Too Close to the Sun

by Dempsey, Diana

  "You're smarter than I am," he told her. "While you were in Tuscany, I was killing myself in San Francisco. Eighty-hour weeks, one deal after the next, one trip after another, juggling a bunch of negotiations at the same time." He shook his head, then laughed. "Don't get me wrong. I like what I do. But sometimes I have to wonder. . ." He stopped.

  "If it's all worth it?"

  "Something like that."

  The revelation pleased her, made him seem less of a businessman and more of a kindred soul. She decided to venture onto forbidden territory. "You must be really sorry you're not going to be able to buy Suncrest."

  His brows flew up. "You heard about that?"

  "Not directly. But Mrs. Winsted made a point of telling me how Max was taking over and how thrilled she was and how she and her husband had looked forward to that for years. She said enough that I drew my own conclusions."

  He looked away. "Max did reject the offer."

  "Are you very disappointed?"

  He said nothing for a time. She had the idea he was choosing his words carefully. Then, "I am. But there's more than one winery in Napa."

  "That's certainly true."

  "You must be relieved."

  "Well, you know where I stand on that." She paused, then heard herself say, "You know, part of me wondered if you were only interested in me because you might buy the winery. And then you'd want my support, and my father's."

  Instantly he moved across the tub to within inches of her, half kneeling so their eyes remained level. "It's never been that at all, Gabby. Sure, I would want your expertise if the deal went through, but you've got to know my interest in you doesn't have anything to do with your ability to make wine."

  His eyes were very serious. Then they dropped to her mouth and lingered there, before he raised them again with apparent reluctance. It was as if she asked, Why? Why are you interested in me? because a second later he answered that question.

  "I don't care what work you do, Gabby. I care that you're beautiful and smart and have a good heart." He looked away from her and squinted into the dark, as if he'd find the explanation there. "When I'm around you, I like how I feel. I haven't felt that way in a long time."

  You and me both, Gabby thought. They stared at each other. She realized that for good or ill, she believed him. And that she'd gotten the bubble she wanted at the start of the evening, the bubble where she and Will were the only two people in the world.

  All at once his hand reached out to find the nape of her neck and lingered there, soft and titillating. Before she could resist the movement he pulled her toward him and claimed her mouth. She felt his other hand encircle her waist and pull her tight against the length of him, crushing her breasts against him, allowing no whisper of space to separate their bodies. Somewhere in her dizzy delight she parted her lips for his inspection, wanting more as he deepened the kiss, needing more in the marrow of her soul, wondering how she had ever been crazy enough to think she could do without his kissing her again. Her own hands reached around his head, toyed with his short wet spiky hair, clutched the strong slippery breadth of his shoulders, reveled in the wonderful manly feel of him, different from Vittorio yet so shockingly right.

  He grasped her hips, his hands greedy on her naked flesh, and pressed her hard against him. She thrilled at his arousal, so frank, so unabashed, so male. The idea of giving him what he wanted, what she wanted, allowing him to do what he would with his hands, with his mouth . . .

  Perhaps the same vision accosted him, for he ended the kiss, though he continued to hold her. His heart was a hammer against her distended nipples, his breath a groan of sweet suffering in her ear. "You're killing me, Gabby," he whispered. "But I don't want to take it too fast with you. I want to do this right."

  She knew what he meant. Maybe in a saner moment she would have wanted the same thing. But in that instant she knew where she would go if only he would take her, though it was so unwise. How willful, how foolhardy to care only for the union her body screamed for and not one whit for restraint or logic.

  But Will had enough of both, and on this night Gabby wasn't sure if she loved or hated him for it.

  He pulled away from her, and a chill washed over the skin that had been so warm a moment before. "Do you mind if I stay the night on your couch?"

  "Not at all."

  "I don't want to drive back to the city."

  "I don't want you to, either."

  "I don't want to leave you tonight."

  His words hung in the night air, as frank and true as the stars in the sky.

  She found a spare blanket and pillow and helped him set up a makeshift bed on her couch. It took every ounce of her will to leave him there and retreat alone to her solitary bedroom, where cold sheets awaited her, and restless dreams, and a night that took forever to become morning.

