Too Close to the Sun (25 page)

Man, these wine world people were snobs! One
less-than-perfect vintage and they went all judgmental on you.

Well, Max wasn't going to take the fall for
that. But he knew somebody who could.

"You know what it is, Joe?" He made his voice
sound confiding. "Our winemaker had a heart attack this summer.
He's fine now, but his assistant, his daughter, has been filling in
for him." Max paused to let Joseph Wagner connect the dots.

Which he did right away. "You mean Gabby
DeLuca?"

"Yeah. She's good, don't get me wrong, but,
you know, this is her first time taking the lead. There's a
learning curve involved, we all understand that."

A smile cracked Max's face. He was proud of
himself for so deftly finessing this difficult query. He'd just
said something mildly nice about Gabby DeLuca—thereby burnishing
his reputation for being magnanimous and understanding—and still
was wriggling out of that pesky problem of the less-than-stellar
sauvignon blanc.

But then Wagner came back at him with a
question Max hadn't anticipated. "So are you worried about this
year's cabernet sauvignon, too?"

"No!" That came out too loud. Max lowered his
voice. "Not at all. Cosimo DeLuca's coming along great and he'll be
back in the saddle by harvest. We're really psyched about the cab
grapes this year, actually," he added, though he had no idea how
the fruit was ripening. "We think it's going to be a banner
vintage."

"So what I'm hearing you say is, you
didn't
rebottle?"

He had to answer. And fast. "No," he heard
himself say, "nothing of the kind."

Wagner hung up soon after that. Max wasted no
time going into the employee files to look up Gabby DeLuca's
address. She had to be warned that this rumor was out and about and
that they had to haul ass to bottle it up. No pun intended.

He poured more pinot noir down his throat,
and more water, then hightailed it to his mother's Mercedes—at
least,
she
thought it was her Mercedes—and made a beeline
for Crystal Mountain Road.

*

Better mad than sad, she decided. Gabby
stomped upstairs, stormed inside her bedroom, glared at the mess
Will had left behind. Pillows topsy-turvy on the floor. Bedspread
half off, bunched and bundled. Window left wide open, as if it
weren't forty-five degrees outside.

She began to straighten, plump, restore.
I
should have trusted my instincts!
It hugely galled her that
Will had all but accused her of two-timing him with Vittorio. What
did he take her for? Well, she knew what
he
was. She'd seen
the cold capitalist's heart beneath the knight-in-shining-armor
veneer. All he cared about were his precious deals. And apparently
that was Vittorio's priority number one, too. The two of them
deserved each other.

Once the bed was remade, off came the sexy
peach-colored camisole—new—she'd worn especially for him, though of
course he hadn't noticed. Off came the sleek black trousers that
had just enough spandex in them to highlight her curves. With brisk
efficiency she removed her lacy bra and panties—also peach, also
new—that she'd imagined would be peeled off in quite a different
manner, in quite a different mood. On went the floor-length black
negligee she'd picked up in anticipation of future seductions.
Might as well wear it
, she thought grimly.
It won't get
used any other way
.

Anger propelled her down the stairs and into
the kitchen. She pulled open the fridge and yanked the cork out of
the chardonnay she'd hoped to share with him, poured herself a
second glass. But standing there in that kitchen—empty, fluorescent
lit, clinically clean after the furious scrubbing she'd given
it—the words he'd roared at her seemed to echo from the white-tiled
walls, lashing her heart in a cruel rhythm.

Blackmail. Blackmail. Blackmail.

Did he honestly believe that? Was that how
little he understood? Of her, of this valley that she loved and was
only trying to protect?

Though it was true that the trouble Suncrest
was in had nothing to do with Will and everything to do with
Max.

You know what, Gabby?
Will's voice
blared again, harsh, accusing.
I'm not the cause of your
problems. But right now you are the cause of mine.

Tears came, pricking behind her eyes, defying
her rage and threatening to turn it into heartache.
Right now
you are the cause of mine. You are the cause of mine ...

She didn't know how often the buzzer sounded
before she heard it and recognized it to be the doorbell.

She stilled, frowned, tried to decide if it
was her imagination.
Bzzzz
.

No, it was real.
He's come back. To
apologize
. Her heart leaped in a jig of relief. Will wasn't
really the jerk he'd acted like before, he couldn't be.

She knew, as she raced to the door, that
she'd forgive him. She'd say she was sorry, too. She was. She
hadn't exactly been on her best behavior herself. She knew that if
she weren't so stressed, she wouldn't have gotten so upset.
Normally she'd be able to absorb a disruption in her dinner plans,
maybe even tolerate cold pasta she'd spent hours making. Next time
she would.

She whipped open the door. Her elation
crashed and burned. "Max."

Down his eyes flickered, then up again. "Hi,
Gabby. Glad you're home. Mind if I come in?"

She peered around him, as though Will would
be standing in his wake, hidden in the shadows. But that was
stupid. Who was she kidding? There was no Will. He was halfway to
the city by now.

Anger—at Will, at Vittorio, at Max,
too—flared up again, stiffening her back, raising her chin. She
crossed her arms beneath her breasts, flimsily covered by the black
silk of her negligee. "What are you doing here? And at this
hour?"

