The Beekeeper's Ball: Bella Vista Chronicles Book 2 (30 page)

“Not tonight,” he said. “I’ve got other plans for you tonight.”

She ducked her head, feeling the heat of a blush.

“You have the nicest smile,” he said softly into her ear.

“Shh. Let’s just get through this number.” But his comment only made her smile more. As promised, he was a good dancer, his lead easy to follow. She relaxed into the dance, and she even liked the attention she was getting from the other wedding guests. Most people around Archangel knew her to be a homebody, particularly cautious when it came to men, dating infrequently, selectively, and never letting anyone get too close. Certainly no one had seen her hanging out with someone like Cormac O’Neill. Or wearing a dress like the one she had on.

After more than one acquaintance gave her a not-so-secret A-okay sign, Mac asked, “Do you think they know we slept together?”

“Stop it. That’s not—”

“I bet it is. And by the way, I didn’t get a chance to tell you—that was one fantastic night.” He let his hand slip down briefly to her hips.

“Yes.” She couldn’t lie or pretend to be outraged. “I feel the same way.”

“So, tonight...”

“Mac, I don’t know.” She wasn’t sure she could go down that road, not knowing where it was leading. It was hard to trust her own judgment when it came to men. She was already falling hard. But what was the point of falling for a guy who wouldn’t be around to pick her up?

“I
do
know, and for the record, it was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

That startled her. He was so worldly, so...adept. Not to mention blunt as a spoon. “Let me ask you something,” she said.

“Shoot.”

“Are you extremely good in bed, or is it that we’re good together?”

“What do you think?” he countered.

Ah, that reporter’s trick. She was getting used to it. “I’m asking what
you
think.”

He twirled her out, then reeled her back in. “I think we’re magic together.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

I think we’re magic together.
He had an uncanny way of saying everything while saying nothing. She couldn’t be sure whether he meant what he said, or if he was simply telling her what he thought she wanted to hear. Either way, it worked. They stayed up dancing and drinking until the bride tossed her bouquet. It landed in Annelise’s lap, and the ensuing toasts were rowdy and full of laughter.

After a final round of drinks and farewells, Tess and her groom departed through a gauntlet of sparklers. Then Mac brought Isabel to his room and made love to her again, and it was even better than the first time, because they were getting to know each other in ways more intimate than she’d ever thought possible. She learned the ebb and flow of his pleasure and the rhythm of his breathing, the texture of his skin and the exquisite comfort of cradling her head against his chest and listening to the steady beat of his heart.

Despite the emotional upheaval of her love affair with Mac, life did go on. In the aftermath of the wedding, a quiet lull settled over Bella Vista. The preparations for the cooking school were nearing completion. Tess and Dominic were off to Iceland for their honeymoon. Isabel had to force herself to focus on the project that had consumed her for the past year, the project she’d dreamed about for the past decade. Carrying on with Mac O’Neill was no excuse for neglecting things.

The cooking school was wholly her own, something no one could ever take from her. It would last as long as she wanted it to. Romance was ephemeral; she already knew Mac planned to leave soon. The dream she’d created for herself would last. It wouldn’t betray her or leave her or break her heart.

She liked being in charge. She was good at it. Like a battle commander before a major campaign, she organized a photo shoot and publicity coverage for the cooking school.
MenuSonoma Magazine
was due to arrive within the hour to do a cover story, and Isabel was determined to make certain Bella Vista looked and sounded as incredible as she knew it was going to be.

Filled with nervous excitement, she made her way to the teaching kitchen to get ready for the reporter and photographer. She had even hired a stylist to help her with her clothes, hair and makeup, knowing she needed plenty of help in this area.

Her phone rang, an incoming call from the magazine editor. “Hi, Leo,” she said, sounding slightly breathless. “Are Jared and Jan on their way? Do they need directions, or—”

“Um, yeah, about that...” Leo’s voice sounded hesitant. Apologetic.

Her hopes were already shriveling. “What’s the matter?”

“The photographer and reporter aren’t going to make it today. They’re stuck on assignment with Calvin Sharpe.”

Her heart shriveled a little. Of course Cal would be the one to disrupt her plans. Even now, she thought. Even now.

“So what’s your plan B?” she asked.

“We can reschedule the shoot, but the first available date I have for them isn’t for another five weeks.”

“How will that affect your cover story about the cooking school?”

“I’m sorry to say, we’ll miss the deadline, and the cover is spoken for until next spring.”

“So what’s going to be on the fall cover? Oh, wait, let me guess—Calvin Sharpe’s new restaurant.”

“He bought a lot of ad space,” Leo admitted. “We can still feature the cooking school—”

“Question,” she interrupted, acting on a sudden inspiration. “Have you ever heard of Cormac O’Neill?”

