Name Your Price

by Barbara Mccauley

  Why the hell not?

  Becca took a long, hot shower in the morning, prayed that the blast of nearly scalding water would stop the shivering that seemed to radiate from deep inside her bones. She figured if she could get her blood pumping, she just might be able to survive the day on less than four hours sleep. Closing her eyes, she turned her back to the pulsing spray and sucked in a breath. It was much easier to take the pain of the pounding needles than the pain of reliving Trace’s kiss.

  The taste of his anger had lingered on her lips all night.

  She knew she should be repelled, disgusted even, by such a blatant display of rude, macho intimidation. But to her shame and humiliation, she wasn’t.

  Her lips still tingled, her pulse still raced, her breasts ached. The harder she tried not to think about it, the more intense the sensations became. The snippets of sleep she’d managed had been filled with erotic dreams. Trace kneeling on the bed beside her, reaching out to her, pulling her body against his. Hot, bare skin against hot, bare skin. His mouth, his tongue, working his magic down her neck, her breasts, her stomach. And every time, when he would slide into her, she’d wake, gasping, his name on her lips, her heart pounding fiercely, her body shaking with need.

  It had felt so real. So incredibly, wonderfully real.

  Somehow she’d managed to shut away those feelings for the past five years—how else would she have survived? Seeing Trace again had blown open and laid bare every emotion she’d buried and denied. Seeing Trace had left her exposed and raw.

  With something between a sigh and a moan, she laid her forehead against the cool tile, wasn’t certain she could bear to face him again.

  Wasn’t certain she could bear not to.

  She toweled off, dragged a brush through her hair, then frowned at the dark circles under her eyes. Nothing a can of wall putty can’t fix, she thought miserably. Still, she did her best with a tube of cover-up and a light brush of mascara, then pulled a teal-blue sweater over her head, hoping some color would brighten her pale cheeks.

  Knowing her mother had come in late again, Becca crept down the hall, doing her best to avoid the creaks in the floor. She grabbed her purse off the kitchen counter and rummaged for her car keys while she quietly let herself out the front door.

  When a movement from the end of the porch startled her, she dropped her keys.

  Trace!

  Hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket, he’d propped himself against the porch rail and casually stretched his long legs out in front of him. A fine layer of mud covered his work boots and the bottom of his worn jeans. For one crazy moment, it was five years ago. He’d come from an early morning in the vineyards; she was on her way to her class at Napa Valley College. For those few stolen minutes, nothing else, and no one else in the world had existed but the two of them.

  She blinked and the moment was gone. She watched him straighten, then nod at her. “Morning, Becca.”

  Morning, Becca? Yesterday it had been Goodbye, Becca, after he’d kissed her and turned her world upside down. Now he had the nerve to stand on her front porch as if he belonged there and simply say Morning, Becca?

  He moved toward her. “I would have knocked, but I figured your mom was sleeping.”

  Maybe it was the lack of sleep that suddenly made her cranky. Maybe she’d finally come to her senses. But she refused to show weakness. Refused to let him see that what had happened between them the day before had nearly brought her to her knees.

  She knelt to pick up her keys, but he scooped them before she could reach them.

  Pressing her lips firmly together, she frowned at him. “What are you doing here, Trace?”

  At the sound of a diesel engine starting, Trace glanced across the street, watched a white pickup back out of the driveway. He waited until the truck drove away, then said, “I was out of line yesterday.”

  An apology? That would be the last thing she’d expect from him. Once again he’d caught her off guard. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  He handed her the keys, lightly brushing her palm with his fingertips. Tiny currents of electricity shot straight up her arm. When she started to pull her hand away, he closed his fingers around hers.

  “But the thing is,” he said, meeting her gaze, “I’m not sorry.”

  If he was trying to mess with her mind, he was doing a hell of a job. She couldn’t get her balance with him, couldn’t think straight. Closing her eyes, she took in a slow breath. “Trace—”

  “What I mean is,” he said, his voice low and rough, “I’m not sorry I kissed you.”

  She opened her eyes, tried to read his expression, but couldn’t. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

  He traced his thumb over her knuckles. “It was always good between us.”

  She blushed at the sexual connotation in his voice, and though she should be offended by it, it was a statement of fact. It had been good. More like spectacular. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Some things don’t change, Becca.”

  “Everything changes,” she said quietly.

  “Sometimes they get better.” His thumb continued its path over her little finger. “Tell me you didn’t feel anything yesterday.”

  “I didn’t feel anything yesterday.” She swallowed the lie along with the dryness in her throat and pulled her hand away.

  “Okay,” he said with a nod that implied he didn’t believe her but he’d let it go. “Have dinner with me tonight. We’ll catch up on old times.”

  Old times?

  She noticed he hadn’t shaved this morning, remembered what that rough stubble felt like on her fingertips, against her cheek, and just the memory of it made her pulse quicken.

  The last thing she wanted to do was catch up on old times. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Trace.”

  “Which?” he asked. “Dinner, or catching up?”

  Neither. “I—I can’t.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you seeing someone?”