  *

  Will woke before dawn but did not allow himself to rise from Gabby's living-room couch until sunlight streaked across the skylights above his head. Then, pulling on his trousers, he padded to the front windows to inspect the view. It didn't take him long to step outside, barefoot, because it seemed nonsensical to allow glass to separate him from the beauties that lay beyond.

  It was a stunning vista, lovelier than he'd imagined in the dark. He hadn't realized that vineyards were so close at hand—mere yards, not even a fence away. In the shade of century-old oak trees, terra-cotta planters burst with flowers, from delicate pink anemones to violet morning glories to deep purple lobelia. Against the house, rose vines heavy with white and pink blossoms climbed a rickety trellis. Gabby had a little vegetable patch going, as well: tomatoes, baby lettuces, beets.

  Truth be told, the house in the midst of this natural wonder looked a bit the worse for wear—all brown shingle and chipped white window frames and slightly crooked stone chimney. It was vintage, to put it nicely. Run-down, to be frank.

  Will didn't want to leave it. He didn't want to leave the woman who called it home. He didn't want to do what he had to do that day: drive away from Gabby, pack for a week in New York, board the red-eye that night, refocus his mind on his telecom deal. What he wanted to do was go back inside that ramshackle former barn and take Gabby DeLuca to bed—all morning, all afternoon, and preferably well into the evening. Maybe—maybe—he would allow food breaks, but that was hardly a given.

  He could have taken her to bed the prior night, he knew. He'd felt her want—Christ, he'd tasted it, seen it, smelled it. Maybe he'd been a fool. He knew there was no perfect time for these things; there was no crucial moment. Yet some instinct had told him it was too soon, too fast, that he shouldn't rush it. There was a skittishness about her, a wariness. It made him think she was getting over someone, or didn't fully trust him yet. Maybe Suncrest was still in the way.

  He grimaced. He hadn't lied about that, exactly, but he'd certainly committed a sin of omission. No, Gabby, I'm not disappointed about Suncrest. I still believe I'll be able to acquire it. But he would've landed right back in the doghouse if he'd told her that. And the bottom line was, he didn't want to muck things up with this woman. There could be something real with her.

  Damned if you do. Damned if you don't.

  Will threw back his head and stared at the morning sky, trying to convince himself that he would be able to manage the situation. No, he told himself, he wouldn't have to choose between Gabby and GPG. If he got to the point of acquiring Suncrest—which he'd better, since he had to make a Napa deal happen and this was the only winery he'd bet on—he would simply have to bring Gabby around to his point of view: Suncrest was better off in GPG's hands than in the Winsteds'.

  In the meanwhile, he couldn't lie to her. He wouldn't lie to her. But he would have to keep his mouth shut about a possible deal. Professional ethics demanded it.

  He ambled back into the house to find the makings of coffee. The simple actions of opening and closing cabinets, foraging for coffee beans, a measuring spoon, a filter, centered and contented him. Eventually the aroma of coffe
e brewing prodded his brain cells, made other questions rise in his mind.

  Why in the world did Gabby live alone on a mountaintop? Okay, she was a bit of a hermit. That jibed with her being a scientist and a nature girl. But she was young and single. That didn't jibe. He would've expected her to rent a bungalow in downtown St. Helena, near restaurants and bars and something resembling civilization.

  Yet her reclusiveness attracted him. Clearly she wasn't on the prowl to snare a man. Nor was she afraid to break the mold. She did what suited her whether it was standard operating procedure or not.

  He poured himself a mug of coffee and warmed his hands through the ceramic. You got it bad, Henley. There's nothing about her you don't like.

  True, frightening but true. Gabriella DeLuca was exciting and comfortable all at the same time, at once a mystery and a mystery solved. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had exerted this kind of pull on him.

  Maybe because none ever had.

  He loped back outside to inhale more of the view, halting on the vineyard's edge to listen to a mourning dove, its lulling song absent from his city life. A few minutes later he heard Gabby call out behind him.

