A Taste of Chardonnay

by Heather Heyford

  “Do you want me to file suit?” teased Savvy, snatching a gold pen from a drawer that glided quietly on its track.

  Char sniffed.

  “No lawsuits! That’s the last thing this family needs: more negative publicity.”

  With a Mona Lisa smile, Savvy sat back in her seat, arms folded.

  “And no, we do not look good together,” she informed Meri.

  Although that wasn’t altogether true. Actually, they did look nice together. In fact, their bodies seemed to fit together perfectly. The longer she studied the photo, the more her stomach fluttered. But she’d never admit it aloud.

  Char tossed the iPad back at Meri, who caught it just in time and continued with her critique.

  “It’s a little photoshopped,” said Meri. “Obviously, whoever took it couldn’t use a flash or he would’ve been noticed, so he doctored the exposure.”

  “I just can’t believe he did that,” Char muttered as she paced across the cavernous kitchen designed to resemble an updated chateau. “Went to such great lengths to pass himself off as sincere, when he’s clearly just another scammer manipulating me for a photo op.”

  “Now, how do you know that? Maybe he’s both,” said Meri.

  “A sincere scammer? That’s an oxymoron,” said Savvy.

  “He’s a moron, all right. I wonder if any one of those facts and figures he threw out at dinner were true, or just made up.”

  She’d know soon enough, when Commissioner Jones got back to her.

  “I don’t see you fighting it,” shot back Meri, still studying the picture.

  Ouch.

  Then Savvy chimed in. “Actually, I don’t think many people at the party even noticed much. Most of them had already left at that point, and Papa’s back was turned. And those who did see it must have assumed it was no big deal because I didn’t hear anyone remark on it.”

  Neither had Char. But then, Char had been in a complete daze, barely able to stumble upstairs to her suite, when the good-night kiss—or whatever it was intended to be—was through.

  Before yesterday, if anyone had told Chardonnay St. Pierre that she would have permitted a virtual stranger to kiss her like that in public—or in private, for that matter—without slapping him all the way to Sacramento . . . well, it was inconceivable.

  But for some unfathomable reason, she had allowed it. Had melted right into his arms.

  It hadn’t been just the kiss itself. It’d been the passionate, yet controlled way Ryder had delivered it that had blown her away.

  From the very outset, she’d found him way more intriguing than she’d cared to admit. He’d surprised her with his depth and intellect at the table. Sexy, charismatic guys like Ryder McBride weren’t supposed to have brains or care about social causes.

  Later, as he’d taken those long, slow strides toward her before saying good night, he’d paralyzed her with a hypnotic stare from deep, liquid eyes. She’d been jelly by the time she heard the skin-on-skin clap of his warm, firm hand on hers, coupling it in a warm, perfect fit.

  The decisiveness in his muscular arm as he’d drawn her into him, as if she already belonged to him . . . had always belonged to him . . . won over her body to the complete exclusion of her mind.

  Her mind. Something in the back of it, like a separate witness to what was happening, had been aghast at the sheer nerve of him! Yet, it was as if they’d floated onto another plane together, apart from the rest of the universe.

  Even now, she still wasn’t sure how long she’d been in his arms; time had been suspended when her body was pressed against his.

  “Let me see that again.” Char reached for the reader with an inexplicable urge to study the picture’s every nuance. It was a visual record of last night. She was mortified to realize that the photo would live forever online, perversely enabling her to obsess over it as often as she wanted.

  All she’d had to go on before was how the kiss had felt. Now that she had the picture, she studied it from an onlooker’s perspective.

  From the moment Ryder had asserted himself, she’d succumbed to his charm. His mouth had taken complete possession of hers; there was no other way to describe it. His lips had brushed hers, warm, soft, and barely parted, but after the initial contact, had prodded, coaxing hers open. When she did, he’d nudged in farther with his chin, eager for her as a hungry but gentle bear. Nudging her wider with a shallow sweep of his tongue, which tasted like the strawberry cheesecake they’d just consumed. Opening, closing, seducing. She’d given herself up to the strength of his arms holding her captive . . . limply followed his every lead.

