by Tessa Layne
“Eighty, with a working crushing pad. The estate house burned down last year in the fires, but the vineyards are intact. Although they probably need work.”
“What kind of grapes?”
“No fucking clue.”
I let out a harsh laugh. Typical Danny response, and one I share when it comes to wines. But, jeezus. I could make ten times that by reselling the property as-is. If I rebuilt the house, I could recover a good chunk of my losses. But I know Danny well enough to know there’s always something that doesn’t meet the eye. And while he may be doing me a solid by letting the property go for a fraction of his value, I can’t help but wonder why. “What’s the catch?”
“There may be squatters.”
Chapter Seven
Just a kiss…
Only one…
I wake up with the taste of Emmaline lingering on my mouth, and a hard-on begging for release. It’s been two weeks since I pulled off her mask at my vineyard, and I still can’t get her out of my mind. She is maddening - in her elusiveness, in her sensuality, and while she may haunt my dreams, we are far from finished. I slide my hand underneath the thin cotton sheet to pull on my cock.
“Declan,” my brother Austin calls with a bang on the door. “Get your lazy ass up. We’ve gotta go.”
There won’t be relief from my hand, at least not anytime soon. It’s barely light out. But he’s right. If we don’t run now, we won’t. And a day without running is unacceptable, even if that day starts in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and is followed by backbreaking labor in my brother’s vineyard. “Calm the fuck down,” I growl at the door, all essence of her fading into the ether, which only serves to darken my mood. Her kisses must have contained some kind of elixir, some kind of poison that seeped into my brain and dulled my appetite for any other woman. I think my dick might explode. Or shrivel from disuse. A fate worse than death, I conclude with a grim smile as I throw on my shorts and lace up my shoes. “Meet me downstairs.” My balls ache for the woman who I now know lives just across town from where we’re staying at the Sinclaire hunting lodge during our enforced servitude to my brother.
Austin is pacing back and forth across the great room when I arrive downstairs. “Let’s go,” he rumbles, and is out the door without a word.
“What got your boxers in a twist?” I ask when I catch up. He’s been acting weird for months. Ever since we confronted Jason about his wife stealing our family’s grapes. And it’s been worse since we arrived back in Prairie. I’ll admit, it was a shock to discover Jason making wine on the sly after he’d made such a big show about leaving the industry for good. But to be honest, Jason doesn’t mean shit to me. He doesn’t factor into my life at all, and I like it that way. The only reason I’m here - we’re here - is because Dad wanted to make some kind of grand gesture to bring Jason back into the fold. And let’s be real about his motives. He’s on the hunt for a grandchild. Plain and simple. His four sons have been too much of a disappointment.
Big fucking deal.
It shouldn’t irk me the way it does. But after all my hard work to make something of myself - on my own - to have it taken away because Daddy-o thinks I’ve spent too much time in the society pages with a revolving door of women, makes me want to grind my teeth to nubs and spit out the dust.
Austin grunts and pushes ahead, the only noise between us, the sound of our shoes crunching on gravel. I don’t bother to keep up. He’s no happier about being here than I am. Instead, my thoughts return to Emmaline, and the myriad of unanswered questions where she’s concerned. With each footfall, my blood pumps heavier, harder. My breath comes in sharp puffs. My body heats, whether from the physical exertion, or from the fantasy of my palm landing on her ass, making her cheeks as pink as the pussy peeking from the apex of her thighs. As pink as the delicate clouds that glide across the horizon. But that way lies madness, and I tear my thoughts away, forcing my mind to go blank.
By the time we head across the road to the winery, the early morning sun is beating down on us, and it’s already eighty-million degrees. My mood is as dark as my soul, because every second I toil out here is a second I could be using to rebuild my real estate holdings. When we arrive at the Moonbeam Acres crushing barn, Jason and his father-in-law Michael are waiting for us. And I’m stunned to see Jason looking… nervous. But it doesn’t stop him from throwing a scowl my direction. “Nice of you to finally show,” he growls.