  "Careful! Watch out for rattlesnakes."

  He heard the teasing note in her voice but still had to stop himself from doing a fast-step pirouette away from the grapevines. He turned to face her. "Isn't it too hot for them to be out?"

  "Not this early."

  She was smiling, and looked sweet and sleep-tousled. She, too, held a mug, and wore a red plaid flannel robe that looked as if it got a lot of use. A crease was pressed into the soft skin of her cheek from the bedclothes. He felt another rush of desire for her and wondered how he would keep himself from tearing off that robe and taking her right there in the dirt.

  She came to stand beside him, looking small without heels on. "Did you sleep well?"

  "Like a baby," he said, then added, "Once I fell asleep." The conspiratorial light in her eyes told him she'd endured some sleeplessness, as well. We're co-sufferers of the same disease, he thought. My damn common sense.

  "I have some bad news," she said.

  "I don't like the sound of that."

  "I have to be back at Suncrest for bottling in a little over an hour."

  "Mind if I join you?"

  She laughed, a surprised happy sound light as a bird call. "You want to do that again?"

  "Yes, I do." I want as much time with you as I can get. Already he had a crushing sense of how hard it was going to be to see her. He lived seventy miles away and had a killer job with frequent travel. He'd be lucky to get up to Napa some weekends. And she wasn't exactly sitting on her hands, either. "I have to catch a flight later but I'd love to help out this morning. If that'll work for you."

  She was silent. He could almost hear the gears of her mind turning. Then, "You know those professional ethics you told me about before? The ones where you have to keep all kinds of confidential information to yourself?"

  He looked away. "Sure."

  "If you promise to honor that code for me, I'll tell you something."

  Part of him wanted to scream Stop! Don't tell me! But something—curiosity? opportunism?—kept his lips from mouthing that warning. Instead he repeated, "Sure," one noncommittal syllable he hoped would keep her talking.

  She regarded him solemnly, sipped from her mug, then spoke. "We're actually rebottling the sauvignon blanc. That's why there's so much time pressure to get it done. Max came up with this cockamamie idea of using these new French bottles. . . ."

  She explained, and Will listened, and the more he heard, the more jumbled his feelings became. On one hand, this was a boneheaded management decision on Max's part. Meaning he was screwing up faster than Will had anticipated. Meaning there might be upheaval soon at the winery and an early opening for Will and GPG to step in and save the day.

  Yet . . . this was clearly bad news for Gabby. She was Max's employee. She had to implement whatever strategies he came up with, sensible or not. That bothered him in a way it hadn't before.

  Her eyes were on his face, squinting slightly as the sun gathered force in the sky. He understood the trust she put in him to confide in him like this. He knew she wouldn't have said word one if she knew he still considered Suncrest fair game. He regarded himself as a highly trustworthy individual but suddenly had to wonder if he was betraying her with his agenda regarding her employer.

  Yet what could he disclose? He couldn't tell her that in his mind, Suncrest was still in play. Besides, he told himself, it might not be. He'd built his whole Napa Valley strategy around Suncrest, but the deal might truly be dead, the way she thought it was. Yet any intimation to the contrary would put her off him.

  He couldn't risk it. He didn't want to. He tamped down his discomfort and just listened, saying nothing to encourage her but nothing to stop her, either.

  Finally she wound to a close. "So if you're still game to bottle this morning—"

  "Absolutely."

  "—we could pick up some muffins at Dean and DeLuca first, then head over to the winery."

  "Any relation?"

  "I wish." She was edging away from him, smiling, her voice teasing, her hips swaying beneath the red plaid flannel.

  Half an hour later, showered but back in the clothes he'd worn the night before, Will discovered that the Napa Valley outpost of Dean and DeLuca was just as grand as its flagship Manhattan store. It was the sort of high-end specialty shop that catered to people who demanded six types of goat cheese and nine varieties of dried mushrooms. Of course, many of Napa's residents, particularly up-valley, were as pampered as their big-city counterparts. The valley might have begun as an agricultural backwater, but it was glossy now, and had the estates and restaurants and boutiques to prove it.