  Like some lame-brained actress in a bad movie, she now realized. How could she be so gullible?

  And then, when she would’ve done anything to make him go on, he’d pulled back, leaving her utterly breathless.

  But before he let her go, they’d locked eyes again, until she became aware of his breath on her damp lips and glanced down at the wet gleam on his own mouth. He’d flicked just the tip of his tongue across his lower lip then, as if to taste the residue of her. From within the warmth of his chest, his heart—or was it hers?—pounded.

  Char had been analyzing it all night, the memory twirling about in her head as her body twisted the sheets.

  By dawn, she’d figured out the real reason she’d let him get away with it.

  It was the suspicion that Ryder had been as shocked by his own action as she’d been by her reaction. That it hadn’t been planned; he hadn’t merely been taking advantage of circumstances.

  Hours of tossing and turning deluded her into believing that maybe—just maybe—the good-looking, intelligent-despite-being-an-actor Ryder McBride might truly have kissed her not because she was a social climber’s wet dream, but out of genuine desire.

  But now, in the light of morning—and the reader—she saw his behavior for what it obviously was: a setup. A publicity ploy, designed to get him juicy press.

  “I’m going for a run,” Char announced, slamming the kitchen door behind her.

  But not before she called Bill Diamond again. That building was perfectly situated for her plans. And no mere actor was going to snatch it away from her, no matter how good a kisser he was.

  Chapter 8

  “Mom! Look at this! Hurry up and look!” Bridget sat at the family computer in her flannel pj’s. A cartoon was playing softly on the TV over by the couch when Ryder entered his family living room, yawning.

  “Bridget, how many times have I asked you not to eat cereal at the computer? If you spill milk into the keyboard, it’ll be ruined,” his mother scolded, drying her hands on a tea towel.

  The girl hurriedly set her bowl on the coffee table, milk swirling perilously close to its rim, and tugged urgently on the sleeve of her mother’s robe. “Come ’ere! You gotta see this picture of Ryder!”

  “What picture?” he interjected, scratching his torso.

  Neither female responded. Both of their heads were bowed over the screen.

  “ ‘Ryder McBride: Drunk on Chardonnay?’ ” quoted Bridget, mispronouncing Char’s name with a hard ch. She lifted her face to his, and her youthful innocence tore at something inside him.

  Bridget was the baby of the family. Ben and Brian, his twin brothers, had just gotten home for the summer, but today was Saturday. They wouldn’t be up for another hour.

  “What does that mean? Were you really drunk? Is that why you’re kissing that girl?”

  Then his mother gave him the same vexed expression she’d worn when he’d broken his arm riding his dirt bike off a homemade ramp at age thirteen.

  Nothing like that look to wake up a guy fast.

  Only nine hours earlier, he’d been at that high-class party, rubbing shoulders with politicians and socialites.

  “Let me see that.” Ryder nosed in between them.

  He skimmed the story. But what caught his attention was the photo.

  He had to admit, it was good. It resurrected something pleasurable in his gut. And below the
drawstring in his pajama bottoms. He shifted his hips a little, hoping no one would notice.

  “Well, Amy should be pleased,” he muttered.

  That had been the prime objective of last night: to be seen in public with one of the St. Pierre heiresses.

  Though kissing Chardonnay had ignited something exciting deep within him, he wasn’t fool enough to think it’d go any further. Especially once she saw this. Any slim chance he might’ve hoped for to see her again was gone like that slab of cheesecake he’d snuck out to the limo driver, via Amy’s colossal handbag.

  “Who’s Amy?” asked Bridget, pointing to the screen. “Her?”

  “No, not her. Amy’s my PR person. That’s Chardonnay.”

  “But why should she be happy? Amy, I mean?” pressed Bridget.

