There was something magical about the evening—she could feel it unfurling, spreading through the room. The evening sunlight slanted across the table in bars of orange-gold, and her senses were filled with the smell and taste of chocolate and fruit, rich, late-summer tastes that she thought would always make her think of laughter and a full belly, and give a pleasant drowsiness to her eyelids.
It was lovely to see Sandi with her feet up on a chair and her head propped on a hand, laughing as she listened to Mac telling another story about someone who’d visited the vineyard. Sandi hadn’t laughed much at all lately. And Ginger—who had become harder and much more defensive since she’d been fired and accused of stealing—looked as if she’d finally let her guard down for a while.
And the cause of all this was the man standing before them, who had switched on his entertaining role, and appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself as he related facts about the wine and teased the girls with his inimitable wit.
He was now unscrewing the bottle of Pinot Gris. “Apparently, they’ve developed a new hybrid grape,” he said. “It acts as an anti-diuretic, and it’s supposed to reduce the number of times you have to go to the bathroom in the night.”
Ginger frowned. “What’s it called?”
“Pinot More.”
Fred snorted and held out her glass for him to splash some into. “You have this performance off pat, don’t you?”
“Damn straight. Did you know that in the sixteenth century Martin Luther said, ‘Beer is made by men, wine by God’?”
“And Pope John XXIII said, ‘Men are like wine—some turn to vinegar, but the best improve with age.’”
He grinned. “Which one am I?”
“I’ll let you know when I get to know you better.”
He chuckled and gestured at her glass. “Tell me what you think of that.”
She inhaled tropical fruit, melon, and mango, and when she sipped it, the wine tasted rich and almost oily. “It’s nice,” she said. “Different. I really like it.”
“So.” He gestured to the bottles before him. “What’s your favorite?”
“I like the Pinot Gris,” Sandi said. “It’s lovely.”
“The Cabernet for me,” Ginger replied. “I prefer a red.”
“So do I normally.” Fred considered the bottles, and her gaze rested on the Chardonnay. She thought about its lemony scent, and how it had reminded her of Mac. “I’m going to surprise myself and choose this,” she said, tapping the bottle.
She met his gaze and felt an inner glow as his smile spread slowly. He was pleased with her choice. It shouldn’t matter, but for some reason it did.
“So, Chardonnay for you.” He poured some more into her glass, then topped up the other girls’ glasses with their favorites. After pouring himself some of the Chardonnay, he said, “If I may suggest a toast... To Blue Penguin Bay.”
“To Blue Penguin Bay,” Fred and her sisters repeated, and they all sipped their wine.
“I’m glad we came,” Sandi said, “whatever happens now.”
“Me too,” Ginger added, which pleased Fred. At least they weren’t all regretting coming here.
“Mac said he’d take us to the crematorium, where Dad has a plaque,” she told them. “If you want to go.”
They both nodded. “It’s funny to think of him living here,” Sandi said. “I mean, that this was his land. That it’s our land.”
Fred glanced at Mac, but he just smiled.
“I hope you don’t feel that we took it away from you,” she said to him.
“I don’t.” He reached for the bottle and poured some more Chardonnay into both their glasses. “Part of me knew I was only here on borrowed time. It was a nice fantasy, but life generally doesn’t gift you things like that.”
“So...” Ginger stared pointedly at his empty hand. “You’re not married, then?”
“Nope.” He sipped his wine. He didn’t smile, but something told Fred that he was amused by her direct question.
“And not living with anyone?” Ginger persisted. Fred wanted to tell her to stop being so nosy, but she couldn’t get the words out because she really wanted to know.
“Nope.” He sighed. “I haven’t dated for a while. There was a girl, some time ago, when I was in Blenheim, but it didn’t work out.” He met Fred’s gaze briefly, then dropped it back to his glass.
“So,” she said, pulling the bottle toward her. “None of us have anyone to nag us for coming home drunk. Excellent!”
They all laughed and refilled their glasses, and for the next hour or so, as the sun sank into the west, they finally let themselves go. They ate all the chocolates and sent Mac out to the kitchen to find some crackers and cheese, then ate those while they continued to talk, until the wine levels dropped in the bottles and they couldn’t drink any more.
Sandi yawned and stretched, and said, “I know it’s not late, but I really ought to go to bed.”
“Lightweight,” Ginger accused, although she was practically asleep on the table. “Yeah, me too.”
“Go on,” Fred told them, “you go in. I’ll take the glasses to the kitchen, then I’ll join you.”
The two of them stumbled off. In the background came the sound of someone crashing into something, and then they both giggled.
Fred met Mac’s gaze, and they both smiled. “That did them the world of good,” Fred said softly. “Thank you.”
“You all looked like you needed to relax.” He sighed. “It was good for me too.”
“I’m glad. You’ve obviously had a tough time, as well.”
Her gaze lingered on him. He now had a decent five o’clock shadow, and his eyes were half lidded, although he wasn’t slurring his words or anything. Fred had drunk more than she would normally limit herself to, and she hoped she wasn’t going to make a fool of herself. Not that she cared anymore. Something about Mac made her feel as if she could throw off all the cares and worries that had plagued her since... well, forever. He didn’t seem bothered by the social constraints that had been part of her life in the U.K., like wearing the newest fashions or driving the correct car to project the right image. He drove what he called a ‘ute’, which turned out to be a utility vehicle or a huge, battered pickup truck, and clearly designer clothing played no part in his life.
