by Lori Wilde
Kiara took off ahead of him, striding for the wine cellar via the exit at the side of the house, rather than going down the corridor inside the house with him.
In the 1970s, her grandfather had put in the extra door so they could take tourists into the cellar without having to lead them through the family’s main residence.
She needed a dose of fresh air before getting into the confines of the cellar with him. Needed to clear her head of sticky, unwanted thoughts, like how good he smelled and how cute he looked without the scraggly beard. Take away the glasses and he’d be a knockout.
Why had she suggested going to the cellar? She’d just made up some job for him because once she’d peered into those mesmerizing brown eyes, she couldn’t remember what she had planned for that day. This was crazy, the way he robbed her mind of all rational thought.
“Hey.” Wyatt sprinted after her. “Wait up.”
She forced herself to slow down and let him catch up. She didn’t want to slow down, but running off and leaving him felt as if she was losing control again.
You are losing control. Snap out of it. Do whatever you have to in order to fend off this... this...
This what?
“Do you always walk like you’re on your way to put out a fire?” he asked.
“I’m not a leisurely person. I don’t do anything slowly.”
“Nothing?” he drawled, his tone full of innuendo.
“Nothing.”
“That’s a shame.”
“What’s a shame?”
“That you don’t know how to slow down.”
“Slow is for slackers,” she retorted.
“Touché,” he said, “but slacking can be fun.”
“I don’t do fun,” she said. “Fun is a waste of time. Fun is what causes trouble.”
“Trouble? How does fun cause trouble?”
“Idle hands...” she began.
“Enjoy themselves,” he finished.
Kiara frowned. “Life isn’t about enjoyment.”
“No?” He sounded as if he were trying not to laugh at her. “What’s it about?”
What was so funny? “No. It’s about hard work and sacrifice and doing the right thing.”
“Hmm, doesn’t sound like my kind of life.”
“Well, it’s the life of a winery owner, and if you don’t want to work hard, then you don’t belong in the winemaking business.”
“And yet the product you make is all about relaxing and having fun. Isn’t that contradictory?”
“Life is full of paradoxes.”
“I don’t think that’s it at all,” he said.
She paused with her hand on the combination lock of the door that led to the cellar and turned to glance at him. “You know what? It really doesn’t matter what you think.”
“No?” He sounded as if he was struggling not to laugh.
“No.”
He grinned at her, sunlight dappling through the leaves of the cottonwood tree planted next to the house. “Chicken.”
Her pulse skittered at the challenge in his eyes. She dialed in the combination to the lock and yanked open the cellar door. She rushed down the steps only to stop at the bottom when she saw that Maurice was showing a group of tourists around.
Kiara backed away, hooked her hand around Wyatt’s elbow, and pulled him up the steps with her and into the sunlight. “It’s too crowded down there. Let’s wait for them to finish,” she said, feeling oddly breathless.
He nodded and seemed breathless too. She wondered if he felt as overwhelmed and off-kilter as she did. Maybe giving him a second chance had been a big mistake.
She realized then that she was still holding on to his elbow. She inhaled sharply, the sound a harsh rasp in the clear morning air.
Hand trembling, she let go of him and moved to one side. They stood there a long moment, saying nothing to each other, and then, in hesitant increments, her gaze shifted to meet his, and time spun out endlessly between them.
Wyatt’s gaze stabbed hers.
She saw it in his eyes, the same wanting that was eating her up inside.
The door opened and Maurice appeared, herding the group of tourists out with him. Relief spread through Kiara. Ducking her head, she plunged down the steps to the safety of the cellar, her favorite place in the winery besides the lab.
Except, the minute the door closed behind Wyatt, it occurred to her that she was now trapped down here alone with him—alone in the wine cellar, alone with the sweet smell of wine and seductive lighting and the hungry taste of lust.
He sauntered toward her in the musky dimness. Romantic Romano relatives had placed strategic recessed lighting in the ceiling to produce a cozy, dreamy atmosphere. It worked too well.
Wyatt stood with the indolent, loose-limbed sprawl of a man fully comfortable in his own skin. He had one arm slung over the edge of shelving, the crook of his elbow caught around the aged wooden bracket as if he were about to edge the structure out onto a dance floor.
He cut an intriguing figure—tall, dark-haired, mysterious. His dangerous, full-lipped smile said, c’mon, let’s play.
Kiara was pragmatic, sober, not given to flights of fancy, but in that moment, in this lighting, her imagination overtook her sensible nature.
His eyes, as languid and warm as the summer sun, landed on hers.
Immediately, she lowered her eyelids, acutely aware of her sudden labored breathing and the heated awareness warming her skin. She felt a rush, a push, a thrust of energy that curled inside her, both heavy and light. She couldn’t help glancing at him again.
His gaze roved over her in a mesmerized inspection, making her feel completely naked. She raised a hand to her throat. His gaze returned to her face, hung on her lips.
“Aren’t you going to offer me a taste of that Bretty wine?” he murmured, his soft smile causing her body to spark with a jumble of sensations, all of them disturbingly good. “Isn’t that what we came down here for?”
Was it? She couldn’t even remember.
