Too Close to the Sun

by Dempsey, Diana

  Her blouse torn open and breasts naked to the air. Her skirt bundled around her waist. Will's body above her. His hands, demanding. His tongue, insistent. The hard rough need of him that had her bucking and moaning …

  Stop it. Stop it.

  She took a ragged breath, forced the image out of her mind. Off came her baseball cap, followed by a rough smoothing back of her hair. Then she smashed the cap back on her head.

  What the hell was it about sex? She'd gone without for a year and managed just fine, thank you. Then one reintroduction and she's as good as in season.

  It's not the sex. It's the man.

  That was the worrying truth of it. The good news was that Will had blasted Vittorio from her fantasies. The bad was that he'd claimed center stage for himself. And though right now he seemed sent from heaven, she feared that in the end he would prove no more dependable than Vittorio had been.

  About a hundred yards away, two men stood amid the vines calling instructions to each other. They were young, Hispanic, male—typical Napa field workers—but Gabby didn't know them. That was because they were temporary hires, brought in not long after Max had insisted Felix fire several full-timers. Now they were making a meal out of spraying fertilizer, but it was probably the first time they'd done it.

  All the arguments she could muster about how it was too close to harvest to get rid of experienced workers meant nothing to Max. He didn't care that she and Felix didn't have the manpower to handle routine tasks, like mowing the grassy ground cover beneath the vines, whose presence increased the fire danger as the season got hotter.

  Gabby shook her head. Max could be such a moron. He didn't care about the crop. He didn't care about the workload. He just wanted to cut budget, even though what he saved was paltry compared with what he'd wasted on the rebottling. And all that had gotten them was a lower-quality sauvignon blanc.

  Disgusted, distracted, she headed for the Jeep, skirting the grape clusters lying on the ground, primed to rot. Talk about throwing money away. But unlike all Max's directives, this more selective yield would actually benefit the wine, which in Gabby's estimation should be everybody's top priority.

  Will might not agree with that. She got in the Jeep, got it rolling toward the winery. But wouldn't he try to understand it? For me?

  He might still buy Suncrest someday. She'd been stunned to hear it. She'd believed the promise she'd badgered out of him—that he would try to keep Suncrest the same—but then again she'd heard promises before. In Italian. And now in English.

  She should be more careful what she told him about Suncrest. After all, she had a duty to her employer, and to her coworkers. She shouldn't say anything that might make the winery more vulnerable, or lower its price if it did go on the block. Now she could kick herself for having told him about the rebottling.

  It was weird, having to keep basic information from Will. She drove the Jeep through Suncrest's entry gates and up the long drive to the winery. With Vittorio, she'd been able to share everything. But then again, until the end there'd never been any question that they were on the same side.

  She bumped to a stop in the employee parking lot and pulled the keys from the ignition. Was she waging a war on all fronts or what? She had to protect herself from Max the Ignoramus and Ava the Absent. And until she heard otherwise, she had to protect Suncrest from Will.

  She walked into the winery. "Felix?" Silence. He wasn't in the break room. He must be out in the fields. She meandered back outside, along the winery's east wall, where they stored vineyard supplies. A few fertilizer barrels were open, presumably the ones the temps were using. She pulled out her walkie-talkie to hail Felix.

  It was the smell that stopped her short, the walkie-talkie halfway to her mouth. Warily, she turned to eye the barrels.

  It was unmistakable. One look at the labels on the open barrels, one whiff of the contents, confirmed what she already knew.

  The temps weren't spraying fertilizer in the fields, where the grapevines were pregnant with the precious grapes that would be harvested in less than a month. They were spraying weed killer.

  *

  Max had hired a chauffeured limousine to ferry him and his four companions from Napa Valley to San Francisco and back again. He enjoyed hosting a showy occasion every now and again: it made him feel like the success he knew himself to be. And during the course of the night's festivities, Bucky, Rory, Stella, and Victoria would get an eyeful of just what a canny vintner Maximilian Winsted was morphing into.

