He stared at her for a long moment. Five years ago she could have read his eyes, known what he was thinking, what he was feeling. Not anymore. The years had changed him, she realized. He was a different man, one she barely recognized. And she was a different woman.
“I heard your mother bought the pub,” Trace said unexpectedly.
“She’d been running the place for the past fifteen years anyway.” Grateful for the change in subject, Becca managed a smile. “It only made sense that Joseph would sell to her when he retired. She’s having a grand opening next week.”
She knew she was babbling now. Trace and his family owned one of the largest and most successful wineries in Napa Valley. Why would he even be remotely interested in a grand opening for Elaine Marshall’s beer pub?
“You staying with her?”
“Just for two or three weeks, while I’m working on this project.”
“Ivy Glen’s a first-rate winery,” he stated. “You must have impressed them.”
They both knew how incredibly difficult it was to break into product photography work in Napa Valley, especially for a design company that hadn’t already established a track record. “I’m happy they’re giving me a chance.”
When he said nothing, just continued to stare at her with those piercing green eyes of his, she shifted awkwardly. She didn’t think her nerves could take any more of this superficial, polite conversation. “I should be going.”
Nodding, he stepped aside. “Take care, Becca.”
“You, too, Trace.”
Somehow, on legs that felt like rubber, she managed to hold herself upright and walk, not run, away.
Fists in his pockets, Trace stood outside The Cask and Cleaver and waited for the knot in stomach to unwind. Idiot.
What the hell had he been thinking? That somehow, magically, if he walked right up to her, if he looked her in the eyes and had a civil conversation with her, that all the anger he’d carried since she’d left would suddenly disappear?
It hadn’t. If anything, he’d only made it worse. Made that knuckled fist in his gut colder, tighter.
Would it have mattered to him if she’d have made an attempt to apologize? he wondered. He considered it, then shook his head. No. It wouldn’t have mattered. It might have even made him more angry.
You were the one who left, he’d reminded her, and for a moment, before she’d looked away, he’d almost thought he’d seen regret in her eyes. Guilt, he supposed. Five years ago she’d left him with a note and the engagement ring he’d placed on her finger only a month earlier. He’d stood there in disbelief, staring at her letter in disbelief until the words became lasered into his brain. I’m sorry, Trace, but I have an opportunity to study photography in Milan, and I must follow my dream. I hope that someday you will find it in your heart to forgive me. I wish you all the best, always.
What a fool he’d been to think that her dream had been to be his wife and the mother of his children.
Even now, after all this time, even after what she’d done, she still got to him. When she’d bumped into him and he’d held her arms, it had taken every ounce of strength not to pull her against him.
I should have, he thought, clenching his jaw. I should have dragged her into my arms and kissed her senseless, then walked away.
“Hey, mister, you got the time?”
Two teenage girls in knitted hats and scarfs passing by on the sidewalk jarred Trace out of his thoughts. He glanced at his watch. Damn. “Seven-twenty.”
“Thanks. Merry Christmas,” the girls said in unison, then hurried off, giggling and looking back at him over their shoulders.
Good grief, it was bad enough he was standing around thinking about Becca, now he had high school girls flirting with him. He scrubbed a hand over his face, knew he had to pull it together or Paige would know something was off.
“Good evening, Mr. Ashton.” The hostess smiled a greeting when Trace stepped into the dimly lit restaurant. “Your sister is waiting for you.”
“Thanks, Cindy.”
Shrugging out of his overcoat, Trace followed the pretty blonde to a corner booth where Paige was busy studying a menu. The scent of butter-grilled steaks filled the oak-paneled room and the light of flickering votives cast shadows on thick oak tables. An instrumental version of “White Christmas” drifted from unseen speakers.
“Jim Beam, straight up, please,” Trace told the hostess, then gave his sister a peck on the cheek and slid into the booth across from her. “Sorry I’m late.”
