Autumn in the Vineyard (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (2 page)

No one had forced her to sit on that tasting tribunal, or to run her hands up his hard chest and into his hair when she’d kissed him back, but she blamed Nate anyway.

Frankie looked up at Nate and pinned him with her best
bring-it
glare. This land was hers. Her dream. Her fresh start. Her everything. And no one, especially not a DeLuca, was going to mess with that.

“Last time you threatened me, I think I promised to rip your face off,” Francesca said, her voice eerily calm.

The calm before the storm
, Nate thought, standing up and taking a large step back.

“With. My. Teeth.”

One minute she was on the ground under a pile of wet alpaca, the next she was standing with her torn hip-huggers and black tank top plastered to her body, leaves stuck to her shapely butt, and enough curves and pissed off female vibes to level a guy. She was also clutching a shotgun, making her armed, sexy, and untouchable as ever.

It was no secret that Frankie hated Nate. Or that they argued all the time. She tried to fight with him about winemaking—which only continued the stupid-ass feud that had divided their families for over six decades—while all he fought was the idiotic urge to kiss her until she shut up.

Not that he’d give into the urge again. Even if hot-headed ball-busters with something to prove were his type—which they definitely were not—Nate didn’t fight with people. Ever. It was a gigantic, ineffective energy suck. He was more the mild-mannered arbitrator. Always had been. And he was damn easy to get along with, even-tempered too—until he was nose to nose with Frankie.

Her temper was one of the many reasons on his ever growing
W
HY TO
A
VOID
F
RANCESCA
B
AUDOUIN
list. Although, as of—he looked at his watch and smiled—two minutes ago, irritating her had him reevaluating said list.

“Beautiful—” he said, smiling as his gaze went from the barrel of the gun to her tank top, which was drooping with water and giving him an inspiring view of her breasts—“day, don’t you think, Francesca?”

Clearly seeing the direction of his gaze, she dropped her aim—dangerously low. “Since I’ve been waiting months for a good excuse to shoot you, I’d have to say my day’s looking pretty damn good.”

Not for long
, Nate thought, waiting for the sweet zing of victory to kick in. When it didn’t, he had to wonder why.

Frankie’s family wanted this land as much as his did. It wasn’t just about the prime twenty-acre parcel. It was about righting a sixty-year old wrong that waged a feud between the two founding families of St. Helena. Back then, Charles
Baudouin had won. Today, the DeLucas had. But when Nate imagined this moment, and he’d imagined it plenty over the years since his parents died, he hadn’t expected victory to feel like shit.

“Look, Francesca,” Nate sighed, taking a small step toward her. This was going to be hard on her, and that bothered him. “Why don’t you drop the gun, and let’s go inside where we can talk?”

“I’ll drop the gun as soon as I see your starched ass disappear over that fence.” She waved the double barrels at the white fence that separated his family’s vineyard from Sorrento Ranch.

Nate looked up at the sky and took in a calming, mild-mannered breath. “Unless you want to end up in cuffs, I suggest you put it down. The sheriff might be able to ignore the trespassing charge. But threatening a man with a gun brings this to a level even your brother can’t make disappear.”

“Well, since Mrs. Sorrento moved out, handing me the keys to the place, that would mean that
you’re
the trespasser, so I think it would play out more like me protecting what’s mine. So for old time’s sake, I’ll give you and your—” her eyes dropped and she grimaced—“loafers a two minute head start before I start shooting.”

“Your property?” he asked, wondering what was wrong with his loafers.

“As of Monday,” she clarified, a smug smile tilting up those luscious lips.

There were only a few things that could have made Nate’s day any shittier. And that was one of them. Proof that Saul had officially screwed them over.

A crisp autumn breeze kicked up, rustling a leaf loose from Frankie’s hair, but doing nothing for the suffocating feeling
Nate had pressing at his chest. The only thing he had going in his favor was that they had started escrow last Thursday, giving him a two business-day lead on the Baudouins. A man couldn’t sell the same property to two people, and since it seemed like Nate had purchased it first, Francesca was two days too late.