  A few minutes after eight in the evening, the limo rolled to a halt on an alleylike street in the city's financial district. The hideaway block in the shadow of skyscrapers was lined with pricey restaurants, avant-garde architect's offices, and by-appointment-only antique shops. By this hour, the daytime worker bees were long gone. Midsummer fog had settled in, giving the streets the look of a Sherlock Holmes movie set. Cigarette in hand, Max exited the limo to survey his quarry.

  Cassis was one of those rare restaurants that launches big and never falls to earth. Reservations were as hard to come by as conservative San Francisco politicians. The chef was Belgian, the cuisine French, the owners deep pocketed, and the clientele A-list. The only thing it lacked, in Max's opinion, were Suncrest vintages on its wine list.

  Stella Monaco came to stand next to him on the sidewalk. She was looking particularly tasty in a low-cut filmy blue top and the skinniest black skirt Max had ever laid eyes on. Unfortunately she was Bucky's date.

  "Cassis has carried our wine from the beginning,'' she informed Max. "Maybe I should get my father to put in a good word with the sommelier for you."

  The thing about Stella was, half the time you couldn't tell if she was being nice or she was being bitchy. Same thing was true of her mother. "Thanks, but I won't need any help," he told her, then tossed his half-smoked cigarette and ground it into the concrete with the toe of his shoe. "Take those inside," he ordered the chauffeur, who appeared beside him laden with the case of Suncrest wine Max had brought for the evening.

  "Let me know if you change your mind." She smiled and took Bucky's arm. Max thought the two of them together looked like a Polo Ralph Lauren ad.

  "Thanks, but I won't," he told her. He had to be confident. That was everything in this game. Actually, it was everything in life.

  He let his friends precede him inside. Cassis's interior reminded him of those long, deep restaurants you find in Manhattan, with soft lighting and small tables close together and everybody looking like they had money. A fiftyish man who looked like he had wads of it approached Max and held out his hand.

  "David McDougall." The proprietor, Max knew, he and his wife both Nob Hill big wheels. "Barbara and I are so pleased to have you dine with us tonight, Max. I've enjoyed having your mother come by on occasion."

  Then why haven't you put Suncrest on your list? Max wanted to ask, but restrained himself. "The pleasure's mine. We've brought a variety of vintages and hope you'll sample a few."

  McDougall slapped his back. "I certainly will. Let me introduce our sommelier," and Max met Carlos Valvo, the Portugese guy who reigned supreme over Cassis's wine list. He was a bald little man with wire glasses who looked like he might have become a monk if he hadn't gone into the wine trade.

  McDougall set up Max's party in a prime booth, as Max had expected. He knew the rules: spend big money and open most of his bottles, so McDougall and Valvo could taste and share with the staff. Max would leave the remaining bottles for later tasting.

  And to seal Suncrest's position on the wine list.

  He ordered bottled water and a few dozen oysters to get things rolling. Rory's date, Victoria something, immediately dived into the bread basket. She was a redhead Rory had dated on and off since high school, which mystified Max, who thought she was too dowdy and homespun to justify such devotion.

  "I'm excited," she declared. "I haven't eaten in the city in a long time."

  Stella rolled her eyes and Max wanted to as well, except that tonight
he was being gracious in all ways. Valvo returned with a corkscrew and Suncrest's sauvignon blanc from the year before.

  Max decided now was a good time to educate the table, and score a point or two with the friar. "Sauvignon blanc grapes tend to be highly acidic, but that's what gives the wine its bracing quality." He raised his glass, peering at its contents with what he hoped passed for a practiced eye. "The sauvignon blancs from cooler climates have more herbal flavors, while Napa's tend to be citrusy, with some tropical fruit thrown in. Grassy notes, too," he added, as Valvo finished pouring all around.

  Everyone tasted. Max kept his eyes on Valvo and off everybody else. He didn't have to look to see the hilarity Rory and Bucky were barely containing.

  "Agreeable burst of melon and vanilla." Valvo drank more, ran it through his teeth. "I detect a fig character, too, in the finish."

  Max nodded sagely. "That's exactly my perception, Carlos, though there's a subtle grapefruit overtone as well. Provides a wonderful closing zing."