“No need to be.” Paige picked up the glass of red wine on the table. “I just got here myself. It’s not easy shopping for the man who has everything.”
A woman in love, Trace thought, glancing at his sister. Paige, with her soft brown hair and sparkling hazel-green eyes, had a pretty glow about her he’d never seen before. “I’m not that hard to buy for, am I?”
“You know perfectly well I’m talking about Matt,” she said, lifting one brow. “I have no idea what he wants.”
“Save your time and money.” Trace glanced at the glittering engagement diamond on Paige’s left hand. “He’s already got what he wants.”
Smiling, Paige stared at the ring. “We both do. I love him so much, Trace.”
“You set the date yet?”
“June, I think, but that doesn’t give me much time to plan.”
“Six months isn’t enough time?” Trace shook his head. “I’ve never understood how it could take so long to prepare for a ten minute ceremony and a four hour party.”
“That’s because you’re a man,” she said, smiling while she sipped her wine. “Wait until you get married, then you’ll understand.”
“Not gonna happen, sis.” He made an X with his index fingers and, eager to change the subject, asked, “Now you want to tell me why you suddenly had to see me tonight?”
“I saw Jack today.”
Jack was their two-year-old half-brother, the last of the ten children that Spencer Ashton had fathered. Little Jack’s mother had been Spencer’s mistress, but the woman had died and the boy’s aunt Anna had come to Napa with her nephew. “Paige—”
“Just hear me out.” Paige reached across the table and took her brother’s hand. “He’s so adorable. He’s got a smile that could melt an iceberg. He’s exactly what we all need, Trace, the one thing that could pull this entire family together.”
Sweet Paige, Trace thought with a sigh. Always the peacemaker. “We have seven half-brothers and-sisters, Paige, six of them abandoned by our father before he married our mother and raised us. You honestly think that one child could possibly bring us all together?”
“Come with me to visit him, Trace.” Paige squeezed his hand. “Get to know him.”
“You seem to forget I already tried that,” Trace said sourly. “If I step foot on The Vines estate again, Eli will probably sick the dogs on me.”
“You seem to forget the last time Eli came to the winery,” Paige reminded him. “You greeted the man with a fist to his jaw.”
“So maybe I overreacted a little,” Trace admitted reluctantly. Eli had given back as good as he’d taken, and they’d both come away bruised and a little bloody that day.
The hostess returned with Trace’s drink and Paige waited until the woman had left, then leaned forward and arched a brow. “You overreacted a little?”
“Okay, fine.” Frowning, Trace tossed back a swallow of the whiskey, felt it burn all the way to his stomach. “So I overreacted a lot. Satisfied?”
“I’ll be satisfied when you put a stop to this feud.”
It surprised Trace how different his youngest sister had become since she’d met her fiancé. More confident, more determined. Both qualities he admired, but not when they were being used against him, he decided.
“Does our mother know you’re making alliances with the enemy?” he asked.
“They’re not the enemy, Trace,” Paige said softly. “They’re family. And like it or not, we share blood. If you’d at l
east give them a chance, you might actually like them. And as far as our mother goes, you know perfectly well she’d throw a tantrum if she found out I was visiting Jack or any of those ‘people’ as she so delicately calls them.”
A tantrum would be putting it mildly, Trace thought. Lilah Ashton had made it abundantly clear to all three of her children that they were to have nothing to do with their half-sisters and-brothers or with Louret Vineyards, the winery that Spencer’s second wife, Caroline, had started after their divorce. Trace knew—hell, everyone knew—that his mother was afraid she might have to share her late husband’s fortune with the children of his first two marriages.
“Please, Trace,” Paige pleaded. “Just tell me you’ll think about it.”
“Fine.” He sighed and took another swallow of whiskey. “I’ll think about it.”
“Thank you.” Paige clinked her glass against Trace’s, then leaned back, sipping her wine while she studied him. “So now are you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“About Becca.”
His hand tightened around the glass in his hand, then he casually set the drink back down. “What about Becca?”
