“Papa, I’m going to have to miss the party tomorrow night. There’s a pasta dinner at Diablo for the kickoff of the race the next morning. All of the team leaders are expected to be there.”
None of his daughters had ever missed a Friday night fete. Papa affected a shocked expression.
“What is this?” he bellowed. “You are going to disappoint your papa?” His chin lifted in defiance. “Non, mademoiselle. At this, I put down my toe.”
He raised a finger in emphasis. “You will have the pasta here, at our home, on Friday. You will not be missed at Diablo. It is the race that is important, not the eve of the race.”
Char swallowed his graceless insult, fighting to keep her voice calm.
“The kickoff dinner is very important, Papa. We train as a team, we carbo-load as a team, and we run as a team. I wouldn’t be much of a leader if I skipped it.”
Just then a slim, bed-headed stranger entered the kitchen. A shirt Char recognized as Papa’s covered her down to mid-thigh, from where a tattoo snaked all the way down to her ankle.
“I heard yelling,” the woman said.
Exasperated, Papa’s head swiveled between the four women in his kitchen.
“D’accord—bien!” he roared, gesturing broadly. “Go! Go to your dinner of second-rate pasta while your papa serves the finest beefsteak and seafood and wines in America, to the most prominent guests to be found anywhere in the world!”
From the entrance to the room, the doe-eyed stranger lifted a brow.
Papa turned on his heel and gave his elbow to his lady friend, only to abruptly spin back around. After reaching into his pocket, he peeled some bills from a bulky money clip and slapped them onto the counter.
“Here!” He directed to Char. “You will take this for your leettle race!” He stared down his aquiline nose, huffed in triumph, and walked away with the woman on his arm. She turned, gave the girls an apologetic smile and the merest shrug, and they turned the corner. Back to bed.
Meri and Savvy barely held back until they were sure he was gone before collapsing in a gale of muffled snickers. “Who was that?” asked Meri rhetorically.
“The girl with the snake tattoo,” snorted Savvy, and they howled again. Xavier’s daughters were way past getting bent out of shape over his lovers. It was easier to laugh at them than cry.
But Char didn’t join in the laughter; she only sighed with relief. She’d been agonizing for days about how she was going to break the news to Papa about the pasta dinner. Now, at least that was over.
Still chuckling, Meri scampered over and gleefully scooped up the money. “Let’s see how much,” she crowed. Papa had his faults, but he could afford to cater to his daughters when it suited him.
The three had the nonchalant attitude toward money only possessed by the very wealthy. A thick wad of bills lying on the kitchen counter wouldn’t ordinarily have evoked any reaction whatsoever. But this money was different because it was earmarked for Char’s cause.
As she riffled through the twenties, Meri’s eyes grew.
“Don’t bother,” said Char, taking the bills and smacking them back on the counter. “I’m not taking that money. I made a decision at the very outset of this competition that I don’t want Papa’s help. This is something I have to do on my own.”
Savvy spoke first.
“Char, we get that you want to do this without Papa. But don’t go overboard. There’s not a competitor out there who’d turn down that chunk of change. You want to win this thing, don’t you? Think of the children.”
“I never stop thinking about those children.”
“Then why reject Papa’s offer of help? Don’t you want to win the million? For the kids?”
“Of course I want to win—but by doing it my own way. Don’t you see? If I take Papa’s money, I’ll be setting a precedent. Everyone will know I took the easy way out.”
“How?” asked Meri. “How will anyone know who gave what?”
“Transparency,” explained Savvy. “The law requires charities to make their list of donors available for public scrutiny.”
“Exactly. If it became known that Papa was underwriting my operation, why would anyone else be motivated to help? I want this foundation to take wing, to grow. If I start accepting Papa’s donations now, where would it end? Chardonnay’s Children might as well be called Xavier’s Children. And with Papa’s reputation, that could mean it’s over before it even begins.”
Her sisters winced.
