Too Close to the Sun (17 page)

She found herself unable to break his stare.
"I'd better be, given that I'm an investment-guy tour guide."

"Ah, that's right!" A light twinkled in his
eyes, a faraway star. "How's the tour business?"

"Improving."

"When does your first client get his first
outing?"

"I'd say he's getting it tonight." They gazed
at each other for a moment longer, then she backed away from him,
undone. His nearness, his maleness, the unmistakable undercurrent
of attraction that pulsed between them roiled her senses and tipped
the safe world she'd created into something she'd long ago
forgotten. She'd felt nothing like this since Vittorio, and even
with him she'd settled fast into a comfortable domesticity. What
she felt now—this hyperawareness, this ubersensitivity—was strange
to her, and not entirely welcome.

She headed for the kitchen, eager for escape.
"I'll open some wine," she called over her shoulder, and unearthed
a Sonoma Valley chardonnay. But seconds later he was beside her
again, appropriating the bottle, pulling out the cork, telling her
a funny story about his Aunt Mina, who insisted on serving Mateus
Rose—over crushed ice—on every major holiday.

Gabby was laughing and, she realized,
comfortable again. They touched their wineglasses together.

"To your bottling effort," he said. "May it
get done on time."

Amen
. She sipped, squashing a
compulsion to confess what they'd really been up to that night. She
might be trusting Will more—a lot more—but as far as she knew, that
old adage about loose lips remained as true as ever. "So," she
heard herself say instead, "are you still interested in the house
specialty?"

His brows arched. "You mean the PB and
J?"

"Yup."

"I'm game," he said, which set off a flurry
of searching for bread and jars and spreading knives. Will held up
the peanut butter and peered at the label. "Well, I'd say this
product confirms the conclusions I've drawn so far about you,
Gabby."

"Have you been holding me under a
microscope?"

"Metaphorically, of course. Though I wouldn't
object to a real-life close-up inspection."

He paused. She felt his eyes on her profile
and busied herself with scraping the last bits of raspberry jam
from the jar, which all at once seemed of paramount importance.

He went on. "For example, I deduce not only
from this all-natural peanut butter but from the rest of your home
that you're a believer in simple, high-quality materials. You
choose honest, true things and let them speak for themselves.
You're straightforward, not fussy. You're substance over
style."

Her hands stilled, her knife poking uselessly
into the empty jam jar. She felt herself being lulled into a
delicious torpor hearing him speak of her like this. It was as
sweet as a caress, and somehow just as intimate.

"I see it, too, in how you dress." His voice
was low, soothing. "I see it in how little makeup you wear, how you
leave your hair free." She heard him set the peanut-butter jar down
on the tiled countertop. Then he was right beside her, leaning
against the counter. She stared unseeing at the white tile
backsplash, keenly aware that his gaze was riveted on her face.
"You're a woman who's so comfortable in your own skin that you
don't need any pretense."

Silence.
He's going to kiss me again. If I
let him
. Her heartbeat got away from her and her memory flew
back to that hospital stairwell. How he'd felt. How she'd felt.
Oh, God. And he hasn't even touched me yet.

But then her hands took over, smashing the
two slices of wheat bread together in a haphazard sandwich that she
held out in his direction. "Eat," she said, sounding like her
mother, cursing her nervousness, wondering how on earth she could
be so attracted to a man yet so fearful of his touch.

You're afraid what it could lead to.

And what heartache could follow.

He cooperated. He laughed and let the moment
slip, and allowed the two of them to down their midnight snack
while chatting about nothing in particular. Then he roamed,
wineglass in hand, examining the family photos plastered on the
fridge with kitschy little magnets, the black and red rooster tiles
that showed up intermittently among their all-white brethren, the
Tuscan plates arranged on stands on the countertops. When he
fingered the kitchen curtain aside, his voice grew curious. "Is
that a hot tub I see out there?"

"Sure is. It was probably put in when the
skylights were."

"Care for a dip, Ms. DeLuca? Given how much
abuse our muscles took tonight?"

