Deadly Offer

Copyright Information

Deadly Offer
© 2012 Vicki Doudera

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First e-book edition © 2012

E-book ISBN: 978-0-7387-3036-3

Book design by Donna Burch

Cover design
by Lisa Novak

Cover illustration © Dominick Finelle/The July Group

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Dedication

To my brother, William von Wenzel, and his wife, Lucia Razionale.

Thanks for all of the wonderful times in California.

Acknowledgments

I’m thankful for the assistance of many who helped with
Deadly Offer
.

First, a big thank you to my faithful manuscript readers Lynda Chilton and Ed Doudera, whose comments and careful edits are so appreciated, and to Jane Lafleur and Jane Babbitt for proofreading. Thanks to Robert Merrill, MD, and Eric Schenk, DO, for their advice on chronic illness, as well as Luci Zahray, a.k.a. “the Poison Lady” for her excellent ideas.

I appreciate the help of wine pro Ken Churchill of Churchill Cellars for his thoughts and several glorious bottles of wine. Right here in coastal Maine, Cellardoor Winery’s beautiful vistas helped with the creation of the imaginary Carson Creek Estate & Winery. Thanks to Bettina Doulton for her transformative work there.

I’m grateful to Aikido expert Sensei Gordon Muller of the New Jersey Police Academy for his technical guidance and helpful videos on gun disarming strategies. For suggestions regarding California law, thank you to Kenneth Horowitz, Esq., of San Mateo. Thanks also to Lee Scheuer of Camden and California for his assistance.

Much appreciation to my fellow real estate agents in Maine, above all, Scott Horty and the team at Camden Real Estate Company, including the extremely talented trio of Christopher Brown, Jeanne Fullilove, and Brenda Stearns.

Big thanks to everyone on our September 2010 Backroads Bike trip through Sonoma and Napa: Paul and Robin Giddings, Bill and Kathy Storm, Robert Takla, Joseph Akouri, Paul Kalekas, and Pamela Mann, including fearless leaders and super cyclists Bryan Rees and Cynthia Sullivan. Great doing research through wine country with all of you!

Thank you to my literary agent, Tris Coburn, and to all the good people at Midnight Ink, including editors Terri Bischoff and Connie Hill; my patient publicist, Marissa Pederson; and book designers Donna Burch and Lisa Novak. Thanks to illustrator Dominick Finelle for a beautiful cover as well.

I’m extremely grateful to readers of this series everywhere, especially those who helped me to choose Darby’s vintage “ride”—Nadia Salemi, Peter Russell, Nancy Lubin, Cecilia Salas, Julia Levensaler, Jane Dagley, Karin Rector, Heidi Nason Hawk, Kit Parker, Patty Albany, Heidi Karod, Alison Dyer, and Nancy Lawson. Special thanks to Terri Mackenzie, who pushed me toward the “Karma of the Ghia” with her comment: “The wind in your hair, the feel of the road, the threat of imminent breakdown at every curve sharpens the female mind like nothing else.” Thanks also to Richard Troy, Founder of The Karmann Ghia Club of North America, for his expert assistance.

Finally, nothing I do would be possible without the support, love, and encouragement of my family. Thank you Mom, Matt, Nate, Lexi, and especially, Ed.

Prologue

“I will kill you.”

The words were uttered calmly, casually, the way one might order a glass of Chardonnay at a wine bar, but Selena Thompson knew from experience the cold fury lurking behind the benign tone. She blinked, hoping the nightmare would dissipate. Her life was in mortal danger, and there was precious little she could do.

The scythe
…

She took a step backward, pushing her thin frame up against the corner of the vineyard’s old barn. Here a collection of weathered tools gathered dust, their time as useful implements long a thing of the past. Selena groped behind her back, wincing at the effort even this small movement took, until she fingered the smooth wooden handle of the antique scythe. The blade was rusted, but it was deathly sharp.

Sunlight slanted through small slits in the barn’s roof. A fly buzzed by her head, its flight a meandering circuit through the dusty air. She moved her head a fraction and felt her long black braid just grazing the top of her forearm. Beneath her thin cotton blouse her heart was pounding, so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

She prayed he could not see her hand grasping the tool.

“I swear, I could do it …” he took a step forward, the barn floorboards creaking beneath his weight. Selena’s every muscle tensed, sending thin slivers of pain that pierced what seemed like every cell.

Running was out of the question. In her condition, at this stage of the game, it was remarkable that she could still walk. She tried to quell her trembling muscles. There was only one option.

I have to fight him off.

Swinging the rusty implement would be excruciatingly difficult. The scythe was unwieldy as a weapon—she had used it once, back when she was healthy, to hack down some weeds—but it was her only chance. Her attacker had only to move one step closer, and he would get a taste of the burnished steel.
I’ll slice his carotid artery
…

A long second passed in which neither of them moved. Off in the distance, a rooster crowed, a sound Selena normally found comical at nearly five in the afternoon. She wondered how much longer her legs could support her. Already they were tingling, as if on fire from a thousand ant bites.

He lifted his big hands, palms towards her, and she stiffened.

