Tangled Vines (24 page)

A lamp cast a pool of light over the bright yellow chair the baron occupied. Night shadows darkened the rest of the suite's sitting room. The wood-louvered shutters at the windows stood open, letting in the evening air. A breeze whipped through them, heady with the scent of olive trees and fermenting grapes as it riffled the gilt-edged pages of the book Emile held. It was a minor distraction, succeeding only in shifting his grip to hold the pages down, never rousing him from his absorption in the material before him.

Not until he had finished his apportioned chapter of Bergson's L'Evolution creatice did he lower the book. He removed his reading glasses and thoughtfully considered the passages he had just read. Several more minutes passed before he reached for the silver bookmark, designed in the shape of the family crest, that lay on the table by the lamp. He held it a moment, then slipped it between the pages and closed the book, absently recalling that Natalie had given him the silver marker for his birthday two years ago – or had it been three?

He started to ask her, then realized she wasn't there.

She had gone out for a walk; it had become almost a nightly routine since they had arrived.

Laying aside his book he rose from the chair and wandered over to the tall doors, standing open to the private terrace. Darkness had closed around the resort, turning the olive trees along the hillside into indistinct black shapes. A check of his watch confirmed it was late. He rubbed his eyes and considered retiring for the evening, then decided he would wait until Natalie returned, certain it would be soon.

Emile went back to his chair and opened the book again. But, as the minutes passed and the hour grew later, the tome of philosophy failed to hold his interest. His mind kept turning to Natalie, paying her more attention than he had in months. Soon the book lay unnoticed on his lap.

When he heard the turn of the key in the lock, followed by the click of the metal latch, he lifted the book and pretended to be reading it. Light suddenly filled the corners of the sitting room, chasing off the shadows.

“I thought you would be in bed.” She paused briefly when she saw him still in his chair.

But it was the tone of her voice that caught him, the easy strength of it, the light tilt to it. He put the book aside to study her as she came the rest of the way into the room. There was color in her cheeks and a brightness in her dark eyes. The smile she gave him was almost radiant. Emile could not remember when he had last seen so much happiness in her expression.

“You must have walked a long way this evening.”

“Out of the black shadows of doubt all the way to the bright moonlight of promise.”

Emile frowned. “I am not familiar with that quotation In which book did you find it?”

“It was a very big book.” Her voice seemed to tease him. “Much too big to hold on your lap.” She smiled at his confusion. “It was the sky. The sky at night.”

“I had not realized you had this fascination with nature,” he reflected. “Perhaps the works of this American writer Thoreau would interest you. I have one or two of his books in our library at the chateau. I must remember to locate one for you when we return.” Yet the more he observed the glow in her eyes, the spirit she displayed, the more he thought this was not the answer. “Perhaps I should walk with you some night, though it would not be wise to venture too far. This country is full of rattlesnakes. Gilbert tells me they are about mostly at night, though they frequently crawl into the grapevines searching for the eggs birds have laid.”

She gave him a surprised look. “You spoke with Gilbert today? You never mentioned this at dinner.”

“Not today, no. He told me of this several days ago. You would be wise to keep to well-traveled paths on your walks, Natalie,” he advised.

He was bothered by the way she smiled at him, showing the tolerance of a daughter to her overly cautious father. Was that how she looked at him? Her next remark seemed to confirm his fear.

“It is late, Emile. You should be in bed,” she said, as if to an old man needing his sleep.

But when he finally went to bed, he lay awake for a long time, mulling over the little changes in her attitude, her manner, trying to find the cause for them. Stray thoughts came to him. Almost harshly he pushed them aside. But they came back to trouble him.

The trail was wide and smooth, shaded by towering live oaks, madronas, and the odd eucalyptus tree, the rough ground beneath them cleared of undergrowth. Here and there shafts of morning sunlight broke through the leafy canopy and dappled the dusty earth at Katherine's feet.

