Too Close to the Sun

by Dempsey, Diana

  "And it's not just Suncrest, it's the whole valley." She threw out her hands, tried to explain. "It's changing in ways that everyone in my family hates and I want to try to protect it in what little way I can." She hesitated, then, "I love it, Vittorio, I always will. It's that simple."

  Gently, he laid his hand on her cheek and wiped a tear with his thumb. "Love is never simple, Gabriella. You and I know that."

  They had learned that lesson together. But emerged on the other side still able to talk. Still, she realized, friends.

  She raised her eyes to his. "I know I'm asking a lot. But I also know this could be a huge opportunity for you and your family."

  "It could be. But it's very awkward. I just don't see how I can manage it."

  "Will you try?" Once those words were out of her mouth, she understood their great irony. Here she was again, asking another man—another lover—for another promise. It was very likely she'd get the same answer.

  And she did. "I'll try, Gabriella. But let me warn you, it won't be easy. I will need to investigate, to find a partner. And it will have to happen very fast."

  "You can be fast." She put a tease in her voice. "Pretend you're on the superstrada."

  He chuckled. "Giving the car an Italian tune-up?"

  "Now you can give Suncrest an Italian tune-up."

  He shook his head, but she saw the fondness in his eyes. And heard the affection in his voice. He took her hands. "I always told myself that if I ever had the chance to do something for you, I would."

  "If you could do this for me, I would appreciate it for the rest of my life."

  Slowly, he nodded. In that silent stone room, they stared at one another. The sun shone in the Chianti sky as it always did, the church bells pealed, the ravens cawed. But Gabby knew something had changed for both her and Vittorio.

  Yet that was appropriate. And just as well.

  Chapter 15

  Will saw harvest begin on a sunshiny Monday morning in August. Driving past Suncrest's Rosemede vineyard on his way to the winery, he spied the lemon-yellow bins that appeared each year for crush, piled high with sauvignon blanc grapes. Pickers moved rapidly down the rows, tugging on grape clusters with one hand and slicing them off with the other. They were paid by the bin, so they worked fast.

  Will squinted through his dust-streaked windshield as he moved past, searching for a woman's slim figure, or for strands of honey-gold hair poking out from underneath a baseball cap. But all he saw were men—dark-haired, hunched-over men. More than a little surprised—Is it possible Gabby's still not back at work? Even though now harvest has started?—he arrived at the winery to find Felix driving a tractor past the employee parking lot. "So crush has started?" he called, proud of himself for using the right lingo.

  Felix nodded. "We been at it five hours already."

  "You started at three in the morning?"

  Felix laughed at the shock in his voice. "Better for the grapes. They're cooler. So are we." And he laughed again, waved and continued on, leaving Will no chance to ask the question he really wanted answered: Hey! Where's Gabby?

  The last time he'd seen her had been nearly a week before. They hadn't fought exactly, but she'd walked away from him in tears, then just disappeared. She'd sent an oddly short and impersonal e-mail telling him she was going away for a few days. Just like that. Nothing since.

  Will stared after Felix's disappearing tractor, and despite the heat already beginning to rise from the asphalt parking lot, felt a cold shiver along his spine. Gabby's got to be around here somewhere, he told himself. She wouldn't have quit. No matter how angry she was with him, how much she feared the changes at Suncrest, the last thing she would do was abandon the winery. Certainly not during crush, which to a winemaker was the busiest, most critical time of the year.

  He let himself into the main winery building—empty because everyone was in the vineyards—and sprinted upstairs to Porter Winsted's old office, thinking maybe she'd left a note for him there before she went out into the vineyards. He opened the door, to which no note was taped, then strode inside to inspect the mahogany surface of the desk. Nothing there either. He looked around. Nothing anywhere.

  Damn. He let his briefcase drop onto the Oriental carpet. A fresh new week had started—more to the point, harvest had started—and still she was radio silent. There was no question that the acquisition was coming between them, exactly as he had feared it might. Of course she thought he was betraying her, breaking his promise. Sometimes when he pondered where Suncrest might be headed, he feared she was right.

