Wine, Tarts & Sex

by Susan Johnson

  “We had Hockney paint portraits of us shortly after we were married. I just took mine with me, that’s all. Leo’s going to say he paid for them, but I figure they’re half mine, and I took my half.”

  “David Hockney?”

  Janie nodded.

  “So this portrait you took is worth what? Two, three mil?”

  “Probably,” Janie said under her breath. “But why should I leave my portrait behind for Leo to sell or put into storage somewhere?”

  “Weren’t you locked out? How did you get your hands on it?”

  “Because I’m a very lucky person, that’s how,” Janie brightly replied. “The portraits had just been sent to MoMA for an upcoming exhibit. I simply asked for mine back, although, I must say, the curator wasn’t very gracious about it. I had to resort to screaming and threats.” She smiled. “Men never like when women scream in public. He caved, and then I watched while they crated it up and personally saw it put in a FedEx truck. You’ll really like it, by the way. I’m wearing my Rick Owens little black suit, and you know how his clothes all drape so naturally and flatter the body. I must say I look fabulous. I saw no reason to leave that gorgeous portrait behind.”

  Liv could see the headlines now: “Stolen Multimillion-Dollar Painting Found in Minnesota Barn.”

  “How soon before Leo sends out the gendarmes for you or, more precisely, for Matt and the Hockney painting?”

  “They’re probably looking for us already. But, really, with our false passports and your remote location, I really think we’re safe. As for the painting, Leo won’t know I took it from MoMA. He’s totally uninterested in museums, and the curator was too intimidated to even bring up the fact that I’d been there.”

  “That all sounds good,” Liv politely replied, figuring harsh reality would impinge on Janie’s dream world soon enough. Leo had been both relentless and ruthless in his last custody fight. There was no reason to think he’d be any different in Matt’s case. But time enough for cynicism in the morning. Picking up the bottle of wine, she smiled. “More wine?”

  “Yes, please. Your wine tastes so-o-o good. Do you have a marketer or an advertising agency working for you? I know a few people who could make you rich with this fabulous wine.”

  “Thanks,” Liv said, refilling Janie’s glass, “but I prefer my boutique label and hand-selling. This operation is more hobby than serious.”

  “You always did save all your money. I suppose you’re set financially.”

  “I have enough to live on, which was the point of working so hard those years when I was in demand.”

  “But you quit long before you would have had to.”

  “As soon as my finances allowed, I was gone. That was the plan.”

  Janie sighed. “You always were so sensible. Unlike me. I haven’t saved a penny.”

  “Don’t sweat it. That’s what a lawyer is for. He’ll get you a nice settlement.”

  “So Brad says, although I’m not so sure. Leo always has to win at everything.”

  “He can’t always win. He has to lose sometime.”

  “You think?”

  Suddenly Janie looked frightened and unsure, her bravado gone. “You said you have a good lawyer. You have Matt with you. With luck, Leo won’t find you here. I’d say you’re holding a winning hand.”

  Janie’s smile reappeared. “Thanks. You always could cheer me up. Remember that time they fired me from the soap, and you calmed me down and told me what to say to get my job back?”

  “See, things can work out,” Liv soothed. “They did then, and they will now. Don’t worry. Call your lawyer in the morning, tell him you’re safely settled in a remote location,” she said with a grin. “But let him know you have that Hockney painting-if you haven’t already told him. You don’t want to be thrown in jail over some legal technicality. Leo would use it against you like he did with that photo of Lisa doing blow.”

  “You always think so rationally. Thanks for the good advice. What time is it, anyway? Can I still call Brad? He did say I could call him day or night,” she added, answering her own question.

  “Then call him. Ask him what to do with the painting. You’ll sleep better knowing all the facts.”

  Twelve

  Liv could have used some of her own advice about knowing the facts and sleeping better, because she was having serious trouble falling asleep. When she should have been getting a good night’s rest for her busy day tomorrow, she was tossing and turning, kept awake by persistent memories of Jake Chambers looping through her brain.

