Name Your Price

by Barbara Mccauley

  “Did I say I was worried?”

  Becca could have argued, could have told her mother that she didn’t have to say a word, that she’d never had to say a word. Becca had always known her mother hadn’t approved of her engagement to Trace any more than Trace’s mother and father had approved.

  It had been a fantasy to ever think that she and Trace could have been happy when the odds had been so completely stacked against them.

  Becca pushed away from the table and stood. “I’ve got to get ready for work.”

  Elaine reached for her daughter’s arm. “Becca, I’m sorry—”

  “It’s all right. I shouldn’t have brought it up now.” Becca sighed, then smiled and kissed her mother’s forehead. “Go get some sleep, Mom. You look tired.”

  White lights sparkled in the great hall at Ivy Glen Cellars. On the twelve-foot Christmas tree, on the garland-draped windows, across the wide doorways. Poinsettias, a mix of deep red and creamy white, filled the corners and brightened the food tables. Over the animated buzz of conversation and the clink of wineglasses, a quartet played Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies.” A glass of Cabernet in his hand, Trace stood on the sidelines and looked out over the sea of people. He knew quite a few of the faces, a mix of local vintners, restaurant owners and distributors. The holiday luncheon was to showcase Ivy Glen’s latest harvest, and though it was a party, to Trace it was also work.

  “Trace.” Reed Vale, Ivy Glen’s general manager, stepped out of the crowd and held out a hand. In the Valley, Reed was known as much for his business acumen as he was for his golden-boy looks. “Glad you could make it.”

  Trace smiled and shook Reed’s hand. He was one of the few men that Trace thought of as a friend. “Gotta keep an eye on the competition.”

  “Which is exactly why I’ll be at your barrel sampling next week.” Reed nodded at the glass of wine in Trace’s hand. “So what do you think?”

  It was good, actually. Very good. The color, aroma and finish were excellent. But because Trace had known Reed since they were kids, he couldn’t pass up an opportunity to annoy him. “Not bad.”

  “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment,” Reed said with a cocky grin, snagging a toothpick-speared bite of cheese from a pretty redhead passing a tray. “By the way, in case you hadn’t already heard, we hired Becca Marshall to shoot a layout for our spring catalog.”

  Trace kept his face impassive and glanced around the busy room, nodded at a restaurant manager from Sonoma who kept a healthy stock of Ashton Estate labels. “I heard.”

  “She’s good, Trace.” Reed washed his cheese down with a sip of wine. “Really good. Word has it Whitestone and Louret are considering her for their next promotions, too.”

  Louret. Trace refrained—barely—from curling a lip, told himself it didn’t matter one bit if his estranged family hired Becca or not. “And you’re telling me this because?”

  “Thought you might like to know she’ll probably be around for a while,” Reed said with a shrug. “Just in case you want to, ah, catch up on old times.”

  “Nothing to catch up on.” Reed was fishing and Trace had no intention of taking the bait. “Doesn’t interest me in the slightest.”

  But it appeared that several people here at the party were interested, Trace thought irritably, noticing the whispered conversations after a few of the guests glanced his way. He should have sent Paige here today, dammit. He felt like he was under a damn microscope.

  He wished to God that Becca had never come back to Napa. There’d been a growing aggravation in the pit of his stomach since she’d returned.

  When another vintner pulled Reed away, Trace downed what was left of his wine. He thought about leaving, which only aggravated him all the more. Why the hell should he leave because Reed had mentioned Becca, or because a few busybodies couldn’t mind their own business?

  He wouldn’t, dammit. Several of Ashton Estate Winery’s accounts were here today, not to mention potential clients. Trace knew the value of schmoozing, it was part of his job. He was here to work, he reminded himself, and managed to spend the next fifteen minutes doing exactly that before he strolled up the stairs leading to the second floor where ceiling-high glass windows looked down on the barrel room twenty feet below. The well-lit room was the size of a high school gymnasium, with fifteen-feet cement aisles separating oak barrels stacked on their sides, seven high and three wide.

