A Taste of Chardonnay Page 12

  “Are you sure?”

  There was a smart tug on his zipper that sent her bracelets jingling. “I’m sure.”

  He coughed once, and her hand froze in place.

  “You sure you’re up to this?” she asked.

  He laughed. “Oh, I’m up. I’m definitely up.”

  She laughed too and tossed her hair.

  “You’re so beautiful.”

  He twisted a fistful of blond mane, forcing her head back to better nuzzle the chord on her neck.

  “So soft.”

  He touched his nose to the flower-scented skin on her shoulder.

  “So sweet.”

  How long since he’d been with a woman? Insignificant faces flashed randomly through his mind. What with the new film, the FRF, family problems . . .

  Whoa. He wasn’t going there. Not now. Not with Chardonnay’s heated, lithe body snuggling up tight against his, her fingers fumbling at his fly.

  His head was spinning . . . caught up in the whirlwind of their mad, mutual attraction . . . the gardenlike setting . . . the incident at the bar.

  When all was said and done, he was only a man, not some superhero like in the movies. He could only resist for so long Char’s coaxing fingers, her supple mouth, her inviting glances.

  His blood raced. The prospect of sex with Char was more than just hot bodies in motion. She’d already made a meaningless blur of all the ones who’d come before.

  He aped her move with the zipper, and they comedically hopped out of their jeans, like marionettes in the hands of the gods.

  The night air felt intoxicatingly cool on their exposed skin, in stark contrast to the searing heat where their skin touched.

  With one arm securing her waist, he reached between her legs and she raised a knee to give access, wrapping her leg around his hip. When he touched her, she felt like everyman’s dream.

  “I want you, Char. I want you so bad.”

  “I want you, too. Right here. Right now.”

  He hitched her up until she was straddling him, then did his best to take the brunt of the fall to the earth.

  Her hair fell forward, starlight outlining her slender hourglass form.

  “Ready?” he murmured, his hands poised on her sides.

  She gasped when he brought her down on him, and before they were through, she’d cried out to heaven and all the angels.

  Hell yeah. This was Eden, all right. And she was his Eve.

  Chapter 22

  Reluctantly, Char descended from her natural high.

  Their lovemaking seemed predestined. As if all the elements of the universe had coalesced tonight to ignite these fireworks.

  But now that it was over she was left lying on her side in the finely sifted dirt, facing the troubling fact that she’d deceived this good-hearted, beautiful man, whose father’s death was somehow perversely twisted up with Papa’s life.

  She shivered.

  “You chilly?” Ryder leaped to his feet, then gave her a hand.

  “That gesture’s becoming familiar.” She smiled as he pulled her up and into his warm arms. He ran his hands over her.

  “You have goose bumps. Here, let’s get you dressed.” He swiped her sweater from the ground, shook it out, and pulled it over her head, smoothing out the wrinkles.

  Char’s heart was full to bursting. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so taken care of. So genuinely cared for.

  Sure, she’d been catered to her whole life—for a price. There’d never been a shortage of au pairs to dress her or cooks to feed her. It was the little things she’d missed out on, things she’d seen other kids experience that left a hollow feeling inside her. A father tousling his little girl’s hair at the park. The mother of her roomie in sixth form, lovingly making her daughter’s bed with her old quilt from home, before a long hug and teary kiss good-bye. Char had never had that.

  Holding hands on the walk back to the truck, they could see down the long drive to where the mansion was still lit up like a birthday cake. Char halted, hesitant over which way to turn. “I wish I could smuggle you into the house unnoticed, but the party’s not over yet. And I don’t want to see photos of us showing up covered with dirt with leaves in our hair tomorrow morning.”

  “Why not? You look great with leaves in your hair.” He grinned, carefully combing debris from out of some strands. “We can go to my house. It’s not a mansion, but it’s private. Well, except for my mom and my brothers and sister.”

  Char flashed him a tight smile. That wouldn’t do, either. She started walking again toward his truck, pulling him along behind her.

