After the confrontation, he’d gone to the other side of the island, where the waves were hushed and calm. He’d thought about what Sara had done and he’d decided not to forgive her.
And then, like a kindergarten kid, she’d rung his doorbell and scurried away, leaving a pudding-and-vanilla-wafer birthday cake on his doorstep. So this morning he faced a whole new battle as he tried without success to tamp his delight at her sweet prank. He’d had to rethink the whole forgiveness idea, and this time, Sara had won. Nick Bass would show mercy.
Her door was still closed when he went downstairs to power up the generator and make coffee. By the time he finished his first cup, he heard the boys come in the front door and head up the stairs. A few minutes later he followed them to one of the guest rooms and discovered Dexter and Brody in a heated argument.
“You can’t drill holes now,” Dexter declared. “You’re going to ruin my paint job.”
Brody snorted. “You and your prissy paint! What’s more important? You brushing over a few minor holes, or this inn being properly wired?”
“You’re doing this job ass-backward,” Dexter retorted. “You should have rewired before I painted.”
“I didn’t know I wanted to then! Besides, who says running a little conduit across the ceiling and replacing a few wires behind the wall is going to ruin the paint? All I need to do is drill so I can get to the old wires.”
Dexter waved his brush in Brody’s face. “You do that and you can darn well replaster and repaint!”
Brody leaned forward until his nose was inches from Dexter’s chest. “Look, you big dummy, I’m bringing this wiring up to code again. I don’t care what you say!”
Nick stood in the doorway and marveled at his friends. Who could have imagined this? A few days ago neither one of these two buzzards wanted to have anything to do with fixing up Sara’s house, and now they’re hollering at each other over whose contribution is more important.
He walked into the middle of the fray. Putting a hand on each man’s shoulder, he said, “Come on, fellas. Can’t we all get along here?”
They both stared at him as if trying to decide who’d take the first swing at his smug face.
“I’ve got the perfect solution,” Nick said, knowing full well his grin had to be irritating the blazes out of them. But this was too good to pass up. “Dex, you help Brody run the conduit to his ceiling fans and pull out the old wiring. And Brody, you help Dex patch up the little damage you’re likely to do to his walls.”
Brody swatted Nick’s hand from his shoulder. “That’s just great, Nick. You mind telling us what the hell you’ll be doing while we’re up here learning to play fair?”
“That’s a good question,” Dexter said. “Other than fixing a few shingles and driving that little car all over the place, what have you done around here?”
“I’ve done lots of things,” Nick said. “You forget, it was me who came up with this idea.”
When that declaration brought scathing looks from the other two men, Nick went on full alert, ready to duck if either one threw a punch. When none came, he added, “Then I supervised and procured, and now I’m mediating. These are tough jobs.”
Brody waved a screwdriver around like a dagger. “You’ve done pitifully little, Nick, and you know it.” He jabbed the tool into his carpenter’s belt with swashbuckling flair. “Maybe that’s a blessing in disguise. You’d have probably messed up anything you’d taken a hand to. Why don’t you leave us alone and go find Ryan? Maybe you can help him mess up his job.”
Nick gave a mock salute. “I’ll just do that.” He headed for the door but stopped on the threshold and looked around the room. “I’ve got to tell you guys. You’ve done a terrific job. This place is looking good.”
A smile started to spread across Dexter’s face, but was wiped out when Brody snapped, “Go on, Nick, get the hell out.”
“Yeah, go on,” Dexter added. “Brody’s right. We don’t need you here.”
Nick chuckled to himself as he went down the stairs. Maybe this day had possibilities, after all.
He found Ryan perched on a ladder by the front porch. With painstaking precision, he was applying dove-gray paint to the fascia board he’d replaced. He looked down when Nick came onto the porch. “How ya doing?” he asked.
“Okay. Brody and Dex have things pretty well under control upstairs, so they sent me down to help you.”