  The toast popped up, and his mother left the computer and returned to the kitchen to butter it.

  Ryder sighed, opened the fridge to get some orange juice, and tried to think of a way to explain to an inquisitive eleven-year-old why getting his picture taken kissing a rich society girl he barely knew would help pay their mortgage and utility bill.

  “First things first,” he said, downing his juice in one gulp. “I wasn’t drunk, not in the least. Second, that girl’s name is Chardonnay,” he said, enunciating clearly. “She’s just a friend of mine.”

  “Like the other ones I read about online and in those magazines at the grocery store?” replied Bridget.

  “Yep. Just like those. Same thing.”

  Bridget looked doubtful.

  He tried again. “See, when people read stories about me, it makes them want to watch my movies. And the more people who go to my movies, the more money I get. That’s how actors get paid. And if I get my picture taken with pretty girls, that makes me seem much more interesting.”

  “The kids at school say you have lots of girlfriends.”

  “Nope. None of those girls in the pictures are my girlfriends.”

  “That’s what I told them, but they don’t believe me.”

  “That’s okay. I only care about what you and Mom think. And I always tell you two the truth.” He could have included the bros in that pronouncement, but at nineteen, they had a healthy preoccupation with sports, cars, and real girls. Celebrity gossip was way off their radar.

  “But you were kissing her.” Bridget frowned.

  She was right. Though there’d been other published photos with him around women, this was the first shot of him in an actual embrace—as far as he knew. He only read about himself when other people brought it to his attention.

  “That’s enough, Bridget,” his mother said from over at the stove. “Do you two want some eggs?”

  Bridget shook her head and went back to her preoccupation with the computer while Ryder ran his hand through his sleep-tousled hair and groaned. He was in warrior mode for this film, but he couldn’t say no to his mom’s cooking.

  “Okay. Then I’m going for a run. I’ll be back later to mow the grass. I canceled the lawn service for the summer, since I’ll be staying here till the film’s in the can.”

  Chapter 9

  Ryder parked along a flat stretch of a two-lane road near his favorite running trail. He was on mile two when Amy called.

  “Did you see?” she squealed.

  “I saw. Surprised you waited so long to call.”

  “I know, right? Oh my god, what a great picture. I couldn’t have staged that better if I’d posed you myself. I gave them more information, but they didn’t use it. Maybe next time. I found out where they hang. You know, the St. Pierres. Bouchon Bakery for their TLC cookies, Bottega for dinner—”

  “Amy . . .” He kept his voice steady. She was the third woman he’d had to contend with today and it wasn’t even noon. “There’s not going to be a next time. It’s a safe bet Chardonnay St. Pierre hates my guts.”

  “What? Giving up so soon? Listen, I heard they’re going to be at Diablo next Fri—”

  But now Ryder was distracted by a group of women approaching at a right angle.

  “Hey,” he puffed. “I’m running. Remember? Got to get in shape for this new film. Call you later.”

  “Running? Oh, that’s why you’re breathing so hard. Yes, that’s important. You go work those glutes.”

  He slipped his phone into his pocket, then slowed as he approached the intersection.

  The group reached the corner just in front of him and turned onto his path.

  “Three-mile mark!” A strikingly familiar voice came from a lithe runner with a blond ponytail. Its owner looked his way without breaking stride—until her face froze with recognition.

  “I take it you saw the photo,” Ryder said, matching her gait as he ran up alongside her.

  After her morning, Char had just begun to calm down. Now her anger reared up all over again. Too furious to respond, she focused on maintaining her pace and stared straight ahead, though she was aware of heat creeping up on her face. Her fair coloring was conducive to blushing, and the realization that Ryder McBride might notice her anger made her even madder.

  Up ahead, none of her teammates noticed anything unusual. But then, none of them had been present at last night’s dinner at the mansion, nor apparently seen the evidence on the Internet—or were too considerate to mention it. But Char knew it was only a matter of time.

  “Just so you know, hellcat, it wasn’t my idea,” said Ryder.