  Just to be sure she hadn't decided to cut her losses, he opened the drawer where the employee files were kept, pulled out DELUCA, GABRIELLA, and flipped it open. No resignation letter lay inside. Mildly reassured, he returned the file to its place, knocked the drawer shut with his knee. What now?

  Go find her, you idiot. You won't be able to get a lick of work done till you see her anyway.

  That was so true. Even if the news was bad, even if she wanted no part of him anymore, he had to hear it. He had to get out of this limbo where he didn't know if the woman he loved was throwing him over. Ironically, because she didn't trust him to do right by her. Will Henley—Boy Scout, doer of good deeds—was suspected of being a lout. That was a lifetime first.

  So was the niggling worry that the accusation carried a kernel of truth.

  He hitched a ride back to the Rosemede vineyard on a tractor driven by a Spanish-speaking field worker he didn't know, who'd come back to the winery to offload bins of grapes for the mechanized destemmer. Once at the vineyard, Will leaped off the tractor and walked up to the first picker he saw. "Is Gabby here? Do you know where she is?"

  The man nodded, sweat running down his lined face, and pointed north up a row of vines. Will thanked him and headed in that direction, the sun already intense enough at 8:30 in the morning to bake the nape of his neck.

  Never had he felt so like a fish out of water. While all the pickers wore jeans and T-shirts, he was in a dress shirt and tie, gabardine trousers and leather shoes, which were literally biting the dust at the moment and would figuratively do so at the end of the day. The difference in garb made him feel like the bourgeois capitalist boss come to check up on the proletarian workers. It was also hot as hell and he would have much preferred to be wearing less clothing. But when all was said and done it was worth it, because after a few minutes of plodding through the dirt, he spied Gabby ahead of him, in profile, hand on her hip, speaking into her walkie-talkie.

  His heart slid a little in his chest, out of both relief and worry. He stopped to catch his breath and watch her. She wore khaki shorts with a tiny enough inseam to spark his imagination, a short-sleeved bright orange tee shirt, little white tennis socks, and running shoes. She looked adorable—fit and tanned and healthy and outdoorsy.

  It couldn't be his imagination, what he felt for this woman. There was some kind of primal pull that wrenched at his soul every time he was with her. He just wanted to be near, wanted to be close, wanted to be connected.

  Seeing her in the flesh, he decided he would act as if everything were normal, as if she hadn't gone AWOL for a week, as if he didn't fear she was going to dump him right then and there, like a cluster of grapes not quite up to snuff. After a quick glance around to make sure no one was looking, he grabbed her from behind and nuzzled her neck, his nostrils filling with the summer-happy scent of Coppertone. "Morning."

  She spun around. Behind the light-purple lenses of her sunglasses, her eyes widened and—he was thrilled to see—her mouth instantly broke into a smile. "Will!"

  "You look glad to see me."

  "I am!"

  "I was a little worried."

  The smile faded a bit. "I know." She paused, then, "I'm sorry."

  Was that guilt he saw in her eyes? Or his imagination, because of the guilt he was feeling himself? Then Felix's voice blared over her walkie-talkie. "Row sixteen or seventeen next?"

  She put her walkie-talkie to her
mouth. "Seventeen, Felix. I'll be there soon. Over."

  "So you're pretty busy," he said. But seeing her smile, knowing he couldn't possibly be misreading the delight on her face, filled him with enormous relief. "How's it going?"

  "So far so good, but I don't like this heat spike." She shoved the walkie-talkie into the waistband of her shorts. "I'm worried the grapes are going to shut down."

  "Shut down?"

  "Stop ripening. And for sure the cab needs more hang time." She set both hands on her hips. A light sheen of sweat glistened on the curve of her chest revealed by the U-neck of her tee shirt. "I wish we'd get some fog."

  "We haven't had any in a week. It's been sweltering."

  She looked away and said nothing, leading him to believe she had no idea what the local weather had been like. Curiosity urged him on.

  "So . . . you were out of town?"

  She nodded, still looking away.

  "Where'd you go?"

