by Janet Dailey
Bringing his mouth back to hers, he swallowed her gasp as he smoothed his hands over the silk nothing and discovered the ripple of her ribs beneath it. He rubbed his thumbs across the hidden peaks of her small breasts, felt the hardening of them, the arching of her body to end the teasing play.
Sam drew back, needing to see her, needing to see what was in her eyes. He took his time as his gaze traveled over her face. Her eyes were dark and cloudy, a hunger in them that matched his own craving. He looked down at her breasts and the pointy nubs that pushed against the fabric. He had to know if they tasted as hard as they looked.
Arching her backward over his arm, he bent and rubbed his lips over one of them, feeling the dig of her fingers into his shoulders, hearing the small breath she caught back. With a faint groan of his own, Sam closed his mouth around fabric and nipple, and breathed in the clean, fevered scent of her.
Her hands were on his face, drawing his mouth back to hers. He was lost. What little restraint he had left was fast disintegrating. The more she opened to him, responded to him, the deeper he fell. He ran his hands over her, cupping, stroking, molding, wanting to touch all of her and feel her tremble in response.
Suddenly she tore her mouth away, her hands stiffening in resistance, her breath coming fast and uneven. “Oh, God, no. Not here.” The broken protest came out in a near sob.
Sam went still, the filth of the kitchen and the house hitting him instantly, along with his initial resolve to keep the embrace quiet and undemanding. He drew back, but he wouldn’t let her pull away from him.
“No,” he agreed quietly. “Not here. Not now.”
Her eyes were wide on him, wary and uncertain, and still clouded by the desire they’d ignited in each other. Sam glanced at the wet circle his mouth had left on her camisole, and the clear outline of her nipple under it. He wondered if she knew that was a promise of what was to come.
“But it will happen,” he told her. “We both want it. You know that as well as I do.”
Standing there, conscious of his hands drawing the front of her blouse together, his fingers deftly refastening the buttons, Kelly couldn’t deny it, but the sudden clutching in her stomach had left her momentarily speechless.
She wanted him, not just to hold, not just for a few heated kisses, and not just for comfort, though she’d taken that. She wanted him in bed. She wanted him in a way she couldn’t remember ever wanting a man before. She had only to look at his sure hands, his broad chest, the hard length of his body, and imagine what it would be like to touch and be touched by him, to roll together on the bed in one tangled heap.
It was crazy, insane. She couldn’t afford to be thinking like this. Her world was falling apart; her career was falling apart; her carefully crafted image was being tarnished by the past, blackened by her father’s name. That’s what she needed to focus on. Not Sam.
But when he stepped back, leaving her completely alone, beyond the touch of his fingers, the hard knot of pressure in her stomach didn’t go away. She worked on steadying her breathing and carefully tucked the hem of her blouse inside the waistline of her skirt.
“You weren’t planning on staying here tonight, were you?”
Kelly lifted her head at his question and drew in one ragged breath, self-consciously pushing back the stray strands of hair that had escaped her braid. “No.”
“Then let’s get out of here.” He held his hand out to her, inviting her to take it. “There’s nothing here for you anymore.”
She hesitated only an instant, then slid her hand into the warm grip of his and let him lead her out of the house. She had forgotten the simple pleasure that could be found in holding someone’s hand. When they stopped in front of her car, there was no more reason for their hands to remain linked. Kelly almost regretted that. She didn’t want Sam to affect her this way, but it was something she hadn’t been able to control almost from the moment they met.
After the dimness and staleness of the house, the sun’s slanting rays were bright and the air smelled fresh. Kelly cupped a hand above her eyes, shielding them from the glare as she faced him. The sun was a blazing ball behind him, its brilliance darkening his face to a blur of strong features.
Overhead the sky was a flawless blue, unbroken by clouds. The vineyards seemed to stretch on forever around them, the ground beneath their feet ageless, the mountains silent. For a moment, he seemed part of the elements, a man born out of the hot sun, the sea fog, the rugged mountains.
“How long will you be staying now?” His low voice broke the spell.
“As long as I want.”
“I thought you had to leave soon.” His brows came together in puzzled surprise.
“Officially I’ve been given a leave of absence from the show.” Kelly tried to pretend it didn’t hurt.
“What do you mean, ‘officially’?”
“I mean that in the next few days, the network’s lawyers will probably start talking to my agent about buying out my contract so they can very quietly replace me with another host.”
“Why?” His voice was sharp with demand. “What have you done?”
“I’ve committed the unpardonable sin of becoming headline news of the worst kind. My name is now associated with a murder case.” She said it all very lightly, but some of the hurt, tinged with bitterness, came through.
“But you had nothing to do with it. They can’t hold your father’s actions against you.”
Kelly looked at him, unable to remember a time when anyone had been angry on her behalf. But Sam was. Somehow it made everything easier.
“It isn’t his actions. It’s the notoriety that’s rubbed off on me.” She recognized that, and the injustice of it. “In the public’s mind, I’m the daughter of an accused murderer. That will inevitably color their thinking of me, and the network can’t have the character and integrity of the host of their new primetime magazine show called into question. That person has to be above reproach. I’m not. It’s as simple as that.”
