His Rebel Heart

by Amber Leigh Williams

  Goodbye, sweet Harry. This town will miss you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “COME ON, BABY BLUE. I may not have Harry’s bucks, but I’ve got a place in Malibu overlooking—”

  “You booked a massage, Carlo. I am not on the menu of services.” Indigo Blue grasped the man’s muscular forearm, removed it from around her neck and lowered it to her massage table. Soft light from the matching Tiffany lamps caressed the burnished skin and smooth muscles of Hollywood’s latest action hero, Carlo Bandera. Soothing new-age rainforest sounds flowed from the spa’s hidden speakers.

  “I get that you don’t want to commit, babe. That’s cool.”

  Pouring coconut oil into her palm, she rubbed her hands to warm it, attempting to ignore the massive boner tenting the towel draped across Carlo’s crotch. Starting at the bottom of his rib cage, she slid the heels of her hands up and across his considerable pecs. She leaned in, adding her weight to release the tension in the huge muscles.

  His arms snaked around her and pulled her onto his chest, trapping her hands underneath her. “I’ve got five hundred bucks for a BJ.”

  She pushed against him, but his arms were steel bands. He didn’t even flinch. Panic pumped into her bloodstream, impelled by her racing heart.

  “Harry Stone could’ve had any broad in town, and he chose you.” He gave her the look she’d seen him use in his last movie. The heavy-lidded, smoky one that liquefied female costars. “You must be incredible—it’d be worth five hundred.”

  “Back off, Bandera. Right now.” Adrenaline raced through her, demanding flight or fight. But the caveman Casanova’s balls were out of her knee’s reach.

  “Aw, honey, you’ll change your mind once you see the goods...”

  When he used one arm to whip off the towel, she twisted away, sliding easily thanks to his oily chest.

  “This appointment is over.” She stepped to the door, but her hands were slick. She couldn’t turn the knob.

  Bandera sat up, a slow smile spreading across his face, his member throbbing. “From what I hear, you gotta need the money, Blue.” He slid his legs off the table.

  She shot a glance around the dim room, looking for a towel to wipe her hands. They lay stacked on the other side of the table. Figures.

  He stood. “If you’re that good, I’ll refer my friends.”

  Using two hands, tendons in her forearms straining, she twisted the greasy knob. It slipped, but then finally turned. She flung the door open. It hit the wall with a hollow boom. She stalked through the crowd from a just-released rumba class, leaving the door gaping behind her.

  Her client’s indignant yell didn’t douse the burn in her gut.

  I can’t do this anymore.

  Only a week into her old job and this was the third and scariest pass so far. She’d told herself that she’d been spoiled with the cushy life—but it was more than that. Before Harry, the upscale clientele of Las Brisas had at least shown respect for her skills and service. Now she was accosted on a daily basis. She snatched an Egyptian cotton towel from a stack, wiping her hands as she walked through the gym, hyperaware of the curious eyes that followed her.

  This was not going to work. She needed a new plan.

  As with everything he touched, Harry had changed her. She was no longer the free-spirited, starstruck newbie, grateful for a dream job teaching yoga to starlets and massaging famous muscle. But without Harry’s love and unswerving loyalty, who was she now? She didn’t know.

  But she wasn’t this.

  A crushing blanket of loss had descended the morning she woke to find the lifeless body of her mentor, her love, her best friend, cooling on the mattress beside her. After that Harry had belonged to everyone: the press, his fans, his daughter. In their hands, the funeral morphed from the quiet family ceremony Harry had wanted into a nightmare of Hollywood proportions complete with limos, television cameras and paparazzi.

  Indigo pushed open the door to the women’s locker room, hollow to the marrow of her bones. She put her hands on her knees and leaned over, waiting for a wave of dizziness to pass. When had she last eaten?

  But a decent meal wouldn’t touch this emptiness. The problem was much deeper.

  The commune where she’d grown up had been a large sheltering womb that, after high school, had shrunk to the point of claustrophobia. She’d fought her way out, choosing to be born instead between the glamorous thighs of Hollywood.