Mounted on a tripod several yards away, the camera captured on tape the almost mystical effect of the sunbeams breaking around her. Steve Gibbons kept one eye pressed to the viewfinder, the tension in his body indicating the excitement of the shot he was getting. The sound man, Rick Meers, was crouched at his feet, listening intently to the voices coming over his headset while he constantly checked the levels.

Kelly stood out of frame, letting the camera focus solely on Katherine while they talked. “Tell me about this trail we're on, Katherine.”

Like a veteran performer, Katherine repeated the explanation she had given earlier when she had first showed it to them. “This trail is actually an old bridle path that runs from the main house to the winery. Once I traveled it four to six times a day. For many years, it was much easier to check the vineyards and the work being done around the estate from horseback. Frequently I was in the saddle by dawn and rarely out of it until after sunset.” She paused and smiled. “For my sixty-fifth birthday, my son Jonathon bought me a golf cart and persuaded me to put my gray hunter out to pasture. But once, the two of us could have traveled this path blindfolded.”

Several beats of silence followed her concluding remark. Then DeeDee said briskly, “That's it. Stop tape. We've got it. And it's perfect.” The short, clipped sentences were indicative of the excitement she struggled to suppress in her voice. But Kelly had worked with her long enough to pick it up. “Let's head to the winery. Great job,” she told Katherine, almost as an afterthought. “We'll take that wonderful photo of you on your horse watching the workers in the vineyards and edit it into this sequence. It's a terrific picture. My God, with your jodhpurs and riding crop, you look like Barbara Stanwyck on that horse. Didn't she, Kelly?”

“A very young Barbara Stanwyck,” Kelly inserted as the three of them set off down the bridle path toward the winery.

“Does it matter? That woman always seemed ageless to me.”

“In any case, I take your original statement as a compliment,” Katherine declared with typical graciousness.

“This is actually a shortcut to the winery, isn't it?” Kelly asked, mentally visualizing the layout of the house and winery and the location of the path between them.

“It is much shorter, yes,” Katherine replied as they rounded a bend in the trail and the brick winery rose before them.

Seeing it, Kelly felt the tension thread through her nerves. Mentally she braced herself against the private memories she had of the place. She couldn't think about them. She had to block them from her mind.

A man came out of the winery, dressed in khakis and a tan work shirt and wearing a beat-up old felt hat. It was a full second before Kelly realized it was Sam Rutledge. He drew up when he saw them.

“Good morning.” The greeting was directed to all of them, but his glance went to Kelly. She felt the instant and strong tug of attraction.

“I like the hat,” she said, letting it pull her in.

His mouth quirked in a half smile. “You need something to keep the sun off you when you're out in the vineyards all day.” Steve and Rick joined them, lugging their equipment. “Still at it, I see,” Sam observed.

“They want to film a portion of the interview in our aging cellars,” Katherine explained.

“Are you kidding?” DeeDee declared, raising her eyebrows high. “How could we not include cellars that were dug out of the hillside by Chinese laborers over a century ago? That would be like doing a story on Texas and not mentioning the Alamo.”

“They are a unique feature of Rutledge Estate,” Sam conceded.

“Bud's bringing the van around,” Steve Gibbons told DeeDee. Bud Rasmussen was technically a lighting assistant, but he filled multiple roles, ranging from electrician to makeup artist when necessary. “All our lighting equipment's in the van. I figured we would probably need more light in there to get the right look and effect. Do you want to point us in the right direction and we'll start heading that way?”

“Good thinking.” DeeDee nodded, then looked around. “Where are the cellars from here?”

“On the other side of the winery.” Kelly automatically supplied the answer. “It will be quicker to cut through than go around the building.”

“True,” Katherine agreed. “Although I think it would be best if I showed you the way.”

“I'll go with you,” DeeDee said. “Why don't you stick around, Kelly, and wait for Bud.”

“All right.” As they walked off, Kelly was conscious of being left alone with Sam. She turned, discovering how close he was, and felt something rush along her skin, something race through her blood. Automatically she stepped back. “You left yesterday before I had a chance to thank you for the tour of the house.”