  Will reached inside a woven basket and plucked two warm apricot muffins for himself, a cranberry for Gabby, and an assortment for the troops assembling at Suncrest. He was returning his change to his wallet when he heard a sharp intake of breath behind him, coming from Gabby. He pivoted to find a tall, swarthy man about his own age standing beside her.

  "Vittorio," Gabby breathed, "you're back."

  But this Vittorio fellow wasn't looking at Gabby, Will noticed, though he himself was acutely aware of her paralyzed state. The guy was eyeing him, with a narrowed gaze that said, What are you doing with her at seven o'clock on Sunday morning? Then, I know what you're doing. And I don't like it.

  Vittorio lowered his gaze to Gabby, grasped her hands and kissed her cheeks, one after the other, European-style. "It's good to see you, Gabriella." His voice was accented—Italian, Will concluded—and undeniably affectionate.

  Will's mind raced. You're back, she'd said to him. So she's seen him recently.

  Again Vittorio fixed his eyes on Will, though he addressed Gabby. "And who is your friend?"

  Will watched Gabby turn to face him, her eyes wide, her skin flushed, her movements jerky. Shock, confusion, uneasiness were written all over her. "Vittorio, this is Will Henley. Will, Vittorio Mantucci."

  Will reached out to shake hands. "Pleasure to meet you, Vittorio. Are you visiting us from out of town?" You heard me say us? That's her and me, Vittorio. Us.

  Vittorio's grasp was somewhat firmer than it needed to be. "From Chianti, actually."

  Let me guess. Castelnuovo. "Are you also in the wine business?"

  "Yes. And you?"

  "No." Will smiled, refrained from saying more. I'll let you wonder what I do. And I'll let you worry how well I know the woman you call Gabriella ...

  Though how well these two knew each other could not have been more painfully obvious. Will watched Gabby struggle not to stare at Vittorio; he saw the darting of her eyes to the far corners of the store, as if the July Fourth picnic displays had suddenly taken on enormous interest. For machismo reasons alone, Will wished he'd taken her to bed the prior night, just so he wouldn't be one down to this man who clearly had been Gabby's lover, the man who had made living in Tuscan
y "a very special time," the man who now had her locked in a queer sort of suspended animation.

  She was in love with him. Maybe she still is.

  Probably this explained her strange reticence when he'd asked her about Italy. At the hospital she'd promised him an epic. What he'd gotten out of her in the hot tub was barely a paragraph. And Will felt sure that the reason was six feet two and standing right in front of him.

  The stab of jealousy that assailed him was embarrassing. He had no claim to her, no right to feel possessive. It was also absurd to think that a woman of her age, with her looks, her sweetness, her allure, wouldn't have a romantic history. Yet it chafed at him.

  Vittorio ran a hand through his hair and Will suffered a second shock. The guy's wearing a wedding ring! Was this jerk married? Was Gabby his mistress? Will felt a surge of dislike for old European marital customs. And clearly Gabby had seen Vittorio recently. Is she still his mistress?

  But it didn't seem so, not from the stiffness between them. That was some relief at least. "Are you back here on business?" she was asking him.

  "Yes. Some projects I'm working on are going faster than I'd thought."

  What projects? Will's mind clicked into another gear. He filed Vittorio Mantucci's name into his mental Rolodex, determined to get the lowdown on this guy and whatever wine-industry business he was conducting in Napa Valley.

  Gabby glanced at Will, and he read in her eyes that she wanted to leave. He himself was more than ready to get out of there. He made his voice all hearty friendliness. "Good to meet you, Vittorio." He slapped the guy's back as he moved past, a little too hard but he couldn't help himself. He then claimed Gabby's hand and pulled her toward the exit. "Enjoy your stay."

  She was silent as they walked to their cars, then released his hand wordlessly and got into her Jeep. He trailed her to Suncrest, trying to ascertain how she felt from how she drove. Did that quick lane change mean she was upset? Was that swipe at her nose an indication she was crying? Was that a tissue she dug out of her purse?