  “I’m not your hellcat. And what wasn’t your idea? The kiss? Or the picture?” Char fought to appear unruffled, but both of them were already breathing hard from running.

  “None of it.”

  She gave him a scathing sideways glance. “Well then, whose idea was it?”

  Ryder dodged a big crack in the sidewalk, then wove back.

  Then they both started talking at once.

  He began apologizing, as she added, “What even made you want to come last night in the first place?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Char turned and viewed him with undisguised amazement. And when she did, she couldn’t help but notice the muscles in his arms and across his chest, under the thin fabric of his shirt. He wasn’t muscle-bound, but he was very fit and his proportions were perfect.

  “Going to your party was never my idea. My PR person managed to get an invite through your father’s people.”

  Char could hardly keep from rolling her eyes. He was so typical, predictable Hollywood.

  “But once you got your foot in the door, you thought, why not capitalize on your visit by making a play for the hostess—for the camera?”

  “Look, I’m not going to make excuses. Yes, I went to your party on the advice of my agent. But the kiss? That was all my idea. Not even Martin Scorsese could have made me kiss you if I hadn’t wanted to.”

  “Well, I hope you enjoyed it.”

  “As a matter of fact, I did enjoy it. I enjoyed it immensely.” His smile lit up his whole face.

  Char noticed she’d broken a sweat from exertion—or was it because of the guy running next to her, matching her step for step? Char was a seasoned runner, but surely Ryder had slowed his usual pace to stay next to her, a woman. With those quads, he could’ve left her in the dust by now. What was his motivation? He had to know she’d never allow a repeat of last night. Never in a million, billion years.

  “Well, that was the first and last time you’ll ever kiss me.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I figured. ’Specially after I saw the picture. Only ’cause my baby sister showed it to me. Personally, I have better things to do than look myself up online.”

  Char was about to deliver a severe tongue-lashing when her media radar went on alert.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” she asked suspiciously.

  He shrugged, smiled, and faked an innocent look. “Uh . . . running?”

  “What are you really doing? How’d you find me?”

  “I didn’t ‘find’ you. I wasn’t even looking for you.”

  “Right. How naive
do you think I am? Where are they?”

  She twisted sideways, then made a full circle while jogging in place, searching for bushes or slow-moving cars.

  “Where are who? The paparazzi?” He snorted. “Look, hellcat, you might be beautiful and rich, but the world doesn’t revolve around you. This is a great running trail. If you’ll notice, there are other people here, too.”

  “Yes, and if you’ll notice, they’re with me. I’m training them,” she said, unable to conceal a touch of pride.

  “For what?”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “It’s not. Just making conversation.”

  Ooooh, he was so exasperating!

  “If you must know, we’re training for a half-marathon,” she said, lifting her chin an inch.

  “Pretty impressive. You ever run a half?”

  “Have you?” she threw back.

  “I’ve run four wholes. I guess that would equal eight halves.” The playful grin again.

  “Full of yourself, aren’t you?”

  Was the man’s sole purpose in life to annoy her?

  “For what?” he asked then.

  “What do you mean, for what?”

  “What’re you running for? What’s the cause? If there’s a team, there’s always a cause. An organization. An event. A disease.”

  “The McDaniel Foundation.”

  What was she doing, still conversing with him? She should’ve cut him off a block ago.

  “Ah.”

  Char said a prayer that the earth would suddenly open up and swallow Ryder McBride whole. Everywhere he went, he created a distraction. Her team members were beginning to glance back over their shoulders. Did they recognize him dressed the way he was, in running shorts, Ray-Bans, and a ball cap?

  There was a brief silence in which all they could hear was the slap of their soles on the blacktop and each other’s fast breathing, and then her curiosity overcame her common sense.

  “What about you? You do this every Saturday morning?” She’d never seen him before on her regular route.

  “Today’s just a junk run. Did my LSD yesterday”—he interrupted himself—“you know, long slow distance.”