That was an idea. She'd used it the night
before and it'd been heaven. She cocked her head, some of her
girlhood flirting ability bubbling to the surface. "You trying to
get me in my bikini, Mr. Henley?" Actually, she realized, she
wouldn't mind seeing him in a more dressed-down state.

"I was thinking we might skinny-dip." He
winked. "After all, I hardly came equipped with trunks
tonight."

"Ah, but unfortunately for you I can solve
that problem." She set down her sandwich. "Back in a sec."

She returned bearing a pair of grotesquely
garish red-and-yellow plaid trunks. "Now before you say anything,
you should know these belonged to my father. He should've thrown
them out twenty years ago, but I finally got him to donate them to
my going-to-Goodwill stash. I just haven't made it there yet."

"Lucky for me." His tone was wry. He accepted
the trunks with about as much enthusiasm as if she'd handed him a
soiled diaper.

Gabby abandoned him to get into her favorite
bikini—hot pink and push-up. She grabbed towels, wrapped one around
herself, and hightailed it out the kitchen door to find Will
already in the tub, both wineglasses beside him on the warped
redwood deck, broad shoulders glistening from the water, hair wet
and slicked back.

His eyes never left her. She didn't think she
imagined the gleam in their blue depths as he watched her shed the
towel and slide into the water. She threw her head back to wet her
hair then settled across from him, bobbing slightly as a strong jet
of water massaged her back. She tried not to be too obvious as she
assessed the hunk of near-naked maleness a few feet away from her,
looking impossibly strong and handsome.

Around them, the valley slept. A crescent
moon hung high, a lone cloud scudding across its silver surface.
Far away a coyote howled, a plaintive and lonely sound that on
other, solitary nights had echoed in her own soul.

Gabby felt herself being lulled into
somnolence by the water's warmth and rhythmic churning. She sipped
the last of her wine and watched the tub's steam writhe into the
night sky, feeling no need to say a word. How wonderful that was.
How rare.

It was Will who broke their silence. "I can
see why you like it here. It makes the real world feel very far
away."

"I feel that way sometimes. But then I
remember this world is real, too."

"You grew up in Napa?"

"And then went to college in Davis. About an
hour away."

"What did you study?"

"Enology. With a double minor in viticulture
and chemistry."

"Tell me about the time you lived in
Italy."

The question startled her. She would have
preferred to delve into safer topics, like his schooling.
What
can I tell him about Castelnuovo? I fell in love and it was magic.
Then I lost my love and it became a nightmare.

She thought for a moment. "I worked in a
winery in Tuscany and it was a lot like working in Napa and yet
different in interesting ways. People were very friendly"—
except
for Vittorio's parents
—"and I learned a lot about my own
heritage." She paused, then, "It was a very special time."

"How long ago was this?"

"I got back a year ago."

"How long were you there?"

"About three years."

She noticed he was eyeing her in that way he
had, that way that analyzed and penetrated, with an intense
concentration that made her feel he missed nothing and grasped far
more than she actually said. Then he simply looked away and nodded,
as if he were filing information away for future study.

"You're smarter than I am," he told her.
"While you were in Tuscany, I was killing myself in San Francisco.
Eighty-hour weeks, one deal after the next, one trip after another,
juggling a bunch of negotiations at the same time." He shook his
head, then laughed. "Don't get me wrong. I like what I do. But
sometimes I have to wonder. . ." He stopped.

"If it's all worth it?"

"Something like that."

The revelation pleased her, made him seem
less of a businessman and more of a kindred soul. She decided to
venture onto forbidden territory. "You must be really sorry you're
not going to be able to buy Suncrest."

His brows flew up. "You heard about
that?"

"Not directly. But Mrs. Winsted made a point
of telling me how Max was taking over and how thrilled she was and
how she and her husband had looked forward to that for years. She
said enough that I drew my own conclusions."

He looked away. "Max did reject the
offer."

"Are you very disappointed?"

He said nothing for a time. She had the idea
he was choosing his words carefully. Then, "I am. But there's more
than one winery in Napa."

