Too Close to the Sun

by Dempsey, Diana

  Mantucci dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. "Of course, over the phone you and I have talked in great detail about Suncrest, Max. And my own people have done quite a bit of research."

  Though chewing on his steak sandwich, Max tried to put an encouraging expression on his face.

  "It is a very attractive property in so many ways," Mantucci went on. "Brand name, location . . ."

  Max chewed and nodded and listened to Mantucci proceed with the transaction foreplay, all of which he'd gotten before from Henley in the same mind-numbing detail. What he wanted was an offer, and a time frame, and a promise of cash—lovely, spendable US dollars.

  "I am very interested in Suncrest," Mantucci finally said. "There is a strong likelihood that I will make a formal offer to acquire it. But given its high value, and the fact that you are seeking an all-cash transaction, I need to secure a financial partner in order to do so."

  What? Max stopped chewing, steak and French bread clumped in a soggy mess in his mouth.

  "I have obtained some real interest front the first parties I have approached on this," Mantucci went on, "but nothing has yet been nailed down. Still, I came to California to make clear to you how serious I am in pursuing this matter."

  He stopped, clearly waiting for Max to say something positive in return. But Max could not, for he could not speak. Because he was transfixed by a man staring straight at him over the back of Mantucci's head.

  For not only did Vittorio Mantucci not make an offer to take Suncrest off Max's hands, the man who had was standing twenty yards away. Looking bug-eyed and red-faced and like he might just explode at any moment.

  Oh . . . my . . . God. Does Henley know what's going on here?

  Because it certainly looked like he did.

  Only once before in his life had Max felt like this. It was when he'd been in a car accident. He'd gone through an intersection after the light had turned red, thinking he could just squeak through. Just a second too late, he realized he couldn't, that a white Honda was going to get him. He remembered time switching into slow motion. He remembered watching the Honda approach, seeing his own car move forward but not fast enough, waiting for the impact, wondering just how bad it was going to be.

  Right now, he felt exactly like that all over again. But this time the approaching Honda was Will Henley, who was actually more like a Mack truck when it came to how much damage he could do.

  Henley came over to their table and looked first at Mantucci, who was rising from his chair to shake Henley's hand.

  "Vittorio," Henley said, "welcome back to the valley." Now Henley looked as friendly as friendly could be, and he wore a smile wide enough to crack his face. "How nice to run into you again. Are you here on business? Perhaps toying with a possible acquisition?"

  The blood in Max's veins turned as cold as the white wine he'd been downing. Henley knows Mantucci. And he knows what he's here for. I am so royally hosed. He gulped, trying—but failing—to dream up an escape hatch from this situation.

  Mantucci laughed, shrugged. "It seems I can't keep away from this beautiful valley. Business or"—he laughed again and indicated Max with a wave of the hand—"no business."

  Henley laughed, too. Ha ha ha! He gave Max a smile that could melt ice cream. "And how are you, Max?" He slapped Max on the back, hard enough that Max had to struggle to remain upright. "Enjoying your lunch?"

  Max felt like he just might regurgitate his lunch. "What brings you to Meadowood?" he managed to croak.

  Henley's eyes gleamed. "Funny coincidence, isn't it?" He cocked his head at the two young guns he worked with, who were standing inside the restaurant, watching the whole thing. "My colleagues and I had some extra time today, thought we might enjoy watching the croquet over lunch. You play?" he asked Max.

  "Uh, no."

  "Not much for games, huh?" He smiled like the devil himself, then nodded and backed away, apologizing for disturbing their meal.

  Max wanted to crawl under the table. But it was too late to do any good.

  *

  Tuesday afternoon Gabby was alone in the Calhoun vineyard, painstakingly filling baggies with sauvignon blanc grapes, when Will came to find her. Each baggie contained fruit from a particular row of grapevines. Her plan, before Will threw it into severe disarray, was to take the baggies back to the winery to test the grapes' sugar levels, to decide which rows, if any, were ripe for picking the next day. It was a crush ritual, one of many, that was keeping her busy every day from three in the morning until five in the afternoon, after which she'd drive home bleary-eyed to bathe, eat, and collapse into bed.

