Wine, Tarts & Sex

by Susan Johnson

  He didn’t want anyone to have even an extra nanosecond to pick up their trail.

  “Buckle up.” His voice was all business. “We’ll pick up Matt and your luggage and head for the airport,” he added, tossing the laptop into the backseat.

  “Is it over? Did it go through?” Janie clamored, dropping the phone. “Tell me this instant!”

  “You’re a very rich woman, baby,” Roman said, pulling out onto Main Street. “You have fifty million in your Swiss bank account.”

  “I didn’t even have a Swiss bank account before I met you.”

  “I’m a man of many talents,” he said with his usual restraint. Then he turned and gave her a playful smile. “Happy?”

  “Have you ever lived in a trailer?”

  “Close-an apartment in a bad part of town.”

  “Then you’ll understand when I say I’m over the moon in every possible way! I adore you, absolutely, positively, forever and ever. And I’m taking you on a long vacation to Europe right this very minute!”

  “We’ll see.”

  She punched him hard. “Don’t you dare say that!”

  “Okay, I can be away for a couple weeks anyway.”

  “Puur-fect.” Janie had every confidence she could keep him interested longer than two weeks. “Two weeks is just perfect.”

  Thirty-eight

  Two other people were monitoring the wire transfer. Dan Wygren and Leo’s inside man at the bank. They both saw the routing number for the New York bank being keyed in and waited for the confirmation that the money had reached Janie’s account.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  And… waited.

  Herbie Austen murmured, “Crap,” real softly when he realized what had happened.

  Dan Wygren sat openmouthed and ashen.

  Herbie didn’t really care one way or another. He didn’t have a piece of this major blunder. He was just the pickup man.

  Dan immediately went into survival mode. Not that he hadn’t made previous arrangements for fleeing the country. Working for Leo was not for the faint of heart. Picking up the phone, he rang Leo. “We’re good,” he said cryptically, offering the prearranged signal for a successful transfer. “I’m heading downtown to check on Herbie.” A few moments later, Dan opened the door of his wall safe and swept its contents into a duffel bag. Zipping the bag, he replaced the curio cabinet displaying his accounting diplomas that hid his safe and, walking past his assistant in the outer office, said, “I’ll be gone for the afternoon.”

  An hour later Leo had begun pacing, the further confirmation he’d been expecting to receive from Dan not forthcoming. When he called his accountant’s office, Dan’s assistant could only tell him that Mr. Wygren was out for the afternoon.

  A call to Dan’s personal cell phone number informed him that the number was no longer in operation.

  At that point Leo began to panic.

  He called Herbie at the bank, when he knew never to call Herbie at the bank. But fifty million dollars made one break the rules.

  Herbie said curtly, “I’m sorry, he’s not here,” and hung up. Not that he didn’t understand why Leo had been so rash as to call. But that didn’t mean he wanted to risk his future.

  After Herbie’s brusque dismissal, unable to breathe, Leo collapsed in a chair and struggled to draw air into his lungs. Christ almighty, was he dying? Was he having a heart attack? Gasping for air, he yelped for Ben.

  “A shot-of-whiskey,” he panted when Ben appeared.

  “Should I call a doctor? You look”-Ben didn’t want to say like you’re dying-“a little pale.”

  “Whiskey,” Leo choked out.

  Maybe this is the big one, Ben thought, as he walked to Leo’s wet bar. Maybe Leo Rolf was going to pack it in. Fortunately, he wasn’t required to make life-or-death decisions -only take orders. Sliding aside the frosted glass door that concealed the bar, Ben reached for Leo’s favorite single malt, poured half a glass, carried it back, and placed it in Leo’s shaking hand.

  “Fifty million!” Leo muttered, trying to get the glass to his mouth without spilling it all over. Fucking fifty million, and he didn’t even know where it had gone.

  Ben wasn’t sure he wanted to know anything about fifty million dollars that had damned near iced Leo, but in the end, curiosity overcame him. “Pardon me?” he said, trying to look caring and concerned.

