by HELEN HARDT
Again, is he making fun of me? Being sarcastic? Or just being an asshole?
So hard to tell.
But two can play this silly game.
“Of course. I’ll answer whatever questions you feel are appropriate. Which wines will we be tasting tomorrow?”
“The red table blend, the fine Cab, the Meritage, and the Syrah.”
Excitement roars through me. The Syrah. I haven’t had the pleasure yet of tasting the Steel Syrah myself. I can’t wait.
“Which ones will I be doing?”
“The table blend and the Meritage.”
Disappointment aches. But Syrah is Dale’s favorite grape. Of course he’ll take that one for himself.
Doesn’t matter. I’ll wow them with the red and the Meritage. I’ve already tasted the table blend, and it’s wonderfully simple in its complexity.
“May I have a taste of the Meritage?” I ask.
“Why?”
“Uh…so I know what I’m dealing with tomorrow.”
“You didn’t taste the Cab Franc in advance, and you did fine.”
My cheeks warm. “That’s nice of you to say, but you know as well as I do that I’ll do even better if I taste the wine ahead of time.”
His lips quirk up at one corner. Just a little. “Maybe I like seeing how good you are on your feet.”
I shake my head. “No one does a tasting without sampling the wine first.”
“You did.”
“Yeah, and I shouldn’t have had to.”
“A doctor of wine should be able to do anything.”
Anger boils in my belly. “You’re so determined to make me fail. Why, Dale?”
“Make you fail? Didn’t I just compliment you on your first tasting?”
“Yeah. But at the risk of patting myself on the back, you’d be hard-pressed not to. I kicked that tasting’s ass. We both know it. But why make it harder on me? Why do you want me going in blind?”
He opens his mouth, but I gesture him to be quiet.
“Don’t even say something ridiculous like a doctor of wine should go in blind.”
He lets out a laugh.
A real, honest-to-goodness laugh, the likes of which I’ve never heard from Dale Steel.
It’s beautiful. It’s uplifting. It’s a gorgeous cloak of dark-red magnificence.
And already, it’s a new addiction.
Chapter Ten
Dale
I’m laughing. Truly laughing.
This woman makes me laugh, and damn, it feels good. It feels fucking fabulous.
She joins in, and her sweet giggle is more than I can take.
I love her. I love everything about her. Every damned thing. It’s a foregone conclusion. I will never not love Ashley White.
I’ll just have to learn to live with it.
With that thought, my laughter wanes.
And my libido kicks in.
Not that it wasn’t already kicked in. I’m always on high horny alert when I’m near Ashley, and many times even when I’m not. The memory of her smile, of something amusing she said, of the feel of her lips upon mine—all those things trigger a tightness in my groin.
She doesn’t have to be anywhere near me to make me want her. I always want her.
Always.
And right now, as she suppresses her joyful giggles, her lips parted just so, I can’t help myself.
I grab her and pull her into my arms.
She looks up at me, her blue eyes slightly guarded and her lips still glossy and parted.
If only we could hold this gaze forever. Just looking at her—the sheer beauty of her—could keep me content forever.
But my body kicks in, and I lower my mouth to hers.
Her lips stay parted, and I swoop my tongue between them.
Delicious. Simply delicious. Nothing tastes sweeter than Ashley’s kisses. No trace of sugar or fruit or wine. It’s simply Ashley, her natural sweetness that extends to all parts of her body. Especially that paradise between her legs.
Is she wet for me?
I advance, taking her with me until her back hits the wall. I lean into her, let her feel my erection as I push into her belly.
I deepen the kiss, my lips firm upon hers. I want to inhale her. Breathe every part of her into every part of me. I’ve been joined to her once, in sex. It was amazing. Life changing. But still not enough. Never fucking enough.
I’m drowning now, drowning in the sea of lust that is Ashley White. Her beauty, her intelligence, her wonderful sense of humor.
Drowning, and God help me, I don’t want to be saved.
But just as I’m falling deeper underwater, she pushes against me and breaks the kiss.
“Are you insane?” she says. “Employees are everywhere. Your uncle could walk in here.”
She’s not wrong.
I know that. And at the moment, I absolutely don’t give a damn.
I take her lips once more.
And once more she shoves me away.
“Dale!”
I look into her sapphire-blue eyes. Such fire and passion in her soul. I see it, and I know it’s reflected in my own.
“I want you,” I say gruffly. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”
She shakes her head, trembling. “You don’t. You just want sex.”
I rake my fingers through my hair. “Of course I want sex. I’m not a fucking rock. But it’s more than that.”
“If it were more than that, you wouldn’t have left me in that hotel room. Bills on the nightstand. You made me feel like a…” She shakes her head. “No. No, no, no. You did not. No one can make me feel inferior without my consent.”
“Eleanor Roosevelt,” I say.
“Yes. I’m not a whore, Dale.”