  Bucky's face was contorted by the time Valvo left the table. " 'Closing zing'? You're killing me, Max!"

  "Be good, Bucky." Stella lay a hand on Bucky's leg but leveled her gaze at Max. "We want to do everything we can to make this evening a success for our friend here."

  Max was weighing the sincerity of that remark when a blonde sashayed past who left even Stella Monaco in the dust. She was Max's ideal wet-dream fantasy: skinny legs, skinny arms, and substantial bazooms, and on the petite side, so comfortably shorter than he was. Not that he could care less about her clothes but she was dressed nicely, too.

  But even she had to fade into the background as more wine was poured and more food was ordered. Max did his best to wow both Valvo and McDougall but kept an eye out for the blonde. At one point he saw her respond to the name Barbie—which could not have fit her better—and concluded that she was on staff and not a diner.

  He threw back more wine, which was going down nice and easy as the evening progressed. Sometime before the end of the night, he decided, he'd have to make Barbie's acquaintance.

  *

  No surprise to anyone at GPG, managing partner Hank Faskewicz—the biggest of the big dogs—resided with his family in a massive stone pile atop Pacific Heights' highest hill. To avoid the Z8 rolling all the way down to the bay, Will set the hand brake before delivering the key to the valet. Faskewicz lived only about six blocks from Will's Victorian but Will hadn't even considered walking. Somehow this wasn't the sort of house you just strolled up to.

  Neoclassical Greco-Roman, he supposed, complete with frieze, columns, and stone lions—all thrown into dramatic relief by carefully orchestrated floodlighting. It was cold and museum-like in Will's opinion, though he would kill for the bay view that could be had on a fogless day: a sweep of the Golden Gate Bridge, Marin Headlands, and Alcatraz Island. This evening, a sonorous horn sounded repeatedly in the distance as fog billowed across the bay. Lighter, more musical notes emanated from the house, unmistakable evidence of a party in progress.

  Will strode up the walk, buttoned his suit jacket, smoothed his tie. He might have been primed for Faskewicz's annual midsummer revelry if it weren't a command performance, or if he'd been able to bring Gabby along. But he couldn't risk it getting out that he was romancing an employee of the company he was trying to acquire. If that gossipy tidbit made its way back to Faskewicz, it would certainly raise questions Will didn't care to answer.

  A tuxedoed butler-type answered the door chime but supreme hostess Molly Faskewicz materialized within seconds to greet the new arrival.

  "Will, I'm so glad you could join us." She clasped his hands, bussed his cheeks, and enveloped him in a cloud of French perfume. Molly was an attractive brunette of the women's college, sweater-set variety, still reed thin after producing four little Hanks in rapid-fire succession. Rumors were circulating that a fifth was on the way—perhaps at long last a Henrietta—though that wasn't evident from Molly's slim-cut shimmery gold cocktail dress.

  She leaned into him confidentially. "It's all people you know, very boring for you, I'm afraid. Hank always wants to keep this an all-GPG party but I'm just dying to mix in new blood." She gazed up at him with her big brown eyes, a heavily mascaraed mid-thirties coquette. "Do you know what I mean?"

  This time, he had a good answer for her. "Molly, you'll be relieved to hear I'm seeing someone."

  The eyes got wider, disbelieving. She peered around him as if he had a woman stashed in his shadow, then gave a stomp of her little high-heeled foot. "Where is she? Are you hiding her from us?"

  "She doesn't live in the city. I couldn't get her out here on a weeknight."

  "Well," Molly produced a little pout, "sometime soon, I hope."

  He was a disappointment to Molly in so many ways, he feared. Will snagged a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and watched her accept a sparkling water. More than once he'd felt compelled to dodge her setup attempts. He could only imagine her armada of candidates: all well educated and good-looking but, he suspected, brittle and high maintenance. Passing them over would win him no points with her or her husband, who at the moment was holding court in a corner of his three-storied marble entrance hall, entertaining an apparently enthralled group of partner wannabes.