“Sure, everyone has. His book on Thai street food is a classic.”

She didn’t know anything about that book, but assumed that meant Leo was a fan. “Suppose Cormac O’Neill wrote the piece on the cooking school,
and
did the photography.”

“I’d think you were biting the heads off those little pot-infused gummi bears he mentions in that book.”

* * *

“Wow.” Summoned by an urgent text message, Mac stepped into the teaching kitchen and stared at Isabel. He felt a flush come over his body, his attraction to her an inner fire that only increased as the days passed. This feeling was new, an exhilarating ride, and he was enjoying the heck out of it.

She was wearing a new outfit, not the usual flowy stuff that hid all her assets. The fitted skirt and blouse showed off her figure in a way he found extremely distracting. “Wow in a good way. Isn’t that one of your mother’s outfits?”

“Yes, restored to its former glory. It doesn’t look too dated?”

“The kitchen looks great, and you look great.”

“Thanks. Two hours of hair and makeup, and I’m a natural beauty.” She struck a pose, wielding a spatula.

“You don’t need that much help.”

“I do for the photo shoot. That’s actually what I wanted to see you about.”

“The photo shoot? Oh, yeah, that magazine you mentioned.”

“Yes. There was a conflict, and the photographer and writer aren’t coming. If they reschedule, I’ll miss the opportunity for Bella Vista to be on the cover of the magazine. So I was wondering...I know it’s not your usual thing, but could you take the pictures and write the article?”

“What?” He wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

“I’m asking you to do the piece on the cooking school. Right now. Today. It’s the only way to make sure Bella Vista is featured on the cover.” Her cheeks flushed. “I sound desperate, don’t I? Sorry. I hate that I sound desperate.”

He felt a wave of affection for her. “This is important to you.”

“It’s everything to me.” She fluttered her hands nervously. “I’m sorry, it’s probably a bad idea.”

“Are you kidding me?”

Her shoulders slumped and she stared at the floor. “Okay, I get it, this is not your thing.”

“No, Isabel, you
don’t
get it.” He touched her beneath the chin and tipped her face up. “You’ve never asked me for a single thing, and now you are. I’m just wondering what the hell took you so long.”

The relief in her eyes nearly broke his heart. “You mean you’ll do it?”

“I’ll have my literary agent call the editor and make sure it’s the featured piece.”

“Oh, that would be fantastic. But you have to understand, the magazine’s budget is really small. I thought maybe we could work something out.”

“I don’t expect a fee. I don’t need to work anything out. I just need for you to trust me.”

“I trust.”

“Remember you said that.”

* * *

Jodi, the stylist who had helped at the wedding, proved to be an able assistant, patiently holding up reflectors and diffusers to correct the lighting. Isabel was surprisingly comfortable in front of the camera. Mac hadn’t been expecting that. Then he realized she was a woman in her element, in a place she loved, surrounded by the world she had created for herself. No wonder she never wanted to leave this place.

They set up shot after shot, in the kitchen, the patio, the orchard and the field with the beehives. He took pictures of the landscape and the wood-fire pizza oven and the newly completed outdoor shower with its smooth river stone surface and rustic wood privacy screen. But mostly, he took pictures of Isabel herself. The golden light of sunset infused each scene with a honeyed glow, lending a dreamlike quality to every frame. She was so damned beautiful it made his eyes hurt, and she didn’t even know it. He could look at her all day. He could look at her his whole life, and it wouldn’t be long enough.

He gave her props, not just the expected kitchen utensils, but a flower, a beehive smoker, the Vespa, anything to bring out her personality. He had her lift a dipper of honey to the light and captured the dripping sweetness in the foreground. Finally, when the sunset sank into twilight, Mac called it a day. “You’re going to love these pictures,” he assured her. “The magazine’s going to love them. Now we need to come up with an article to do them justice.”

He put his gear away while she paid Jodi and walked her out.

“Thank you, Mac,” she said, coming back inside. “An article by a national journalist like you—it will be quite a coup. The editor was so impressed. I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you.”

“Come to Ravello with me. Let’s go on an adventure.”

She smiled softly. “You’re already too much of an adventure for me.”

“No such thing. We need to get started on the article.”

“It’s funny, I’ve watched you work all this time with my grandfather, but I have no idea how you do what you do.”

“Here’s how it works. You’re going to talk to me. Really talk.”

“All right. Brace yourself. I think I’m kind of boring.”

“Believe me, you’re not boring.”

“Okay, then. But first I need to shower off all this hairspray and makeup. Not to mention this sticky honey. Why’d you have to use so much honey?”

“So I can lick it off you.”

“Hey—”

He grabbed her hand and gently slid each of her fingers into his mouth, one by one. The sweet honey taste of her nearly killed him. Judging by the look on her face, she was pretty turned on, too. “Let’s try the outdoor shower,” he said.