His blue eyes had darkened, like the sea itself as the sun set, and for once he didn’t look away when she met his gaze. A small smile appeared on his lips, but he continued to watch her, sitting back in his chair, turning his wine glass around by the stem.
“What are you looking at?” She meant it to sound sassy, but it came out kind of breathless and hopeful.
“Your hair,” he said, surprising her. “I’ve never seen hair as long as yours in real life. It’s beautiful.”
His compliment threw her. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who tossed them around willy nilly, and although he’d called her beautiful before they’d gotten in the car, she was sure he hadn’t meant her to hear it.
“Oh,” she said. “Thank you.”
He gave a small shrug, and smiled again.
Bemused, because she didn’t get compliments very often, and certainly not from gorgeous men, she gathered together the wine glasses, stood, then laughed as the world tilted and the glasses clattered together.
“Careful.” He rose too and collected the bottles. “Come on, you can lean on me if you like.”
“You’re drunk too,” she scolded as they walked back into the kitchen.
“I’m mellow,” he corrected, “not drunk.”
“Mellow.” She liked the description. It seemed to capture the whole of New Zealand.
He put the wine bottles in the recycling bin, and she placed the glasses carefully by the sink, determining it would be best to wash them up the next morning.
“It’s warm tonight,” she said, although it was probably the alcohol that gave her a glow in her cheeks.
“Want to catch some fresh air?” He gestured at the door.
Chapter Eleven
THE BREEZE BRUSHED light fingers through Mac’s hair as they walked through the garden. Scully ran around sniffing, tail up, and he almost felt like joining her. It was a beautiful evening, and as they exited through the gate and walked along the edge of the vineyard, Blue Penguin Bay lay beneath them, bathed in glorious colors, like a bowl of ripe fruit, oranges and strawberries and the deep purples and blues of grapes.
“Oh,” Fred whispered, coming to a stop as she observed the view.
Mac stopped too, but turned his gaze instead to her, finding her as beautiful—if not more so—than the sunset. The rays had turned her hair to copper, and her skin was a pretty blush pink, although that could also have been the wine. She’d kept up with him, but although she’d relaxed and the dimples in her cheeks had appeared more frequently, she was steady on her feet and obviously knew her limits, which he admired.
Her nose was straight, tip-tilted a little at the end, and her lips were neither too wide nor too full, just right. She wasn’t stunningly beautiful, but she had a quality he liked, a classy poise that made her stand out from most of the other women he’d met. She was intelligent, but she didn’t make him feel stupid. Would she stay? He found himself crossing his fingers, hoping she would.
Her lashes fluttered down—she knew he was watching her. She didn’t look up at him, though. She continued walking, and he fell into step beside her.
They shouldn’t go too far at this time of night—the insects would be biting, and he wasn’t sure if she’d thought to put on insect repellent. He still got bitten, but the bites no longer bothered him. Tourists frequently suffered, though, their rich blood tasty offerings for the mosquito and sandfly.
But he didn’t want the evening to end, so he kept silent, breathing in the autumnal air.
“Harvest soon?” she asked. The sunset colors were fading, the moon—three-quarters full—now providing most of the light, and her face was half in shadow.
“Yep. It’ll be a busy few weeks.” It was no good—he was going to have to ask. “Do you think you’ll be here for it?”
She glanced up at him. “I’m not sure yet. We’re going to talk about it tomorrow.”
“You don’t have a gut feeling?”
She returned her gaze to the grass. “I want to stay. I feel I belong here. I certainly don’t feel I belong in the U.K. anymore. But financially, I’m still not sure what to do. I don’t want to sink the vineyard just because I’m too stubborn to let it go. I’ve no doubt the four of us could keep it ticking over for a while, but that’s not good enough, is it? It deserves better than that.”
The four of us. She’d included him in her plans. A warm glow spread through him.
She stopped again at the corner of the vineyard and looked down at the bay. “I’m ready for a new life, Mac. I want to begin again. This is my chance to have a real job, a career, something I can throw myself into, you know? I’ve so enjoyed researching about winemaking. I know I have a huge amount to learn—I’m not saying I believe I can just walk in and do what you do right off the bat.”
“Of course not,” he said, “that’s why you have an estate manager. He or she brings the experience, and you work together. It’s no different than what Harry did—he loved the vineyard, but he left the day-to-day running of it to other people, including my father. They seemed to work well together, which I guess is why it was such a shock when Dad did what he did.”
Fred turned away from the view of the Pacific, and they began to walk back to the buildings. “Why did your dad do it, do you think?”
“We’ll never know. I suspect it was a spur of the moment decision. He knew Harry wasn’t in contact with his children. He saw an opportunity, and he took it. And then afterward, the guilt weighed so heavily on him that it sent him mad.” Mac’s jaw tightened. That was the best-case scenario. The worst was that his father had planned all along to take over, which would make him far more mean and cut-throat than Mac had given him credit for. He didn’t want to remember his father like that, if only because he feared some of that mean nature might have transferred to himself.