  When she shouldn’t be thinking of him at all.

  Because-realistically-she and Jake Chambers had had a good time, but that’s all it was: a good time.

  It would never do to become infatuated with him because he was incredible in bed. The long list of women before her who had enjoyed his sexual favors suggested infatuation would be a waste of time.

  As for an actual relationship, it was not only ludicrous but lunatic to even contemplate such a thing after one night of sex, however mind-blowing.

  There. Really. She was a mature adult. She was capable of separating lust from fantasy. More importantly, she did not, nor had she ever, had fantasies about any man. Period.

  Maybe she could fall back on the same excuse as Jake. She was tired, not thinking straight. In the morning- if she could ever get to sleep-her world would return to normal. Her vineyard, winery, and the work she loved would suppress the tumultuous moonlight madness keeping her awake.

  Jake had spent the day sleeping, so when he woke up at eight, he knew he was going to be up for the night. For the next few hours, he worked on some rough sketches for re-modeling the restaurant. Nothing major. The main dining area didn’t need much altering, but he would be adding the sports bar he’d always wanted, and that would entail more substantial changes. Walking downstairs, he eyeballed the dimensions of the spaces, the position of the windows overlooking the river, considered the possibility of adding a terrace outside, decided the east wall would probably have to be knocked out to make the bar area larger.

  He wanted his River Joint to be like the bars he’d hung out in back home in Seattle: neighborhood places where people could relax, eat good food, visit with friends. He’d been thinking about his menu for a long time, probably as long as his discontent with the razzle-dazzle world he’d inhabited for so many years had been simmering in his brain. He wanted a menu heavy in small plates so customers could taste a variety of foods and flavors. And he wanted a bar menu that ran the gamut from Bud to private-label liquor with wines from speciality vineyards.

  He made lists on top of lists, e-mailed more of his suppliers on the West Coast, decided about eleven that it wasn’t too early to call some vineyards in France. An hour later, he set down the phone, having ordered several hundred cases of his favorite wines.

  It was nearly midnight, he was hungry, and the small niggling thought he’d been able to keep at bay with constant activity suddenly surfaced.

  He literally muttered, “No,” aloud, rose from his chair overlooking the river, and hied himself upstairs to his kitchen. He’d make himself something to eat, then maybe go for a walk. He was not going to call Liv Bell only hours after leaving her. He wasn’t some horny adolescent who couldn’t control himself. So get a grip.

  That stern admonition lasted ten minutes-maybe less. Whether he liked it or not, his cock had other ideas, and his sex drive being what it was, he struggled to keep himself in line. With considerable effort he restrained himself from calling her, flipping through the channels on cable instead, looking for distractions.

  Wouldn’t you know-nothing appealed.

  For five minutes more, he tried to talk himself out of obsessing over having sex with Liv again. It was totally bizarre how he couldn’t get her out of his mind. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t fucked plenty of beautiful, blonde models before.

  So what was the freaking problem?

  Was it some voodoo magic? Yeah, right.

 
Was he just flying high now that he was living his long-unrealized dream? Possibly.

  Was Liv Bell hotter than other women? Absolutely.

  So there. A simple answer. It was just pure lust. Nothing to angst over. He was experiencing basic male urges. Although his fierce impatience to assuage them did give him pause. For maybe another two seconds.

  He glanced at the clock. Midnight. Fuck-it was late.

  He picked up the phone anyway and hit 411 for information.

  A few moments later, having received her number, he waited for the connection to click through.

  Liv answered on the first ring.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “I should say yes, but no, you didn’t. For some reason, I can’t sleep.” She wasn’t about to say he was the reason nor that her pulse rate had accelerated big time on hearing his voice.

  “Same here. Although I slept all day, so I’m not exactly tired. How are Janie and Matt doing?”