“Leni, I beg of you.” His throat was suddenly hoarse. “Show compassion. I am a changed man.”

She said nothing and watched as his hands sunk to his sides. Was this when he would pounce, when he looked his most submissive? After several seconds, he gave a slow shake of his head.

“Is this it, Leni? You won’t even give me the courtesy of a discussion?”

Selena’s black eyes flashed.

“There is nothing to discuss. I told you, this isn’t about you and me, it is about the business. It’s about who is right for the vineyard.”

“And how am I not right? I will love this place, you know that.”

“It’s not enough to love it,” she muttered. Suddenly she was so exhausted, so drained of what little energy she possessed these days, that she nearly didn’t care anymore. She let her hand fall from the scythe and summoned every ounce of strength to continue talking.

“I have poured the last five years of my life into Carson Creek. Choosing the new owner is the most difficult thing I have ever done.”

“Then you have decided?” His jaw tightened. “You have chosen?”

Selena nodded. She tried to lift her hand back to the scythe and failed. A fragment of a prayer she’d learned as a child flitted through her brain.
If I should die before I wake
… She gave a small smile.

He balled his hands into fists. “Then there is nothing to discuss.” His words shot through the air like bullets.

I am about to die
.

He took a step backward, and then another. Selena pictured an angry boar, preparing to charge and gore his hapless victim. She’d come upon one once, years ago on a trip to Italy, as it tore into the flesh of a still-kicking rabbit. She’d seen the look in its eyes: cold, calculating, deadly. The same look she saw now in his.

Another step backward. Selena braced her aching body.

“God have mercy on you,” he spat. Selena felt what she was sure was a ridiculous trickle of hope. She opened her eyes. Was he … leaving? Was he really going to leave her alone?

He saw her baffled look and gave an ugly sneer. “I told you, Selena Thompson, I am a changed man.” She watched as he retreated from the barn, his broad back blocking the sun.

She sank to her knees in exhaustion.

———

Fifteen or so minutes later, Selena felt able to rise to her feet. Grabbing the old wooden walls for support, she eased herself upward, waiting until she was steady before taking a step. She shuffled slowly past the rusty scythe. The terror of the encounter was behind her, and her heart felt lighter than it had in weeks. Even the pain, her ever-present yet unwelcome companion, seemed to have subsided.

She walked slowly out of the barn, surveying the acres of vines heavy with fruit and the rolling brown hills and meandering Carson Creek just beyond. The sun was warm on her face, a golden caress. This was her favorite time of day: the heat of the afternoon fading to pleasant warmth, the golden ball of the sun just starting to move with purpose toward the west. Years before she’d cycled at this hour, pumping her slender legs up the hills and relishing the feeling of freedom as she coasted down. Those had been wonderful rides, solo times when she’d sorted out her problems and cleared her head, returning to the winery pleasantly tired and ready for a shower and simple dinner. She missed those days, and suspected that she’d taken them for granted.
I was always such a health nut,
she remembered.
I was the last person anyone would think could become chronically ill.

She stopped at the doorway and fingered the burgundy blooms of a late flowering spice bush. She remembered the scent as reminiscent of red wine, even if she could no longer smell it. That sense was gone, along with taste, the reason she had shed nearly twenty pounds from her already slender frame.
Try the Selena Thompson Diet
, she thought with a touch of sarcasm. She pushed open the door and stepped into her kitchen.
Lose weight because you can’t taste your food
…

And yet, despite the disabilities brought on by her cluster of illnesses, she refused to become morose. There was still so much for which she was thankful.
My house,
she thought, looking around her comfortable farmhouse kitchen, the gleaming appliances once such a pleasure to use.
My business.
Carson Creek Estate & Winery was her pride and joy, the result of years of hard work, careful management, and good old-fashioned luck.
My brothers.
They had hovered over their little sister for years, acting like protective parents, even though she was a grown woman and perfectly capable of running her own life, but she knew that they loved her deeply.

Selena thought back to the day when she’d finally put an end to their constant meddling, nagging phone calls, and endless questions. “Do you still want to see me?” She’d hated to give Carlos and Rico an ultimatum, but it had come to that. “Then you’ve both got to leave me alone!” She suspected that they’d discussed what they undoubtedly referred to as her “meltdown,” but she didn’t care. It had worked.

And just in time. Her diagnosis had come a few months later, and with it, shock, confusion, and then—an odd sense of freedom. Besides her doctors, she was the only one who knew of her condition. She was free to let it define her, or let it be something she dealt with in confidence. She’d chosen the latter and adopted a characteristically defiant attitude.
I’m more than a bundle of symptoms. I am still me.

Selena took a small ceramic plate from a cupboard and placed a few crackers and squares of cheese on it. Wincing, she reached up for a wine glass and set it on the counter. She pulled a decorative stopper from an opened bottle of Carson Creek Pinot Noir and poured herself a generous glass. The bottle was empty but she’d deal with it later.