  She returned her eyes to his and wrinkled her nose. "Would you mind if we didn't talk about it?"

  "Well, it's just kind of mysterious." He stopped, waited. She said nothing, so he continued. "I mean, did you have some kind of surgery you don't want to tell me about?" In her absence, wild scenarios had spun in his mind. One was that she was suffering from some nameless female ailment she'd been too embarrassed to tell him about. "Or do you have some other boyfriend somewhere you went to go see?"

  Her eyes flew open in what seemed genuine astonishment. "Why would you ask that?"

  "I don't know. You go AWOL suddenly, right before harvest—it doesn't seem like you. It doesn't make sense. It makes me wonder." That sounded a little hostile. He tried again. "I missed you."

  Their gazes locked. A picker moved past, thankfully deciding not to work in that particular area right at that moment. Then, "I missed you, too," she said. She edged closer, reached up to smooth the collar of his dress shirt, then left her hand on his shoulder. She kept her voice low. "I didn't have surgery. And I certainly don't have some other boyfriend. Though I have to say I like the idea that you'd be jealous."

  "I'd be insanely jealous." He'd been jealous thinking about Vittorio, who'd been history before Will had even appeared on the scene. "So you're not furious with me about Suncrest?"

  She shrugged. "I guess I realized that we're going to have to agree to disagree about Suncrest. I know you're just doing what you have to do. Maybe now I understand that." She paused, then, "You'd feel the same if the situation were reversed, right?"

  He was so taken aback by how calm she was on the topic that he responded instantly. "Of course." He regarded her. Maybe the week away had been a good thing after all, given her new perspective. Maybe Suncrest wouldn't end up being such a huge problem between them.

  He felt a weight lift from his chest, as if he'd been holding his breath underwater and now was free to grab great gulps of sweet, saving air. He glanced around, saw no one looking in their direction. He put his hands on her hips, pulled her even closer, and smothered her lips in a kiss.

  She tasted sweet, started a low burning in his groin. "So . . . just how busy are you, Ms. DeLuca?"

  She laughed softly. "Very busy, Mr. Henley."

  "Because I'm experiencing a bit of a heat spike myself."

  "I can tell. But we can't exactly do anything about it right here."

  "Vineyards have worked nicely for us in the past."

  "Private vineyards."

  "Hm. Good point." He clutched her hand, pulled her after him. "But I can think of someplace else private."

  "Will . . ." But she didn't really resist, which only heightened his ardor. By the time they'd hitched another tractor back to the winery, he was a man very much on a mission. Her eyes flew open when they got upstairs and he slammed the door on Porter Winsted's office, turned the lock, and spun toward her, whipping off her baseball cap and pulling her tee shirt up over her head in two swift surprising motions. Her bra flew in an arc that landed next to the tartan sofa. His mouth was on her breasts in seconds.

  "Oh, my God . . ." she breathed, her hands clutching his head.

  He was possessed. His own clothes came off in a rush, his desire to be inside her rampant. Off came her shorts, or at least mostly off, because he had no time to fuss with little white socks and running shoes.

  On the Oriental carpet with the woman of his dreams beneath him, his mouth leaving wet trails on her sweat-salty skin. She tasted like Coppertone and the cutest girl in the senior class and the best of summer's hot stolen moments. He cut off her moans with his mouth—"Shhh, someone could hear us . . ."— bringing her to climax with a sticky finger that he then sucked on with his own mouth.

  He had never felt harder, more potent, more in need. It wasn't a sweet lingering love they shared that morning, but it rocked him to the bottom of his soul. Afterwards they clung together, a tangled mass of damp limbs, breathing fast, listening to Felix's voice outside the office windows as a tractor came and went. Silence again descended.

  She giggled and nipped at his ear. "And I thought you were such a straitlaced businessman."

  "Just goes to show how wrong a person can be."

  "I guess." Her head fell back on the carpet, her honey-gold hair a tangle on the weave of crimson and blue. He watched her look at him and something in her face changed, in a way he couldn't quite put a name to. "But I don't really think I'm wrong about you," she said.