  When Becca backed out from one of the aisles, Trace sucked in a breath.

  She was deep in thought, her slender fingers idly stroking her chin, her lips pursed and eyes narrowed. She’d dressed for the cool temperatures in the room—hooded navy sweatshirt under a denim jacket, tan suede knee-high boots over jeans that hugged a well-rounded bottom.

  The breath he’d been holding hissed out between his teeth. She had no damn right looking so damn sexy dressed as she was. No right at all.

  She tilted her head one way, then the other, then hunkered down, stretching those snug jeans over her bottom even tighter. When she leaned forward, her shirt rode up, exposing the small of her back.

  Son of a bitch.

  Lust rolled over his tongue, and when he swallowed, it burned like molten steel all the way down to his gut. It hurt just to breathe.

  He hadn’t felt a sexual pull of this intensity for five years. He hated her for that, hated that she had that kind of effect on him. Hated himself even more for wanting her.

  He could walk away right now, go back to the luncheon, have another glass of wine, chitchat, then get the hell out. God knew that’s what he should do.

  Instead he turned, walked to the end of the landing, then opened the door leading into the barrel room, cursed himself with every step down the stairway. The familiar scent of oak filled the damp air and the hollow ring of silence surrounded him. Silence suddenly broken by soft singing. He stopped and listened, raised a brow when he caught the verse.

  “…sixty-three bottles of Cabernet on the wall, sixty-three bottles of Cabernet, take one down, pass it around, sixty-two bottles of Cabernet on the wall…”

  Not exactly how he’d remembered the song, but he definitely remembered the silky voice. A voice that had turned his insides out when she’d whispered in his ear or sighed his name. A voice that had also lied and deceived him. Once again he thought about simply turning around and walking away. Once again, he moved forward.

  He held back just as she stepped around a corner of stacked barrels, watched her adjust her light banks, then move to a black box sitting three feet away from the display she’d designed on an antique buffet table. Glossy blackberries flowed from a silver bowl, eucalyptus branches spilled from a woven basket, sprigs of mint swirled around the base of an empty goblet, all rushed together over a shimmering river of moss green satin. When she flipped a switch on the black box, an eerie, thin cloud of fog rolled across the table.

  He could almost taste the blackberry and mint and eucalyptus on his tongue, could feel a sense of mystery in the swirling fog. She reached out and plucked a blackberry from the bowl, then popped it in her mouth. His throat went dry when she sucked on it.

  Dammit, but this was a bad idea. He’d told himself that he’d come here for the luncheon, but looking at Becca, he realized exactly why he’d come here.

  Because he’d known she’d be here.

  Continuing to murmur her silly song, she stepped behind her camera and snapped pictures. She worked with focused intensity, as if nothing else in the world existed. She’d always been confident when she had a camera in her hands, he thought, remembering the first time he’d seen her. She’d come to the Ashton estate to take photos of the house and grounds for a local lifestyle magazine. He’d been assigned the boring task of tour guide.

  But the day had turned out to be anything but boring. Her passion for her work, her enthusiasm, had been contagious. Rainbows of light streaming through beveled glass, a rusting weather vane, a bright blue dragonfly scooping water from a stone fountai
n. She’d captured all those things with her camera and made them look special.

  That day, he’d seen the world he’d grown up in and taken for granted through Becca’s eyes. It had never looked the same since.

  She switched from counting bottles of Cabernet and started to sing about red, red wine. When her hips began to move in rhythm to the song, Trace gritted his teeth. As much as he wanted to be immune to this woman, he still had blood in his veins. And because that blood was suddenly pumping faster, he stepped away from the barrels and moved out into the aisle.

  Before Becca even turned, she knew it was him.

  The sound he’d made was no more than a slight scuff of a shoe on concrete, and still she’d known.

  Her pulse skipped.

  She shot several more pictures, then managed to pulled herself together before she straightened and faced him. “Trace, hi.”

