The Viognier Vendetta wcm-5

by Ellen Crosby

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I scowled at her. “What do you call the concerts and dinners and parties we have at the vineyard almost every weekend?”

  “Work. And tasting wine in the barrel room at midnight with Quinn is not a date, either.”

  “That,” I said, “is a low blow.”

  “I notice you didn’t deny it.” She swiped whipped cream off her cheesecake, closing her eyes as she ate. “This stuff is better than sex. Sure you don’t want a taste before I wolf the rest of it down?”

  “No, thanks. You look like you’re having way too much fun. Go for it.”

  She helped herself to another bite. “Maybe you need to forget Quinn, Luce. Maybe it’s time to move on.”

  I stared at the grounds in the bottom of my espresso cup.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “None of my business.”

  “You want some advice?” I looked up. “Don’t ever get personally involved with anyone you work with. It screws up everything.”

  She pushed away her plate and sighed. The only thing she hadn’t done was lick it clean, though I knew she was tempted.

  “I hate to see you so torn up over this,” she said.

  “I’ll survive.” I signaled Gilles for the bill. Kit reached for it, but I got it first. “My turn. You driving back to D.C. tomorrow morning?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll see how I feel.” All of a sudden she sounded defeated.

  “What’s wrong? You finally started telecommuting?”

  “Nope.” Her smile didn’t make it to her eyes. “Guess you weren’t following the news over the weekend or you would have heard. The Trib laid off twenty-six people—”

  “Oh, God! Were you—?”

  “Not this time.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “It’s worse than that bad. When the axe falls, it’s inhuman. You get called to the boss’s office, told you’re fired, and by the time you get back to your desk, the moving boxes are there and you’ve got twenty minutes to clear out. Someone from security watches you the whole time so you don’t take your Rolodex or your computer files. Then they escort you out of the building. You’re on the street, unemployed, before you know what hit you.”

  “How can they do that? It’s cruel!”

  “I presume it’s getting easier since this is the third round of layoffs,” she said with heavy sarcasm as we both stood up. “The rest of us have to take two weeks of unpaid leave between now and the end of August. A furlough.”

  “Good Lord. It’s already April.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  She slung her purse over her shoulder. “If you need help in the vineyard, I can recommend a bunch of people who might be available. Will work for wine. Will work for anything.”

  It sounded like she was serious.

  “Sure,” I said. “Just say the word. We can always use extra hands in the tasting room or out in the field.”

  “I’ll pass that on,” she said. “Maybe Dominique is hiring, too. I’ll have to ask her. Wonder why she didn’t stop by tonight.”

  “She’s probably still dealing with that kitchen drama,” I said.

  But on our way out I spotted my cousin in the bar, her attention—and everyone else’s in the room—riveted on a flat-screen television that usually featured some sporting event with the volume set on mute. This time, though, someone had turned on the sound. Dominique saw us in the doorway and gestured for us to join her.

  We made our way through the crowded room as I heard the familiar voice of the Channel 3 news weekend anchor announcing the search for Rebecca as the top story. Except for the occasional clink of glasses and the background buzz of conversation from the adjacent dining rooms, the bar was hushed as the picture changed from the newsroom to a live shot of a good-looking young male reporter in front of the dock at Fletcher’s. Bathed in the artificial brilliance of television lighting, he looked like he was on a movie set.

  Kit muttered something about him that included the words “child” and “twerp” as Dominique leaned over from the bar stool she was sitting on and said in a low voice, “Isn’t that missing woman your friend from school?”

  I nodded. Like Kit, Dominique hadn’t known where I’d been this weekend.

  “It’s awful,” I said, and left it at that.

  The picture cut to a provocative photograph of Rebecca in a low-cut turquoise evening dress, a teasing smile on her lips and promise in her eyes as she vamped for the photographer. Behind us someone gave a wolf whistle and a few people shushed him.

  “Bet that’s not her driver’s license photo,” Kit said in my ear. “She looks stunning.”