  “Good. They’re sleeping.” Is that why he called? Hoping to talk to Janie?

  “So what are you doing?”

  “Trying to sleep.”

  “I’ve been thinking about you.”

  “I admit you’ve been in my thoughts, too.”

  “How far is it out there?”

  “It’s too far. An hour.”

  “I drive fast.”

  “You shouldn’t. It’s really late, and I have to work tomorrow. ”

  “You mean it?”

  “No.”

  “Give me directions.”

  She lay in bed after she hung up, shaking faintly, wondering what had come over her that the mere sound of his voice could make her feverish with longing. She’d never believed such feelings actually existed, that another person could provoke such spine-tingling sensations. When other women had talked about the breathless ecstasy some man provoked in them, she’d always thought they were overemotional wing nuts.

  Apparently, she’d been wrong.

  Which was good and bad. Good, because what she was feeling was fantastic. But not so good that she was wildly out of control.

  She’d never been that kind of person.

  The man behind the wheel of Chaz’s silver-gray BMW was speeding north with one eye out for the highway patrol. Less introspective by habit as well as circumstance-in this case, his rock-hard cock was serving as power player-he was pretty much focused on consummation. Issues of restraint or the lack thereof would have to wait until a more coolheaded time.

  He glanced at the clock on the dash, flicked his gaze upward to check out the rearview mirror, then quickly surveying the wide-open road before him, punched the accelerator.

  His voice of reason tried to make itself heard, clamoring, Turn around, turn around, don’t get involved! But his libido was deaf to reason, or maybe the stereo, turned up high, drowned out admonitions to caution.

  He had the windows down to the summer night, a prime song was singing the pleasures of foxy ladies and wild sex, and he was on his way to get some.

  Let’s see what this baby can do, he thought, flooring it.

  What to wear, what to wear! Tossing the covers aside, Liv quickly rose from her bed and moved toward her closet, looking for inspiration. Should she greet him like this- naked? Or should she dress or wear a robe or maybe some sexy lingerie? Aaagh… stupid indecision, when in the past she wouldn’t have given it a second thought. She would have welcomed him any which way. Dressed or undressed, sexy or not sexy, however the mood struck her. And now she was debating the minutia of sexual politesse as though she’d never had a man sleep over before.

  Really, this was ridiculous.

  She stopped just short of her closet, her decision made.

  She’d put on an ordinary robe, like the blue seersucker one on her chair. Keep it casual. Don’t make this something it isn’t. Sex is sex is sex.

  Or not, as it turned out.

  Fortunately, it took Jake nearly an hour to reach Liv’s farm, allowing her the opportunity to try on and discard a dozen different outfits. All of which were now-in her haste-tossed out of sight in her closet. Finally, glancing at the clock, she had no choice but to give it up and race downstairs. She wanted to wait on the porch in order not to wake Matt or Janie.

  Just as she stepped outside, car headlights appeared at the entrance to her drive.

  She stood at the top of the stairs as the car approached and came to rest at the edge of her lawn. She didn’t move as Jake stepped out and walked toward her unless the faint tremble in her hands counted. When he stopped at the bottom of the stairs and smiled up at her, she thought she might come just looking at him. He was consummate male machismo limned by moonlight. Powerful and assured in what she was coming to recognize as his uniform of jeans and a white T-shirt, he looked up at her with lady-killer eyes.

  “Nice,” he said, indicating her dress with a lift of his hand. “The age of innocence in moonlight.” Her eyelet dress was pure white virginal chic.

  “Thanks.” She tried to keep her voice placid like his but didn’t quite succeed. She touched the Dolce and Gabbana ruffled skirt with a shaky hand. “I didn’t know what to wear,” she added with a whisper-soft naivete that matched her little-girl dress.

  It shouldn’t have mattered to him that she was skittish and trembling. He shouldn’t have felt so pleased she was turned on. After all, he’d come for himself, not her. As always. And, as always, he’d remembered to bring something because women liked presents. “Here,” he said, mounting the stairs, holding out his hand.