  If only that day were like every other.

  She wondered later how she knew Will was upset when he was still a hundred paces distant. Some lover's instinct, perhaps, like the wife who clutches at her heart the very instant her soldier husband is killed half a world away. Gabby rose from her crouch and watched Will approach, her left hand clamped on a half-empty baggie and her right shading her eyes, as the bill on her baseball cap wasn't big enough to shield them from the sun's glare. Was it just her guilty conscience or was there some hint of disaster in his long-legged stride, some clue that her world was about to shatter in the way he swung his arms, set his jaw, tilted his proud blond head?

  When he got closer, she could identify the difference, and gooseflesh rose on her skin. He wouldn't look at her. He'd look anywhere but right at her, as if he'd already reached the point where he could no longer stand the sight of her.

  This is it. He knows. She'd had a vague plan of confessing if things progressed far enough between Vittorio and Max that she needed to. A coward's way out, she knew, but she couldn't bring herself to risk Will if she didn't absolutely have to. That Will had already found out the truth was unnerving. Hadn't Vittorio told her it was just this very day that he was meeting with Max? And the assignation certainly wasn't happening at Suncrest. How did Will find out so fast? She was reminded yet again that she was dealing with a highly intelligent man, one she couldn't fool if she tried.

  Not that she had any intention of trying. Though she was terrified that her actions would cost her this man she had come to love, she also knew she'd only done what she had to do to try to save what was dear to her and her family. Pray God he'll understand.

  He came to within a few yards of her. No kiss, naturally, no hug—no vestige at all of the man who'd held her in his arms and told her he loved her. But he did meet her eyes, and her soul shriveled at the ice-cold fire in their blue depths.

  "I've just come from seeing Max with Vittorio Mantucci," he told her. "They're having lunch at Meadowood. Can you explain that to me?"

  "Yes." Her heart pummeled her rib cage like a boxer's fists on a punching bag. "I asked Vittorio to consider making an offer for Suncrest."

  "You asked Vittorio to consider making an offer for Suncrest." He nodded and turned away. She watched his profile, a study in self-control. A muscle twitched in his jaw. His hands clenched and unclenched, fists formed and unformed. A silent battle seemed to rage as much within him as between them. He didn't look at her when he spoke again. "Is that where you were last week? When you"—his voice reeked of sarcasm—" 'went away for a few days?' You were in Italy?"

  "Yes."

  "So you're not going to deny it?"

  "No. I did what I had to do. And if you'll let me, I'll explain why."

  "You did what you had to do." He threw back his head and let out a whoop of laughter, obscenely loud in the silent, sun-baked vineyard. "That is rich, Gabby! That is truly rich."

  She tried to slow her breathing, but it was like trying not to pant in the middle of a marathon. "I had to try to save Suncrest. I—"

  "From me." He jabbed at his chest, his features twisted. "You had to try to save it from me."

  "Yes. Because I knew that try as you might, you are going to kill the very heart of the winery. I hear what the lawyers say, and the accountants, and the people you work with. I know what's up and I also know you may not be able to st
op it. So I had to try. I love Suncrest." She struggled to speak through the uncontrollable trembling of her lips. "So does my father. My whole family. I had to do whatever I could to protect it."

  He shook his head, over and over. "You've got some nerve telling me about love, lady."

  He turned away from her and strode a few paces down the row of grapevines, staring at the ground, shaking his head, muttering, his hands on his trousered hips. Part of her wanted to run to him, to touch him, but she was afraid. It was like getting too close to the bars of the cage behind which the lions and tigers paced. One wrong move—whoosh!—and you could find yourself scarred for life.

  "Will?" She spoke to his back, tried to steady her voice. "Will, I do love you. It wasn't easy for me to do what I did. It killed me. And I feel so guilty because I know how much you want Suncrest. But at the same time I have to know that you care about what matters to me. I'm not asking you to agree with all of it, but I do have to know that you respect it."