Enchanted, she stared into the dark center of his eyes, and she was lost to the insanity that had taken hold of her since the moment Wyatt had arrived at Bella Notte. She hauled in a deep breath.
He did the same.
That’s when she understood he was feeling as overcome and off-balance as she, and he was wielding that cocky grin as a shield to hide his vulnerability. They studied each other in dual wonder. It seemed neither of them knew what to make of this surging chemistry.
“Kiara?” he whispered.
She licked her lips. “Um...yes, yes, the wine.”
Turning, she moved deeper into the cellar where the older wines were kept, some from as far back as when her great-grandfather had started the winery after prohibition. She felt Wyatt coming behind her through the catacombs of shelving and gleaming wine bottles, his big body taking up too much space.
What was this? How could she be so befuddled over a total stranger? She always kept her emotions carefully wrapped up, a defense against her family’s romanticism, a way to preserve her common sense.
It took her a long time to make friends, even longer to trust someone intimately. Keeping her feelings in check kept her safe and sensible. It was the one thing that differentiated her from all the other Romanos.
She prized her self-control and here it was, poof, gone. This thing—whatever it was—pledged a big thrill, yet at the same time promised serious trouble.
She stopped at the very back of the cellar and plucked a bottle of a red dessert wine, a generational precursor to Decadent Midnight, from the rack, the familiar heft of it a comfort in her hand, and then tugged a corkscrew from her apron pocket.
“May I?” Wyatt asked, extending his hand.
She was cornered between his body and the back wall of the cellar. No way out.
Reluctantly, she passed him the bottle and the corkscrew. In the hand off, their fingers brushed.
Kiara inhaled audibly. Slowly, she raised her head and met his
stare. Time stretched into infinity.
She’d never experienced anything quite like this before. Because her family depended on her, because she was so absorbed in the science of winemaking, she’d always avoided serious romantic entanglements.
But this feeling, which clearly promised to turn her world upside-down, not only scared her, it excited her. What was wrong with her? She should just fire him again and be done with it.
Wyatt opened the wine, then set the corkscrew on the shelf. “Do you have a glass?”
“Just drink from the bottle,” she said. “It’s not good wine. You won’t want more than a swallow.”
His dark-eyed gaze landed on hers, and he took a sip, studying her down the long, smooth length of the bottle. He held the wine in his mouth for a long moment before he swallowed it down.
“You’re right,” he said, “it’s very faint, but the undertones are dark, heavy.”
“It could just be a case of earthy terroir,” she said.
“It’s Brett,” he confirmed, “but then some people might be willing to accept a dark taste in exchange for an organic wine.”
The complexity of his palate stunned her. “You can tell it’s organic?”
“It goes with the territory. Brett is not dangerous yeast, and it’s quite common in organic vineyards. It simply becomes a matter of taste.”
“Being a die-hard romantic, my great-grandfather believed in organic cultivation, but he had a difficult time keeping his wine tasty because of all the bacteria and bugs in organic wine. Later, Grandfather tried to keep up the family tradition, but as Bella Notte struggled to make a superior wine, he reluctantly turned to using scientific methods of grape cultivation. It saved our winery.”
“But now,” Wyatt said, “the cultural climate is changing; organic products are big again, and there’s a backlash against science interfering with nature.”
“Yes. I want to supply my customer base with the products they want without eschewing science. It’s a delicate balance. One I’ve yet to strike.”
He leaned closer. “In school, you learned a reductionist approach.”
“How do you know that?” She marveled at his understanding. He knew far more about wine than he’d initially let on.
“Because it’s the nature of science. To reduce things down to their individual components and focus on each element separately, but there are limits to reductionism. This day and age it’s smart to have a holistic approach to winemaking. But you’re conflicted about that too. On the one hand, there’s your logical, scientific mind that likes putting things into boxes. But on the other hand, there’s your innate knowing—the instinctual part of you that you fight to deny that knows the truth. Face it, Kiara, there are some things in life that just can’t be quantified or qualified.”
“That paradox again,” she muttered, surprised at how well he seemed to know her. Was she that easy to read? Or was he simply that intuitive?
“You have a hard time admitting that science cannot control everything, that some things are just...magic,” he said, his voice husky, and she knew he was no longer talking about wine.
“I don’t believe in magic.”
“But you want to.”
Yes, yes, she wanted to believe. She wanted to let herself go, get swept away, be imaginative and spontaneous and romantic like the rest of her family. She wanted to succumb to the madness.
This rampaging urge to kiss Wyatt—oh, who was she kidding—to have sex with him, spoke to her as nothing ever had.
Her hormones had never ruled her. In all honesty, that’s why she’d fired him, because he unraveled her in nine hundred startling ways.
As if arranged, they moved toward each other. In perfect unison, his hands moved to remove her glasses while she reached to pluck the glasses from his face. With his frames dangling from her fingers, and her frames dangling from his, she wrapped her arms around his neck.
Wyatt pulled her close and kissed her hard.
His kiss set her ablaze, triggered emotional turmoil, stunned her. What was this? How could she— headstrong, business-minded Kiara—feel so befuddled by feminine passion?
Go, go, urged her body.