  “Hi.” He glanced at her camera. “Mind if I take a look?”

  She hesitated, then shrugged and moved aside, shoved her hands into her pockets. “Sure.”

  Becca did her best not to fidget while he stared through her viewfinder. As cool as the room was, she felt perspiration dampen her underarms. It was only seconds, but it felt more like hours before he finally straightened and looked at her.

  “You always had an eye for this.”

  Silly that his approval should mean so much to her after all these years. But strangely, she acknowledged, it did. “You take enough pictures, you’re bound to get a few decent ones.”

  “You were always modest, too.”

  Though she doubted that Trace had intended his comment to be sexual, she couldn’t stop the images flooding her mind. The first time he’d kissed her, the first time he’d unbuttoned her blouse and touched her. The first time they’d made love. She had been modest, but his rough hands on her skin, his hot mouth, had been so thrilling, so exciting, she’d forgotten her shyness.

  Afraid that he would see the heat rushing into her cheeks, she moved to her display and turned off the smoke machine, then meticulously rearranged mint leaves, praying he wouldn’t see her fingers were shaking. “So what brings you here?”

  “Harvest tasting and luncheon.” He wandered to a prop table, picked up one of several wine books stacked there.

  “I believe the tasting is upstairs.”

  “I read this one.” He flipped through the book in his hands. “Not bad, but I didn’t agree with the author’s opinion on terroir. I believe in micromanaging yield, ripening extraction and filtration undermine the effect.”

  “Trace.” Swallowing the lump in her throat, Becca turned. “Why are you here?”

  “Funny—” he closed the book and set it down, leveled his gaze with hers “—I’ve been asking myself the same question. Then it occurred to me.”

  Her pulse jumped when he moved toward her. “What occurred to you?”

  He moved closer, so close she could feel the heat of his body, see the icy cold in his eyes. He placed his arms on either side of her and though she knew she should push him away, she’d lost the capacity to move. Like a trapped bird, her heart fluttered frantically in her throat.

  “Five years ago.”

  Five years ago? His words formed in her brain, but she couldn’t make sense of them, nor could she speak. His scent, so familiar, so masculine, enveloped her like a soft web. Though she wanted to lean into him, to wrap her fingers in his shirt and drag him closer, she reached behind her and tightly gripped the table’s edge instead.

  “Five years ago,” he repeated, his voice quiet and husky. “You left me without even a kiss goodbye.”

  Even as he lowered his head to hers, she thought this couldn’t be possible. She couldn’t breathe, was completely incapable of resisting him, or even protesting.

  “I think I at least deserve a kiss goodbye, Becca,” he muttered, and dropped his mouth roughly on hers.

  A lightning bolt of emotions exploded inside her. Shock, excitement. Pleasure. Even after five years, even knowing that he must hate her, she couldn’t stop the reaction spiraling from her toes upward.

  There was nothing gentle about his kiss, nothing tender, but that didn’t seem to matter. She was burning up, her skin, her bones, melting under the crush of his mouth against hers.

  Desperate to keep her control, she grabbed hold of the table even tighter, fought back the overwhelming need to wrap her arms around his neck, to pull him closer, to return his kiss. His tongue, hot and demanding, plunged between her lips. Everything inside her, every swirling thought, every sensation, every cell, burst into flames.

  He yanked his mouth away, then stepped back. She heard the sound of his breathing, felt the rise and fall of her chest and the slam of her heart against her ribs. Slowly she opened her eyes and met his hard gaze.

  “Goodbye, Becca,” he said tightly, then turned and left.

  Several moments passed before she could move. I deserved that, she thought, her heart aching. When she finally found her legs, she turned, then dropped her head into her hands and waited for the trembling to stop.

  Three

  3:14 a.m.

  T race stared at the illuminated readout on his bedside clock. For the past two hours, each soundless, endless minute had crashed into the next, bathing the darkness in its mocking red glow.

