by Nora Roberts
Even after so long a sexual drought it was hard for her to believe the human body could recharge as often, and at such intense power.
“Water,” she croaked, afraid now that she’d satisfied one craving, thirst would kill her. “I need water. I’ll give you anything—wild, sexual favors—if you’ll just give me a bottle of water.”
“You’ve already paid out the wild, sexual favors.”
“Oh, right.” She groped over, patted his shoulder blindly. “Be a pal, MacMillan.”
“Okay, but where are we?”
“On the bed.” She sighed gustily. “We finally made it.”
“Right. Be right back.” He staggered up, and since he’d been crossways on the bed, misjudged direction and rapped smartly into a chair.
Listening to his muttered curses, Sophia smiled into the sheet. God, he was cute. Funny. Smarter than she’d given him credit for. And incredible in bed. On the floor. Against the wall. She couldn’t remember any man appealing to her on so many levels. Especially when you considered he was the type who had to be held at gunpoint to put on a suit and tie.
Which was, she supposed, why he always looked so sexy in them. The caveman temporarily civilized.
Lost for the moment in that thought, she yelped when Ty held the iced water to her bare shoulder. “Ha ha,” she muttered, but was grateful enough to roll over, sit up and gulp down half the glass.
“Hey. I figured you’d share.”
“I didn’t say anything about sharing.”
“Then I want more sexual favors.”
“You couldn’t possibly,” she chuckled.
“You know how much I like proving you wrong.”
She sighed as his hand snuck up her thigh. “That’s true.” Still she handed him the rest of the water. “I might have a few sexual favors left in me. But then I really have to go home. Early briefing tomorrow.”
He drained the glass, set it aside. “We’re not thinking about that now.” He hooked an arm around her waist, then rolled until she was under him. “Let me tell you just what I have in mind.”
It had been, Sophia mused, a very long time since she’d snuck into the house at two in the morning. Still, it was one of those skills, like riding a bike or, well, sex, that came back to you. She dimmed her headlights before they flashed against the windows of the villa and eased the car gently, slowly around the bend and into the garage.
She crept out into the chilly night and stood just a moment under the brilliant wheel of stars. She felt outrageously tired, wonderfully used, and alive.
Tyler MacMillan, she decided, was a man just full of surprises, of secret pockets and marvelous, marvelous energy. She’d learned a great deal about him in the past few months. Aspects and angles she hadn’t bothered to explore. And she was looking forward to continuing that exploration.
But for now, she’d better get in the house and get some sleep or she’d be useless the next day.
Odd, she thought as she walked quietly around the back, she’d wanted to stay with him. Sleep with him. All curled up against that long, warm body. Safe, cozy, secure.
She’d trained herself over the years to click off emotionally after sex. A man’s way, she liked to think. Sleeping, and waking, in the same bed after the fun and games were over could be awkward. It could be intimate. Avoiding that, making certain she didn’t need that, kept things from getting messy.
But she’d had to order herself to leave Tyler’s bed. Because she was tired, she assured herself. Because it had been a difficult day. He wasn’t really any different from anyone else she’d been with.
Perhaps she liked him more, she considered as she navigated through the shrubbery. And was more attracted to him than she’d expected to be. That didn’t make him different. Just . . . new. After a while the polish would wear off the shiny excitement, and that would be that.
That, she thought, was always that.
If you looked for love and lifetimes, you were doomed to disappoint, or be disappointed. Better, much better, to seize the moment, wring it dry, then move on.
Because thinking was dulling her mood, she blocked out the questions. And rounding the last bend in the gardens, came face-to-face with her mother.
They stared at each other, the surprised breath each puffed out frosting into little clouds.
“Um. Nice night,” Sophia commented.
“Yes. Very. I was just, ah . . . David . . .” Stumped, Pilar gestured vaguely toward the guest house. “He needed help with some translating.”
