“Ry!”
As soon as Ryder saw the redhead seated to his right, he groaned inwardly. She’d had a small part in his last movie and had been chasing him ever since.
“Miranda.” Ryder nodded and immediately averted his eyes, hoping she wouldn’t start with her usual antics. But before the first course had even been served, she had her hand on his thigh under the table. He promptly reached down and removed it, but to no avail. She put it back, higher this time. He shoved it away more firmly. There was nothing more he could do without causing a scene, and even though the house he’d grown up in was about a tenth the size of this one, his mother had raised him better than that.
The actor with the radiant teeth reached his long arm across the table to briefly grasp Char’s hand.
“We were never properly introduced. Ryder McBride. Thanks for the invite. Nice place you got here.”
Despite the warmth of his hand, Char’s smile felt tight. Inside, she was seething. It wasn’t that Ryder McBride had been invited to the party. That was no surprise; Papa loved all things Hollywood.
What bugged her was that Nicole Simon was supposed to be sitting across from her, not him. Somehow, Dr. Simon had ended up way down at the other end, where Char couldn’t possibly get to know her better. And getting to know Nicole Simon tonight was priority one. She considered correcting the error, but she wouldn’t dream of risking embarrassing her guests.
Second, there was no one Char wanted to sit across from less than Tinseltown’s latest hottie. Other than the fact that they were both interested in buying the same building, she didn’t know much about him. But judging from most of the other beautiful male actors she’d met at Papa’s parties, he was guaranteed to be a self-centered egomaniac.
Besides, she’d had enough of actors to last a lifetime. It wasn’t enough that her own mother had been one—before abandoning the family. It seemed as though every time she turned around, Papa had a new actress clinging to his arm or lying about their pool, downing wine by the barrel. Papa had always had an infatuation with film people. And they, in turn, had always been drawn to the wine country.
The girls were encouraged to invite their own guests to these affairs, but they had no veto power over their father’s choices.
Looking around their end of the long table for anyone who would listen, the overly sequined young woman next to Ryder pronounced, “Ryder and I go way back. We worked together in First Responder. Didn’t we, Ry?” She giggled, wrapping her hands around his bicep and drawing Char’s attention to its toned thickness.
Sequin Girl drained her glass and reached over for Ryder’s. “You won’t mind if I have a teensy sip of yours, will you?” She leaned into him, lifting her doe eyes.
Ignoring her, Char glared evenly at Ryder with barely disguised disdain.
“There’s a merlot coming with the tuna,” she said, nodding toward the empty balloon-shaped goblet sitting above his plate. “Papa likes to offer a different house wine with every course.”
“It’s okay. She can have mine,” Ryder said, brazenly matching Char’s glare while sliding his own full glass of white to his right until it was in front of the starlet’s place setting.
Miranda perked up suddenly. “Hey! I heard your dad got arrested today. Did you hear that, Ry? For shooting a bald eagle.” Miranda pointed a pretend rifle skyward. “Bang! Did he kill the poor thing?”
The other guests averted their eyes, and Char’s cheeks warmed. But before she could come up with a retort, Miranda’s mind had already flitted onto something else, as evidenced by her whispering into Ryder’s ear. Signs of a scuffle erupted under the tablecloth, the Belgian white linen being pulled between Ryder and his costar.
Char fought to hide a scowl. Couldn’t these Hollywood types keep their hands off each other for five minutes? But then she cringed inwardly. Maman had been one of those Hollywood types.
To Char’s relief, Ryder redirected the conversation with what seemed to be an honest attempt at civility. “Isn’t that Nicole Simon sitting at the far end of the table?”
Char’s defenses rose another notch. “You know Nicole Simon?”
“I know of her. But I’ve always wanted to meet her.”
“You must have Dr. Simon confused with someone else. This Dr. Simon is a professor of humanities at San Jose State, as well as the chairwoman of the McDaniel Foundation,” Char said with some satisfaction.
A ruddy-cheeked woman with a thick middle blustered up behind Ryder’s chair. In her trembling hand were a pen and scrap of paper.
“I’m so sorry to bother you, Mr. McBride, but may I have your autograph? It’s for my niece. She loved you in First Responder.”
Ryder seemed genuinely surprised by the request.
“I was in First Responder, too,” piped in Sequin Girl.
The woman gave her a quick once-over and turned back to her original target.
“What’s your niece’s name?” Ryder asked. He scribbled something in response and handed it back with a dazzling smile. The tickled guest scurried back to her seat.
Char sighed. As little respect as she had for actors, she still empathized with them when they couldn’t find a moment’s peace, even in a private home. Incidents like the one she’d just witnessed didn’t happen often at the mansion. Most of their guests were far too sophisticated to fawn over famous people, even if they were secretly dazzled.
“Sorry,” said Ryder to those around him. “That’s only the third time in my life I’ve ever been asked for an autograph. I’d have felt guilty turning her down.”
His perfect mouth curved into a sheepish grin. In spite of her preconceived opinions, Char’s heart began to thaw a little.
The balding county commissioner to her left leaned over and said, “He’d better get used to it. My fifteen-year-old daughter can’t stop talking about him.”
