifle to the ground and picking up the cushion from Mr. Sorrento’s old recliner in one hand and a rope in the other. “That wasn’t so bad. Now just come over here and I’ll give you a treat.”

  Eyes glued to the nubby avocado-green cushion, the alpaca took a tentative step forward.

  “Then you can go to your new house.” Another step. “Where they feed you gourmet hay and mud tires, and there are kids around all the time to play with you.” Step. “And you’ll get to see your family.”

  The alpaca stopped, squared its body, and let out an ear-piercing bleat, which sounded like a cross between “wark” and Chewbacca screaming, right before he sank his teeth into the plastic casing and pulled. Hard.

  “Sweater-Set!”

  “Wark!”

  “No—”

  The tank split at the seam, and before either could move, a wall of water came crashing down with enough force to topple Sweater-Set into Frankie and send the two of them skidding back several feet.

  When Frankie stopped moving and the water had receded into a pool of mud and algae, she shoved the hair out of her eyes and took stock. She was flat on her back, with a stick wedged into her right butt cheek and a drenched Sweater-Set sprawled out over the top of her.

  “Move,” she said, shoving at the animal.

  “Wark-wark!”

  “I warned you! But did you listen?”

  Sweater-Set let out an apologetic nicker and dropped his head to Frankie’s chest, his big brown eyes looking up at her through his lashes.

  “You could be halfway to Paradise right now,” she cooed, giving him a little rub behind the ears. “Just think, in a few months it will be grooming season and all the ladies will be prancing around in nothing but sheered skin. Plus, you’ll have your family.”

  This time the nicker was almost sad, so Frankie, ignoring that he smelled like wet dog and calling a temporary truce, dug both hands in his thick fur and began scratching his cheeks. “Yeah, I get it. Family sucks, but I can’t let you stay here. In a few months I’ll start planting my vines, and you’d eat them.”

  Sweater-Set huffed, a burst of hot air hitting Frankie in the face.

  “Liar.” Frankie worked her fingers around his temples and into his head. Sweater-Set’s eyes slid closed in ecstasy. “You already cost me a water tank, which I can’t afford to replace, by the way.”

  Sweater-Set’s only response was to nuzzle Frankie’s chest and hum loudly.

  “So there’s no way I have the budget to keep replacing everything you decide to sink your teeth into.”

  Hum. Hum. Hum.

  “I hope he bought you dinner first.”

  With a groan, Frankie turned her head and, wishing she were standing so she could glare at him without having to shield her eyes, swore. Upside down or not, there was no mistaking the man who was currently towering over her—or the way her stomach gave a lame little flutter when he lifted his mirrored glasses and delivered a heart-stopping wink.

  “Afternoon, Francesca,” he said with enough practiced swagger that it made not rolling her eyes impossible.

  Nathaniel DeLuca was six-plus feet of solid muscle and smug-male yumminess, and he smelled like sex. He was also extremely Italian, annoying as hell, and for whatever reason, every time he entered Frankie’s space she felt all dainty and feminine. Which pissed her off even more because at one time she’d trusted Nate with her heart and her deepest secret.

  And he’d broken them both.

  Thank God she had on her ballbuster boots today. Too bad they were currently covered in mud and alpaca fur, and pointing at the sky.

  “Go away, Nathaniel,” she said by way of greeting.

  Sweater-Set hummed louder, arching into her hand as Frankie scratched down his spine.

  “And leave a lady in need?” Nate said, coming forward and squatting down to pluck a maple leaf off of Frankie’s forehead. “Nonna ChiChi would have my ass.”

  “I know you’re used to your women poised and proper. But I’ve got this handled.”

  “I didn
’t know you paid that much attention to my women, but now that you mentioned the difference…” He plucked a branch from her hair and flashed his perfectly straight teeth in her face. His smile, like his personality, was lethal, and his entitled attitude was 100 percent DeLuca. “I won’t have to worry that you’ll cry when I tell you to stop exciting my alpaca and get the hell off my property.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To the most wonderful agent in the world, Jill Marsal, who I couldn’t imagine taking this journey without. Thanks to my editors Lindsay Guzzardo and Becky Vinter, for believing in my work and supporting me throughout the process. Lindsay, although I am sad that this is the last book we will collaborate on, I wish you the best of luck in your new venture. And to the entire Montlake team for being so fabulous to work with.

  A special thanks to Britt Bury, Hannah Jayne, and Jacee James for all of the brainstorming and plotting and for being amazing friends. And to my coven of Rougers, I am honored to be included in a group with such amazing writers and women!

  Finally, to my daughter Thuy and my husband Rocco, for allowing me to follow my dreams and high-fiving me the entire way!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photograph by Tosh Tanaka, 2012

  Marina Adair is a national bestselling author of romance novels. Along with the St. Helena Vineyard series, she is the author of Tucker’s Crossing, part of the Sweet Plains series. She lives with her husband and daughter in Northern California.