I shrug. I’ve learned from experience, that with Jason, it’s best to not engage. Too many times, he’s exploited my vulnerabilities because I said too much. Never again.
“That’s it? You don’t have anything to say?”
Michael lays a restraining hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Easy there, son. What’s important is that he’s here now.”
Son? I work hard not to roll my eyes.
Jason clears his throat. “Austin, you’re coming with me. We’re going to work in the Cab Franc lot. Dec, I want you to work with Mike on his Chardonel grapes.”
Chardonel? What the fuck is that? It must be some Chardonnay cross they use out here. We don’t grow that shit where I come from. I give another noncommittal shrug and follow Mike, who doesn’t take me into the vineyards, but instead around to the back patio of the main house. Mike waves a hand. “Have a seat.”
On a table, he’s set up a full table spread with wine bottles, fruit, yogurt, bread, cured meats, and even eggs. “What is this?”
Mike flashes a grin from underneath his scruffy beard. “I always think that before you work in the fields, you need to understand the end product.” He pulls out a chair and drops in, reaching for a bottle that’s been chilling. “And, since we’re going to be working together, I figured we should get to know each other first.”
Huh. Wine for breakfast. I already like this guy, even if he looks more like the Dude from The Big Lobowski, and not like a winegrower. It takes all types, I guess. I accept the glass of white Mike hands me and raise it to his. “What is this we’re drinking?”
“I’m glad you asked. It’s the Chardonel I harvested last year.” He takes a sip and shuts his eyes as he savors the flavors.
It’s obvious he likes what he’s tasting, and now he’s got me curious. I take a sip and bright flavors of green apple with a hint of green grass burst across my tongue. Not at all what I expected. It could be a Sauvignon Blanc. “Impressive.” To be honest, anything from the Midwest that’s dry and has some body is a pleasant surprise. “Did you blend this?”
His eyes pin me to my seat. “With your brother’s help. His palate is spot-on.”
“Jason’s?” although I ask the question more like a statement, because we can’t be talking about my half-brother who walked away from everything four years ago.
Mike nods with a proud smile. “This is the grape in its purest form, fermented in steel barrels. But this bottle-” he points to a second bottle, also unlabeled except for a piece of masking tape with the letters MLF. “This, is magic in a bottle.” He grabs a second glass and fills it generously.
Is this guy for real? Austin had mentioned that Jason’s wife was a little hippy-dippy. Now I know where she gets it from. But I play along, anything to keep me drinking wine and out of the hot sun. “Why is that?”
“We harvested the grapes at twenty-three brix, and then whole pressed it into stainless steel vats for the first fermentation.”
His language is a little over my head. I’ve made a point of not paying attention to winemaking, mostly as a fuck-you to my father, but I know enough to at least nod my head.
“The first wine you drank was the result of complete fermentation in stainless steel. With this wine-” he holds up the second glass. “We siphoned off the juice at ten brix and placed it in neutral French oak barrels to undergo a secondary and much slower malolactic fermentation. We turned the barrels once a week for six months. And the result is this,” he says with a grin before taking a big gulp of the wine and holding it in his mouth. He swallows and smacks his lips. “Ma
gic.”
Maybe a 1983 Côte Rôtie is magic, but Chardonel from Kansas? Not likely, but I give it a try. The wine is silky and full-bodied with notes of vanilla, pear and ripe apple. Softer and rounder than its counterpart, and a dead-ringer for California-style Chardonnay. “How did you do that?” I ask, stunned. “It’s really good.”
Mike looks like the Cheshire Cat. “Magic.” He tops off both glasses and passes me a plate. He piles his high and I follow suit. “Wine is part terroir, part growing conditions, and part alchemy. You can control the first one - making sure you’re planting the right grape for the soil, and understanding your micro-climates, the second you have zero control over. What do you do if your grapes need cool nights and you get a heat wave one year? Or a hard frost in late spring? It’s the winemaker who can salvage the worst harvests, and when the growing conditions are right, make a wine that’s pure magic. It’s one part knowledge, one part instinct, and one part imagination.”