“They’ll forget.” There was a harshness in his expression that touched her.
“In time,” Kelly agreed. “But that won’t be for a long while. A trial date hasn’t even been set yet. Which means there’s all that publicity still to be faced. It won’t be a short trial either. He isn’t about to plead guilty. He swears he didn’t do it.”
“Do you believe him?”
Sam didn’t. She could hear that in his voice. She looked away, focusing on the jungle of grapevines and remembering a time when she’d ridden on her father’s shoulders, sitting high above the vine rows, his hands gripping her legs to make sure she didn’t fall.
“It isn’t a case of whether I believe him,” she said softly. “It’s more that I don’t want to believe he could kill a man.”
“I know.”
Those two words nearly broke her. She was suddenly and inexplicably tired, so very tired of struggling to make something of herself, tired of fighting to throw off the chains of the past. She felt the sting of tears, but she wouldn’t give in to them. She hated weakness.
“Where are you staying tonight?” Sam’s question provided the distraction she needed.
“At a motel somewhere. Probably in Napa or Vallejo.”
“They’ll find you.” He meant the reporters.
“Probably.”
“Do you want that?”
“No.”
“Then come back to the house with me. I have guards stationed at the front gates to keep the press out. They won’t bother you there, and the house has plenty of empty rooms.” To Sam, even the ones that were richly furnished were empty.
Kelly shook her head. “I don’t think so. I would be hiding again.”
“Not hiding. Just on the sidelines instead of being a featured performer in the media circus.”
His smile was irresistible. She laughed softly and gave in. “Al
l right. I’ll come.”
“There’s a side entrance. Do you remember where it is?”
“I think so.”
“Then I’ll follow you.”
The reflection of the Jeep in her rearview mirror should have given her second thoughts. Instead the sight of it reassured her that she wasn’t alone. When she pulled up in front of the house, Kelly did hesitate a moment, wondering how Katherine would react when she found out Sam had invited her to stay with them.
The woman didn’t blink an eye. Katherine simply glanced at the stout housekeeper standing close by. “Mrs. Vargas, will you show Miss Douglas to the rosewood suite in the south wing,” she instructed, then turned back to Kelly. “Dinner is at seven. I know you will wish to freshen up first, but it isn’t necessary to change. We are quite casual here.”
“Thank you.” But that didn’t alter the feeling that she had been living in this blouse and skirt for days. Kelly sent a brief smile at Sam and followed the housekeeper up the marble staircase to the second floor.
Later, when she came down for dinner, she had changed into a white blouse and tobacco brown dress slacks of sueded silk. The ubiquitous Mrs. Vargas appeared and showed her to a small salon adjacent to the formal dining room. Katherine was already seated at the table when Kelly walked in and immediately hesitated. There were only two place settings at the small table.
Katherine observed her reaction. “Natalie won’t be joining us for dinner this evening. She is having a tray in her room.”
The baroness. Kelly had forgotten she was staying here as well. “What about Sam?”
“I suspect he is still at the winery.” Katherine unfolded her napkin and smoothed it across her lap. “There was some difficulty with two photographers who slipped onto the grounds. The police are here as well, to question several of our workers who live on the estate. I expect Sam will be tied up with them for some time.”
“I see.” Kelly sat down in the lone remaining chair and removed the rose-colored napkin from the table, drawing it across her lap.
There was no further reference, even obliquely, to the baron’s death, and certainly none to the role Kelly’s father had played in it. The perfect hostess, Katherine kept the conversation centered on safe topics, somehow managing to make a subject as dull as weather interesting by discussing the effects of the drought in California and the contradictory concern that a rain could be a danger to the valley’s grape crop. Kelly was glad to have the dinner talk stay on mundane subjects. She didn’t feel mentally sharp enough to handle anything else.
Shortly after dinner, she excused herself and went to bed early. If Sam returned to the house before she went upstairs, she didn’t see him. She crawled into the rosewood four-poster and pulled the chintz coverlet over her, trying not to think of Sam or that her father would be sleeping in a jail cell tonight.
Chapter Seventeen
A pink satin sleeping mask lay on the nightstand next to Katherine’s bed. She had removed it well before dawn when she had first wakened. She hadn’t risen, but remained in bed, still wearing her man-tailored satin pajamas similar in style to ones she had worn as a bride when such a night garment had been considered quite risqué.
But it wasn’t the delight she had known shocking and arousing her husband that was on her mind as Katherine stared at the morning sunlight coming through the gauzy sheers at the east window. Her blue eyes were dark and troubled. Worry lines creased her forehead while her idle fingers moved in a silent and nervous tap across the pages of the book lying open on her lap, the book itself forgotten like the lamp that uselessly burned on the nightstand.
A rap at her door roused Katherine from her fretting contemplation. Hurriedly she closed her book and concealed it beneath the plump pillows that propped her upright in bed. With equal haste, she smoothed a hand over the duvet encased in rose brocade, erasing any trace of the restless night she’d had.
Lastly, she switched off the lamp and called, “Come in, Mrs. Vargas.”