“Look,” he tried again. “Why don’t we go inside and talk?”

“Oh, I’m done talking. All I ever get from listening to your dribble is a headache and a world of trouble with my family.”

“Yeah, about that—” Nate ran a hand down his face, not wanting to think about her family or how many times he’d made her standing with them even more difficult and complicated.

Three months ago, Charles had boycotted the Summer Wine Showdown with the sole purpose of canceling the hundred year old fundraiser. He would have succeeded too, if Frankie hadn’t agreed to fill in as the official Baudouin judge.

Nate hadn’t seen much of her since—avoidance being something they had both mastered living in the same small town—so he didn’t know what went down afterward. But that look on Charles’s face when he saw Frankie sitting on the Tasting Tribunal was enough for Nate to understand that Frankie had gone too far over that line.

Judging by the dark smudges under her eyes and her taut, pale skin, these past few months had been hard on her. Guilt, and something he didn’t want to acknowledge, shifted from his gut up to his chest, forming an angry knot.

He studied her face. “Frankie, about the—”

“Don’t worry, golden boy,” she interrupted, racking the gun’s slide and obviously misunderstanding his attempt at an apology. Not that he blamed her. Apology wasn’t something they had much experience with. “I won’t shoot. Yet.”

Nate sighed. He needed Rambo over there to put the gun down and be reasonable, just for two days, two freaking days and then escrow would close and the land would be his. Maybe if he approached Frankie with a generous enough offer he could salvage this screwed-up situation. He knew that her grandpa was having cash flow problems. If he—

Shit!

A police car’s red and blue flashing lights sped down the dirt road, kicking up gravel and dust as it skidded toward them. Frankie raised her hand and squinted into the sun.

“Really?” She spun around and hit him with a very hostile glare. “You called my brother?”

“No,” he said, confused as to why that would be an issue. If anything, her brother would find a way to haul his ass in while Frankie got away scot-free and his deal fell apart. “I called the
sheriff
. Your brother just happens to be the responding officer.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Frankie rolled her eyes, going for annoyed, but he saw the way her gaze kept darting back to the passenger in the cruiser as it pulled to a stop.

“Afternoon, Nate. Frankie,” Sheriff Bryant said, maneuvering his belly around the steering column and stepping out of the cruiser. “Got a call about an armed intruder.”

“Armed intruder?” Francesca laughed, sliding Nate an amused look before lowering the gun and smiling up at the sheriff—who smiled back. “I was just walking my property, Sheriff.”

Frankie’s grin faded as her mountain of a brother, Deputy Jonah Baudouin, slid out of the passenger side of the car. He was impressively dangerous looking and, Nate reminded himself, packing. On a normal day, when unarmed, Nate could
hold his own against the deputy. But he knew that when it came to protecting baby sisters, men could be ruthless. Hell, he’d do just about anything to make sure his sister Abby was happy and safe.

So when Jonah stood there, silently watching Frankie with a total lack of emotion on his face, Nate found himself wondering just what their relationship was like.

“Frankie,” Jonah said tipping his hat as though she wasn’t his sister. Then he turned to Nate with the same expressionless look. “What’s going on?”

That’s exactly what Nate wanted to know. Why did Frankie look like she’d been busted? And why was Jonah asking Nate when Frankie was the one holding the gun?

“I’m sorry,” Frankie began, her voice shaking with something that did stupid things to Nate’s chest. “I was going to tell you about the property, but I wanted to make sure—”

Frankie trailed off because—
holy shit
—Miss Bad Ass looked close to tears and Jonah wasn’t even reacting, just patiently waiting for her to continue.

“Actually, it’s my property,” Nate clarified, wanting to get that on the record, and get everyone’s attention off Frankie. “So there’s nothing to tell except that she had a gun and I didn’t know it was her, so I called you guys just in case. I know armed robberies carry four times the fatality rate.”