“Thanks anyway, but we’ve only got one ladder. Winkie’s bringing the house paint later today, and then you can help.”
“You got it,” Nick replied, then headed around the side of the inn thinking he’d find a nice shady spot where he could while away a couple of hours pondering what to say to Sara. He had to make her understand that he wasn’t letting her off the hook completely.
He wandered through the thicket of brush and ended up at the press house. He was surprised to find the oak door unlocked. Either it had been open since the evening he and Sara had gone inside, or else she’d come back to admire the musty old equipment again. It was something she would do. As he looked around at all the things that had delighted Sara that night, an idea hit him.
He went back to the inn and found Ryan a few feet farther along the eaves than he’d been before. Nick pointed to a pile of discarded lumber on the ground. “Will you be needing any of this?” he asked.
“Nope. I’m finished replacing the wood. Help yourself.”
Nick scooped up an armload of lumber and headed back to the press house. He knew what he’d do for Sara.
THREE HOURS LATER Nick stepped into the sunshine of a perfect Ohio spring day and peered over the rolling slopes of the vineyard. He spotted the top of Sara’s head above a shallow dip in the ground and headed straight for her. Though his mission was uppermost in his mind, he couldn’t help noticing the changes in the vineyard. The grape leaves were broader and greener. Nestled in the foliage, the clusters of fruit, few as they were, appeared larger and rounder. He supposed Sara had a right to feel proud of herself.
She was so intent on shoveling a hole around the base of one of her vines that she didn’t hear him approach. And she was a lousy digger. Each time she stuck the blade of the shovel into the earth and stepped on it, she managed to come up with only a pitiful sprinkling of earth and rock.
Nick stopped several feet away from her and waited for her to notice him. When she didn’t, he finally said, “What are you doing?”
She screamed and spun around toward him, dropping the shovel. “For heaven’s sake, Bass, do you get a kick out of scaring me to death?”
“Not really. I’m sorry.”
“Besides,” she said, “you don’t care what I’m doing.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’m digging a hole,” she said. “I would think that as a Digging Day participant, you would have known that.” She picked up the shovel and leaned on it. “If you’re hoping this is going to be my grave, sorry. It’s not deep enough.”
He scratched his cheek thoughtfully and looked at the pathetic dip in the ground she’d produced. “I don’t know. There’s not much to you.”
“Well, too bad. Now go. I’ve got too much to do this morning to stand here talking to you.” She jabbed at the hole with the shovel. “I’m aerating. This vine needs major drainage help.”
He took the shovel from her and scooped up a large layer of dirt. “I’m just glad you aren’t digging a grave for me,” he said.
“I’ll leave that to the next hapless person who dares to suggest you might have talent at something!”
Here she goes again, missing the point about what happened yesterday. He stabbed the blade into the earth hard enough to hear the rend of a root inches below the surface. Now he was in trouble. She snatched the shovel back and glared at him.
He crossed his arms over his chest and glared back. “You know darn well I wasn’t mad about what you said. In fact, underneath it all, I was kind of flattered.”
“Then remind me to run for the hil
ls if I ever offer criticism.”
This wasn’t going quite as he’d hoped. The words he’d wanted to avoid were popping out of his mouth, anyway. “It was what you did, Sara. If you hadn’t gone into my room—”
She shook her head in frustration. “Haven’t we covered this territory, Bass? I apologized. If you want more than that, I’ll send you a postcard when I’m burning in hell.”
A smile cracked his composure. “Not necessary. And thanks for the birthday thing.”
She picked a strand of silky hair from where it had gotten stuck to her bottom lip and almost smiled back. Her face softened by degrees, while his body temperature spiked. “Consider it a mushy apology—my last one, you understand.”
He took the shovel again and leaned it against a post. Then he offered his hand. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”
She made a fist and put it behind her back. “Will it hurt me?”
“Nope. Promise.”
“Okay.” She motioned for him to lead the way.