“I see.” A wild giggle tried to claw its way out of Sophia’s throat. “Is that what your generation calls it?” A small choking sound escaped. “If we’re going to sneak the rest of the way in, let’s do it. We could freeze out here trying to come up with reasonable excuses.”
“I was translating.” Pilar hurried to the door, fumbled with the knob. “There was a lot of—”
“Oh, Mama.” The laughter won. Sophia clutched her belly and stumbled inside. “Stop bragging.”
“I was merely . . .” Floundering, Pilar pushed at her hair. She had a very good idea how she looked—tumbled and flushed. Like a woman who’d just slid out of bed. Or in this case, off the living room sofa. Taking the offensive seemed to be the safest course. “You’re out late.”
“Yeah. I was translating. With Ty.”
“With . . . Oh. Oh.”
“I’m starving, how about you?” Enjoying herself, Sophia pulled open the refrigerator. “I never got around to dinner.” She spoke casually, with her head in the fridge. “Do you have a problem with me and Ty?”
“No—yes. No,” Pilar stuttered. “I don’t know. I absolutely don’t know how I’m supposed to handle this.”
“Let’s have pie.”
“Pie.”
Sophia pulled out what was left of a deep-dish apple. “You look wonderful, Mama.”
Pilar brushed at her hair again. “I couldn’t possibly.”
“Wonderful.” Sophia set the dish on the counter and reached up for plates. “I had a few emotional bumps about you and David. I wasn’t used to seeing you as—to seeing you, I suppose. But when I run into you sneaking into the house in the middle of the night, looking wonderful, I can’t help but see you.”
“I don’t have to sneak into my own house.”
“Oh.” Wielding a pie cutter, Sophia asked, “Then why were you?”
“I was just . . . Let’s have pie.”
“Good call.” Sophia cut two huge hunks, then smiled when Pilar stroked her hair. She leaned in, and for a moment the two of them stood in the bright kitchen light in silence. “It was a long, lousy day. It’s nice to end it well.”
“Yes. Though you gave me a hell of a shock outside.”
“Me? Imagine my surprise, reliving my teenage years, then running into my mother.”
“Reliving? Really?” Sophia carried the plates to the kitchen table while Pilar got forks.
“Oh well, why dwell on the past?” Grinning wickedly, Sophia licked pie from her thumb. “David’s very hot.”
“Sophie.”
“Very hot. Great shoulders, that charmingly boyish face, that intelligent brain. Quite a package you’ve bagged there, Mama.”
“He’s not a trophy. And I certainly hope you don’t think of Ty as one.”
“He’s got a terrific butt.”
“I know.”
“I meant Ty.”
“I know,” Pilar repeated. “What, am I blind?” With an unladylike snort, she plopped into a chair. “This is ridiculous, it’s rude and it’s—”
“Fun,” Sophia finished and sat down to scoop up some pie. “We share an interest in fashion, and more recently in the business. Why shouldn’t we share an interest in . . . Nonna.”
“Well, of course we share an interest in . . .” Pilar dropped her fork with a clatter as she followed the direction of Sophia’s blank stare. “Mama. What are you doing up?”
“You think I don’t know when people come and go in my hou
se?” Somehow elegant in a thick chenille robe and slippers, Tereza swept into the room. “What, no wine?”
“We were just . . . hungry,” Sophia managed.
“Ha. No wonder. Sex is a laborious business if done properly. I’m hungry myself.”
Sophia slapped a hand to her mouth, but it was too late. The burst of laughter erupted. “Go, Eli.”
Tereza merely took the last piece of pie as her daughter stared down at her plate, shoulders shaking. “We’ll have wine. I believe the occasion calls for it. I think this is surely the first time all three generations of Giambelli women have sat together in the kitchen after making love. You needn’t look so stunned, Pilar. Sex is a natural function, after all. And since you’ve chosen a worthy partner this time, we’ll have wine.”
She chose a bottle of sauvignon blanc from the kitchen rack and uncorked it. “These are trying times. There have been others, and there will be more.” She poured three glasses. “It’s essential that we live while we move through them. I approve of David Cutter, if my approval matters.”