  There was footage from earlier in the day of the police boat on the Potomac as officers searched the riverbank and finally older films of Sir Thomas Asher, younger looking than when I saw him last night, presumably at his Manhattan office and then with his wife at the dedication of a pavilion bearing their name.

  The camera cut back to the reporter. “Somewhere out there in the fast-moving waters of the Potomac River is the semiclothed body of a beautiful young woman whose life ought to have been ahead of her—and more questions than answers about Rebecca Natale.”

  “Did you see that smirk?” Kit asked. “He didn’t have to say that. He’s just hyping this story—”

  “I’m trying to listen.”

  “Shhh!”

  “Police have called off the search for this evening but plan to resume tomorrow at first light.” He paused as the camera focused on the deserted boathouse. “Though they are starkly aware that they are running out of time before their efforts go from ‘search and rescue’ to ‘search and recover.’ Keep it here for the latest, and now back to you in the studio.”

  “Number one story and they gave it to that lightweight. He said diddly in that report,” Kit said. “All he’s got going for him is a permanent tan, hair gel, and a good orthodontist as a kid. I don’t know why Channel 3 hasn’t flushed him.”

  “Because he’s cute,” Dominique said. “Maybe he isn’t the brightest cookie in the jar, but you just want to cuddle him.”

  Though my cousin had moved to the States more than a decade ago to look after my kid sister when our mother died, American idioms continued to baffle her. Somehow, though, she always made perfect sense.

  “Unless you’re a real journalist. Then you just want to stuff a sock in his mouth.” Kit still sounded grumpy.

  Dominique slid off her bar stool. “I need to find somebody. Be back in a minute.”

  He took her place before I realized he was there, placing his hands on my shoulders and leaning so close I could feel his breath on my neck.

  “Fancy meeting you here, love. I haven’t seen you for ages. Come here often?”

  If I closed my eyes, the familiar scent of his cologne would haunt me with images I would be better off forgetting. Once upon a time Mick Dunne’s aristocratic English charm, rakish good looks, and the passion with which he’d courted me had seduced me until I was dizzy with desire.

  Not anymore.

  I took a deep breath. “Only when I’m sure you won’t be around.”

  Two years ago Mick floated out of my life into the arms of the daughter of an old family friend who happened to be an earl. Since then I’d become the sadder but wiser girl, avoiding him like he was contagious—though it hadn’t always been easy. He happened to be my next-door neighbor and he’d planted thirty acres of grapes along our common property line. We had shared business interests, though that, too, seemed to be waning.

  It had taken Mick three years to realize he could have skipped the expense and backbreaking labor of establishing a vineyard when all he really wanted was his name on a bottle of wine. For that he only needed to buy the labels and the wine from someone else. His real passion was horses—raising them, racing them, playing polo, or foxhunting. His second was women, as I found out.

  “Aw, come on, Lucie.” His mouth wa
s against my ear. “Give a bloke a break. Haven’t you missed me?”

  I wiggled away from him and removed his hands from my shoulders. “Like a bad habit I finally gave up.”

  Next to me, Kit cleared her throat.

  “You remember my friend Kit Eastman?” I asked.

  Mick lifted Kit’s hand to his lips and kissed it. She turned scarlet.

  “I never forget a beautiful woman. Lovely to see you again.” He nodded in my direction. “Do you have any influence with this hussy? Think you could put in a good word or two for me?”

  “Here’s two words,” I said. “Forget it.”

  I felt Kit’s elbow discreetly in my ribs. “I’m sure I could have a little chat with her,” she said. “See if she can fit you into her busy social whirl. Don’t give up hope.”

  “We ought to be going,” I said. “I’m sure I’ve got laundry to do at home.”

  Mick burst out laughing. “I’ve missed you, Lucie, I really have. We need to get together again. Dinner or a drink, what do you say? I’ll ring you.”

  “I have caller ID.”

  “Mick!” Dominique rejoined our group, a hint of wood smoke and the chill of the outdoors clinging to her clothes. “Have you heard from Simon? He’s not answering his phone, but after what I saw on the news I’m sure the fan hit the roof and he’s probably still in Washington.”