"That's certainly true."

"You must be relieved."

"Well, you know where I stand on that." She
paused, then heard herself say, "You know, part of me wondered if
you were only interested in me because you might buy the winery.
And then you'd want my support, and my father's."

Instantly he moved across the tub to within
inches of her, half kneeling so their eyes remained level. "It's
never been that at all, Gabby. Sure, I would want your expertise if
the deal went through, but you've got to know my interest in you
doesn't have anything to do with your ability to make wine."

His eyes were very serious. Then they dropped
to her mouth and lingered there, before he raised them again with
apparent reluctance. It was as if she asked,
Why? Why are you
interested in me?
because a second later he answered that
question.

"I don't care what work you do, Gabby. I care
that you're beautiful and smart and have a good heart." He looked
away from her and squinted into the dark, as if he'd find the
explanation there. "When I'm around you, I like how I feel. I
haven't felt that way in a long time."

You and me both
, Gabby thought. They
stared at each other. She realized that for good or ill, she
believed him. And that she'd gotten the bubble she wanted at the
start of the evening, the bubble where she and Will were the only
two people in the world.

All at once his hand reached out to find the
nape of her neck and lingered there, soft and titillating. Before
she could resist the movement he pulled her toward him and claimed
her mouth. She felt his other hand encircle her waist and pull her
tight against the length of him, crushing her breasts against him,
allowing no whisper of space to separate their bodies. Somewhere in
her dizzy delight she parted her lips for his inspection, wanting
more as he deepened the kiss, needing more in the marrow of her
soul, wondering how she had ever been crazy enough to think she
could do without his kissing her again. Her own hands reached
around his head, toyed with his short wet spiky hair, clutched the
strong slippery breadth of his shoulders, reveled in the wonderful
manly feel of him, different from Vittorio yet so shockingly
right.

He grasped her hips, his hands greedy on her
naked flesh, and pressed her hard against him. She thrilled at his
arousal, so frank, so unabashed, so male. The idea of giving him
what he wanted, what
she
wanted, allowing him to do what he
would with his hands, with his mouth . . .

Perhaps the same vision accosted him, for he
ended the kiss, though he continued to hold her. His heart was a
hammer against her distended nipples, his breath a groan of sweet
suffering in her ear. "You're killing me, Gabby," he whispered.
"But I don't want to take it too fast with you. I want to do this
right."

She knew what he meant. Maybe in a saner
moment she would have wanted the same thing. But in that instant
she knew where she would go if only he would take her, though it
was so unwise. How willful, how foolhardy to care only for the
union her body screamed for and not one whit for restraint or
logic.

But Will had enough of both, and on this
night Gabby wasn't sure if she loved or hated him for it.

He pulled away from her, and a chill washed
over the skin that had been so warm a moment before. "Do you mind
if I stay the night on your couch?"

"Not at all."

"I don't want to drive back to the city."

"I don't want you to, either."

"I don't want to leave you tonight."

His words hung in the night air, as frank and
true as the stars in the sky.

She found a spare blanket and pillow and
helped him set up a makeshift bed on her couch. It took every ounce
of her will to leave him there and retreat alone to her solitary
bedroom, where cold sheets awaited her, and restless dreams, and a
night that took forever to become morning.

*

Will woke before dawn but did not allow
himself to rise from Gabby's living-room couch until sunlight
streaked across the skylights above his head. Then, pulling on his
trousers, he padded to the front windows to inspect the view. It
didn't take him long to step outside, barefoot, because it seemed
nonsensical to allow glass to separate him from the beauties that
lay beyond.

It was a stunning vista, lovelier than he'd
imagined in the dark. He hadn't realized that vineyards were so
close at hand—mere yards, not even a fence away. In the shade of
century-old oak trees, terra-cotta planters burst with flowers,
from delicate pink anemones to violet morning glories to deep
purple lobelia. Against the house, rose vines heavy with white and
pink blossoms climbed a rickety trellis. Gabby had a little
vegetable patch going, as well: tomatoes, baby lettuces, beets.