“Thank you. It does, of course.”
Sophia was biting her lip to hide a grin when Tereza turned toward her. “If you hurt Tyler, I’ll be both angry and disappointed in you. I love him very much.”
“Well, I like that.” Deflated, Sophia set her fork down. “Why would I?”
“Remember what I said. Tomorrow, we’ll fight for what we are, what we have. Tonight.” She lifted her glass. “Tonight, we celebrate it. Salute.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was a war, waged on several fronts. Sophia fought her battles on the airwaves, in print and on the telephone. She spent hours updating press releases, giving interviews, reassuring accounts.
And every day she started over, beating back rumor, innuendo and speculation. Until the crisis passed, her time in the vineyards was over. That was Tyler’s battlefield. She found herself resenting not being able to soldier there as well. To take part in the disking, the frost vigils, in the careful guarding of the emerging buds.
She worried about her grandparents, forging their front on the Italian line. Every day the reports came in. The recall was being implemented. And soon, bottle by bottle, the wine would be tested.
She couldn’t think about the cost, short- or long-term. That, she left in David’s hands.
When she needed to step back from the hype and spin, she stood at her office window and watched men with harrows work the earth. It would be a year of rare vintage, she promised herself.
They only had to survive it.
She jumped at the next ring of her phone, and buried the very real need to ignore it.
“Sophia Giambelli.”
Ten minutes later she hung up, then released pent-up rage with a vicious stream of Italian curses.
“Does that help?” Pilar asked as she stood by the doorway.
“Not enough.” Sophia pressed her fingers to her temples and wondered how best to handle this next stage of combat. “I’m glad you’re here. Can you come in, sit down a minute.”
“Fifteen, actually. I’ve just finished up another tour.” Pilar settled into a chair. “They’re coming in droves. Curiosity seekers for the most part now. Some reporters, though that’s down to a trickle since your press conference.”
“It’s likely to build again. I just got off the phone with a producer of The Larry Mann Show.”
“Larry Mann.” Pilar wrinkled her nose. “Trash television, at its worst. You aren’t going to give them anything.”
“They’ve already got something. They’ve got Rene.” Unable to sit still, Sophia shoved away from her desk. “She’s going to tape a show tomorrow revealing family secrets, supposedly, telling the true story of Dad’s death. We’re invited to participate. They want either you or me, or both of us, on the show to give our side of it.”
“It won’t do, Sophie. As satisfying as it might be to slap her back in public, it isn’t the way. And that isn’t the forum.”
“Why do you think I was cursing?” She snatched up her frog paperweight, passed it restlessly from hand to hand. “We’ll take the high road and ignore her. But God, how I’d love to wrestle in the mud with that bitch. She’s been giving interviews right and left, and she’s good enough at them to do considerable damage. I’ve talked to both Aunt Helen and Uncle James about legal action.”
“Don’t.”
“She can’t be allowed to use the family, to slander.” Sophia scowled down at the frog. His cheerfully silly face usually lightened her mood. “I can’t get down and dirty with her, which is a crying shame. But I can slap her back legally.”
“Listen to me first,” Pilar said, leaning forward. “I’m not being soft. I’m not being manipulated. Taking legal action, at least right now when we’ve so many other battles to fight, only gives some credence to her and what she’s saying. I know your instincts are to fight, and mine are generally to retreat, but maybe, this time, we do neither. We just stand in place.”
“I’ve thought of that. I’ve thought of it from both angles. But when it comes down to it, you fight fire with fire.”
“Not always, honey. Sometimes you just drown it. We’ll just drown her out, with good Giambelli wine.”
Sophia inhaled, exhaled slowly as she sat back. She set the paperweight down again, turning it around and around while she considered. Behind her, the fax beeped and whined, but she ignored it while she figured the angles.