“I saw you talking to her.” Paige kept her hazel-green gaze on him.
Dammit, anyway. Wouldn’t it figure that Paige had seen him? “We crossed paths. No big deal.”
“You just saw the woman you were going to marry for the first time in five years.” Paige lightly swirled the wine in her glass. “You don’t think that’s a big deal?”
He resisted the urge to down the rest of his whiskey. “No, I don’t.”
“I heard she’s in town for a few weeks.”
“Did you?” Trace did his best to look bored.
“Do you plan on seeing her while she’s here?”
“No, I do not.”
“You should, you know.”
“Is that so?” Where the hell was their waitress? he wondered, and glanced around the restaurant. “Why is that?”
“Lots of reasons,” Paige said. “One, to give her a chance to explain why she left like she did.”
“You know exactly why she left,” Trace said through gritted teeth.
Paige stared at her wine thoughtfully. “You should at least hear it from her.”
Bad idea. “You have another reason?”
“Closure,” she said with a shrug. “Or a new beginning.”
Just what he needed from his little sister. Advice on his personal life. “For God’s sake, Paige. It’s been five years. We’ve both moved on. End of story. Period.”
Blissfully, the waitress showed up at that moment and, Paige, smart woman that she was, let the subject drop.
He didn’t need closure, and he sure as hell didn’t need a new beginning, Trace thought, only half listening to the menu specials for the evening.
When it came to Becca, he didn’t need a damn thing.
Two
S till wearing her robe, Becca stood at the kitchen window and watched a soft rain dampen the juniper bushes and sidewalk lining her mother’s front lawn. A steady drip, drip, drip of water from the eaves broke the early morning stillness, but it was a good sound, she thought. A calming sound.
Lord knew she needed a little calm. Turning from the window, she dragged both hands through her tangled hair, scooped grounds into the coffeemaker, added water and flipped it on. After a night of restless sleep and disturbing dreams, she also needed a little caffeine.
While the coffeepot hissed and sputtered, Becca moved to the small round kitchen table in the corner of the room and slid her fingertips over the curved top of an oak chair. How many times had she sat here in this very chair with Trace and talked until the early hours of the morning? How many cups of coffee had they shared, how many dreams?
How many kisses?
She closed her eyes on a sigh, then dropped her hand away. Too many to count, she thought.
Just thinking about Trace’s kiss sent a ripple of heat up her spine. He was the only man who’d ever made her feel that way. The only man who’d made her heart race and her knees weak. She supposed every woman looked back on her first love with those same feelings, but he hadn’t simply been her first love. He’d been her only love.
“You’re up early.”
Startled, Becca turned at the sound of her mother’s voice. She stood in the doorway, her reading glasses tucked neatly into the thick mass of brown hair she’d clipped on top of her head and a stack of file folders in her arms. Even at forty-two, Elaine Marshall hadn’t a speck of gray, though the corners of her soft hazel eyes had tiny lines. She was an attractive woman, compact—five feet tall if she stretched her neck—and with a coat on, almost a hundred pounds. Dynamo was the word most people used to describe her. She had endless energy and Becca, in her entire life, couldn’t remember a night her mother had slept more than six hours.
Apparently last night was no exception, Becca thought, noticing that her mother was dressed in the same white, long-sleeved blouse and black slacks she’d worn to work the day before. “And you’re up late.”
Becca had grown up with her mother working nights, but still, five-thirty in the morning was unusually late to be coming home.
“Inventory.” With a tired smile, Elaine moved into the kitchen, dropped her files on the counter, then opened a cupboard and pulled out two mugs. “If I never hear ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall again, it will be too soon.”
Chuckling, Becca took the mugs from her mother. “I’ll get you a cup.”
“You don’t need to—”
“I know I don’t need to.” Becca set the cups down and nudged her mother toward the kitchen table. “I want to.”
“But—”
“Sit,” Becca said more firmly.