  “It’s not that I’m trying to hide this . . . us,” she said when they were once more sitting inside of it.

  He leaned across the console to kiss her, and when she turned her head to meet his, her eye caught a glimpse of a challenge pamphlet tucked behind the seat.

  “The race!” She looked around for a clock. “What time is it?” Ryder grabbed his phone from the dash.

  “Ten thirty-five.” His brows knit. “I got a bunch of missed calls.”

  “Look.” She pulled out of his arms and brushed his hair out of his eyes.

  “Why don’t we each sleep in our own beds tonight? We’ll run the race in the morning, and then go from there.”

  “You won’t feel like I’ve abandoned you?”

  She melted all over again.

  “You’re very sweet. But I’ll be fine. I’ll see you again in a matter of hours.”

  A wave of guilt washed over her again as she hopped out at the fork in the broad driveway and watched him drive off in his old truck. Crunching down the drive, she finger-combed her hair and straightened her clothes as best she could, hoping to slip in the back door.

  A matter of hours, and then she’d have to dig herself out of an even bigger mess than what she’d started with.

  From the highway, Ryder returned Joe’s calls. By their timing, he guessed they had to be about the bar fight.

  Joe didn’t pick up. No surprise, considering they had a race to run in—he glanced at the time again—eleven hours. He should’ve been in the sack hours ago. But if there had been a real emergency, Joe would’ve picked up no matter what the hour.

  Back home, Ryder took a quick shower and climbed into his narrow bed, but he was too keyed up to sleep. He marveled at how fast his life had changed in one short week. This summer was to have been all about work—learning his lines, working out, helping his family and the FRF.

  He often studied his script before bed as a way to commit his lines to memory, but tonight the only words he could concentrate on were those Char had breathed while he was making love to her. Visions of the vineyard ran through his head like takes from a movie, arousing him despite his need for sleep. Those lips! That body, sleek and supple as an otter! Char was as seductive as a drug. She’d left his limbs heavy with satisfaction, yet he couldn’t wait to love her all over again.

  He awoke to the sound of the doorbell and Joe’s voice out in the kitchen.

  Bolting upright, he grabbed his phone to check the time. He was due at the starting line in an hour.

  Something about the sound of Joe’s voice talking with his mom made Ryder uneasy. A sense of foreboding hung over him as he splashed cold water on his face, pulled on a pair of shorts, and made his way down the hall.

  The second he saw Joe’s face, it registered . . . a bizarre, delayed reaction to words that were only now reaching his brain. In his mind, he heard Dan’s statement at Diablo all over again. And it chilled him to the bone.

  “Hey, bud. Sorry to wake you . . .” Joe eyed him warily.

  “What’s up?”

  “Dan can’t run. I took him to the hospital after dinner. His nose is busted. Tried to call you last night, but I couldn’t find you.”

  Ryder rubbed his sore knuckles. “Maybe next time he’ll think twice before he shoves a woman.”

  His mother lowered her coffee cup. “Dan shoved a woman?” Her head swiveled from Ryder to
Joe and back again. “What’s going on, boys? What happened?”

  Ryder opened the fridge and stared blindly into it, buying time while he figured out how to downplay last night’s skirmish for Mom’s sake. Couldn’t Joe have just left him a voice mail or texted? Had he really had to pick this time and place to fill him in? But Mom would find out anyway. She always did.

  Besides, Ryder hated secrets.

  “Joe? What happened to Dan?”

  Mom’s relationships with the guys in the department went way back. Once a firefighter’s wife, always a firefighter’s wife.

  “Aw, you know Dan, Mrs. McBride.” Joe passed off the scuffle as negligible. “Mouth got him in trouble again. Had a few beers up at Diablo, got into it with someone from another team. She hauled off and slapped him, and he knocked her down. Ryder popped him in the nose.” He smiled weakly. “That’s all.”

  She turned wide eyes on her son, speechless, for once.

  Joe turned back to Ryder and shrugged. “We’ll just have to step it up a little to make up the slack.”