  It was only later she learned her surrogate mother was a narcissistic whore.

  That was the last time she’d trusted her gut. Lost, and one bad choice from disaster, she’d met Harry.

  “Indigo Blue. It sounds like a streetwalker’s name.” A chalkboard-squeal voice drifted from the first row of teak lockers.

  “The only reason anyone invited her to parties at all was because she had Harry wrapped around her ring finger. How do you suppose she did that?”

  “See? We’re back to the streetwalker thing.”

  Blood pounded up Indigo’s neck, flooding her face with heat. She eyed the exit, but her car keys were in her locker. Tightening her stomach muscles, she walked on. Coming abreast of the lockers, she glanced to the two underwear-clad plastic surgery billboards. “Monica, you may want to stick with those voice lessons.” She covered the bitchy words in fake-sincerity syrup. “You’re still strident, dear.”

  That shut them up. She grabbed her stuff and got the hell out.

  * * *

  TWO DAYS LATER, her Louis Vuitton luggage open on the bed, Indigo stood before her walk-in closet, which was bigger than her childhood bedroom. She surveyed the yards of satin, spandex and sequins, seeing her Hollywood life recede like the view in the long end of a telescope.

  That’s how it felt—as if, at twenty-seven, she’d already led three separate lifetimes: the tomboy who’d grown up wild on the Humboldt County commune, the star-struck yoga instructor and the celebrity wife of an aging Hollywood icon.

  Thanks to her mom and Harry, two of those lives had turned out well. The one in between, the one she’d been in charge of? Epic fail. She turned away from the closet. Whatever lifetime came next, she sure wouldn’t need this wardrobe.

  Mom wanted her to come home to People’s Farm, but her experience at the spa had taught her that going backward didn’t work. Thanks to the skills she’d learned there, she could put her portable massage table under her arm and start her next lifetime almost anywhere.

  And in the ass-end hours of last night, she’d decided to begin that life at the winery—the one remnant of this life that was truly hers. Maybe she’d find Harry’s spirit where they’d been happiest.

  Closing the luggage, she glanced around the bedroom, listening one last time for a whisper of Harry. All she heard was the whine of the pool pump through the open French doors. She now understood the phantom pain that amputees felt for a missing limb, because of the gaping hole in her that Harry had left. What would happen to her now, without his steady guiding hand on her shoulder?

  Everyone believed she’d married Harry Stone for his money. Still, she’d thought she’d made a few friends in the four years they’d been married. But the past two months proved that all the naïveté hadn’t yet rubbed off of Indigo Blue. She shook her head, picked up what was left of this life and walked downstairs.

  Claws on marble echoed in the two-story vestibule, getting closer. She dropped the load and knelt as Harry’s basset hound, Barnabas, careened around the corner, huge feet pistoning until he gained traction and barreled into her.

  “Oof. Well, hello to you too, big guy.” Avoiding drool, she knelt to pet him from soft ears to whipping tail. “The Wicked Witch of the West will be here soon. Let’s spare ourselves that drama, eh?”

  “Well, I may be a witch, but that’s not Toto.” Brenda Stone swept in on stilettos instead of a broom. “And y
ou are no Dorothy.” She flipped her salon-perfect blond tresses over her shoulder and strutted over on shapely, tanning-bed-brown legs. “Give me your house key, and open the suitcases.”

  Indigo stood, fists clenched at her sides. “You think I’d steal something?”

  “Listen up, bitch.” The diva waved a carmine talon in front of Indigo’s nose. “Daddy’s gone. I don’t have to put up with your shit for one more second.” She planted a fist on her hip. “Now, are you going to open up? Or do I call the cops?”

  They were once “friends.” That was before Indigo understood the Hollywood definition. She would have accepted Brenda’s aversion to having a stepmother her own age, but Brenda had made it clear that the competition wasn’t for Harry’s love—but for his money.