  Dinner began half an hour later, with GPG's finest arrayed around linen-draped tables for eight set up in the dining and living rooms. Four courses later, over coffee and dessert, their host began and ended the speechifying. The buzz-cutted Faskewicz was as efficient and no-nonsense as ever, declaring that GPG was having a good year despite the tough times, blah blah blah, even better in the future, more blah blah.

  Will and his fellow diners clapped in deep appreciation—whether for the firm's financial success or the end of the evening was anybody's guess—then set down their napkins, rose from their chairs, and stretched their legs. Will was calculating that he could get away with an escape when Faskewicz appeared at his side.

  "Will, good to see you." No air kissing in this case. An aggressively firm handshake did the trick. "How's everything going in Napa these days?"

  "Just fine. Making progress."

  Faskewicz glanced across the dining room. He was one of those people who rarely looked at the person to whom he was speaking. "Taking a little more time than you thought it would?"

  Will went on red alert. Now Faskewicz was getting impatient about the pace of the Napa deal, too, just like LaRue? But before Will could concoct a response, Faskewicz went on talking. "I ran into an old friend of yours the other day."

  "Who's that?"

  "Dennis Garnett." Faskewicz waved good-bye to Susan Amos Jones heading out the front door with her consultant husband in tow. "He's running a nonprofit now, here in the city. Some sort of, I don't know, food bank."

  No mistaking the disdain in Faskewicz's voice. When Will joined GPG, Dennis Garnett was a junior partner, the same level Will was now. A few years later, he'd been asked to leave. Will had always liked Dennis and knew Faskewicz was bringing him up for a reason. Faskewicz did everything for a reason.

  Will tried to keep his voice casual. "I know Dennis always had a long list of charitable activities he was interested in."

  "Well, he certainly wasn't interested in making money." Faskewicz slapped Will on the back. "At least not as far as we could tell." Then, with a nod, he ambled away.

  A warning bell shrieked like a banshee in Will's head. I'm on the outs. The Napa deal's taking too long. And they don't like how I'm handling it.

  In GPG-speak, the reference to Dennis Garnett—following the ostensibly offhand Napa query—was a clear signal. Will knew Simon LaRue had always wanted Will to cast his net more widely rather than focus on Suncrest alone. As Will hadn't yet made a deal happen, no doubt LaRue's disagreement was morphing into dissatisfaction. And now, apparently, Faskewicz was coming around to LaRue's way of thinking.

  What LaRue had said in the Monday partners' meeting two weeks back came racing back to Will's mind. I believe there's
fairly significant time pressure here . . . I'd rather we step up the pace. Once other firms recognize the Napa opportunity, we'll be looking at auctions. And nobody makes money when everybody chases the same deal.

  Funny, Will thought, standing paralyzed in Faskewicz's fancy home while people buzzed around him retrieving shawls, handbags, valet tickets. Given that Will made lots of money, sat in a corner office, and never flew anything but first-class, he was still a long way from calling his own shots. In some ways he was like any working stiff pulling down a salary, one that could be terminated at any time.

  Across the marble entrance hall, Will watched Simon LaRue and his redheaded trophy wife in a private chat with Omar El-Farouk. Though he couldn't hear the conversation, he could guess from the body language that the three were planning an addendum to the evening. Maybe a jazz club? Will thought. Or a rousing game of backgammon over sherry and cigars at the LaRues' Presidio Heights mansion?

  In earlier days Will had been invited to join such intimate entertainments. Not tonight.

  He watched the three depart, with no halt in their chatter, while blood pounded in his ears. That Napa deal better happen. And fast.

  *

  Around ten thirty in the evening, with Cassis nearing the conclusion of its second seating, Max poked Victoria in the thigh to get her attention.

  "Do you 'member if we opened the other saubignon blanc?" Then he laughed. "Did I say saubignon or sauvignon?" It was hard to make the v sound, he realized, it was like his tongue was tied in knots.

  Victoria said something, but even though he concentrated on her mouth, he couldn't make out what it was. Her words seemed to come from very far away, even though she was sitting right next to him in the booth.

  He leaned closer. "Huh?"

  "I don't think so!"

  "Don't yell!" He frowned and leaned back. "Maybe we should open it now."