  That was the understatement of the year. Dan was the best runner they had. Ryder was good, but Dan was really, really fast.

  Then Mom found her voice.

  “Ryder, are you all right?” She flew to him and framed his cheeks between her hands, scanning every inch of his face.

  He rolled his eyes. They were all that he could move, what with his head in her vise.

  “I’m fine, Mom,” he squeezed out between pursed lips. “I hit him. He didn’t hit me.”

  Once she’d assured herself her son was okay, she released him and shifted into scolding mode, hands on hips.

  “Thank goodness you’re not hurt. But what about the woman?” Again she glanced from one man to the other, eager for details. “What on earth could’ve made her so upset she’d attack Dan?”

  Funny, that was precisely what was eating Ryder. He heard again what he’d been trying to unhear ever since last night.

  “St. Pierre thinks the Southside catastrophe’s all water under the bridge. That a firefighter’s life was expendable—”

  “It’s all in that magazine. The one about Napa,” Joe said, rising as he took a gulp from his water bottle.

  “Gotta bounce—race starts in an hour. Nice to see you, Mrs. McBride. Ry, see you downtown,” he said, breezing past them and out the door.

  “What exactly did Dan say last night?” asked his mom through clenched teeth.

  Ryder sighed. So much for hoping Dan’s words would somehow go away.

  “Something about Xavier St. Pierre and the Southside Migrant Camp fire.”

  She hesitated, then flipped open the lid of the kitchen trash and withdrew a brand-new, glossy copy of Napa Lifestyles.

  “Inside cover. I didn’t want Bridget reading it.” She gave him a sad, thin-lipped smile.

  When Ryder got to the part about Char’s father owning the camp, he went as still as stale beer.

  Finally, when he got around to inhaling, he couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs. His head was about to explode with unanswered questions, and it was all he could do not to lose it in front of his mom. But he couldn’t go upsetting her further just because he was freaking out inside. He’d grown accustomed to his role as the man in the family.

  “Where’d they dig up this stuff, after all this time?”

  His mom came around and sat facing him, placing a calming hand on his shoulder.

  “Honey, back then, the whole valley was talking about it. It wouldn’t have taken much digging. The difference is, now the son of Roland McBride is famous.”

  Her face was the picture of concern for her son.

  “Lord knows, I came close to telling you myself. But I was hoping I wouldn’t have to. What was the point? Why dredge up old memories, old hurts? Until you started talking to Chardonnay, it was irrelevant. The fire was a long time ago, and we’re recovering, thanks to your acting jobs.”

  She sat back. “If it weren’t for that crazy publicity agent of yours, finagling that invitation to the St. Pierre’s party . . .”

  Suddenly the cramped little house was suffocating him. He stood, scraping back his chair with a jerk.

  “You can’t have it both ways, Mom! Don’t you see? If it weren’t for my acting career, I wouldn’t have a PR agent!”

  He bolted from the kitchen, reaching his bedroom in a few quick strides.

  “Ry? Ryder!”

  He grabbed his running gear and dashed out the door, leaving his mother wringing her hands on the front porch.

  “Good luck in the race, honey!” she called. “Don’t forget—I’ll be at the twins’ baseball game! Call me afterward!”

  “Oh—hold on . . .” She ducked back into the house and returned dangling a little bag high in the air. “Your cough drops!”

  But he was already jamming the key into the ignition. With a twinge of guilt at his disrespect, he threw it into reverse and backed out of the driveway. There was no time for cough drops this morning.

  Chapter 23

  Saturday, June 28

  A light breeze fluttered Char’s racing bib. The birds were singing, the temperature was a balmy sixty-five—not too hot, not too cold—and flowers lined the first stretch of the race route under a milky blue sky. Everything you could want in a race day.

  The quinquennial event had created a festival atmosphere in Napa, packing the town with people. Vendors sold food and drinks from trucks and tents. An outdoor yoga class was underway in the park. Athletic gear companies were hawking free samples. A block away where the route looped around to the finish line, a TV satellite truck maneuvered into position.