No, no, scolded her mind.
She deepened the kiss, introducing her tongue to his. Yesterday’s kiss had opened Pandora’s box, and she could not close it back up. He tasted big. Robust. Rockingly righteous. Better than Decadent Midnight.
Oh, crap. What are you doing? Are you insane?
Insanity. Yes. That’s what this was. Some kind of temporary hormonal insanity. It would pass. It had to pass.
He tasted raw and real, but her heart, the stupid heart she’d tried so hard to deny, overflowed with mushy thoughts like—heavenly, magical, electric.
Their mouths mated. Hotly. Wildly. Kiara remember her first ride on the Tilt-a-Whirl. This was a hundred times more dizzying. With the Tilt-a-Whirl, you knew the ride would eventually end if you just held on long enough. Would that strategy work here as well?
Battle it. Don’t give in. Fight, fight.
Kiara yanked away, dragging in a breath. She extended his glasses to him with a quivering hand.
His hair was mussed, his eyes glazed. He looked...thunderstruck.
This wasn’t her. She didn’t do things like this. She never allowed her desires to overrun her common sense.
Well, it’s happening now.
He took both their glasses, stuck them on the shelf with the corkscrew and wine bottle, and then kissed her again.
Yes, she was weak and foolish and... and...
It felt so good. He felt so good.
Making love to Wyatt would mark her in ways she couldn’t imagine. She knew that she would be forever changed. There would be no going back. No undoing this. She understood that. And yet, even though she knew he was a huge risk, she couldn’t stop craving him.
She was running on pure emotion, and her logical brain barely paused. She felt giddy, out of control, reckless, forbidden. And she wanted him with an all-consuming need.
Kiara surrendered. When he pulled her closer, she did not resist. In fact, she stepped happily into his embrace. A bubble of joy beaded up through her, fizzy as champagne, ambushed her. A heady sense of ultimate rightness settled over her, as if by being with him she was finally set free from herself.
His hands went to her shoulders, and he looked deeply into her eyes.
“Kiara,” he breathed.
Her anxious fingers worried the collar of his polo shirt, her eyes held prisoner by his. She was his captive, and nothing had ever felt so sweet. In her hands she fisted the hem of his shirt, and she began to slowly roll it up the length of his lean, muscled torso.
How odd, but how wonderful it felt to stand here in the circle of his arms. What could she have if she was willing to let go of control? To trust a little?
He helped her wrestle the shirt over his head. His skin was tanned and dotted with curly black hair. Her fingers skimmed over the honed ridges of his muscles, the pale light a sharp contrast to his sun-burnished color.
He was Hollywood handsome. She was a lab geek. A cork dork. An introverted nerd of the highest order. What did a man like him see in a woman like her?
The answer didn’t matter, at least not now. All that mattered at this moment was the hot, desperate need speeding through her body and escaping from her lungs on a soft sigh. “You look drinkable.”
“Have a taste,” he invited.
She chuckled. “You smell good too. Not Bretty at all.”
Wyatt’s eyes lit up, and a smile carved his face. “Good enough to eat?”
“Yum.” And then she did the brashest thing she had ever done in her life. She licked him.
His hearty laugh rang out to roll around the room. His delight delighted her. The sound vibrated up through his chest and into her palms, and she caught his joy. “How do I taste?”
“Salty,” she pronounced.
“You, Kiara Romano, are a surprise. I suspected as much all al
ong.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re far more romantic than you want to admit.”
“I suppose you’re an expert on romance?”
“I wouldn’t say expert...” He trailed off.
“Ever been married?”
“Nope.”
“Have you ever been close?”
“Never.”
“Why not?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“How do you know I haven’t been?”
“I asked around.”
She was both pleased and annoyed to learn that he had been asking questions about her. She was tempted to ask him what else he’d discovered about her, but he dipped his head and claimed her lips.
Wyatt swallowed the soft sound of pleasure that escaped her throat. His lips intoxicated her as surely as if she’d downed an entire bottle of Decadent Midnight.
His mouth teased, playful and daring. Tempting her to follow him down a road it might be smarter not to tread. His tongue coaxed, cajoled, seduced.
Oh, the promises his kisses suggested, of pleasures she’d never even dared dream. Kiara kissed him back, as fully engaged as he, pressing her body against his, the material of her cotton dress rubbing against his bare chest.
One hand drifted boldly to his belt buckle.
“Kiara,” he whispered. “Are you sure you want to start this?”
No, no, she wasn’t sure. Not sure at all. She knew it was a dumb thing to do—an affair with an intern. Dumb on so many levels, and yet she simply did not care. That shocked her. But instead of answering, she slid her arms around his neck and tugged his head down for more kisses.
He reached for the buttons at the front of her dress, his fingers easing them open as he continued to kiss her. She was so caught up in the tender thrust of his tongue that she almost didn’t hear her cell phone buzz.
“You’ve got a call,” he said in a pensive voice.
Kiara fished it from her pocket and saw Maurice’s name on the caller ID. She switched it over to voice mail and then set her phone on the wine rack beside the corkscrew, the bottle of Bretty wine, and their eyeglasses.
“Problem solved,” she said.