“I never said you were.”
“You left money on the nightstand.”
“So you could get home.”
“Yeah? Well, you didn’t live up to your end of the bargain.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You said you were going to use me up that night. But instead, we fell asleep. In the morning, instead of facing me, you ran. You ran, Dale.”
Again, she’s not wrong. What can I say? I have no excuse. Only that I knew what had happened. That my emotions were no longer suppressed, and that meant…
That meant the rage would surface.
I already experienced the rage last night, talking about my birth father.
The rage.
The fucking rage.
But right now?
My love for this woman—this passionate, striking woman—overpowers the rage.
“You want me to use you up?”
“That’s what you said you’d do.”
“Fine. Tonight. My place. Seven.”
She parts her lips and then brings one hand to her face, her eyes wide. She says nothing.
“I’ll take your silence as your consent. See you then.” I turn, still hard, still raging with lust and passion.
“Dale…”
I turn. Her cheeks are ruddy, her lips pink and swollen. The top of her chest is a lovely pinkish gold.
“Yes?”
“I… I can’t. Not tonight.”
“Why not?”
“I have…a date.”
Chapter Eleven
Ashley
As the words leave my mouth, I expect one of two things to happen.
Either he’ll kiss me again in anger, or he’ll turn and leave with no further response.
I’m completely unprepared for what ultimately happens.
After he stares into my eyes for seconds that seem like eternity, he smiles.
He fucking smiles!
And as much as I love his smile—will do almost anything short of murder to experience it—I don’t want to see it now.
Is the smile real?
I’ve seen his smile so seldom that I’m not sure.
The laughter, though—that raucous jubilation that melted
like hot burgundy toffee over me only moments earlier—that was real.
This?
I have no idea how to respond, and it occurs to me that may be exactly what he’s going for.
I clear my throat. “So you see, I can’t possibly meet you at your place tonight.”
More waiting.
Now his smile is definitely forced. The tension around his lips and jaw is palpable.
Finally, he speaks. “After, then. Nine o’clock.”
What? He’s not going to demand that I break the date? He’s not going to demand to know who I’m seeing? He’s not going to demand…anything?
I may love Dale Steel to within an inch of my life, but I don’t know him.
I don’t know him at all.
I want to go to his place more than I want my next breath. I’d gladly break the date with Brendan if I thought Dale and I had a future. But I don’t know how Dale feels about me. I know only that—despite his initial criticism of my hair out of a bottle—he’s attracted to me physically and he wants me. That much is more than obvious.
But emotionally? He’s a closed book. He may feel nothing at all for me other than lust.
I like being lusted over. I like sex.
With Dale, though?
I want more.
I want it all.
And I have to face the fact that he may never be able to give me the love I desire.
The love I deserve.
Do I give up a date with a man I like, but don’t love, for a night of passion with a man I do love but who may never love me back?
Do I follow my head or my heart?
I’ve never had to make a decision like this, for although I’ve had my share of dates with men I like, I’ve never been in love before. My head and heart have always been in sync.
Until now.
I inhale. Exhale slowly.
I’ve made my decision.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “The answer is no.”
His tense smile erodes on his face. His green eyes burn with… Is it anger? I can’t tell, except that it’s not anything positive.
I wait.
And I wait.
When I’m convinced he won’t respond, he finally does.
“Change your answer,” he says, his jaw clenched.
God, I want to. I’m ready to sell my soul to the devil himself to have Dale kiss me, touch me, make love to me.
But I have to think with my head, not my heart.
“I’m sorry, Dale. I can’t.”
“You can.”
That voice. That rich Syrah voice. I inhale once more. Exhale. Try to ease the sweet pain in my nipples, the throbbing between my legs.
“I can’t. I’ll see you tomorrow for the tasting.” I turn and leave the tasting room.
I leave the winery and walk to the office building where I parked the car—loaned to me by Talon and Jade—this morning.
Dale didn’t tell me I could leave for the day, but I do anyway. It’s nearly four, and my body is betraying me. I wanted so much to say yes. I wanted so much to cancel my date.
I wanted…
But wanting is no longer enough.
I’ve spent my life taking what I want from men. Being content with sex alone. They were, so why shouldn’t I be?
But now that want has turned to love.
And as much as I yearn for Dale, for his body touching mine, it will no longer suffice.
I sigh.
I’ll give in.
Eventually.
If he keeps trying, that is.
But today, I stand my ground. I show him that I’m not that easy. That though we’re as physically compatible as any two people can be, I need more.
I will no longer settle.
Chapter Twelve
Dale
I want to run after her, tell her I love her. That I’ll do anything to have her.
But I can’t.
Because right now, my rage consumes me, overtakes me, and if I go after her, I’ll take it out on her.
On the woman I love.
The woman I love who’ll be kissing another man tonight.
Darkness surges inside me. I grab a handful of my hair and tug. Hard.