“Let me guess, you read that in one of your fancy magazines,” Frankie said with a small smile and Nate didn’t respond because she was right, he’d read it in the
Wall Street Journal
—and because she didn’t look like she was about to cry anymore.

Then her smile faded and her eyes narrowed, and damn it if he hadn’t imagined the whole vulnerable woman act. “Wait! Just what are you accusing me of robbing?”

“My alpacas,” he finally said, ignoring the way the two men exchanged shit-eating grins, and felt even stupider. “Last week there was a herd of them and I noticed this morning that they were all gone. Well, except for her.”

Nate jerked his chin toward the animal who immediately started stomping her hooves in typical female fashion. Then her lips started working overtime and Nate took a giant step back. “Is she going to spit? I read online that alpacas spit when they get mad.”

“So then you called to file a stolen property report?” the sheriff asked, his bushy eyebrows furrowed, his mustache twitching.

“The
property
, being the house and the alpaca, is mine,” Frankie said, stroking the fluffball’s head.

“So, there’s no report then?” the sheriff asked.

Frankie ignored the sheriff and glared at Nate. “And
she
is male, which explains the need to stomp his hooves and spit when he’s mad.”

With a loud exhale, the sheriff unclipped his walkie-talkie. “Dispatch, this is Sheriff Bryant. Tell all units responding to Sorrento Ranch that they can go available.” There was some squawking back, and then, “Nah, it’s just a domestic dispute, we can handle this call.”

“Domestic?” Frankie spat. “There is nothing domestic about us. I don’t even like him.” She flapped a hand furiously back and forth.

Nate leaned in. “That’s not what I remember you panting a few months ago.”

Frankie leaned in too, her full mouth so close he could feel her breath tease him—from his lips all the way down to his dick. Damn, he usually had better control.

“I was drunk and bored. You misunderstood. Plus, I like my men to pack a bigger set than me.” She glanced down and then back up through her water spiked lashes. “Never going to happen, DeLuca.”

“Who owns the land?” the sheriff interrupted loudly, taking off his hat and rubbing at his forehead.

“I do,” they both said in unison. And Nate meant it. He was tired of being fucked with.

“So let me get this straight. You are both claiming ownership of the house, guardianship of… that there,” Sheriff Bryant nodded at the alpaca, who nuzzled Frankie’s hair and started humming. “And there’s arguing, threats, and loaded weapons on the premises?”

Frankie shrugged.

“Sounds like a domestic dispute to me.” The sheriff looked at Jonah, who ran a hand down his face.

“God damn it, Frankie,” Jonah said on a long exhale, his cool fading. Nate found himself relating to the guy. “I have to haul both of you in.”

Hell, no. That was not going to happen. “How about I drop the charges? Francesca and I can settle this like rational adults.”

“Rational?” The deputy pushed his sunglasses down to the end of his nose and looked at Nate over the rims. “We are talking about the same girl and the same piece of land, right? Because my sister knows how to use that thing and she will shoot you if you try to take this place.”

“I wouldn’t shoot him,” Frankie said. Jonah spared her a disbelieving glance. “Fine, I might shoot
at
him, but I wouldn’t
shoot
him.”

Nate had to smile. Gun or not, it was hard to feel threatened by a woman who had once, long ago, cried herself hoarse in his arms.

“Either way, I’d be called back out and the town would think that I was somehow aiding in this stupid old feud.” Jonah walked around the back of the cruiser and opened the back door. “Now you both going to go easy or do I need to get out the cuffs?”

CHAPTER 2

I
nvestment-quality wine?” Jonah placed his hands, palms down, on the assessor’s map and slid it across the table in the Sheriff’s station break room, making sure to shove all of his big-brother disapproval in her face. “Please tell me this isn’t why you cashed out your trust account?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes,” Frankie said, shoving a little something of her own back.