He cocked his head at her, a puzzled look in his eyes as the sun's slanting rays sculpted his facial bones in high relief. “How did you know how to get to the cellars from here?”

Panic froze her for a moment. Like any strong emotion, it sharpened her senses. She could smell the dust in the air, the aroma of fermenting juices, and the clean scent of soap emanating from his skin. The tinny taste of fear was on her tongue. She ignored all of it to toss him an artificially careless smile; her mind, thankfully, had not stopped functioning.

“Our research department is without equal. If I had asked, they probably could have gotten me blueprints on the winery and the house, instead of just a simple layout on Rutledge Estate. Believe me, we came prepared.”

“I guess you did.” He nodded, accepting her explanation, and Kelly drew an easy breath. The van pulled into the yard, stirring up more dust. “Looks like your man has arrived. I won't keep you. I've got work to do myself.” He made a move to leave, then his gaze came back to her. “Will you be at the party for the baron tomorrow night?”

Kelly nodded. “All of us will be.”

“See you then.” He sent her a quick smile and walked off toward a parked Jeep.

The way he'd looked at her, with a warm light in his eyes, it had made her feel good. Yet she didn't want to feel this attraction to him. It was too potent. In its way, too dangerous. Briskly she started for the van to link up with Bud Rasmussen.

“Hi.” He clambered out of the van, short and pudgy like the can of beer that had given him his nickname. “Where is everybody?”

Before Kelly could answer, shouts came from the winery, the words indistinct but the tone of anger unmistakable. She swung around to face the thickly timbered door.

“What in the world,” Bud murmured as DeeDee came charging out of the building with Steve and Rick right on her heels. They headed straight for the van. Even before they reached it, Kelly, saw that DeeDee's face was fire red.

“What happened?” Kelly frowned. “We heard yelling.”

“We just caught holy hell, that's what happened,” she snapped, embarrassment beginning to give way to anger. “Katherine was about to introduce us to this old winemaker when he suddenly turned into a raging bull, bellowing at us to get out, that our cologne would ruin his wine. I thought oh, God, here he comes.” DeeDee dropped her voice the instant she saw the stocky old man come out of the winery with Katherine at his side.

He hurried to them, his leathered face drawn in contrite lines. “Forgive me. My temper is a terrible thing. I should not have shouted so.”

Katherine broke in, “I have explained to Claude the fault was mine. I failed to advise you not to use any strong colognes today. While it is unlikely, there is always the chance the wines may absorb some of its fragrance. Therefore, we have a strict rule against it.”

“Naturally,” DeeDee murmured, only slightly mollified by the apology and explanation.

“You understand,” Claude inserted anxiously. “It is not that I do not wish for you to visit the cellars. It would be my greatest pleasure to show you our treasures, to give you a taste of them. Please.”

Kelly interrupted him. “Please don't apologize, Monsieur Broussard. You had cause to be upset. We understand that. Honestly, we do.”

“But that does not excuse my anger,” he said, his grizzled head bowing with abject regret.

“Come.” Katherine took charge. “You can shower at the house. I will have Han Li prepare coffee and some of his delicious pastries, and we will forget this unfortunate incident took place at all.”

That night, in the bed-and-breakfast's dainty front parlor, they were all able to laugh about it while they reviewed the tape they had eventually shot in the cellar. From her perch, curled up at one end of the Victorian sofa, Kelly watched the television screen as Claude Broussard used a wooden mallet to knock the plug, called a bung, from its hole atop a wine barrel.

“That guy is a real character.” DeeDee sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the set. “A snaggletooth grizzly one second, and a cuddly teddy bear the next. I didn't think I was going to like him, but I swear I do.”

“Except when he roars, right?” Steve gave her a good-natured shove in the back before hooking a leg over the sofa's armrest and sitting back on it.

“I have the feeling he's like my father,” DeeDee replied. “His roar is much worse than his bite.” Kelly tended to agree, though she didn't say so. She was too intent on the scene on the television screen.