Focus. Have to focus.
Just need to get home, and then I can blow like a fucking volcano. A hurricane. A tornado. Every act of God that destroys…
That’s what I am right now.
I know it deep within my soul.
If only those who tormented me still lived. I’d have an outlet for my wrath.
But they don’t.
That ring was shut down long ago, and those who tortured me are either dead or imprisoned.
So where do I focus my rage?
Where?
Not my family.
And as angry as I am, not Ashley.
I love her. I wish her no harm.
But on her date…
Who is she seeing?
And where did she meet him? She’s been here for little more than a week.
Fuck.
Last night. She and Mom went into town. Mom said Brendan Murphy was taken with her.
That’s it. It’s got to be.
Her plans tonight are with Brendan Murphy.
Fuck him. I wanted to break his nose just hearing Mom say he was taken with Ashley.
Now?
I want to break him.
My fists clench. I want to punch him, kick him, fucking end him.
And as much as I know these feelings are irrational, I don’t care.
I drive home quickly, paying no attention to the road, so blinded am I with rage.
I screech into my driveway, leave the truck, and enter the house. Penny paws at me, but I let her out quickly, making sure she has ample water. She’s only a dog, but I don’t want any witness, human or canine, to what I’m about to do.
I head to the basement of the guesthouse. I’ve converted part of it into a home gym. It gets little use, as the physical nature of my work—and my good genes from Cheri Robertson and Floyd Jolly—who knew?—keeps me in good shape.
Today, though, I’m glad for the Century BOB torso training bag I purchased a while ago when I was studying taekwondo on my own.
Bob’s face is plain and his painted-on hair is blond, but instead I see Brendan Murphy’s red hair and blue eyes staring at me, his strong Irish jaw taunting me, jeering at me.
She’s mine.
She’ll never be yours.
You don’t deserve her.
You’ll never love her.
His last silent words ring untrue. The truth is that I do love Ashley.
But my love for her is what unleashed this wrath in me. Unleashed it on the world.
And Ashley is my world.
I strip off my shirt and shake my head, letting my hair tickle my shoulders and neck.
Then I pounce.
Boom! A punch to Brendan’s perfect nose.
Then an uppercut under his chin.
A knife hand to his neck and one more to his shoulder.
My jeans aren’t the easiest garments to move in, but I pull one leg upward and land a roundhouse kick to Brendan’s flank and then to his head. A perfect double kick. I’ll feel it tomorrow, but tonight I don’t care.
A hook kick is next, to his other flank, and then I jump and execute a perfect axe kick to the top of his head.
The real Brendan would be writhing on the ground about now.
But still I punch.
Still I kick.
Still I grunt, sweat pouring off me.
And still Brendan taunts me, standing tall, blow after blow.
Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!
I plow forward into Brendan, tackling him to the ground.
Fist to face, fist to face, fist to face—
I jerk. Did I hear something? Someone calling me?
Composure. I need composure.
I grasp and grasp and grasp but can’t find it. Still I pummel fake Brendan’s face. The face that magically regai
ns its shape no matter how much pain I inflict.
You can’t have her! You can’t have her! You can’t have her!
The click of the basement door opening. “Dale? You down there?”
You can’t have her! You can’t have her! You can’t have her!
Footsteps from somewhere in the back of my mind.
Someone’s coming.
Still I punch, punch, punch.
“Dale!”
Strong arms try to grapple me away, but no… I won’t give up. Not until Brendan Murphy is gone. Reduced to roadkill mush.
“Dale, what’s the matter with you?”
I turn, but instead of my father’s dark eyes, I see Brendan’s blue ones.
I’ve got her. I’m going to fuck her.
In a blind rage, I pull my fist back and land a perfect punch to his smarmy expression.
“Damn! That smarts! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
As if on its own, my elbow pulls back, my fingers curl, and I’m ready to execute another blow—
My back hits the floor, and someone hovers over me, his blue eyes angry.
Except the eyes aren’t blue.
They’re dark brown.
My father’s eyes.
My father.
His cheek is red, and blood oozes from a small wound near his eye.
I punched my father.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he demands again.
I close my eyes.
I can’t answer him.
If I answer him, he’ll know.
He’ll know the monster has been unleashed.
He’ll know I’m not who I seem to be.
And he’ll no longer want to be my father.
Chapter Thirteen
Ashley
Brendan’s apartment over the bar is small and cozy—just a living area, kitchen, and bedroom. He’s broiling burgers when I arrive, and I can’t help a laugh. Burgers will work great with the Latour, but most connoisseurs enjoy such a premier wine with classier fare.
“I know, I know,” he says with a laugh. “But I know how to make burgers. And they’re perfect, if I do say so myself. Thick and juicy and medium rare. Add a slice of cheddar jack and some tomato, and you’ve got something as good as any gourmet meal I can think of.”