  Leo’s steely gaze locked on Ben. “Don’t you have something to do?” he growled.

  Ben swiftly exited the office, knowing Leo was on the mend.

  No one could deliver evil-eyed malevolence like Leo.

  He was back in fighting form.

  The banker on the island of Nauru had done a quick double take when the fifty million he was wiring seemed to flicker for a split second in midtransfer. But the visual flutter was gone before he could seriously question it. Some brief electrical malfunction, he decided. Or maybe a momentary glitch at the bank on the other end.

  Little did he know that it was Roman’s software program being triggered at the first indication of Leo’s password. Once inside the transmission, Roman’s programed worm monitored the keystrokes coming out of the bank in Nauru. Immediately it recognized Janie’s bank routing number, and the worm simply substituted her previously coded-in Swiss bank account routing number for the New York bank number. The fifty million shifted direction. Seconds later, the money was in Switzerland, the transaction was executed, and the worm deleted itself.

  Thirty-nine

  Due to a certain urgency surrounding their departure, Janie didn’t come to personally say good-bye to Liv, but she called from the plane.

  That evening, when Liv finally came in from the fields, she listened to Janie’s breathless, convoluted, and apologetic message. She smiled as Janie talked excitedly of their trip to Europe and all the sights they were planning to see, telling Liv that the Hockney was going to be picked up by one of Roman’s employees, that she was having Brad serve Leo with divorce papers. And best of all, Roman was going to have a little talk with Leo in a few days. “To make sure that Leo will never give me any grief,” she’d added with a giggle. “Ciao, darling,” she’d said at the end in her best soap opera voice. “I’ll keep in touch.”

  Good for her, Liv thought, hanging up the phone. It sounded as though Janie had actually trumped the king of mean.

  Not that Roman hadn’t contributed mightily.

  But having Roman’s help was really nice for Janie.

  And for Matt. Roman was kindness itself to the boy.

  With all the unreserved happiness exploding from Liv’s message machine-Janie’s triumphant coup, the fifty mil, Roman and Matt at her side-Liv was left feeling slightly melancholy. Okay, maybe more than slightly. More like whiny and grumbly and uncharitably envious.

  Why didn’t improbably good things like that happen to her?

  Janie had fifty million dollars, a darling little boy, and Roman for a friend and lover. She, on the other hand, had two horses, three cats, and a grape crop that may or may not turn out well.

  Why did her life suddenly seem to suffer in comparison?

  Fortunately, she was not melancholy by nature, so it only took her a few minutes of deductive reasoning to talk herself out of being stupid. She was still living the life she’d always wanted, and she had plenty of personal and business interests to keep her both grounded and content. If Jake Chambers and Janie’s marital whirlwind hadn’t blown into her secluded, happy-as-a-clam universe, she wouldn’t have given a moment’s thought to fifty million dollars or anything else of Janie’s.

  There. It was just a matter of putting things into perspective.

  She could feel herself mellowing out.

  For one thing, she had her peace and quiet back-no small thing for someone who was a hermit at heart.

  And she didn’t have to answer to anyone; her schedule was her own.

  She liked to have the house to herself once again. Really.

  Bringing up a bott
le of wine from her cellar, she went out on her porch and sat in her favorite lavender rocker. Pouring herself a glass of Frontenac red, she took a sip and surveyed her vineyards, bathed now in the magenta glow of sunset.

  Was this nice or what?

  Seriously, she wished Janie the best. If anyone would enjoy the lifestyle fifty million would buy, it was Janie Tabor from West Texas. She loved the jet-setting life; she’d married Leo for his money, after all. And now she had the financial security she’d always wanted.

  Liv knew she would never be happy in the jet set. In fact, she’d deliberately left it behind. So count your blessings.

  Lifting her glass to the setting sun, she did just that.

  To old friends like Janie.

  May the wind always be at her back.