  "Nice speech." Again he faced her, and her heart caught in her throat. Had she ever seen his features so cold, so set? "Does that go both ways, by any chance? Because as far as I can tell, I'm supposed to kowtow to everything you want while you get to stand back and pass judgment on me. Somehow"—he raised his voice above her protests—"somehow, what's getting lost in all of this is that I am the one in the trenches, trying to salvage what is left of this damn winery!" His voice resounded through the vineyard, seemed to hammer the very earth and sky. "It's going down the tubes, Gabby, get it? If it weren't for me, Suncrest would be auctioned off to the highest bidder. Maybe not this week, maybe not this month, but someday soon. And I can assure you that the new owners wouldn't give a rat's ass what you think about how they should run their business!" He came closer, jabbed his finger at her face. "They certainly wouldn't care about your job, or your father's, or Cam's. Is that what you want?"

  She met his eyes. "You know it's not. What I want is to keep Suncrest as a winery that cares about quality, that takes care of its employees, that tries to preserve the land for future generations." He scoffed and turned away. She raised her voice. "There is a niche for that kind of winery, Will. And it's what the valley needs more of. I'm trying to preserve a way of life here."

  He shook his head. "Honestly, Gabby, I really hate when you get on your moral high horse. And I also find it damned hypocritical. Especially right at the moment, with this knife sticking in my back."

  He stalked farther away, flung back his head. "Goddammit!" he shouted at the empty sky. Her hands flew to her mouth, hovered there, as the oath shuddered in the air, dispersed a flock of curious birds that had been watching them from the overhead wires. They took flight in an agitated disruption of fluttering wings, shrieking across the empty vineyard, seeking escape.

  "I'm sorry. But I had to do it." Her voice sounded weak, tremulous. It didn't help that tears had started falling, that her heart was having trouble beating its normal rhythm when it was breaking once again in two. "I hoped you'd understand. This is just one deal for you. But for me and my family, it's our whole lives."

  He closed his eyes, let his head fell back. "There are so many things I don't understand, Gabby. One of them is why you had to go to Vittorio. Of all people." His voice was quiet now, as if his strength had been sapped. He raised his head and looked at her. She thought she'd never seen such weariness on a man's face in her life. "Then again, you couldn't go to Mondavi or Gallo or Beringer or any of the other usual suspects. They're all big bad capitalists like me."

  "I knew Vittorio would listen to me."

  "And you were right." Will paused. "Is he in love with you?"

  "No," she said immediately, though to be honest, she couldn't say she knew for sure.

  "Are you in love with him?"

  "No." That question she could answer, though she doubted Will would believe her. Or believe what she was about to tell him next. "I love you."

  "Right." He looked away. "So you keep saying."

  She watched him. It was as bad as she had feared it would be. Yet she clung to the fact that he hadn't walked away yet. That gave her a scintilla of hope. Until he walked away, she had a chance. To explain. To make him understand. But what was the right tack to take? To cry? Beg for forgiveness? Use logic and reason?

  "Will, I know you try to do the right thing. I want you to understand that's what I feel I've done here. I know the valley can't stay the same forever—I'm not Tinkerbell. But it kills me to see people from outside coming in, paving it over, making their money, then leaving. I can't apologize for trying to stop that."

  "What breaks my heart, Gabby, is that you think I'm one of those people."

  I don't want you to be! she wanted to scream at him, I want to believe you're just like me! But how could she, seeing him so cold and unrelenting, not giving an inch. Not, from what she could tell, trying in the least to understand her. Simply ready, as Vittorio had been, to cast her aside if she didn't fall in with his master plan.

  Will got to fire the final salvo. Because she was too spent to manage it.

  "What you don't seem to understand, Gabby, is that you extract a promise from me, you make me the bad guy if I don't live up to it, then you take advantage of what I've told you, in trust, and call yourself an angel and me a sinner. Well, if that's your idea of doing the right thing, I'd say we don't have much to talk about."

  She lost him then. He turned and walked away through the vines as she had feared he would from the beginning. She had too much pride to call after him. She was too wise to keep trying at that moment to explain. And for the life of her, she couldn't tell if there was really any point.