“Well, maybe Mr. McBride will be kind enough to give you his autograph, too—to take home to your daughter, of course,” Char said, looking pointedly at Ryder. She was still perturbed that she had to spend the whole evening across from an actor, contrary to plan.
“I wasn’t asking—wouldn’t want to interrupt his dinner again,” sputtered the commissioner.
Ryder nodded. “Not a problem, Commissioner Jones. I voted for you. I liked your stance on the highway bill. Be glad to sign something for your daughter.”
The man, clearly as starstruck as any teenage girl, drew his card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Ryder.
Char picked at her salad. It would be up to her to introduce a topic more substantial than autographs into the conversation. She turned to the commissioner.
“Speaking of fifteen-year-olds, would you happen to have any statistics on the number of migrants under the age of eighteen in the county? I’m doing some research for a charity I’m involved with.”
“I could give you some rough numbers, but I’d have to check the latest figures. May I have my assistant get back to you next week?”
“Are you talking strictly Latinos?” asked Ryder.
Char’s and Jones’s heads swiveled simultaneously toward him.
“According to the latest census, half the kids in Napa County schools are from Mexican families. That number’s tripled over the last decade. Ninety percent of those kids were born here. But the number could be even bigger, since there’re kids who are invisible—not enrolled in school.”
“Er—that sounds about right,” stuttered Jones.
“Of those who are orphans, sixty-five percent of their parents died from disease-related deaths. Fifteen percent from traffic accidents, ten in farm-related accidents, and ten in fires.”
Char blinked, nonplussed.
“Of those who died in fires, about half had no smoke alarms.”
The commissioner cleared his throat and fiddled uneasily with his silverware.
“I daresay that figure is probably standard across the state, despite persistent public service announcements every spring and fall instructin
g people to buy new batteries for their smoke alarms.”
“But how many of those migrant households speak Spanish? They might not understand the PSAs if they’re in English,” said Char.
“Exactly. I’ve read that the percentage of students living in what is called ‘linguistically isolated’ families is three times higher in California than the rest of the country,” said Ryder. “What I find most surprising is that thirty percent of the kids with limited English are third-generation immigrants. They’ve gone to school here all their lives, but they’re still deficient because they speak a different language at home.”
Miranda, looking bored, switched her boozy focus to the shy St. Pierre accountant sitting on her opposite side. Char smiled inwardly as she watched him grow rattled by the starlet’s attention.
Char, Ryder, and the commissioner talked demographics right through the cheese course. It was so engrossing, it almost compensated for not sitting by Dr. Simon.
“I’ll call you next week with those figures,” said Commissioner Jones as dessert was served.
“That’d be great. I’m especially interested in migrant housing demographics. From what I’ve read, inexpensive housing options are scarce, especially Upvalley.”
Despite her preconceptions, Char couldn’t help but be impressed by Ryder McBride. There was no possible way he could’ve known he’d be seated across from a Napa County commissioner at dinner or prepared for the topics that had come up.
Or could he? Someone had switched his seat with Nicole Simon, after all. Char’s suspicions came flooding back.
Yet even if it had been Ryder who’d done the switching, she was still curious about his depth of knowledge.
She studied him as he dug into his cheesecake, wishing too late that she’d had the caterer do a second dessert. She was dying for some chocolate.
Then she straightened. He might be well informed. But he was still an actor. For that reason alone, Ryder McBride couldn’t be trusted.
Chapter 6
Contrary to all his expectations, Ryder had thoroughly enjoyed himself so far. Between the great food, meeting his favorite local politician, and getting to feast his eyes on Chardonnay St. Pierre all night, he’d completely forgotten that he’d been dreading this event.
Even the irritating Miranda had disappeared into the crowd, presumably to look for a more willing victim—er, partner.
“Char,” as she was called, was pretty down-to-earth, for a winery heiress. He’d been surprised by her brains, even if she had looked down her nose at him at first. But he couldn’t fault her for that. Who wouldn’t have been put off with the autograph hounds and his drunken neighbor crawling all over him?
That’s when it hit him. He had just entered a phase in his life in which everybody he met would fall into one of two camps: those who were—crazily enough—in awe of him, and those who’d underestimate him. All because he’d made it big, right out of the gate.
His PR agent had been seated far down the table, but now she approached him with questioning eyes, shaking Ryder from his thoughts. He hadn’t maneuvered any of the St. Pierre girls into a photo op, and it was getting late. Some people were already drifting toward the door. She wasn’t going to be happy.
“Well?” Amy mouthed.
Ryder scanned the room. A loosely organized line of people had formed to kiss the scented air around Char and her sisters, and shake the hand of their proud “Papa.”
“Need a little more time. Where’s our server?”
“Over there, waiting to clear the tables.” Amy pointed with her chin toward a corner of the room.
“Ask him to wrap me up a hunk of cheesecake to go. Then tell him to be ready to shoot as I say good night.”
Amy tossed him a look that said if he let her down there’d be hell to pay.