Huh.
I sit back and munch on a slice of homemade bread smothered with ricotta, figs, and honey. So if I hire a decent winemaker to go sit on my vineyard, I could bypass all this bullshit with my brother, and still come up with a decent wine - if the winemaker was good enough. I could leave town in a week and leave Prairie in the rearview once and for all. If not for a mysterious woman with unforgettable eyes. Emmaline alone, is reason enough to stick around.
I take another sip of Mike’s magic wine, the wheels in my head spinning. Danny’s little gift may turn out to be a windfall. I’ve already got an architect working on plans to rebuild the house on the acreage. How hard would it be to give a young winemaker the opportunity of a lifetime? And I know just the person to help me.
Chapter Eight
It’s a little after three by the time I make my way through Kansas City’s West Bottoms and pull into the parking lot across the street from Danny’s joint. The hot, humid air blasts me as I step from the AC cooled car. I cross Genessee and head around to the back of a brick building and knock three times at the back door. It swings wide, and a bouncer I’ve seen on multiple occasions peers down at me.
“You have a reservation?”
“Nope. Is Danny in?”
“You know Danny?”
This is always the way it goes. Their secret code, so to speak. The Whiskey Den is exclusive, the membership fee exorbitant, but worth the price for peace, quiet, and rare whiskey. I reach into my wallet and pull out a leather medallion with the Whiskey Den logo embossed in gold. My key to entry.
The bouncer flips it over and examines the number stamped on the back. Mine is seventeen. There are only one-hundred of these, each stamped to identify its owner by number only. Only Danny knows who each number belongs to. There are men from all over the country who come here- sports figures, mob bosses, giants of industry. All anonymous until the owner of the number chooses to disclose his identity. Some of my best real estate deals have been made through connections here.
The bouncer grunts and waves me in. The interior is dark, exposed brick and wood. Large leather wingbacks dominate the room, and a mahogany bar lines the far wall, complete with gilded mirror and chrome art-deco Venus sculptures. According to Danny, this is where his great-grandfather, Tom Pendergast, used to pay off the po-po during Prohibition. The place still feels a little bit nefarious, which is why I like it.
Lisa, his bar manager for years, waves from behind the counter. When she steps around to greet me, I’m shocked to see she’s ready to pop out a baby. “What’s this?” I ask pointing to her enormous belly.
She swings her dark hair behind her with a shrug of her shoulder. “Maybe you should come around more than once in a blue moon.”
I bend and drop a kiss to her cheek. “You know how it goes. Is Danny around?” I timed this visit specifically, because he almost always conducts his business at the Den before it ‘officially’ opens. Of course, I’ve seen men in here conducting business at ten a.m., but social hour starts at four.
“He’s in back. I’ll get him.”
“And also a tumbler of Teeling 24?”
She shoots me a smile over her shoulder. “Your bottle’s underneath the counter.”
I settle myself and wait. In typical Danny fashion, he makes me wait fifteen minutes before settling into the chair across from me, glass in hand. I’m already on my second tumbler.
“I assume this isn’t a social call?”
I dive right in. I may be as close to him as my brothers, but like he said - business is business. “Is Emmaline Andersson in trouble?”
His eyebrows shoot skyward. “You met Emmaline?”
I narrow my eyes. “Those squatters you warned me about? How about a high rolling sex party with masks so everyone’s identity is hidden? What are you up to - sex trafficking?”
He scowls. “Fuck no. You know everything I do is above board.”
I cock an eyebrow because we both know that’s bullshit.
He leans forward and his voice takes on a hard edge. “I don’t do sex trafficking. You know that.”
“So what gives? What do you have on her?”
“Nothing. She needed help.”
Danny’s like a fucking Sphinx. Even in college he was tight-lipped about everything from women to grades. “Why did she come to you?”
“You’ll have to ask her that.”