Certain she’d just taken a giant leap toward insanity, Sara let Nick guide her to the press house. She’d been back to the old structure several times since going in with Nick, and each time she visited, the comforting atmosphere reminded her why she was working so hard to revitalize the vineyard.
She stepped onto the ancient wood floor and drew a deep breath. Then she whirled around to face Nick. “Okay, we’re here,” she said.
He retrieved a lantern from a hook on the wall and indicated she should follow him. “Come on.”
She walked behind him to the steps leading to the fermenting room, the ones she’d nearly tumbled down. Nick held the lantern over the stairwell so she had a clear view. “Well, what do you think?” he asked.
She bent down and peered into the cellar. What she noticed first was the contrast of wood on the steps. New, light-colored pieces of lumber were interspersed with the old, dark ones. The effect was a checkerboard of natural and aged finishes descending into the near-darkness below.
She straightened and looked at him. “You fixed the stairs.”
“Yep.” He beamed with pride. “You were so set on going down there that I figured you’d eventually do something stupid. I decided to ward off a calamity by mending the steps and keeping you from breaking your neck.”
She couldn’t hold back a smirk. “Your flattery is exceeded only by your gallantry, Bass.” Not wanting him to see how touched she was, she added, “You really think I’d risk my neck to see what you called a worthless bunch of old bottles and kegs?” she asked.
“Sara, the truth is, I think you’d risk your neck precisely because I said that. I think you’d do anything to prove to me that all the old junk down there is a treasure trove.”
He was probably right. She held fast to a stone jutting from the wall and tested the first step, gingerly. When both feet were firmly planted, she glanced back at Nick, who stood behind her with the lantern. “Are you absolutely certain these stairs are safe?”
“I fixed them, didn’t I?”
“That’s not an answer. Are you absolutely certain they’re safe?”
He sighed with exasperation, grabbed her arm and hauled her back to the top. With the lantern swinging from his hand, he stomped down the steps as fast as his limp would allow. In a few seconds he was at the bottom smiling up at her. “Satisfied?”
“I think I’ve got the hang of it,” she responded. “You have to go down so fast that the rotten wood doesn’t have a chance to crack.”
He held his hand up to her. “Just trust me, Sara.”
She descended into a small, rectangular room with walls of cream-colored limestone. It was at least twenty degrees cooler down in the cellar. Sara shivered. “Is it always like this, do you suppose?” she asked.
“I guess so. Must be the limestone,” Nick said. “And the lack of natural light. But you’re the wine maker. Isn’t it meant to be cold?”
“For white wines especially,” she said. “This should be perfect for a good chardonnay.”
He stepped into the center of the room and hung the lantern from a hook in the ceiling. Light spread out around them, illuminating numerous barrels perched on wood block frames. They were of several sizes, up to probably fifty gallons, made of sturdy oak and stamped with names of French barrel makers. Their dark brown color showed striations of deeper hues, evidence of natural aging. Sara wandered among the barrels, touching the smooth, worn slats held together with iron staves.
The walls of the basement were lined with racks of bottles and corks and syphoning tubes. Some of the corks crumbled to dust when Sara held them in her hand.
When she’d made a cursory inspection of the room, Sara returned to Nick. He stood next to the lantern, his arms folded, his gaze intent on her face.
“This is where it happened, Nick,” she said. “This is where the Krauses made wine for more than a hundred years.”
He screwed his face into a grimace. “In the same barrels?”
She laughed. “Probably. I don’t doubt that the wine in Aunt Millie’s cellar came from these very barrels. As long as you refill a barrel right after it’s emptied, dangerous microorganisms don’t have a chance to grow.”
“And if you don’t refill?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Then the barrels can get pretty nasty.”
“So, ah…Crawford…” He rubbed his chin while scrutinizing the kegs. “When those little pellets of yours hanging outside are full grown, you’re not considering putting their juice in these things, are you?”
She went to one of the smaller barrels and pulled out the wooden bung. When she smelled the interior, she jerked her head back. “Whew! I can’t use these barrels. I’ll have to order new ones when the time comes to harvest.”