  Today marked a milestone—the achievement of a goal Char had set as a teenager, when she’d first heard of the challenge. For five long years, she’d looked forward to conveying that she was a caring individual with a big heart, not just a spoiled wine heiress. But it was only once she’d narrowed her focus to helping migrant children that she’d found her real passion. For the past six months, she’d geared all her running toward this race. After all the shin splints, all the sweat and the blisters, she was ready to go deep. Go hard for who she’d begun secretly referring to herself as “her” kids: Juan and Amelia and all the others who depended on her small but growing El Valle Avenue mission. Today, of all days, she was supposed to be happy. Excited. So why had she woken up distracted and out of sorts?

  Until last night, her sole priority had been her new foundation. To that, she was one hundred percent committed. If falling in love had been her goal, last night would’ve nailed it. Ryder—the man, not the actor—was everything she could ever want in a love match: bright, considerate, sexy . . . with a face that literally stopped traffic and a body to match.

  But falling in love with Ryder McBride wasn’t part of her plan. In fact, it went against everything she believed.

  Because Char wasn’t prepared to fall in love with anyone. Especially not an actor.

  It was no coincidence that she’d never let someone into her life for long. She’d gone out with guys, of course. But whenever they got too close, she backed off before they could reject her. Because that’s exactly what would happen, as soon as they found out how hopelessly screwed up her family was. Especially Ryder, of all people. Why would any guy want Xavier St. Pierre for a father-in-law—even if Papa weren’t accused of killing his father?

  She knew about the accusation before they made love, and she had intentionally hidden that information from him. Had he known, last night might have turned out very differently. But it was only a matter of time until he found out.

  Luckily, she had her teammates to rally, keeping her from being completely absorbed in guilt and regret.

  Forcing her attention back to the task at hand, she counted heads. Everyone was there. Even Wendy, who seemed to be the only one not affected in the least by what had happened up at Diablo. She was passing the time stretching and chatting.

  Char tied her time chip onto her shoelace. Hop
ing he’d come looking for her, she forced herself to wait until the very last minute to scan the crowd for Ryder’s red jersey. By the time she picked him out, she tried to catch his eye, but he never looked her way. And it was too late to initiate a conversation now anyway. Maybe he’d catch up—rather, fall back—with her during the race itself.

  At the starting line, she fussed and fidgeted. Then she fidgeted and fussed. Her shoes didn’t feel right, her stomach was queasy, and her calves ached. Worst of all, the tenderness between her thighs was a constant reminder of the night before.

  Had making love with Ryder been stupid? Yes. Would she do it all over again? In a heartbeat. That’s what was so maddening.

  At the crack of the pistol she managed to place one foot in front of the other, despite shoes that felt like they were made of concrete.

  Within the first quarter mile, three of her fastest teammates rabbited past her without a backward glance, shouting encouragement as they went.

  It was only at the second mile marker that Char found her legs. That was when she noticed a skinny boy holding a sign into her path: ¡Corre, Char! Juan! And with him, Amelia, jumping up and down, and their mother, waving and smiling.

  That gave her a boost. When she passed a second-stringer from her field hockey team, a smidgen of her old self-confidence returned.

  Pushing hard, she put three more miles behind her. Now her clothes were soaked. She struggled past her goalie and a midfielder who were running as a pair.

  Farther down the course, she found her inner forward.

  She ripped open a gel pack, squeezed it onto her tongue, and kicked it into high gear.

  At that pace, she even forgot about the pain between her legs.

  Ryder’s lungs were killing him, and he was struggling to shake off the dizziness.

  From his calculations, he’d been somewhere among the top third of the men and ahead of most of the women at the eight-mile mark. But every inhalation burned like battery acid.

  He wasn’t used to limitations. He’d been successful at most everything he’d ever set out to achieve. Then again, he’d never done a half-marathon only two days after sucking on smoke.