“Fuck you, asshole. I’m asking you.”
Danny swirls his glass. “That’s no way to talk to the man you love like a brother.”
“Get used to it,” I snap, sinking back into the chair. “I’m going to get to the bottom of what’s plaguing Emmaline. With or without your help.”
“Leave it,” he orders with a hard stare.
But I can’t. Not with so many unanswered questions. “What do you know about Madame M Lingerie?” Again, my Google searching came up with nothing. Only a black landing page with some scantily clad models in the background - I assume wearing Madame M lingerie - and gold lettering that looked similar to the invitation I still have.
* * *
MADAME M LINGERIE
Luxurious Lingerie by Invitation Only
* * *
His face shutters, but it’s enough of a tell, that I know he knows everything about Madame M. “I’ve heard of it,” he says, voice staying neutral.
“How? The website says by invitation only.”
“I’ve overheard some of the clients mentioning it.”
“I’ve never heard of it and I’m a client.”
He shrugs, jaw tight.
“What aren’t you telling me, Danny? I know Emmaline’s connected to Madame M.”
His hand tightens around the tumbler until his knuckles turn white. “I mean it when I said leave it,” he says harshly. “She’s been through enough. She doesn’t need one of the Case brothers bringing her more trouble.”
“So she is in trouble,” I pounce, ignoring the dig about our family drama.
“You’ve reached a dead-end my man.” He leans forward. “And know this - we may be brothers from another mother, but if you hurt a hair on her head, I will come after you.” The menace in his voice is palpable.
And surprising. We’ve been through a lot of shit together, and Danny’s never threatened me. Ever. “Understood.” I raise my glass. “No hard feelings.” I’ll get to the bottom of the Emmaline mystery another way, and I already have an idea how to do that.
“But have her make you a suit.” Danny says, as if he hadn’t just made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He’s got fucking balls of stone. But I guess that comes with the DNA. “She makes a great suit. As good as New York. Or San Francisco.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I answer with a rueful smile.
“How’ve you been otherwise?”
“I found an architect to rebuild the house on the California property.” I refrain from telling him I discovered dozens of barrels down in the cellar below the crushing pad. It’s always best to deal with Danny on a need-to-know basis. “I
’m looking for a winemaker, though. Someone young and hungry. Someone who wants to make their mark on the industry.”
“You finally taking on the Case mantle?”
“Fuck, no,” I scoff. “But if I can get someone to make decent wine this year while the rebuilding’s happening, then I can sell the whole thing as a package deal and make most of my money back.”
Danny nods with an approving smile. “Good man. Happy to have been able to help you.”
I’m no fool. I know that help came with a giant string attached, and that someday, when I least expect it, he’ll come calling. But for now, we’re good.
I pause in front of the picture window that has Emmaline’s Dress Shop painted in white curlicue letters, holding a box of take-out from the local Chinese restaurant. I have no idea if Emmaline even likes Chinese, or if she’s even here, for that matter. The sign in the window says Hours by Appointment Only. She could be back in California for all I know, or somewhere else entirely.
I roll my shoulders and try the door. It opens a crack. What is it with people in this town leaving their doors unlocked? A thief would have a heyday. A bell dings merrily as I enter and take a look. The shop is small. On the far end is a mid-century credenza filled with notions, and behind it bolt upon bolt of fabrics in all shades of white. I had no idea there were so many whites. In the corner is a mannequin in a beautifully constructed wedding dress. There are two dressing rooms - open - with pink canvas curtains hooked to one side. And in the center, a round dais in front of a three-way mirror. To my right is matching credenza, and behind it, rows and rows of dark suiting material. It’s austere, unassuming. And nowhere, is there any sign of Madame M. I catch sight of dust motes dancing merrily in a stray sunbeam, the only sign of glitter in the shop.
“Hello?” I call out, heart beating erratically. I practiced this moment the entire drive back from Kansas City, but my words have evaporated. I’m a Case for chrissakes. We always have words when we need them.