Char placed a hand on each of their arms.
“It’s not you two I want to distance myself from; you know that. It’s the old St. Pierre reputation. The scandals, the arrests, the drugs . . . all of it. That’s not me; it’s not you, either. It’s the fallout we’ve inherited. I want to change all that. Create a new St. Pierre image. Admit it. You’d like that, too.”
“It’s way too late to change the way people think about Xavier St. Pierre,” Savvy said, her mouth thin with distaste.
“I know.” Char sighed, She popped the rest of her éclair into her mouth purely out of need for chocolate rather than her nonexistent appetite and licked her fingers. “But maybe I can be the one to start a chain of events that transforms the way they think about us. Wouldn’t it be an amazing by-product of my foundation if the next generation of St. Pierres were talked about primarily for their good works, instead of their transgressions?”
Chapter 19
Friday, June 27
Ryder bent his tall frame over the low sink and splashed cold water on his face. It wasn’t until he’d gotten a fancy apartment in LA that he’d recognized how dated the bathroom was in this old house. As soon as his First Responder checks started rolling in, he’d help his mom remodel it any way she chose.
He squinted into the mirror at his bloodshot eyes. Bed was calling him back, but he’d been thrashing in the sheets for hours unable to sleep, waiting for dawn to break.
Down the hall, the coffeepot clinked against his mother’s mug, signaling that she was up. Finally he could ask her the questions that had been swirling through his head all night long.
He padded out to the kitchen to find her pulling orange juice from the fridge.
“Good morning. Can I pour you some?” she said, the carton poised.
“Yeah.” The word came out as a croak, the mere effort sending him into a coughing spasm.
“Whew. You look kind of rough. How’s your throat?”
Both knew what inhaling brush smoke could do to a man’s lungs.
“Fine.” He hacked again and took a swig of juice. “Agh!” The juice burned like acid going down, prompting more maternal doting.
“Maybe skip the juice today.” She got a new glass and ran the tap. “Drink some water. If that doesn’t clear up by tomorrow, I want you to go see Dr. Cortez.”
“It’s got to—cough—clear up. I got a race to run.”
“Oh, Ryder! The half-marathon! Here, try something warm,” she said, pouring him a coffee.
“Are you hungry? It’s only seven. Bridget and the boys won’t be up for another hour, but I can make . . .”
Ryder shook his head, went to the window, and peered out between the white ruffled curtains.
Then he turned back to face her, leaning against the Formica counter.
“I won’t be home for supper tonight. There’s a kickoff dinner for the race, up at Diablo.”
“I see. Will Chardonnay be there?”
“Everyone will be there.”
He couldn’t wait to lay eyes on her again. Her killer body, her hypnotic blue eyes. And she actually had some deep thoughts under all that silky blond hair. The woman was the whole package.
But his mom was giving him one of her worried looks again.
“Mom. What?” He spread his arms and raised his brow. “What is it that everyone has against me and Char?”
“What do you mean? Who else said something?”
“Dan. Yesterday he was filling my head with all sorts of rumors about
the St. Pierres. Warned me not to trust them.”
She hesitated, then spoke, choosing her words carefully.
“It’s not that I dislike Char, dear. Far from it. I just don’t like that your agent used her for a publicity stunt.”
“Mom, I told you. Amy does what she’s paid to do—what everybody does. There’s nothing inherently wrong with publicity.”
“There’s nothing wrong until somebody gets hurt. But unfortunately, in this case she’s making money by exposing people’s misfortune. Digging up their private lives . . . their mistakes, and their family’s mistakes.”
Ryder set his empty glass in the sink. “What mistakes? What’s so awful about a photograph of a single man giving a single woman a kiss good night?”
“Because it wasn’t her choice, that’s why. You ambushed her.”
He threw up his hands in concession. “I know. You’re right, Mom. But we talked about it, and we’re past it now.”
Thoughtfully, she looked down at the table, then changed tack and rose.