  Indigo spread her arms. “If I’d wanted any of this, I wouldn’t have insisted on a prenup leaving all of it to you.” The only things she wanted from this house were Barney, her wedding rings and a few of Harry’s T-shirts to sleep in.

  “Yeah, like anybody believed that story.” Brenda sniffed, her eyes crawling over the luggage. “Open them. Now.”

  Indigo bent and popped the locks on the first suitcase, tasting bitterness in the back of her throat. Sure, Brenda was all about money. But Indigo knew that deeper in her hate-shriveled heart lived an insecure, jealous little girl, and that was Indigo’s unforgivable sin. Not that Brenda was that little girl—but that Indigo knew it.

  A few minutes more, and you’re done with all this forever.

  She flipped open the suitcase. Slapping the drama queen silly would sure feel good but would only supply more fodder for the gossip rags. Harry deserved better. Guts churning, she gritted her teeth and opened the next.

  Ten minutes later the inspection was over, leaving Indigo feeling as violated as a cavity search.

  “Just because I’m a nice person, and since you didn’t try to steal anything else, I’ll let you keep the Vuitton.” Brenda raked a proprietary gaze over the marbled entryway and the Tara-style staircase, then back. “You were less than nothing before you met my dad. You’re now free to go back to that.” She flicked a hand in Barney’s direction. “You’re taking that filthy animal, right?”

  Indigo snapped the last lock shut and looked into Barney’s droopy eyes. “Are you ready?” Taking his tail wag as assent, she stood, grabbed the handles of the suitcases, and left this lifetime behind.

  * * *

  “I WAS SORRY to hear about your baby girl, Danovan.” Reese Winters sat across the executive desk at Winter Wines. His wrinkles were set in nervous lines, as if waiting to get a root canal. With no Novocain.

  Danovan DiCarlo felt the same but knew if it showed, this interview would be over. He shut his mind to the words that delivered the brass-knuckle punch to his chest. “You’re aware that I have a degree in agribusiness from UC Davis, and that I worked my way up at Bacchanal Winery to become one of their trusted vintners. But what you may not know is that I single-handedly took their sauvignon line from ten percent of—”

  “Danovan.” Reece’s fingers drummed the edge of the desk.

  “Yes, sir.” He leaned forward, anxious to make his next point. He was just getting to the good stuff.

  “Spare me the résumé. You know I can’t hire you.”

  “But, sir, I’m an excellent manager.”

  “My respect for your abilities is what got you this meeting. I’d wager you haven’t gotten many others. Am I right?”

  “Well, I’m just now starting to—”

  “Son, I don’t believe the rumors the family is putting out about you.” He leaned back in his burgundy leather chair. “But that doesn’t matter. They buy my grapes.”

  “You’re going to let the Boldens dictate—”

  “I am. And so is every other winery in the area. What’s more, you knew that when you set up this appointment.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “I don’t mean to stand in as your daddy, but it seems somebody needs to.” He put his knuckles on the desk and leaned in. “You got a bad deal. But you have to admit, you had some...input into your situation.”

  Danovan shot to his feet. “I didn’t come here to—”

  “So, I have to ask you.” He squinted across the desk. “Did you learn anything?”

  Heat pounded up Danovan’s neck until his face throbbed, engorged with it.

  “No one ever choked to death swallowing his pride, son.”

  Sanctimonious sonofabitch. If Winters hadn’t been old enough to sell wine to King Tut, Danovan would have pulled him across the table by the collar of that polo shirt and vent his frustration. Instead, he snatched the file folder of documentation from his chair, retrieved his résumé and dropped it in the folder. Even if all Danovan had left was a string of dynamite-rigged bridges, he couldn’t afford to burn any. Anger drained out of the hole that opened in his guts.

  He looked across the desk and saw the truth in those mournful blue eyes. In his own twisted way, the old man was trying to help.

  “I appreciate your time, Mr. Winters.” He squared his shoulders, did an about-face and marched out of the office, through the huge tasting room and out the front door of the winery. Finally, standing beside his car, he let out the breath he’d been holding.

  I’m firmly and durably screwed.