She settled back against the pillows, tucking the duvet around her middle, as the housekeeper walked in carrying a lap tray. The tray held its usual glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, nestled in a silver goblet of crushed ice; a carafe of coffee; its accompanying cup and saucer; and a small dish of prunes. Something Katherine consumed privately or not at all.
“Good morning, Madame.” Mrs. Vargas came straight to the bed and placed the tray across Katherine’s lap.
“Good morning.” She took the napkin her housekeeper handed her. “How is Madame Fougere this morning?”
“I couldn’t say, Madam.” She gathered up the water pitcher and glass she’d left on the nightstand the previous evening.
“Why?” Katherine turned a sharp glance on her. “You took a morning coffee tray to her.”
“She refused it.”
“Did you leave it?”
“The door was locked, Madam.”
There was an instant of silence before Katherine began pushing at the tray that trapped her legs. A startled Mrs. Vargas quickly rescued it, nearly spilling the water pitcher in the process as Katherine threw back the covers and swung out of bed.
“Where is my robe?” she demanded, her dark blue eyes snapping with temper.
“On the chair, Madam.” The housekeeper helplessly nodded at it, the lap tray she balanced making it impossible for her to retrieve it. Katherine grabbed up the quilted satin robe and shoved her arms through the sleeves. “Where are you going, Madam?”
“To end this nonsense.” Katherine slipped her feet into a pair of flat-soled mules and marched toward the door, ordering over her shoulder, “Bring her tray.”
“Yes, Madam.” Mrs. Vargas cast a darting glance around the room, then deposited Katherine’s tray back on the bed, and hurried to catch up with her.
Katherine never stopped until she reached the door to Natalie’s suite, the one she had never had an opportunity to share with Emile. She rapped on the door twice, hard.
“Natalie? It is Katherine. Open this door at once.” It was an order, not a request. One that tolerated no argument.
Almost immediately there was a whisper of movement from the other side of the door. Then the click of the lock turning.
“You may come in,” came the muffled voice.
Without ado, Katherine walked into the room’s disarray. Untouched trays of food, suitcases lying open, clothes scattered about, an evening dress thrown carelessly on the floor. Little sunlight filtered through the closed damask drapes. Katherine walked over and flung them open, then pivoted and motioned to the housekeeper.
“Bring the tray and take these out,” she said crisply. “Later you will come back and clean this mess.”
In quick order, Mrs. Vargas left the morning tray and removed the old ones, closing the door behind her. Only then did Katherine turn to the woman at the far side of the room. She was clad in a long, slip-like nightgown of ivory silk, her arms crossed in front of her, her hands rubbing at her shoulders and upper arms. Her dark hair fell loose and disheveled about her shoulders. Her dark eyes were tear-swollen, her face shadowed. Natalie turned away from Katherine’s examining eyes.
“You cannot continue to shut yourself away in this room, Natalie.” Katherine’s voice was sharp with temper. She didn’t soften it, not even when she saw Natalie flinch at it. “It solves nothing.”
“You do not understand,” she murmured in weak protest.
“While it is true I lost my husband, a man I deeply loved, I do not presume to understand the pain you are feeling at Emile’s death,” Katherine stated, her tone firm now, rather than sharp. “But you must put it aside and attend to the duties and obligations that are now yours.”
“I cannot,” Natalie sobbed and lowered her face, spreading a hand over it, her body trembling in more silent weeping.
“You have no choice, brutal as that sounds.”
> “It would have been better if I had died.”
“But you are not dead. Emile is.”
Natalie whirled about, showing a flash of anger. “Must you be so cruel?”
“If that is what is required, yes.” Katherine allowed a hint of satisfaction to curve her tips. “Look at this stack of messages and telegrams on your tray. Your attorney in Paris has called five times. There are decisions that have to be made, papers that have to be signed, an endless array of details to be handled, and -” She paused to soften the pitch of her voice. “- you must begin to think about funeral services.”
“Oh, God.” She gulped back a sob and covered her mouth.
“These things cannot be postponed until you feel able to cope with them, Natalie. You do not have that luxury. You have a life to live and a winery to run.”
She shook her head. “I know nothing of wines.”
“Learn. I did,” Katherine retorted, her impatience back. She stopped and sighed. “Emile has left you a legacy. If you cared for him at all, you will see that Chateau Noir continues its tradition of fine wines.” When Natalie said nothing, Katherine moved toward the door. “I will expect you downstairs before noon.”
Kelly slept late, a rarity for her. She found the tray that had been left in the sitting alcove of her room, but the coffee in the carafe was cold and the fresh juice had separated. Sighing her regret, Kelly picked up the tray and carried it downstairs.
Mrs. Vargas waited at the bottom of the staircase to take it from her. She took one look at the tray and said, “There is fresh coffee and juice in the morning room if you would care to follow me.”
“Thank you.”
The housekeeper led her to a cheery, east-facing room, decorated in the homey style of the French provinces with its wrought-iron table in verdigris, its fireplace of pickled pine, and side tables and chairs adorned with subtle hand paintings. The woman nodded in the direction of the silver coffee urn and juice tray on the ornately carved sideboard.