“That’s a relief.”
She stepped back and regarded the barrels with the eye of an artist. “They would make charming planters for the front of the inn, though.”
“You refuse to give up on anything, don’t you, Crawford,” Nick said. “I’ll bet you always look for a new use for something that’s old and tired.”
She almost laughed out loud. “Funny you should say that, Bass, since that theory didn’t work on you at all.”
He scratched the back of his neck and conceded her point. “Chalk one up for the bean counter.”
Suddenly her teeth began to chatter. “One freezing bean counter, you mean. Let’s go back upstairs.”
He caught her arm as she walked by. “I can think of a couple of benefits to this cold temperature, Sara.”
She arched her eyebrows. “Oh, really? Name one.”
He pulled her to him and enclosed her in his arms. “You’ll like this one. It’s probably described in one of those homemaker magazines you’ve got in the bathroom. I call it natural heating. I believe they relied on it in the old days.”
Against her better judgment, she let him hold her. Surely she could allow herself to bask in his warmth and yet not fall victim to his questionable charms. Confident, she snuggled in closer. “The difference is, Bass,” she said, “the people you’re talking about must have actually liked each other.”
He reacted with a slight flinch, and then tightened his hold. “What do you mean? I like you.”
She smiled against his faded shirtfront, her lips against the little green alligator symbol.
He ran the palm of his hand down her hair. “And I figure that deep down you like me. You wouldn’t be trying so hard to change me if you didn’t.”
“I’m giving up on that quest, Bass. I’ve got a hard head, but you finally pounded some sense into it.”
He leaned back and placed a hand on each side of her face. Then he grinned with boyish mischief. “What? This little head? I wouldn’t think of pounding on this beautiful noggin. My mind’s too full of other, more interesting uses for this tangle of gold hair.” He combed through the strands with his fingers and returned his hand to her face.
“And this adorable nose.” He pres
sed his lips on the tip and moved to her earlobe. “And these ears…” He nipped playfully. His tongue twirled the small emerald stud of her earring. His breath was warm on her skin.
She made a weak attempt to pull away. “Don’t do this, Bass.”
His thumb roamed over her lips. “And these,” he said. “They were made for kissing.” He smiled at her. “They do talk a lot, but they were made for kissing, and lately I find myself lying awake at night just thinking about them.”
His mouth touched hers, gently, sweetly. He nibbled on her lower lip, traced the outline of her mouth with his tongue and covered the territory from corner to corner with teasing hints of what his lips were capable of doing. She rose on her toes to meet his subtle yet sexy demands, and the game became all too real.
When his mouth devoured hers, she answered with a passion as great as his own. She melted into the circle of his arms and opened her mouth to draw his tongue inside. He explored with hunger and greed. His breath came in harsh, ragged pants. Hers came out on a low, throaty groan.
His lips moved to her neck, leaving a trail of moist warmth to her collarbone. She arched her head back, an invitation for him to move to her chest. He pressed urgent kisses everywhere her skin was exposed. He parted the lapels of her blouse and his mouth sought the crest of one breast.
“Bass, why do we do this?” she rasped on a soft rush of air.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” he mumbled against her skin. “Probably because it feels so good.”
His hands dropped to her waist, and he lifted her off her feet. Her back came in contact with one of the barrels, and he pressed her against it. She felt his erection straining against his shorts.
Swiftly he unbuttoned her shirt. His hand slid over her skin to cup her breast over her bra. Her nipple hardened instantly. His mouth fed on hers again, sucking, teasing, tantalizing until her bones felt as though they were melting.
Nimble fingers found the front closure of her bra. It snapped free, and he worked a thumb and forefinger over her nipple, bringing it to an aching peak. God, she wanted this man. She shouldn’t, but every nerve in her body cried out for the pleasures only he seemed able to provide.
The Men of Thorne Island Page 16