“That’s good.” Nodding, she looked at her mother again. “That’s very good. Drown the flames with one good flood. We’re going to have a party. Spring ball, black tie. How much time do you need to put it together?”
To her credit Pilar only blinked. “Three weeks.”
“Good. Work up the guest list. Once we’ve got invitations out, I’ll plant some items with reporters. Rene opts for trash, we’ll opt for elegance.”
“A party?” Tyler raised his voice over the rumble of disking. “Ever hear of Nero and his fiddle?”
“Rome’s not burning. That’s my point.” Impatient, Sophia dragged him farther from the work. “Giambelli takes their responsibilities seriously, are cooperating with the authorities here and in Italy. Merda! ” She swore as her cell phone rang. “Wait.”
She pulled the phone from her pocket. “Sophia Giambelli. Sì. Va bene.” With an absent signal to Ty she paced a few feet away.
He stood, watched her move, issue what were undoubtedly orders in Italian.
Around them, the disking progressed. The noisy, systematic turning of earth and cover crop. Warmth teased the vines to bud, even as the breeze that shivered down from the mountains promised a night of chills.
In the middle of it all, in the center of the ageless cycle, was Sophia. The dynamo with the future at her fingertips.
The center of it, he thought again. Maybe she’d been there, always.
She strode down the row, up again, then down, her voice rising, a kind of fascinating foreign music.
He didn’t bother to curse, didn’t even bother to question when he felt that last lock snick open inside him.
He’d been expecting that.
He was crazy about her, he admitted. Gone. Over the line. And sooner or later, he’d have to figure out what to do about it.
She jammed the phone back in her pocket, blew at her bangs. “Italian publicity branch,” she said to Ty. “A few snags that needed picking loose. Sorry for the interruption. Now where . . .”
She trailed off, staring up at him. “What are you grinning at?” she demanded.
“Am I? Maybe it’s because you’re not so hard to look at, even in fast-forward.”
“Fast-forward’s the only speed that works right now. Anyway, the party. We need to make a statement, and continue with the plans for the centennial. The first gala’s midsummer. We do this more intimate gathering to show unity, responsibility and confidence.”
She began ticking points off with her fingers. “The recall was initiated voluntarily, and at consid
erable expense, before it was a legal issue. La Signora and Mr. MacMillan have traveled to Italy personally to offer any assistance in the investigation. However,” she continued, “and we need to get to the however soon, Giambelli is confident the problem is under control. The family, and that’s what we have to emphasize, remains gracious, hospitable and involved with the community. We show our polish, while Rene digs in the muck.”
“Polish.” He studied the vines. He reminded himself to check the overhead sprinklers, again, should they be needed for frost protection overnight. “If we’re going to be polished, how come I have to fool around with a TV crew and walk around in the mud?”
“To illustrate the dedication and hard work that goes into every bottle of wine produced. Don’t be cranky, MacMillan. The last few days have been vicious.”
“I’d be less cranky if outsiders would stay out of the way.”
“Does that include me?”
He shifted his attention from the vines, looked at her beautiful face. “Doesn’t seem to.”
“Then why haven’t you come sneaking through my terrace doors in the night?”
His lips quirked. “Thought about it.”
“Think harder.” When she leaned into him, and he stepped back, she asked, “What? Got a headache?”
“No, an audience. I’d as soon not advertise I’m sleeping with my co-operator.”
“Sleeping with me has nothing to do with business.” Her voice chilled several degrees, just the kind of cold snap that wrought damage. “But if you’re ashamed of it—” She shrugged, turned and walked away.
He had to deal with the sting first, then the innate reluctance for public scenes. He caught up with her in five strides, grabbed her arm. “I’m not ashamed of anything. Just because I like keeping my personal life private—” Her sulky jerk back irritated him enough to tighten his grip and curl his fingers around her other arm. “There’s enough gossip around here without adding to it. If I can’t keep my mind on my work, I can’t expect my men to. Ah, the hell with it.”
He lifted her to her toes, pressed his mouth hard to hers.