  Chapter 16

  A day and a half after his vineyard battle with Gabby, Will sat at an umbrella-shaded table in front of Taylor's Refresher, a longtime St. Helena burger-and-fries hangout. While waiting for Max to join him, he nursed an old-fashioned milk shake and watched traffic crawl along two-lane Main Street, clogged with locals and late-August tourists. It was another scorcher. Heat blistered from the pavement and an unpleasant, gusty north wind snapped at the Stars and Stripes hanging high on a nearby flagpole.

  Yet what seethed in Will was an ice-cold anger. Toward Max Winsted, in part. But the far greater share was directed at Gabby.

  She had betrayed him. That she could be so disloyal, so untrustworthy—he never would have guessed it of her. He couldn't trust her again—that much was sure. What she had done was so counter to what she knew he wanted, what he'd been working so hard for. She'd accused him of betrayal in the past, but she was so much more the guilty party now.

  He still couldn't believe that she would go to her old lover to try to unravel the deal on which she knew he had so much riding. And on the basis of what? Ill-conceived, barely thought-out views about business and its many abuses. The fact that she didn't really understand what Will did, didn't really care to learn about it, didn't stop her for a minute. As far as she was concerned, she was right and he was wrong and that was the end of it. She was so quick to condemn him!—and yet had the nerve to spout off about love and loyalty.

  His heart pounded just thinking about it. The only salvation, the only one, was that all was not lost where Suncrest was concerned. Despite Gabby's outrageous behavior, Will still believed that he had the upper hand when it came to the winery. Chances were very good that he could still back Max into a corner and get the deal done.

  His attention was drawn by Max's shiny red two-seater convertible—top down, of course—screeching to a halt in the parking lot. Will watched Max get out of the car, shake his legs to get the creases out of his khaki trousers, then smooth back his dark hair. Once, then again. Then he took a deep breath. During all these ministrations, he remained within a foot of his Mercedes, clearly reluctant to face the man waiting for him.

  Will shook his head. You should be nervous to see me, you sneaky moron.

  Max Winsted was nothing if not easy to read. Once Will got over the initial shock of seeing him with Vittor
io Mantucci, he'd immediately understood why in recent weeks Max had started dragging his feet on GPG's acquisition of Suncrest. All of a sudden Max was throwing up roadblocks. This was a problem, and that, too. Then other staff stepped onto the work-slowdown bandwagon. Suncrest's lawyer took a day to answer a question when it should have taken her only a few hours. Same with the accountant. And all the winery-wide stalling was for one reason and one reason only, Will knew: Max was waiting for an offer from Vittorio Mantucci.

  And such an offer was possible. But Will's experience told him it would never trump GPG's. There was no way it would be larger. And all cash. And, most crucial of all, that it would come together quickly enough to be a real threat.

  And even if it did, Will still had an ace in the hole: the no-shop clause. If Max tried to accept another offer, Will could sue him until his eyes blurred. And pending lawsuits would sure give Vittorio Mantucci something to think about.

  Will watched his prey abandon the safety of the parking lot and manfully approach the fenced-in front patio of the restaurant. He lumbered over to Will, who didn't bother to get up.

  "Didn't know you liked this place," Max mumbled, taking a seat.

  "You can get a good steak sandwich here," Will said. "Probably'll cost you only a third what it does at Meadowood." Max blanched. "Shall we go order?" Will asked.

  Max agreed. Will beat him to the screened-in window and chuckled again at the menu. This was the Napa Valley equivalent of fast food, with gourmet options and of course a wine list. "I'll take an ahi tuna burger and another White Pistachio shake," he told the order-taker, then pivoted toward Max. "What can I get you? My treat."

  Max seemed surprised by even this low-level generosity. "I'll take a Miss Kentucky," he said, which turned out to be a chicken-breast sandwich with mountains of jack cheese, mushrooms, and onions.

  Once they resumed their seats, Will dipped his chilled extra-long spoon into his second shake and cocked his chin at Max's meal. "I guess both of us are living large today. Then again, we do have something to celebrate."