  Desperately she wanted to lie, knew it would be easier for her if she did. But there’d already been too many lies between them. She dropped her gaze and shook her head.

  “It’s just dinner, Becca.” He reached out and traced a finger along her jaw, then lifted her chin. “What are you afraid of?”

  You, she wanted to say. He made her want something she knew she could never have. They may have both changed, but the reasons they could never be happy together hadn’t changed. As wonderfully tempting as it would be to fall back into Trace’s arms and his bed, she didn’t think her heart could survive leaving him again if she did.

  Just dinner? They both knew better.

  “I have to go to work,” she said softly.

  “All right.” Dropping his hand, he nodded slowly. “See you around.”

  She watched him walk toward the black SUV he’d parked on the street. “Trace.”

  He stopped and glanced at her over his shoulder.

  “I really think it’s best if we don’t see each other again.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then, slowly, one corner of his mouth tipped upward. Without a word he turned and got in his car, then drove away.

  When his car was out of sight, Becca slowly released the breath she’d been holding. There’d been no mistaking the challenge in his eyes and the purpose in his stride. His intentions were perfectly clear.

  She just needed to keep her mind on her work, get through the next few weeks and avoid him, she told herself. If she could do that, then she would be home free.

  Four

  “T he soil results on the east lot section are on the top file and the fermentation reports are ready.” Greta, Trace’s office manager, set a thick stack of folders on his desk. “And the president of Napa Valley Vintueis wants to know if you can come to a meeting Wednesday night.”

  Greta, a mother of five and grandmother of three, had been with the Ashton Estate Winery for eight years. She was a no
-nonsense woman with a sturdy build, short blond hair and intense blue eyes that never missed a thing—a trait that could either be a blessing or a curse, depending on the situation. “What for?” Trace didn’t even glance up from the sales graph he’d been studying on his computer monitor. Because of an early spring this past year and warm, consistent weather, the early harvest had yielded one of the highest quality years ever. Production and sales were up a whopping eight percent.

  “Environmental.”

  Damn. Those meetings always went on forever. Not that he wasn’t all for the environment, of course. Maybe he could send Paige. “I thought I was scheduled for some kind of a silent auction Wednesday.”

  Greta pointed at his desk calendar. “That’s next Wednesday. And it’s a cocktail party and silent auction for the Childstart Literacy program.”

  “So when’s the Rotary Club tasting?” he asked absently, knowing it was sometime soon.

  Greta sighed with exasperation and flipped open the day planner on the desk. “This Thursday. And in case you’ve forgotten, Sunday night is your mother’s birthday dinner at Le Sanglier.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” Trace noticed a slight spike in bottling costs and made a mental note to check with the supplier. “So what did I buy her?”

  “A scarf.” Greta pulled a credit card receipt from the clipboard in her hand and set it on the desk.

  “Thanks.” Trace glanced at the receipt and lifted a brow. “For a scarf?”

  “Italian cashmere and silk,” Greta said evenly. “Your mother’s having a difficult enough time accepting her upcoming role of grandmother. A birthday, this one especially, makes it even harder.”

  “And a little scrap of silk is going to make her feel better?”

  “Absolutely. The color is perfect for her hair color and skin.” At the sound of her phone ringing from the outside desk, Greta turned. “And besides, it’s Hermes. Even if she hated it, she’d love it.”

  At that price, he certainly hoped so, Trace thought when Greta closed the door behind her. Heck, he could probably pay for her airfare to go to Italy and buy all the silk she wanted for that amount.

  Women.

  He wasn’t going to pretend he even remotely understood the female gender. The only thing he’d learned about women was that he knew nothing at all about them. What they thought, what they wanted.

  If they ever said what they really meant.

  I don’t think we should see each other again.

  With a sigh, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He’d given Becca’s statement a lot of thought over the past two days. He’d almost believed that she’d meant it, but something in her eyes, as subtle as it was fleeting, had denied her words.

  They’d see each other again, all right. He intended to make certain they did.

  What he couldn’t figure out was why she was trying so hard to pretend she wasn’t interested. And why, if she truly was indifferent, did she appear so flustered every time she saw him?

  Maybe he’d misinterpreted her reaction. Perhaps it was pure and simple guilt that made her nervous—having to face the man she’d promised to love and marry, knowing she’d lied and accepted money to break that promise.

  He clenched his jaw. What the hell difference did it make what she was feeling? Once he got her in his bed and out of his system, he wouldn’t have to think about Becca Marshall ever again.

  “Trace!”

  A single swearword shot out of his mouth. He snapped forward in his chair so abruptly, he nearly fell out. Arms folded, Paige stared at him from the other side of his desk.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he growled.

  “What am I doing?” She rolled her eyes. “I not only knocked, I said your name twice.”

  His heart was still thumping against his rib cage. “Can’t I close my eyes for a minute without getting the bejesus scared out of me?”

  “My, my.” Paige lifted one thin brow. “Aren’t we touchy today?”

  “I am not touchy.”

  “Yes, you are. And you were touchy yesterday, too.”

  “I was not, dammit.”

  “Yes, you were,” Greta called from the outside office.