  He slammed his hands on the hood. When Winters agreed to see him, he’d had a glimmer of hope that one grower in the valley had a big enough set of balls to stand against the Boldens. But apparently they’d stopped making them that size.

  He unlocked his Land Rover with a click. He pulled the door open, and the smell of almost-new car washed over him as he settled into the seat. If he didn’t find a job soon, he’d be forced to sell this last sweet perk of his old life. He inserted the key and fired the engine.

  Sure, he could widen his search. He probably should. Napa Valley had more prestige, anyway. But there still would be the issue of a recommendation from his last employer. Who would an owner believe—the largest winemaker in central California, or a prospective hire? He pounded his fist on the burled wood dash, startling a passing tourist.

  Besides, dammit, he liked it here. He may have chosen the Central Valley right out of school because it was a small pond he could make a big splash in, but sometime over the past five years, he’d become attached. He liked the quaint small-town feel of downtown Widow’s Grove. He liked the prissy Victorians that lined the King’s Highway into town. But mostly, he loved the land. The rolling, golden hills dotted with live oaks quieted his edgy restlessness.

  But not his drive.

  Throwing the car into Reverse, he backed out. Goddammit, he wasn’t leaving until he’d interviewed at every winery he could get through the door of. The colossal screwup with Lissette might have trashed his ego, and his daughter’s death, his heart, but the Boldens were not taking his career, too.

  It was all he had left.

  * * *

  INDIGO WANTED TO go out the way she came in, so she chose Pacific Coast Highway. It took longer, but she and Barney weren’t in a hurry.

  The heavy mantle of Hollywood lightened with each mile of road that passed under her tires. This town wasn’t just a geographical location, but a state of mind—and she was delighted to change states. She played Harry’s favorite CDs, singing along with Van Morrison as the sun tipped over its summit to begin its descent to the sea.

  “What do you think, Barney? Are you ready for an adventure?” His woof was hopeful, but his doleful eyes gave her guts a wrench. They were leaving Harry behind.

  But the moment of doubt didn’t stay. They were only leaving the Harry that belonged to Tinseltown. Her Harry was still with her—in his wisdom that lingered in her mind, and in his love that would always be in her heart.

  At the Topatopa Bluffs of Ojai, she began looking ahead instead of back. Maybe she�
��d return to her roots and become a “gentlewoman farmer,” helping with the vines. She pictured herself in a floppy hat and canvas gloves, bending to snip fat bunches of grapes and putting them in a basket.

  Or maybe she’d use the grand hostess skills Harry had taught her, welcoming customers and pouring wine. After she learned more about wine, of course.

  She’d loved Harry’s Uncle Bob. His winery outside Widow’s Grove had been their favorite getaway between Harry’s projects. They’d sit sipping wine on the porch of Bob’s cozy log cabin, watching the sun sink into the vines. It was timeless and peaceful—the only place Harry was able to really relax.

  Bob was a spare raisin of a man, as if he’d been left too long on the vine in the late summer sun. She supposed she felt so instantly at home around him because he reminded her of her mother in the way he seemed inseparable from the land.

  It was Bob who had finally resolved the stalemate that delayed her and Harry’s marriage for two years. Ever aware of their age difference, Harry had wanted to be sure she was cared for after his death. But she’d refused to marry until Harry signed a contract leaving her nothing.

  It had been easy to stand resolute through all of Harry’s rants, because it didn’t matter to her if they ever married. All she ever wanted was Harry. Uncle Bob informed his nephew that if he remained stubborn, he’d lose everything. Bob’s respect and acceptance was balm to her singed soul following the tabloid firestorm that erupted over news of her and Harry’s courtship.

  Uncle Bob’s death two years ago had come as a shock to them both, but Indigo had one more—he’d left the winery solely to her. Apparently Harry wasn’t the only one who worried about her future.

  She and Harry had traveled together to the winery once after Bob’s death, but the magic had vanished with its owner. Harry hired a manager, and the winery became just another line on their tax form.

  Now she was going to see if it could be more.