“You’re not like him,” Fred said, as if reading his mind. “Not that I’ve seen, anyway. Don’t worry.”
“What made you think it worries me?”
“Because I’m the same. You don’t think I fear that I’m going to discover one day that I’m bipolar? That I have the same tendency to self-destruct as my mother?”
“You don’t seem like that at all.”
“No.” She tilted her face up to the moon and closed her eyes briefly. “Not so far, anyway. I thank our lucky stars every day that all three of us seem to have escaped that curse, but of course you never know—it could be lurking in the genes, ready to pounce at any time.”
“You don’t seem high maintenance,” he said. “In fact, you seem very easy. Uh... I don’t mean...”
She laughed and bumped shoulders with him. “Well, cheers.”
“This is why I don’t talk to people.”
“Aw. You don’t socialize much?”
“Hardly at all. I have a couple of mates in the bay, and we go fishing occasionally, but that’s about it.”
“And there’s no girl here trying to lure you like a siren?” Her teasing tone belied her curious look.
“No. Not even close.”
The evening breeze played with her hair, making it look as if it had a life of its own, as if it could reach out and wrap around him, pull him close. Once or twice it brushed his arm, and the soft touch made him shiver.
For a long time now, he’d kept his feelings and desire locked deep inside. He’d been hibernating, he thought, for many years. After breaking up with Claire and leaving Blenheim, he’d backed away from dating, from women completely, and had almost resigned himself to the fact that he was probably going to live the rest of his life alone. It wasn’t that she’d broken his heart to the point of no return, more that he’d loved her but they’d grown apart, and it had been hard to admit it was over and that he’d failed to make the relationship work. He hadn’t thought he had the energy for romance anymore. He liked sex as much as the next man, but the hoops you had to jump through to establish a relationship seemed out of his reach, and he wasn’t the sort of guy who indulged in one-night stands.
Oddly, it had been okay. He’d filled his days with the vineyard, and his nights with reading and studying and watching TV, and he was happy, or content, anyway. He’d honestly thought he could see out his days like that.
And then Fred had turned up.
He looked at her now, at her pale, slender neck that was exposed when her hair lifted, at her blush-filled cheeks, at her soft mouth, and once again the sleeping bear stirred inside him, growled, raised its head, and yawned. It was the wine—of course, it was the wine—but his blood felt hot, rushing around his body, warming it, making his heart thunder, making desire rise inside him in a way it hadn’t for oh, so long.
He shouldn’t say anything or do anything—he should keep his thoughts and hands to himself, because they’d both drunk too much, and the situation was far too volatile to muddy it with any kind of physical complication.
But Fred stopped, and when he turned to face her, he saw something in her expression that only made his heart pound faster.
They were already standing close, but the few inches between them disappeared, although he wasn’t sure if she’d moved or if he had. He liked her height—just two or three inches shorter than him—he’d only have to bend his head a little and his lips would touch hers.
She tilted her face up to his, and he looked into her eyes, each of which held a reflection of the moon.
“We shouldn’t,” she whispered, her lips so close to his. “I know we shouldn’t. But... I’m not imagining it, am I? What’s happening between us?”
“No.” He lifted a hand and
slipped a strand of her hair through his fingers. He’d guessed right—it felt like silk ribbon.
“I haven’t kissed anyone for...” Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Oh my God... years.”
“Me neither.” He continued to wrap the strand of hair around his finger, afraid to let go in case she fled into the night.
“Why now?” she murmured. “I don’t understand.”
“I guess there’s no rhyme or reason to it.”
In the distance, a bird hooted, and she turned her head toward it. “An owl?”
“Yes, our only surviving native one. It’s called a morepork. Can you hear it say that?”
Her lips curved up. “I can! More-pork.”
He moved his hand to her face, and touched his thumb to the dimple in her right cheek. “I like these.”
Instinctively, she tipped her head to the right to press her cheek into his palm.
“We’ve had too much to drink,” she said.
“I know.”
“I wouldn’t be doing this if I hadn’t.”
“I know.” He stroked his thumb against her soft skin. “You want me to stop?”
She gave a tiny shake of her head.
He moved forward the last inch, so their bodies touched, and rested his other hand on her hip. He lowered his lips to brush hers.
“You sure?” he murmured.
In answer, she kissed him.
Mac closed his eyes. Her mouth was soft and cool. He pressed his lips to hers gently, half expecting her to pull away once it sank in what they were doing, but she didn’t. Instead, she sighed, and then she rested both hands on his chest and leaned into him.
His heart banged on his ribs, but he stayed calm and slipped his arm around her, resting his hand at the base of her spine, holding her tightly. Cupping her head with his other hand, he touched his tongue to her lip, and when her mouth opened, he slid his tongue against hers, deepening the kiss. Fred moaned and splayed her fingers on his chest, and they exchanged a long, sensual, heartfelt kiss, while the morepork hooted softly in the trees, Scully snuffled in the leaves, and the moon turned their skin to silver.
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