  Her cheeks were bright pink but I didn’t think it was from the cold. Whoever Simon was, he was important enough to trade her standard work attire of black trousers and white blouse for a haute-couture outfit she bought on her last trip to Paris—caramel cashmere sweater with a sexy diagonal neckline, tobacco-colored wool skirt with a side slit, and a striking leather bow belt. She also wore more makeup than usual and there were new russet highlights in her spiky auburn hair.

  “Speak of the devil,” Mick said. “Look who just walked in.”

  My cousin looked radiant as a lean, wiry man with dark blond hair, the wind-burned skin of a sportsman, and sharp features that reminded me of a hawk strode across the room. He took her hand and kissed her cheek. I wouldn’t have described him as handsome, but there was something mesmerizing in his quicksilver smile and the light in his eyes as he stared at my cousin. The look that passed between them, as though there were no one else in the room, sent a pang through my heart. Dominique was captivated.

  “Sorry I’m late, darling,” he said. “Mickey, old man, let me buy you a pint and some champagne for this beautiful lady.”

  An Englishman, like Mick. He drummed his fingers lightly on the bar and scanned the crowd as though he were searching for someone. His eyes fell on Kit and me. I heard Kit’s sharp intake of breath, and Dominique suddenly seemed flustered.

  “Simon, I’d like to introduce you to your cousin and my friend.” She seemed oblivious to her garbled pronouns. “Lucie Montgomery, Kit Eastman. Meet Simon deWolfe.”

  “How do you do?” That dazzling smile again as his eyes, an unusual yellowish green, lingered on me. “Have we met before?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m sure I’d remember if we had.”

  “Please join us for a drink.” He took the champagne flute from Mick and handed it to Dominique. Then he picked up his beer. “God, what a bloody awful day.”

  “Thank you just the same,” Kit said, “but we were on our way out.”

  “Oh, come on, love. Just a quick one.” Simon winked at her and smiled. “We won’t keep you long. Promise.”

  Kit dug her elbow into my ribs again. “We really have to go. Don’t we, Lucie?”

  “Uh, yes. We do. Nice to meet you, Simon. Good-bye, Mick.”

  I kissed my cousin. “Call me,” I said.

  She murmured, “I meant to tell you about this. You could have knocked me over with a fender when I met him. I never expected to fall in love again.”

  “I’m happy for you,” I said.

  Eighteen months ago her fiancé had walked out on her after a messy affair. She’d thrown herself into her work, more than usual, trying to get over him and claiming she was done with men.

  “Come on.” Kit tugged my arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

  We didn’t speak until we reached the parking lot.

  “You mind explaining what that was all about?” I asked.

  “You were the one who couldn’t wait to get away from Mick, remember?”

  “I had my reasons. You were downright rude to Simon deWolfe,” I said. “What’s going on? Do you know him from somewhere?”

  “Yeah, the news,” she said. “Remember that comment your cousin made? Do you know who her new boyfriend is?”

  “Obviously more than some friend of Mick’s.”

  “Tommy Asher’s half brother, that’s who. He’s the muscle guy for Asher Investments. Tommy takes care of him and keeps him on the payroll in return for Simon making sure he’s protected at all times.”

  I stopped walking and stared at her. “What do you mean, ‘muscle guy’?”

  “Security. Protection. Keeping people Sir Thomas doesn’t want around away. You know, shoo … scat … scram? That kind of protection. From what I hear, Simon’s not someone you want to mess with if you get in his brother’s face. That charm he was oozing in there is only skin deep. He can turn it off like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Ask my colleague David Wildman.”

  Olivia Tarrant had said that her boss had “people” out looking for Rebecca last night. If Simon deWolfe handled security for his half brother, then that meant that he had been one of those people.

  I thought of those hypnotic yellow green eyes and his captivating way with Dominique. I could easily imagine him flirting with Rebecca—and more. Had Simon deWolfe been with her before she vanished in the Potomac River? And did he know something about where she was now?