“Well, I’m glad to hear it. Let me get you some breakfast . . .”
Ryder shoved off from the counter, the sudden movement igniting a fresh hacking spell.
“Not hungry yet.” He cleared his throat. “Maybe when the others get up. Think I’ll go study my lines for an hour.”
He wouldn’t be able to concentrate on his script this morning, but he wanted to be alone to revel in his anticipation over seeing Char tonight.
Chapter 20
Char drove up to Diablo alone.
As supportive as they were, Meri and Savvy didn’t relish consuming all those starchy calories alongside Char’s exuberant team of field hockey players.
Not that her sisters weren’t helping. Meri was designing an original silver necklace for the auction, and Savvy was donating a free legal consultation, plus manning the donation website. And both were actively scouring the valley for more contributions in their free time.
Besides, Papa would really have kittens if all three of them missed his dinner party.
Although now Char was beginning to wish she were staying home, too.
She drove northward in the fading summer light, knowing that the news about the Southside Migrant Camp fire would be fresh in everyone’s mind, thanks to that story in the press. The nearer she got to Diablo, the more she dreaded walking into the restaurant. Would she enter to find people whispering behind their hands? Might some actually hold her culpable for a tragedy that happened seven years ago, when she wasn’t even in California?
She told herself she was blowing things out of proportion, but experience had taught her just the opposite. Napa Valley had an air of sophistication, but the native population was small and news traveled fast. And the irony of this story was just too juicy to ignore.
Two ambitious young upstarts, pitted against each other by circumstances: female against male . . . one richly bred and poorly raised, the other the son of a simple public servant . . . whose families were intertwined with disaster.
With a scoop like that, the other teams would be lucky to get any press at all.
Yet what worried Char most was Ryder’s reaction. How would he be taking the news? Would he treat her any differently? Blame her for his dad’s death? What if he completely shunned her? That dreadful possibility sunk in her belly like a twenty-pound dumbbell.
Because for some reason, she liked Ryder. Yeah, he was gorgeous. That was a given. But there was more to this movie star than that. He had substance. Intelligence. A curious mind that she found infinitely more alluring than mere good looks.
And the way he’d commanded her eyes when he kissed her . . . how his hand seared her skin through her thin silk top the other night . . .
But now everything had changed. And she was terrified of how he would react and how he might treat her.
She made an admittedly cowardly decision. As much as she wanted to be near him, she would stay out of his way tonight. He’d no doubt be relieved not to be forced to converse with the daughter of the man who was implicated in his father’s death.
But then she remembered: He didn’t read the stuff that was written about himself. Or so he said. She could only hope.
Ryder maneuvered a seat to face the door. When Char entered Diablo, a jolt of electricity crackled across the room, connecting them, and he started to rise from his seat. But when their eyes met, hers seemed guarded, worried. And then she looked away.
His heart sank and then so did his butt. Instead of the warmth he’d been hoping for, now this.
Christ, the woman’s moods were as unpredictable as a house fire in a windstorm. Pride shaken, he nodded a curt greeting and then went back to his plate. But his appetite for his fettuccine was gone.
Is this how she wanted to play it? Warm one day, cool the next? So be it. He’d use tonight for what it was meant to be: team building, pure and simple.
Life had been way simpler before he’d started dealing with her, anyway, and now was an excellent time to stop. Right now, on the eve of the half. He’d run better, anyway, without the distraction of a woman on his mind. Even if she was hot and smart and interesting all at the same time.
No, there was nothing forcing Ryder to interact with Char, simply because they’d be in the same room tonight, loading up on carbs. He would just hang with his team and pay no mind to the woman who’d been mucking up his life from the moment he’d run into her.
But even looking down at his plate, an intense awareness of her body as she threaded her way through the tables lingered. And all through the meal and the rallying speeches, he couldn’t shake the impression that she felt his presence, too.