  And to her own life, newly becalmed and restored to normal.

  Now, it was all well and good to rationally assess her feelings, and by and large, Liv was successful in locking away any confusing emotions during the daytime. In the bustle and activity of the vineyard, she successfully kept thoughts of Jake Chambers at bay. Her crews were back, and she and Chris were occupied with myriad tasks. They’d just purchased a new stainless steel vat that had to be squeezed into the limited space in their winery and incorporated into their production line. They were propagating new grapevines, monitoring new hybrids they’d developed, and adding new plantings to the fields. Deliveries had to be made, along with the ordering and invoicing that never went away. Life was hectic, and for that Liv was grateful.

  The night hours were the problem.

  She decided a week or so after her blowup with Jake that the reason she was still thinking about him was probably just a matter of physical withdrawal. She’d never spent so much time with any one man. Or, more pertinently, spent so much time having sex with any one man. As a remedy for what she perceived as these withdrawal symptoms, she’d seriously considered accepting one of the many invitations for dates that constantly came her way. Hadn’t she always enjoyed her social life? But when she should have said yes to a date or hanging out, she didn’t.

  She’d make some excuse; generally she’d blame her heavy schedule. “Maybe later,” she’d politely say, “when the grape harvest is in.”

  As if her work had ever stopped her from dating before.

  But there was no point in going there. Opening that can of worms would require she admit to something she didn’t want to-that she missed Jake. Or needed him. Or worse, was infatuated with him more than she wished. And since he hadn’t called once since she’d walked out of his restaurant. And since he was probably real busy with his drop-dead good-looking Miss Peru assistant chef or whatever, it looked as though she was missing him a helluva lot more than he was missing her.

  Damn.

  It was like seriously bizarre. She didn’t in the least feel like going on a date-having to be nice and chat up some guy she couldn’t care less about. For sure, she wasn’t in the mood for sex. This from a woman who had always viewed sex as part of a healthy lifestyle.

  Correction. She was in the mood for sex all right, but the list of candidates was extremely short-and therein lay the rub. Jake wasn’t looking to have sex with her; he was busy screwing his sexpot chef.

  One day, Shelly called and said in a voice that one would use to upbraid an employee who was a perennial fuck-up, “I’m only going to say this once. I have been extremely patient with your moodiness and, quite frankly, full-blown denial the past three weeks. But if you don’t come into town tonight, I’m going to drive up there, forcibly throw you into my car, and bring you back to the cities for a girls’ night out.”

  “First, you can’t throw me anywhere,” Liv replied, clearly unafraid of a woman she’d known since grade school. “I outweigh you. And secondly, I really do have a tremendously busy schedule, so thanks, but no thanks.”

  “Like hell you have a busy schedule. You don’t work at night. I know, ’cause I talk to you almost every night, and you’re moping around, drinking wine and eating ice cream and pizza. We can throw one of your bottles of wine in the car, and I’ll get you a pizza down here, if that’s what it takes. You’re never going to get over him if you don’t even look at another man.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s no one to get over.”

  Shelly snorted. “When was the last time you had sex? Let me answer that question for you. It was twenty-two days ago. That’s a record for you.”

  “It is not.”

  “Whatever-the point is, you’re in the dumps. Amy called me. Okay? So it’s not just me who’s noticed. We’ll go out on the town tonight. Betsy said the new bartender at Quantum is so-o-o hot, he’s worth fighting your way through the crowd to the bar. His name’s Sonny, he’s ripped, and has the longest lashes anyone’s ever seen. So get dressed. I’m not taking no for an answer. Wear something sexy. I’ll be there in an hour.”

  “It’s Thursday. Let’s at least wait until the weekend.”

  “Nope. You’ll have some other excuse then. I’m coming up.”

  “Don’t, don’t-okay, okay. I’ll drive down.”

  “If you’re not here in one hour fifteen, I’m on my way north. No more excuses. I’ve heard them all the last three weeks. There’s plenty of other fish in the sea, and I’m taking you fishin’ tonight.”