  He came to rest beside her a moment later, and she saw a small cabochon emerald suspended from a slender braided gold chain lying on his open palm.

  “Sorry, it’s not something better.” He shrugged. “There aren’t any shops open this time of night except 7-Eleven. I used these in a promotion once.”

  Nice promotion, she thought, recognizing Bulgari. “You didn’t have to-but thanks.” She lifted the necklace from his palm. “I’ll think of you when I wear it.”

  A small silence fell, the sounds of crickets and frogs suddenly shrill in the night.

  Fuck it, he thought. This wasn’t business as usual; he might as well be honest. “I tried to stay away,” he said. “And yet…”

  She nodded. “I know. I couldn’t sleep because of you.”

  His smile suddenly flashed white in the moonlight. “Glad to hear it.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not sure I like feeling this way.”

  His smile this time was sexy and sweet; they were both on the same crazy wavelength. “Maybe I could make you feel better,” he said soft and low.

  She gazed up at him from under her lashes. “No doubt.”

  He grinned. “I’ll have you know I broke all the speed limits getting here.”

  “So I should stop equivocating.”

  He held her gaze. “I didn’t know you were.”

  “But then you don’t know much about me.”

  “How about I’m willing to learn.”

  “You’re way too smooth.”

  He shook his head. “Believe me, I’ve never raced to see a woman in the middle of the night.”

  “So I’m not the only one losing it.”

  “Hell, no. I’ve been trying not to call you since I woke up”-he glanced at his watch-“five hours ago. Unsuccessfully, as you can see.”

  She smiled for the first time since his arrival. “We have to be quiet with Janie and Matt in the house.”

  He grinned. “I’m not the one who screams when they come.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Look-they won’t even know I’m here.” He took her hand in his. “Show me your bedroom.”

  “I thought you might have been calling to talk to Janie,” she noted as he held the door open for her.

  “I told you I wasn’t interested in Janie.”

  “I know.”

  “I meant it.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Then she put her finger to her lips as they approa
ched the stairs, and they didn’t speak again until she shut her bedroom door behind them.

  “Nice,” he said, indicating her room with a wave of his hand. “Everything in one place.”

  She had a small office in one corner: desk, computer, file cabinet, bulletin board with wine brochures and catalogues tacked up. Under the farmhouse eaves, she’d had bookshelves built, crowded now with to-read possibilities. A row of blooming white gloxinia lined the top of the shelves. Embroidered white-on-white linen curtains were open, the windows raised high to let in the warm night air.

  And then there was her bed.

  She’d found it in an antique store shortly after she’d bought her place. She hadn’t been looking for a bed. She’d already bought a serviceable one that would do just fine. In fact, the only reason she’d gone into the store along the highway in Wisconsin was because the sign outside had heralded Lavazza espresso. Now, she wasn’t into psychic events, but seeing that bed smack-dab in the middle of the store when she walked in qualified as a bona fide mystical experience. She’d immediately fallen in love with it. The enormous size and flamboyant scrollwork of twined branches and delicate leaves reminded her of some whimsical fantasy.

  She’d asked the price and, thinking she must have heard wrong, asked again.

  The owner explained that it had been part of a stage set for Sarah Bernhardt on one of her American tours, so the price was partially predicated on the celebrity factor. “Try it out,” the store owner had pleasantly offered, as if the lady had known the supernatural was seriously at work in her store that day.

  When Liv had lain on the bed, she’d felt as though the bed had been made for her or she for it-a feeling of inexplicable comfort and joy had melted through her senses. Not that she didn’t remind herself that she already had a bed and she had better places to spend her money. Like on her vineyard.

  But it’s so you, a little voice inside her head had cooed. And doesn’t it make you feel incredibly, outrageously good?

  Liv’s stop for espresso had ended up costing her ten thousand dollars.