  “See?” Paige flopped down in an armchair. “So what gives?”

  “Nothing gives.” Grinding his teeth, Trace got up and slammed the door shut. “I take it you came by for a reason other than to annoy me?”

  “Not really.”

  Like hell, he thought. It was written all over her face. “What do you want, Paige?”

  “What every woman wants,” she said longingly. “Romance, chocolate, world peace. Not necessarily in that order.”

  He crossed his arms and glared at her. “Some of us are working here.”

  “You were sleeping,” she pointed out.

  “Paige,” he warned.

  “All right, all right.” She smiled sweetly. “I’m going to see Jack and I want you to come with me.”

  Good Lord, but the woman had a one-track mind. “I’m busy, Paige.”

  “Those stats aren’t going anywhere in the next hour,” she said, glancing at his computer monitor.

  “Neither am I, dear sister.” Trace turned his attention back to his work. “Neither am I.”

  “All right, fine.” Paige rose on a sigh. “Have it your way. I just hope that this time you don’t wait until it’s too late.”

  Trace stared at the doorway after Paige left. What the hell did she mean by that? Frowning, he shook his head.

  Women.

  Becca stared out of the sliding-glass doors that overlooked the Louret Winery vineyards. Row after endless row of vines marched neatly across the land. It didn’t matter that the branches were bare and lifeless at this time of year; the magnificence of its stark splendor had always stirred something in her. She remembered the first time Trace had given her a tour of the Ashton Estate vineyards. She’d loved the rugged scent of the soil, the earthy colors and textures of the landscape, the excitement of harvest. She hadn’t just fallen in love with Trace that day, she’d fallen in love with the land, as well.

  It would be so much easier if she had never met him. She wouldn’t have to compare every other man she’d attempted to date since she’d left Napa, wouldn’t have to find them all lacking. It would only be more difficult now that she’d seen him again.

  Now that he’d kissed her.

  She tried to tell herself she was relieved she hadn’t seen or heard from him since the morning on her front porch, but if she were to be honest, there was a tiny part of her that was disappointed. A foolish, tiny part of her that searched for him while she was driving through town or picking up groceries or stopping at the bank. A part of her that had wished she’d said yes when he’d asked her to dinner.

  That part of her that she continually told to be quiet.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Marshall.”

  Becca turned at the greeting and watched Mercedes Ashton-Maxwell step into the covered lanai. Soft, light brown curls fell over the woman’s slender shoulders. A simple black skirt skimmed her knees, and a pale yellow V-necked cable-knit sweater covered her very pregnant belly.

  Trace’s half-sister.

  Becca swallowed the sudden dryness in her throat and smiled. “Please. Just Becca.”

  “Mercedes.”

  Like Trace, Mercedes’s eyes were deep green, though not quite as intense. And like Trace, she carried herself with the same composed confidence and cool reserve.

  “Thank you so much for coming to the Vines.” Mercedes gestured to a wicker sofa. “I appreciate you meeting with me here instead of town.”

  “It’s no problem at all,” Becca said. “Your home is beautiful.”

  In fact, it was stunning. Though not as large as the Ashton Estate, the French-country charm of The Vines was warm and friendly, the house filled with color and bright rooms.

  The compliment brought a smile to Mercedes. “We like it, though my husband and I have our own place now. Can I g
et you something to drink? Some coffee or soda?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you,” Mercedes said. “You know there’s been quite a buzz about you in Napa.”

  “A buzz?” Becca frowned. “About me?”

  “I don’t have to tell you our Valley is a close-knit community, Becca. The vintners even more so. Ivy Glen is raving about your work.”

  “They are?” The words slipped out and Becca blushed. Way to go, she thought. So much for presenting the image of a confident businesswoman.

  Mercedes laughed. “And you’re modest, too. I like that. So tell me, how much do you know about Louret Vineyards?”

  At least this was something she felt confident about. Because it was important for a client to know she had an understanding of their business, Becca always meticulously researched a company before an interview. “Your mother started the winery twenty-five years ago. You have sixty-five acres of vineyards and produce about twenty thousand cases annually, mostly red estate wines. Your Cabernet is award-winning and your Chardonnay is also gaining great reviews. For the last three years you’ve been named the best boutique winery in Napa.”

  “You’ve done your homework.” Mercedes nodded approvingly. “My mom and dad have pretty much retired, though. My sister and brothers and I are running Louret now.”

  Becca knew that, as well, including what each sibling’s duties were in the business. Cole was the manager, Eli in charge of wine making, Jillian, research and development and Mercedes was in charge of marketing and promotion.

  Mercedes sucked in a sharp breath and dropped both hands to her stomach. “Must be time for kick boxing practice.”

  “Are you all right?” Worry pulled Becca out of her chair. “Should I call someone?”

  Mercedes exhaled slowly. “I’m fine. Those little feet just catch me off guard sometimes.”

  “Are you sure?” Becca bit her lip. “Maybe your husband, or your mother?”

  Smiling, Mercedes shook her head. “I promise I won’t go into labor on you. You can sit back down.”

  Cautiously, Becca eased back into the chair. “It’s no problem to reschedule.”