A wave of white foam sloshed over the side of the third pitcher of beer when the waitress thumped it down. Ryder’s mates refilled their mugs, their voices growing louder in the rising din of the rustic eatery.
The long, narrow room was coming alive with talk, music, and movement, now that the plates were being cleared. The athletes hopped between tables, touching base with friends from competing teams, trying to assuage the prerace jitters.
Ryder turned down a fourth pitcher and asked for the check.
High time he rounded up his team. He shook his head when he spotted several of his men up at the bar. He liked the occasional beer as much as the next guy, but he was dead serious about winning this race. He wanted that building.
As he sidestepped his way to the front, he glimpsed another familiar face there, her pretty pink lips sipping from a water glass with a lemon slice wedged on its rim.
For the last two hours they’d avoided each other, but there was no going back now. Much as he hated to be a buzzkill, he wanted to get his men out of there, and he had to pass by her to do it.
He reached the bar just in time to overhear Dan complaining bitterly to Joe, the FRF treasurer.
“If you ask me, the St. Pierres have a hell of a long way to go to make up for what they’ve taken away from this valley.”
A sturdy woman in a tee with the Chardonnay’s Children logo on the back jabbed Dan on the shoulder. At just under six feet tall, she stood eye to eye with Dan.
“Just a minute, mister. For your information, Chardonnay St. Pierre has already done ‘a hell of a lot’ for this valley. She’s worked at the food bank, raised money for a bunch of charities, and advocated for migrants. So I don’t think—”
“Lady, I don’t give two shits what you think.” Dan eyed her critically. “If Princess St. Pierre really wants to atone for her old man’s sins, she oughta be running this race for the firemen, not the Mexicans. St. Pierre thinks the Southside catastrophe’s all water under the bridge. That a firefighter’s life was expendable—”
Smack!
The woman’s palm made solid contact with Dan’s face.
Suddenly Ryder remembered where he’d seen her before: running with Char’s team out along Solano.
Dan blinked in stunned confusion. His fingertips flew to his jaw, his green eyes growing mean. Then, f
aster than a shot, he jabbed his aggressor in the center of her breastbone with the heel of his hand.
She staggered. Flushing, she regained her footing. Among the crowd, the risk-averse edged away, while the curious swelled forward.
“Stop it!” Char somehow reached in, a willow between two oaks, and planted a palm on each combatant’s chest. What the hell was she doing? Neither one paid the slightest attention to her, let alone budged.
But then the amazon lunged again, inciting a wicked grin to overspread Dan’s face. She might be big, but he was experienced. He blocked with his left arm while his right grabbed a fistful of her shirt. He yanked forward and then shoved back, slamming her butt-first into two other women, toppling all three in a domino effect.
It was enough to have given most people whiplash. But this one still wasn’t through. She was up in a flash, yanking off a bystander’s restraining hand.
Someone screamed, and the bartender grabbed his phone.
Ryder had never pegged Dan for the type who’d lay hands on a woman—even if the woman was the size of a UCLA linebacker.
The woman was a glutton for punishment. She was coming back yet again for more.
It was Hail Mary time. Ryder drew back his fist and let it fly. His knuckles scraped soft flesh en route to Dan’s bony nose.
Like spin art, a fine red spray from Dan’s nostrils dotted everything and everyone within range as Dan careened sideways, crashing into some chairs. There his own teammates pounced on him, grunts and yells drifting up from the floor as he tried to fight them off.
Char looked down at her white tee and gasped at the scarlet dots sprinkling it.
“We got ’em,” yelled Joe from amid the bodies on the floor.
Ryder’s knuckles stung like a son of a bitch. And his throat was still raw from the brushfire. But all he could think of was—damn it—why had Char gone and stuck her head right into the path of his fist?
He seized her by the shoulders and frantically scrutinized her face. Her cheek was beginning to pinken where he’d sideswiped her, and he reached out tentatively.
A Taste of Chardonnay Page 10