  Liv laughed. “You’re a pain, but you’re probably right.”

  “Probably? It’s either this or a therapist, and they cost more than they’re worth. At least this way, you get to drink one of Sonny’s famous libations in the bargain. Wear your Issey Miyake-that chartreuse number with the halter top. I’m hanging up. You’re on the clock.”

  Forty

  Jake hadn’t been moping around, but he’d not been exactly his old self, either. Unlike Liv, who’d been playing the hermit, Jake and his colleagues had been out every night. They’d eaten at every restaurant of note in the cities, they’d gone to all the hip bars and night spots. They’d even availed themselves of the various invitations to sleep over they’d received.

  Or three of them had.

  Jake had turned monkish.

  Elena didn’t believe it and was still in hot pursuit, even though he’d turned her down.

  “I don’t want to be rude,” he’d said when she’d climbed into his bed the night of her arrival, “but maybe we should leave things where they were when I left L.A.”

  Shrugging faintly, she’d moved away. But only to the edge of his bed, where she’d surveyed him with a lazy smile. “Is it about that blonde who left in a huff?”

  “Nah. It’s a Zen thing.”

  “So this Zen thing requires celibacy?”

  “Let’s just say it does right now.”

  Her brows rose. “You are burned out.”

  “Something like that.” He must be burned out. He’d never been selective about his fucking. It had always been anyone, anywhere, anytime.

  “Would you mind terribly if I just slept here tonight?” She nodded at his crotch. “If I promise not to attack your spiritually converted cock?”

  “Be my guest.” He could be tactful; he wasn’t completely off his nut. Other than not wanting to fuck Elena, who had always been eminently fuckable. But he wasn’t joking about the Zen thing. He just wasn’t in the mood.

  Had he been less secure in himself, he might have been shaken by his sudden volte-face. But self-confidence had never been an issue, and right now he didn’t feel like fucking anyone.

  Oh really, a damnable voice inside his head had snidely intoned.

  “I need a drink. How about you?” Swinging his feet over the side of the bed, he’d quickly risen. No way was he going to lie in bed and obsess over her.

  In the following days, the frantic construction schedule aside, they all spent hours in the kitchen working on menu choices for the River Joint. They cooked old favorites and far-out fusion dishes, they experimented with drinks and desserts, baked a variety of artisan breads, constantly tasting and discarding, agr
eeing and disagreeing, choosing finally the bare-bones items that would be regulars on the menu. To those would be added seasonal dishes, creative whims, and frequently asked-for foods from customers.

  Each day brought Jake’s dream of a neighborhood joint closer to fruition.

  Each day he tactfully evaded Elena’s advances. He even understood her persistence. They’d known each other a long time.

  Each day he put up with kidding about his new virtue from his male colleagues.

  And each day he had to force himself not to make the call he wanted to make.

  He actually drove all the way up to Liv’s place twice in the wee hours of the morning and then just parked out on the road. Both times he couldn’t quite bring himself to drive in. That reluctance was either testament to his self-control or lack thereof.

  A therapist would have to figure out which.

  Thursday night or not, the club was crowded. For most people, the evening started at one of the bars with couches, easy chairs, and quiet jazz, but later on, everyone was at one of the bars like Quantum, where the music rocked, the vibe was hot, and getting it on was the name of the game.

  When Liv and Shelly entered Quantum and moved toward the roped-off section, one of the slowly rotating spotlights caught Liv in its tinseled blaze. Her beaded chartreuse silk dress shimmered under the brilliant luminescence, her pale hair glowed, her long, shapely legs under her short skirt lured every male eye as did her barely there halter top that left little to the imagination.

  Maybe Jake inadvertently moved when he saw her, or maybe his banquette in the VIP section was directly in her line of vision.

  Who saw whom first was uncertain.

  But their eyes met through the flashing lights and raucous din.

  Liv came to such a sudden stop Shelly walked into her.