He hung in the shadows of the flickering candlelight, studying Char’s every nuance as her guests lined up to say their good-byes. She was a fine-boned, vulnerable-looking thing—as delicate as his wineglass, despite her height and her cool, confident demeanor. Her eyebrows were darker than her blond hair. He squinted. The sprinkling of freckles across her straight nose that he’d first noticed during dinner weren’t visible from this distance. But those lips couldn’t be missed. They were the color of ripe watermelon. Full in the center, her top lip swooped down, then up again at the edges, in a perpetual, slight smile. And the pillowy bottom one? That was killing him. He wondered what it would feel like to suck on. Soft and lush and . . .
And what? What the hell was he thinking?
Tossing back the last of his drink, he noticed again his own hand cradling the glass. Like that expensive crystal, Char would require gentle handling. Out of nowhere, a primitive surge of protectiveness washed over him.
He stepped into place at the end of the dwindling line.
Something was happening inside of Ryder. Out of the blue, every atom in his being went on high alert. This formal farewell was designed to appease Amy. He was only doing his duty by getting near enough to his hostess to be photographed for the press coverage. So why was his pulse racing like he’d just run a mile uphill? Why couldn’t he breathe right?
Then it hit him like a brick between the eyes, and he knew. The past two hours sitting across from Char had changed everything. She was crazy gorgeous. And brainy. And to top it all off, she shared his passion for helping people, a trait that was completely lacking in the women who’d been falling all over him since he’d moved to LA.
He felt pressured to pack all the right things into this one moment. His job was pleasing Amy with a photo people would be talking about tomorrow. But more importantly, he had to impress Char. Because he had to see her again. Had to. But with all his blood flowing out of his brain and into his crotch, he suddenly couldn’t think.
“It was very nice meeting you, Char.”
“You too, Ry,” she teased, playfulness sparkling in her blue eyes. “I enjoyed talking with you.”
With a tilt of her head, she turned suddenly serious. “Before you go, what was the building like? Did you go inside? What’s the asking price?”
That top lip curved way up into an innocent-looking smile, but her eyes betrayed her. She was a shrewd competitor.
“Whoa! That’s a lot of questions. You never answered mine earlier. What’s your interest in it?”
This time she didn’t hesitate. “A place to house my charitable foundation for migrant children. You?”
“My Realtor advised me to keep my plans under my hat,” he replied. He heard himself speaking but had no idea where his words were coming from.
“Your Realtor?” she gasped.
“You left. I stayed. You know what they say: location, location, location.”
Her eyebrows came together. “But that’s not what that expression means . . .”
Stupid! He shrugged it off, then forged ahead. This was it. He took her hand. But instead of merely shaking it, he folded her into him, bored his eyes into hers, wrapped his other arm around her waist, and zoned in on that impossibly lush mouth of hers.
Click.
Chapter 7
Saturday, June 14
The article under the splashy, front-page photograph read:
Ryder McBride: Drunk on Chardonnay?
The break-out star of First Responder apparently has a taste for the good stuff . . . the very good stuff.
Last night he was photographed swapping saliva with winery heiress Chardonnay St. Pierre at one of her father’s fabulous Friday night fetes.
This, despite the fact that McBride’s dinner companion was flame-haired costar Miranda Hempt.
Only last week, Ryder was spotted with “Tipsy” Rodriguez at a Los Angeles party.
The break-out star is playing the field in more ways than one. On top of his scalding hot social life, Ryder is set to begin filming Triple Play this month. The story is based on the Los Angeles Angels, but will be shot in Ryder’s hometown of Napa city. His role requires the already buff six-foot-fo
ur actor to change up his workouts in order to channel a professional baseball pitcher.
Char, as the middle St. Pierre daughter is known, is the blond celebutante who’s been seen hopscotching between an assortment of causes, from animal shelters to food banks, during her summers off from the University of Connecticut.
Ms. St. Pierre—and her sisters, who are also named after noble grapes—normally shun the limelight. On those rare occasions when they’re spotted out, their beauty and style inspire envy in women and admiration in men.
As children, their father sent them away following the untimely death of their mother, Academy Award–winning actress Lily d’Amboise, purportedly on the advice of well-meaning friends. But wine country residents have been quietly watching them for years, like all fine wines, just waiting for them to mature.
Their buzz has been slowly fermenting until this spring, when an invitation to rub shoulders with the St. Pierres at one of their father’s spring galas has become the social coup of the season.
Watch out, Napa! It’s gonna be a long, hot summer!
“ ‘CELEBUTANTE?’ ” exclaimed Char when Savvy showed her the photograph on her tablet the next day during breakfast.
It hadn’t been the way it looked in print. She stared some more at the screen. It had really only been a two-second meeting of lips. Hadn’t it? Yet in the photo, the way he had her bent backward, with his head to the side, his arm snaked around her waist, the long lashes of his closed eyelids splayed across his high cheekbones, it looked as though Ryder McBride had swept her off her feet.
“Ooooooh! Can you believe the nerve of that man?” Char cried.
“Hey, it was the reporter who called you a celebutante, not Ryder. Actually, you guys look really good together—that is, speaking strictly from an aesthetic standpoint,” said Meri coolly, examining the photo with her artist’s eye, tilting her head this way then that.
A Taste of Chardonnay Page 3