While the wine was breathing, Selena made her way slowly toward the downstairs bathroom where her bathing suit hung on the back of the door. The material felt thin in her hands. She regarded the seat of the one piece and saw that it was becoming threadbare.
Not that I’m at a Beverly Hills Beach Club,
she thought.
No one sees me but the cat.

Speaking of Jasper, where was he? Usually the independent feline would have sidled up by now, rubbing against her calves with a hopeful nudge or two. Selena glanced out the window. He was probably prowling between the vines, stalking a field mouse or an unsuspecting cricket.
Jasper will show up poolside, wearing a smug little look on his face.
She reached up for a towel, then sank onto a nearby chair and began the slow process of putting on her suit.

———

The blue and green tiled pool was one of Selena Thompson’s few indulgences. She’d splurged on it the year after buying the winery, back when she was still doing some consulting work for several San Francisco clients, back when the majority of her income didn’t have to pay for medical treatments, prescriptions, and paid help. For years she swam laps in this water, challenging her body to go faster and farther with every session. Now, as she placed a float around her waist and eased herself into its warmth, she felt a profound gratitude for the aquamarine haven. She let the water surround her like an embrace, cradling her sore limbs and giving her the illusion that the pain might someday pass. Someday …

She managed a few gentle kicks with her legs, focusing on the caressing sensation of the water against her skin.
This is heaven
, she thought. She floated aimlessly for another ten minutes, keeping her mind as free as possible, opening herself to a healing, meditative state. When at last a cloud passed over the sun and goose bumps formed on her arms, Selena kicked slowly to the pool’s edge.
Time for that glass of Pinot,
she thought.

She had only to negotiate three stairs, but climbing them was becoming more challenging with each swim. Selena reached for the sides of the pool, her hands gripping the smooth tiles. In the distance, a hawk cried, its shrill voice startling against the quiet.

She brought one leg to the first step and steadied herself.
You can do this
, she told herself.
Just go slowly
.

Selena eased her body upward, hanging on to the metal rail for support. So far, so good. She began bringing her other leg to the stair, aware suddenly of a new pain shooting through her calf muscles. She yelped in surprise at its severity, swayed, and felt her feet buckle under her. A second later she slammed into the concrete.

Overhead the live oaks shook with a sudden breeze. Selena groaned and gingerly pushed herself up. She inhaled cautiously, hoping nothing was broken. Sore ribs—perhaps a nice black and blue bruise would be the only result.

Tears sprang to Selena Thompson’s dark eyes.
Dammit!
It wasn’t fair, it just wasn’t fair. Her body had become her betrayer.

It’s time you got a cane.
The sober advice of Jenna Yang, her primary physician, came to her with the force of a blow.
It’s time for that,
she realized.
I can’t take any more chances.

By the time she was out of the pool and had crossed the lawn to the patio, she’d stopped feeling sorry for herself. Her legs felt stronger, the strange shooting pain now merely a memory. And yet the incident had frightened her.
Tomorrow I’ll get a cane.
Dr. Yang had made it sound like a fashion accessory, describing the many styles and colors. Selena sighed
. And if I have to start telling people about my illness, so be it. Even Rico and Carlos.

Wrapping the plush pink and white striped towel more tightly around her narrow hips, she eased herself onto a cushioned teak chair. Beside her was a matching teak table, her plate of cheese and glass of wine in its center. She’d draped the glass with a cloth napkin against the tiny gnats that flew in and then drowned, rapturously, in the red liquid. She removed the napkin and lifted the glass.

“Here’s to the end of another beautiful day,” she said aloud. She raised the glass higher and considered the Pinot Noir with a critical eye. Ruby red—a perfect shade. The valley’s cool climate offered optimal conditions for growing the little purple gems. She swirled the wine and took a sniff.
Blackberry, cherry—that’s what I should smell.
She took a taste. This vintage was known to be bold and full of life, with a black licorice finish, but Selena detected none of these notes. She gave a little shrug.
Never mind.
The wine was cool on her tongue and throat and she took several sips.

She let her head and neck relax against the chair’s cushion. Her day had been, on balance, a productive one, the only episodes marring it the pre-swim encounter in the barn and her poolside fall. Selena thought once more about the wooden scythe, and how its lethal blade would have whistled through the air.

She shuddered.
It doesn’t matter now,
she thought, looking out at the fields and distant mountains. Her stumble at the pool was more worrisome. She pictured a cane and sighed.
Time to let go of your vanity
, she thought.
It’s just a cane.

She lifted the glass and took another sip of wine, letting her eyes drink in the scenery. Row upon row of neat vines rose from the brown earth as if to kiss the setting sun. Behind them, the small grove of olive trees Selena had selected years before opened their branches toward the heavens as if in supplication. Dark shapes darted amongst the trees. Were they bats? Selena couldn’t quite be sure.

There is a magical serenity to this place.
Such a small vineyard—only twenty acres—and yet it held an irresistible attraction. Selena had witnessed that attraction firsthand, had seen the desire on each prospective buyer’s face; their determination to own Carson Creek at just about any cost.
It is special
, she thought, taking another gulp of the wine.
It’s a little piece of paradise. And tomorrow I will tell the lucky buyer …