Nashville SEAL: Jameson: Nashville SEALs (8 page)

“You gonna actually make money at this, Zak?” Jameson asked.

“Hardly. Not the first few years at least. So we’ve set up a little stipend—just enough to pay for the rent here, the bills, and give us a little spending money. Amy’s father has helped, too. When I say a little, it rivals what we got paid on the Teams.”

Jameson had to second that. Money was going to be tight. He and Lizzie had had that talk. No vacations or trips anywhere for a while after he got his active duty pay. His signing bonus was used cleaning up some of his bills and adding what he could to defray the cost of the wedding. There was little left. It would be six years before he could get another one. Lizzie told him she was looking for part-time work, and although he didn’t like it, hoped Charlotte could be watched by one of the other SEAL wives while Lizzie found the part-time teaching job she wanted.

They stopped the vehicle and stepped out onto the vineyard floor. With sun on her face, the gentle breeze lacing through the green leaves spilling over stations and crawling along wires, the distant call of a hawk treading air, Jameson could tell Lizzie felt her destiny was here in this valley. It wasn’t North Carolina. It wasn’t San Diego. Jameson wove his fingers through hers as they walked, he wanted to remind her that this was not only her future, but his and Charlotte’s futures too.

Zapparelli Winery loomed
above the hills like a giant copper and stucco crystal. The green patina on roofs of the two main grand halls, connected by the tasting room and restaurant overlooking the Dry Creek Valley, made the whole site look like an old Italian villa—a very expensive Italian villa fit for a king. Amy explained that Zapparelli was known to the community as a good guy, often underwriting events benefiting the schools, women’s groups and other non-profit enterprises, but a vampire of a businessman when it came to protecting his own. The fact that he’d never contributed to the Police Benevolent Association, a sore spot to several of the retired officers on her father’s force, made their interest in the adjoining property more keen.

“We think his attitude stems from his college years in San Francisco,” said Amy.

“So that would spill over to the military?” Jameson asked as they climbed the enormous white steps to the tasting and showroom.

“No evidence of that yet,” answered Zak. “If he only knew how much safer he’d be if we were his neighbors. Unofficially, of course.”

“Of course,” Jameson agreed.

A large pool lined with colorful pergolas, private dressing rooms, called them invitingly. Not a soul was in the water, Lizzie noted. Sparse use of the lounge chairs and tables by tourists with floppy hats and large sunglasses was also a surprise to her.

Zak pulled open the heavy glass and metal doors, and it took several seconds for their eyes to adjust to the darkened foyer and tasting bar beyond.

“You gotta see this, Lizzie.” Amy yanked her arm and dragged her down to the right, past the bar, and into a glass-enclosed case housing memorabilia from Mr. Zapparelli’s recent zombie hit movie. A complete bloody costume, with severed head balanced on the zombie’s right hip, looked like it would jump right through the glass and decimate the tourist population. Lizzie noticed mothers hiding their children’s eyes from the spectacle.

The director had started doing Spaghetti Westerns, and props, scripts and golden statues were displayed along the side of the tasting bar. There were easily ten movies Lizzie recognized represented.

“Oh my gosh!” Amy pointed across the room to the corner. Standing in front of a “No Smoking” sign was the director himself, just like she’d seen in movie magazines. His salt and pepper hair flew out uncontrollably in all directions, little tufts seeking higher ground at the sides so that they looked like tiny wings. His dark-rimmed glasses reflected the flame coming from a match he held to the end of a very long cigar. He puffed profusely until the tip became bright red and glowing. With his bushy eyebrows, his focus on the tiny flame, Lizzie thought he looked like the devil himself.

Jameson whispered to Zak, but his voice carried all the way through the bar area and Lizzie cringed.

“Thought this was a no smoking place.”

“I guess it depends on who is smoking,” Zak whispered back.

Lizzie stood behind Jameson for cover as the director noticed their group and came over. He was much larger in real life than the pictures had made him out to be.

“So I’m guessing this is your first time here,” Zapparelli said to Jameson. He didn’t extend his hand nor introduce himself, and Lizzie wasn’t sure if it was a greeting or a reprimand.

“Yessir.”

Zapparelli narrowed his eyes to a squint. “Military?”

“Yessir. Navy, sir.”

The director gave him an up and down, shrugged and walked away. At the entrance to the winery store, he turned and motioned for them to follow him. “Come on over here. I want to show you something.”

They followed the rotund gentleman. He walked nimbly up the spiral staircase, gripping the metal handrail. When they all had gathered at the upper floor landing, he unhooked a deep maroon velvet line guide rope and walked to a locked glass case next to a player piano identified as used in a saloon shootout in one of his westerns. He brought keys from his pocket and unlocked the case, taking out a silver-colored round medal attached to a red, white and green ribbon. He handed it to Jameson, laying it in his palm.

“My great-great-grandfather fought with Garibaldi and was given this medal along with a written proclamation.” He motioned to a document sealed between two pieces of glass. He handed the slate to Zak.

“A great general. We studied him,” answered Zak.

Zapparelli smiled. “I used to tell my grandmother I didn’t have to attend mass, because grandfather didn’t believe in the papacy since he fought alongside Garibaldi who was vehemently opposed to the church. She found it hard to argue with history, you see, so I was spared a young life of catechism and confessing my sins.”

When Jameson and Zak chuckled, Zapparelli beamed, blowing a big blue billow of smoke into the room. Lizzie watched as part of it swirled up into the stained glass dome at the top of the room, while the rest of it settled amongst the oblivious guests standing at the tasting bar. The man could do just about anything he wanted, she thought. And if he didn’t like fact, he could always make a movie. He stood like a general in the kingdom of his own creation.