Elaine started for the table, then turned and moved toward the pantry. “I’ve got some cinnamon rolls I can put in—”
“Mother, sit.”
Elaine raised an eyebrow. “Well, you certainly have gotten bossy.”
“I learned it from you.” Becca pulled out a chair. “Now put your butt down and let someone else wait on you for a change.”
Sulking, Elaine sat. “You’re not too old to paddle, you know.”
Becca set a sugar bowl and spoon on the table, filled two mugs with coffee and set one in front of her mother. “You never paddled me once in my entire life.”
“Obviously that’s where I went wrong.” Mouth set in a pout, Elaine poured two generous spoonfuls of sugar into her mug and stirred. She’d given up smoking ten years ago and replaced nicotine with sweets. It more than annoyed most people that she never gained an ounce. “Maybe you wouldn’t have such a smart mouth on you if I had.”
“I learned that from you, too.” With her own cup in her hand, sans the sugar, Becca sat across from her mother. “Didn’t I tell you I wanted to help you with inventory?”
“You’ve already got a job. And I seem to recall you had a dinner meeting last night, too.”
“My meeting was over by eight.” Becca looked at her mother and sighed. “Mom, I hardly see you anymore. I just want to help.”
“I know, sweetie.” Elaine patted her daughter’s hand. “But really, I don’t need any help. I’ve got everything under control.”
Becca noticed the smudge of dark circles under her mother’s eyes and the slight droop of her shoulders. Some people might consider Elaine Marshall a martyr. She’d worked 24/7 her entire adult life, too proud to ever ask anyone for help, including her own daughter. Becca knew her mother’s fierce need for control wasn’t born from a desire to be a saint, but from the seventeen-year-old girl who’d been pregnant and abandoned twenty-five years ago, a young woman fiercely determined to make it on her own and protect her child from the outside world.
Becca also knew there was no point in arguing it. Stubborn was her mother’s middle name.
“Tell me about your meeting last night with Whitestone Winery,” Elaine said, effectively changing the subject. “Was it s
uccessful?”
“I don’t know yet. They’re going to call me today.” Since she’d seen Trace, Becca hadn’t even thought about the account she’d hoped to get with the winery. “They’re considering me to shoot an ad for a Chardonnay they’re introducing next summer.”
“They’ll hire you. You’re brilliant.”
“You have to say that.” Becca shook her head, but still, the words made her smile. “You’re my mom.”
“I say it because it’s true.” Elaine gave an all-knowing shrug. “You were ten years old when you took your first picture and even then you had a gift. And that you did not learn from me. To this day I don’t know which end of a camera is up.”
Her mother had always been her biggest champion, had always told her that if she believed, she could do anything or be anyone she wanted.
And Becca had believed, until she’d lost the one thing she’d wanted more than anything else.
She stared at her coffee, watched the steam slowly rise and the overhead light ripple on the dark liquid surface.
“You want to tell me?”
Becca glanced up. “Tell you what?”
Like only a mother could, Elaine tilted her head and raised a brow, but said nothing.
On a sigh, Becca looked away, let a few moments of silence pass until she finally said, “I saw Trace last night.”
Now it was Elaine’s turn to let the silence hover. She held her coffee mug with both hands and took a long sip, then carefully set the mug back on the table. “And?”
For the past five years, and even after Spencer’s murder, Becca’s mother had blatantly avoided any discussion regarding Trace. It was almost as if she avoided saying his name, she thought she could erase the past and her daughter’s hurt.
“And nothing.” Becca shrugged a shoulder. “I ran into him when I came out of the restaurant. He said hello, I said hello. He mentioned he’d heard you’d bought the pub, I told him I was sorry about his father. That was it.”
“Are you going to see him again?”
It was a simple question, but the unspoken concern, the objection, weighed heavy in Elaine’s voice. Irritation flashed through Becca. “If you mean see, as in get together, no. Look, Mom, if you’re worried about me and Trace—”
Name Your Price Page 2