“But—”

“No buts. I bet you haven’t even tried it out.”

She stared at him, her eyes saying no already.

“Come on.” Keeping hold of her hand, he led the way. Landscaping lights illuminated the path through the darkness, down through the garden to the outdoor shower, a fantasy of lush plantings surrounded by rough stone in a rustic wood enclosure. There were fluffy white robes hanging on wrought iron hooks, and an array of homemade soaps and lotions, all perfectly arranged for the photo shoot.

He brought her into the enclosure, knelt down and took off her sandals. Then he put his arms around her and unzipped her skirt. She was quiet and sweetly compliant. Her skin felt warm beneath his hands as he undressed her and turned on the water. Then he peeled off his clothes and they stood together under the warm stream of water, exploring each other with soap-slick hands, kissing and tasting until he was about to explode. He took her there on the shower bench, gratified by the small, involuntary sounds of ecstasy she made. It was fast, and when she came, he felt the shudders rippling all through her body, and he couldn’t hold back. He turned her in his arms and kissed her long and deeply while the water rinsed them clean.

“Best shower ever,” he whispered, turning off the water and wrapping her in a robe.

“Yes,” she said. “I feel...it’s hard to explain. As if we go away somewhere, kind of like in a dream.”

“That explains it, then.”

She leaned her damp forehead against his shoulder. “What does it mean?”

“I think you know. But you don’t want to say.”

“Hey.”

“It’s okay. Tonight we’re doing the interview. Don’t worry, I’ll get more personal after we’re done.”

* * *

Isabel floated back to the house with him. She
did
know why they were so good together, and he was right; she didn’t want to say. Because it worried her.

The television was on in the lounge room, so they sneaked into the kitchen for a bottle of wine and two glasses, a dish of walnuts toasted with rosemary and salt and a wedge of cheese drizzled with honey. They tiptoed up the stairs to her room. He set down the bottle, backed her up against the bed, dipped his finger in the honey and said, “I might have to have you again.”

Her response was ridiculous. She wanted his hands all over her. He’d created a monster. A nymphomaniac. “That sounds like an excellent idea,” she said, drawing him down over her.

They didn’t get around to the interview until much later. He was leaning back against a bank of pillows while she leaned her cheek against his bare chest, her hands gently stroking his belly. “You’ve lulled me into submission,” she whispered. “Ask me anything.”

“Oh, baby, you don’t want to give me that kind of license.” He leaned over and picked up his phone, putting it in record mode. “Let’s stick to the interview. I want people to be blown away by the article.”

“All right.” She felt relaxed and replete. Floating. Filled with a kind of joy she’d never felt before. “Where do we start?”

“With cooking. Why do you love it?”

The question startled her. No one had ever asked her something like that. And no one had ever listened to her the way he did—with his eyes. With his whole body. “Well, it’s elemental. Creating a meal for someone is incredibly personal. There’s a kind of intimacy in the process. Feeding someone is...for me, it’s a way of showing love, by providing nourishment that comes from my own creativity and craft.” She flushed, because it sounded strange, putting that feeling into words. “How am I doing? Is this what you had in mind?”

“Just keep going. Don’t worry about how it sounds.”

“All right. I love knowing that I’m good at it. Cooking connects me with my family—the mother and father I never knew, the grandmother who raised me, the place where I grew up amid all this abundance, right here at Bella Vista.

“The kitchen is the place where I feel closest to my grandmother, especially. She was my mother, my grandmother, my lodestone. I lost her at a crucial time in my life. I was just twenty, and it felt much too soon. I hadn’t learned everything I needed from her. Fate doesn’t give you a choice, does it? Yet when I cook, I feel her flowing through me, guiding my spirit and my hands.”

“What’s your earliest memory of your grandmother?”

She thought for a moment. It was just a flash, but then it gave way to a gilded memory, misted like a dream. “Grandfather made me a step stool, so I could reach the counter in the kitchen. He stenciled a picture of a dog on it and a saying, ‘Use this stool to reach for the stars.’ I would set it next to the counter so I could be tall enough to help. I remember the flour dusting Bubbie’s hands. She would roll up her sleeves and I could see the tattoo. One time, I took a magic marker and wrote some numbers on my arm, and she fussed at me and made me scrub it off. She said no one should have a mark like that, and if she could scrub off the one on her own arm, she would.”

Isabel sighed, still able to hear her grandmother’s soft accent. “I remember the smell of her wild blackberry jam, the steam rising up from the pots and utensils when she sterilized them. She used to trade her jam for jars of honey from the Krokowers down the road. More than once, she said she wanted to produce her own honey one day, right here at Bella Vista, but this was a working orchard and she didn’t have a lot of spare time.”