  Teeth gritted, he flipped to his side and shut his eyes, felt the numbers burn into his back. Into his brain.

  3:15

  He seriously considered heaving the clock against the wall, but knew that the satisfaction would not only be fleeting, it would prove what he already knew. He was a damn fool.

  In an unexplainable brain lapse, he’d given in to an unreasonable and illogical Neanderthal need to prove to Becca that he was indifferent to her. That he could touch her, hold her, kiss her, then just walk away without feeling a damn thing.

  He could still taste her, dammit. Blackberries, sweet and plump and juicy. Her lips had been as soft as he’d remembered, and though she hadn’t kissed him back, he’d heard the catch in her throat, felt her shiver of response, and he knew she hadn’t been immune to the desire.

  From the first day he’d met her, the chemistry between them had always been potent. Obviously it didn’t matter that he no longer loved her, or that she didn’t love him. The attraction was still there. Just as heady, just as powerful.

  3:16

  Sexual frustration coiled in his body like a steel cable, cinching tighter and tighter, until the aching need in his groin had him kicking off the covers and dragging on a pair of sweatpants. What the hell, he wasn’t getting any sleep tonight, anyway. He might as well get up and do something productive. He’d be damned if he’d spend the next three hours tossing and turning, counting each and every minute, kicking himself because he’d kissed Becca. He flipped on the light in the living room of his apartment in the west wing of his family’s estate. The glossy hardwood floors were cool and smooth under his bare feet, and the faint scent of orange wax lingered from the housekeeper’s earlier cleaning. Scrubbing a hand over the early morning stubble on his face, Trace poured himself a shot of Glenlivet he kept in the bar, tossed it back, then poured himself another shot and opened the French doors leading onto the second-floor balcony. The night was clear and cold and the icy air felt good on his bare chest, sucked the last vestiges of sleep from his brain and cooled the heat of lust still pumping through his veins.

  It wasn’t as if he’d been celibate for the past five years. He might not have dated anyone seriously, but he’d managed to satisfy the basic needs of a healthy man. It had been a while, though, he realized. Maybe that was his problem. Maybe he just needed a night of hot, sweaty, no-holds-barred sex.

  A couple of women came to mind. Jennifer, that cute, curvy blonde who worked the reception desk at the gym had slipped her phone number to him last week. And Charlotte, the restaurant manager with the long legs and big blue eyes was a possibility. He’d met the pretty brunette on his last sales trip to San Francisco. She’d made it
clear she was looking for some fun without the hassle of a relationship.

  Jennifer or Charlotte?

  Why not both? He raised a brow at the idea, then shook his head.

  Oh, hell, who did he think he was kidding?

  Frowning, he stared at the glass in his hand. Not two, not even two hundred women would appease the gnawing ache in his gut.

  Only one woman could.

  As much as he hated to even consider the possibility, maybe his sister was right. Maybe he did need some kind of closure with Becca. There might not be anything emotional between them anymore, but last night had proven that the physical attraction was still there.

  And not just on his part, either.

  He’d been caught off guard when she’d walked out on him five years ago, chosen a career and money over being his wife. At the time, it had been difficult to know who he’d hated the most, his father for paying her off or Becca for accepting the check. He’d nearly gone to Italy and tracked her down to confront her, to make her look him straight in the eyes and tell him to his face that she didn’t love him.

  But the canceled check his father had shown him had spoke louder than any words could, and his pride had refused to allow him to make a bigger fool out of himself then he already had.

  Light from a half moon cast long shadows over the vineyard that stretched out across the rolling landscape. As far as the eye could see—row after row of winter-bare vines. All of it, the land, the estate, millions of dollars, was one-fourth his now. If Becca had loved him enough to stay, they would have shared it together.

  But she hadn’t.

  He downed the rest of his drink and rolled the glass in his hand. He’d do whatever he needed to do to get Becca in his bed one last time, he decided, and then he’d have her out of his system for good.

  Closure.