  He was almost afraid to ask. "No?"

  She was silent for some time. Then those lovely hazel eyes of hers filled with tears, which surprised him. "Don't cry, sweetie." He wiped one errant tear with his finger, kissed another away, "Why are you crying?"

  She looked away. "Sometimes I cry when I'm happy."

  "Is that why you're crying now?"

  She said nothing. Another tear slipped from her eye, cascaded down her cheek. Then, "I guess I'm crying because underneath that capitalist pig exterior, you're a wonderful man, Will Henley."

  He chuckled then waited, sensing there was more to come. Knowing what he wanted it to be. He got what he wanted.

  "I love you," she said.

  His hand was very tender as it smoothed the hair back from her face, from which her tears were running like soft rain. He stared into the eyes he'd been looking for all of his life. "I love you, too, Gabby."

  *

  On a late August Tuesday afternoon, a week after Suncrest winemakers had begun their harvest, Max sat on the shaded terrace of Napa Valley's Meadowood Resort, anxiously awaiting his lunch guest. At long last he spied the tall, dark-haired stranger who'd crossed a continent and an ocean to meet him. After yet another quick glance around the terrace restaurant to make sure no one who knew him was present, Max half rose from his chair, reached out his hand, and plastered a smile on his face. "So we meet at last, Vittorio. It's a pleasure."

  Mantucci smiled, shook Max's hand, then sat. "The pleasure's mine. After all those phone conversations, it's wonderful to put a face to a name."

  Max resumed his seat, more pleased with life than he'd been in some time.

  Mantucci had thrown his hat in the ring at just the right moment. If another week had passed, it might have been too late. By then Max and his mother might have signed the final documents selling Suncrest to GPG. But now—hey! As far as Max was concerned, the window of opportunity for a better deal was still wide open.

  And to hell with the so-called "no-shop clause." If Henley had really expected him not to consider other offers, he shouldn't have knocked down the purchase price by 10 percent. So fair was fair.

  Though Max sure hoped he could conclude this transaction on the QT. That's why he couldn't risk having Mantucci come to Suncrest. For if Henley did get wind that Max was talking to another potential buyer, the deal with GPG could vaporize. Then Max would have to make it work with the Italian stallion—who hadn't actually made a formal offer yet—or run the damn winery himself.

  The waiter who'd led Mantucci to Max's table cleared his throat. "We have a
bottle of this gentleman's sauvignon blanc chilling in the back," he told Mantucci. "Before you order lunch, shall I bring it out for you?"

  "Vittorio? Would that suit you?" Max proffered a warm smile, waved a gracious hand. What would you like, my new friend? Anything, anything at all!

  "On this hot day, that would be perfect." Mantucci smiled in return. Max nodded at the waiter to signal his own assent, then took a long look at the guy on whom he might be able to unload Suncrest. A little slick, maybe, a little too good-looking, but you could say the same thing about Henley. And this guy was straight out of the Old Country, so could probably be led around by the nose easier than Henley could.

  Mantucci leaned his elbows on the table and squinted at the expansive lawns that rolled away from the terrace, on which people dressed entirely in white meandered around in small groups. "I didn't know Americans like to play croquet."

  Max restrained himself from declaring his honest opinion on that subject. "It's very popular at Meadowood," he said instead. "I'm sure you'd be familiar with another sport that people around here are playing more and more. Bocce."

  Mantucci laughed. "Is that so?"

  "There are a few leagues here in the valley." None of which Max had joined, of course. He considered bocce only slightly less of a pansy European sport than croquet.

  The waiter returned and made the usual show of opening and pouring the wine. Max raised his glass in Mantucci's direction. "To successful ventures."

  "Hear, hear," Mantucci murmured, and both sipped. They chitchatted for a while, ordered their meals. It wasn't until their entrees had been served that Mantucci seemed ready to get down to serious business.

  Make an offer, Max begged silently. And make it bigger than Henley's. For that would be the true coup. Not only would Max get to walk away with more moola, he'd get to screw Henley as well. And Gabby DeLuca by extension.