  Chapter 7

  Monday morning’s Trib ran a front-page article about Rebecca’s disappearance that was nearly as lurid as the report on Channel 3 the evening before. Somewhere they found a gorgeous color photo of her flashing that siren smile and wearing a skin-tight knit top that hugged her like a lover. Next to her picture was another of a younger, unshaven Sir Thomas in Katmandu with a garland of marigolds around his neck as he posed before leaving for the Everest Base Camp, cocky and confident about the upcoming expedition to the summit. The article took up half a page below the fold and continued inside with more photos—Tommy and Mandy Asher at a hospital ribbon-cutting ceremony and aboard their yacht, the Arbitrage, hoisting drinks for the camera. The headline said it all: MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF TOP ADVISER TO BILLIONAIRE ADVENTURER & PHILANTHROPIST BAFFLES POLICE.

  Still no direct reference to the missing Madison wine cooler Asher had intended to return to the White House today. I could imagine the lid the police and the Asher camp were keeping on that information and how much hell would break loose when it leaked out. Kit had kept her word; there was no hint of it in the Trib.

  Reading about Rebecca, whose beauty, career, and personality had been thoroughly parsed along with theories about her disappearance, took away my appetite for breakfast. I dumped the eggs I’d made in the trash and finished my coffee as the phone rang. When the display showed Quinn’s number, I answered before the second ring.

  “I just got back a few hours ago,” he said. “Frankie told me about your friend. I’m sorry, Lucie. You okay?”

  Back from where? He hadn’t mentioned a trip, though he knew I planned to be in D.C. Last winter, after three straight years of working flat out, we finally agreed to take weekends off to recharge our batteries before the season started in the spring. Besides, in one of my more brilliant career moves, I’d hired Frankie Merchant, a part-time employee who had become so indispensable we brought her on full-time to run the tasting room. Before long she took over planning our events calendar and asked for more staff to help as we grew busier. Quinn joked she was probably gunning for his job, maybe even mine. Truth was she could probably handle both of them with one hand tied behind her back.


  Still, if either he or I left town, the other one was supposed to be available in case something came up in the barrel room or Frankie needed us. I wondered if Quinn’s trip had been a last minute impulse and he’d decided that Antonio, our new farm manager, could handle things. If that was the case, he should have let me know he was taking off. I still ran the place.

  “I’m all right,” I said to him now. “Just trying to deal with everything. I didn’t know you were going out of town. What happened? An emergency?”

  “Nope. Just a trip.”

  A couple of his former girlfriends lived in the area. I had no idea whether he kept in touch with any of them or dropped by for an occasional visit. Though to be honest, I didn’t want to know.

  “I hate to bring up work when you’ve got so much on your mind,” he said.

  “Bring up anything. I’m going crazy.”

  “I want to start bench trials for the new Viognier,” he said. “And we’ve got one barrel that smells funky.”

  “You mean our award-winning wine that just won the Governor’s Cup?” I asked. “I crowed about it all weekend at that gala they hosted for the Ashers.”

  “I heard. We already had a call from Alison Jennings. She’s going to stop by later and talk to you about it. Wants to order a couple of cases for some party. She specifically asked for you,” he said.

  “Oh.” I had seen Alison the other night with Harlan, but we never managed to speak. Odd that she hadn’t called me directly about the wine. “No problem. I’ll be around.”

  “When are you coming over here? We’ll start the trials as soon as you show up,” he said.

  “Give me ten minutes.”

  A bank of clouds hung in the sky like dingy laundry, obscuring the Blue Ridge and matching my mood as I drove over to the winery. Last night the temperature had dropped to one degree above freezing. Grapes could survive in the cold as long as the mercury didn’t dip below thirty-two, but people were different. Rebecca’s odds had grown exponentially bleaker after two nights outdoors with almost no clothing on—presuming she’d survived the river’s currents. Still, miracles happened. Until they found her, I could keep hoping.