He could make a considerable adversary if he wanted to be one. She wondered if the little group could gain his support somehow.

‡

L
izzie and Jameson
said their goodbyes after a long, lingering early supper at the winery. She’d had a little too much Merlot and felt her lips and tongue thick while her brain was in a satisfying buzz. It had started as a perfect day. She knew it would end that way too.

The road back to the Kenwood took nearly an hour since they mixed with local commuter traffic. Her pulse had quickened when they actually got on the freeway, when Jameson took advantage of a stoppage in traffic to palm her thigh and let his fingers dive between her legs. He hadn’t forgotten her promise, or his.

She saw the gleam of lust in his blue eyes.

“You have a memory like an elephant, Jameson.” Though she tried to look straight ahead, his probing fingers signaled his focus and attention. She kept her legs together, teasing him. Her nipples were sore, hardened and in desperate need of biting. She needed to feel the glory of being beneath his powerful body.

“I have needs that strong too. I intend to show you, sweetheart. Go ahead, play hard to get. It won’t get you anywhere.” He removed his fingers and returned his hand to the steering wheel.

It was a perfect match to her mood. She needed to spar with him, in that sexy, loving way they did so well. She felt her panties flood with juices signaling what she felt deep inside her bones. Jameson was the kind of good medicine she needed, would always need in her life.

As they got closer to the Inn, her ragged breathing was not something she could cover up. Her upper lip was moist, her underarms were dripping. The back of her neck ached. Every hair on her body stood out and demanded attention. Electric jolts of muscular spasms were triggering in her belly. She wanted to touch herself, rub her nipples until they became soft and pliable again. Let him see her building arousal.

As he turned into the granite drive, his elbow grazed her left breast and she involuntarily moaned at the touch. He turned, eyes wide. “Oh my, Mrs. Daniels. What in the world are we going to do with you?”

She traced down his cheek with her forefinger and then leaned over to whisper, “Fuck me, Jameson. You’re gonna fuck me.” She arched, resisting the urge to touch herself, but rubbing her palms down her thighs, undulating her hips. “I can’t get comfortable,” she said dreamily to the window.

Jameson finished parking the truck. “Stay right there. Don’t move a muscle.” She smiled. “You moved. You’ll pay for that.”

“But Jameson, I can’t help it.”

“And you talked, too. Even worse. Things are going to go very bad for you.” He kissed her, licking her lips with his tongue. “I can taste your juices already, Lizzie. It will be even better if you don’t resist me.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Another strike. Oh boy, are we going to have some fun. Mrs. Daniels, you have a willful attitude, not to mention big dangerous mouth. I expect your full and complete surrender.”

Her pulse surged even higher.
Surrender?

“Stay.”

She did so, watching him walking around the front of the truck, and then open the door. She began to step out of the truck, but he stopped her.

“No ma’am. I didn’t tell you to do that.”

She remained seated until his right arm snaked under her knees, while his left came around her back and hooked under her armpit. Without effort, he slung her over his left shoulder, as she squealed.

She could feel him chucking as he carried her through the reception area, to the wide eyes of several guests and the bow-tied gentleman at the front desk, through the courtyard and up the flight of stairs to their room. She thought perhaps he’d put her down, but he merely pulled the key from his front pocket, opened the door and dumped her on the bed. He held his finger to his lips as he made sure the door behind was locked. He pointed to an opened bottle of champagne icing in a silver bucket and raised his eyebrows.

She was completely disheveled, her shirt riding high on her midriff, her pants twisted, the inseam pressing achingly against her sex. He was pacing in front of her, back and forth. She was thirsty for the champagne, thirsty for him, thirsty for a night of sex.

“We have some decisions to make, Lizzie.”

For just a moment, she wondered if he was angry with her. I’m going to ask you questions and you’ll answer me. Quick. Got it?”

“Why quick?”

“Because—that wasn’t my question.” He frowned.

“Yes it was,” she said defiantly. “You asked if I got it. I didn’t get that part. Explain it to me, Jameson.” She followed it up with a smile, and she observed he was having trouble keeping from returning it back to her.

“Because I want to fuck you senseless right now.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Sometimes, sweetheart, you have to stick to the plan. I have another plan, but rest assured it will end in me fucking you senseless.”

“Promise?”

“You’re not allowed to ask the questions unless I tell you to do so.” He grinned again, scratching his chin as he perused her body on the bed. “But make no mistake, I promise.”

She worked to show him how much she wanted him inside her without using her voice or her hands. It was a look that she tried to make burn all the way through him. He inhaled deeply.

“Choices, before I come right here and spoil everything.”

“Okay. I’m ready, Jameson.”

“Bath or shower?”

She angled her head, considering her choice. “Shower.”

“Works for me,” he said as he ran to the bed, picked her up and carried her over the threshold of the bathroom doorway. She slid down his body slowly, letting every round part of her body press against his hard parts, ending with her fingers holding onto his ears and then running one hand over his lips. She was daring him to kiss her.

He raised her arms over her head, and without needing instruction, she left them there while he removed her tee shirt up over her head. He rubbed the satin bra with the back of his hand, and then with the other one, released her clasp. As the bra fell to the ground she felt her breasts fall free, giving her nipples release at last. She was going to rub them, but he stopped her.

“No. Leave your arms up here.” He placed them back up over her head. He lightly touched her nipples, and then licked his lips. Her panties were soaking wet. “I love these.” He leaned forward, watching her face as his lips covered her, his tongue rubbing back and forth and then sucked.

She began to bring her arms down again to bury her fingers in his head as he devoured her chest, but he stopped her again. “Those hands are giving you a lot of trouble today, Mrs. Daniels.”