"May I come in?" he repeated.

She wanted to get out of the cold herself but
didn't want to let him in. The thin layer of fabric she wore, with
nothing beneath, did little to shield her from the mountaintop's
foggy night air or from Max's roving eyes. She watched them drop
again to her chest, then return to her face. Why had she been such
a numskull as to answer the door dressed like this?

Because at ten o'clock on this Friday night,
there was only one person she could have imagined standing on her
stoop.

Fooled again.

"Max, just say what you have to and then
go."

"I will." He laughed, then shouldered past
her into the living room. "But I'd kind of like to do it inside,
where it's not freezing cold."

She gritted her teeth, slammed the door shut,
then pointed a finger at Max's face. "You are not staying long."
She grabbed an afghan from the couch and threw it over her
shoulders while he halted in the middle of her living room.

"Nice place you got here," he said.

"Save it. What're you here for?" She knew she
should take care how she spoke to Max Winsted: he was her employer,
after all. But by now her patience was as thin as her peignoir.

His eyebrows flew up. "Somebody's in a bad
mood."

She stepped closer, unwilling even to try to
mask her anger. "Max, thanks to you, I've had one hell of a day.
And Monday's not going to be any better. We've got a vineyard
half-ruined by weed killer. We're a laughingstock because of what
you did at Cassis. And thanks to that damn rebottling, I've got a
vintage of sauvignon blanc that tastes like—"

"All right already!" He frowned. "It's that
last thing I want to talk to you about."

"What now?"

He looked away from her, finally, down to the
hardwood floor. "Joseph Wagner called to ask if we rebottled. Said
there's a rumor going around that we did."

"Oh, shit." She threw back her head. From bad
to worse, this night, her life, everything. "How in the world did
that get out? Did you say something?"

He hesitated, still staring at the floor.
Then, "No."

I'll bet
. "What'd Wagner say when you
explained?"

"I didn't explain." He met her eyes. What did
she see there? Belligerence? Challenge? "I denied it. And so should
you. That's our story and we're sticking to it."

"What if he starts calling around to the
companies that lease decanting equipment? If he's any kind of real
reporter, that's what he'll do. What then, Max?" She saw a flicker
of fear in his eyes before he cocked his chin defiantly in the air.
"You didn't think of that, did you?"

She was going to make him angry. She was
amazingly good at that tonight. Somehow, after the queer turn the
evening had taken, she was even enjoying that ability. It appealed
to a base part of her she rarely investigated and didn't much care
for.

Max stepped closer. "You think you're so
smart."

"I'm smarter than you! I told you not to do
that rebottling. I told you it could hurt Suncrest. And it sure as
hell looks like I was right."

"You're always right, aren't you?" He stepped
closer still. "Just like my mother."

She didn't like the sound of that. Nor did
she like the vein bulging on his neck, the quick beat-beat of the
pulse evident even on his skin's surface. She turned away from him,
put the couch between them. "Okay, you said your piece. Now
go."

"I'm not ready to go." Instead he moved
around the back of the couch, too, staring at her, his gaze
unwavering. She thought she'd never seen such focus on Max
Winsted's face in her entire life. Through her surprise and
incredulity she realized that this must be how a rabbit felt being
chased by a fox. No, not quite that. She wasn't being chased. She
just had the odd, disconcerting sensation that she should get away,
now, while she still could …

A beat later she tried to make a dash for the
front door—
But what am I going to do? Run down the mountain?
Barefoot, in a negligee?
—when the next shock came. Max's hand
shot out to clench her arm, viselike, and she found herself twisted
entirely around, toward him, against him, his beefy face inches
from hers, his breath, which stank of alcohol and nicotine, puffing
in her face.

This isn't happening. This isn't
happening
.

But it was. "Don't give me the innocent act,"
he was saying. He had her by her upper arms now, squeezing them in
a killer grip. "Look what you're wearing." His spittle hit her
face. His eyes were dark and wild. "You damn women. You never admit
you want it."

"I don't want a damn thing from you, you
asshole!" Somehow, even as they wrestled and the afghan she'd
thrown over her shoulders tumbled to the floor, she was more angry
than scared. She got one arm free of Max's clutch and slapped his
face, hard, leaving an angry red stain that buoyed her. He stumbled
back a step like a drunken sailor but then lurched toward her,
chortling, and grabbed hold of her again, harder this time.

"You like to fight, huh? You like it rough?"
Then his mouth came down on hers. She twisted her head away, heard
a shriek she realized yowled from her own throat. Then she had a
better idea.

She gathered herself—one, two, three—then
hard as she could, jammed her knee up into his groin.

He yelped and let go of her. She watched,
panting, as he stumbled backwards, doubled over. Bewildered, in a
sort of stupor that had her thinking at half-speed, she then
realized the front door was rattling and a loud male voice was
yelling her name.

Will
. She flew to the door and
wrenched it open.

He burst in and stared at her, his features
contorted. Like hers, his breathing was harsh and fast. "Sweetie,
are you okay?" Then his eyes turned toward Max, who by now was
prone on the floor in the fetal position. "What in the world is
going on here?"

How to explain? Gabby's mind raced as Max's
moans filled the silent house. Will stared at him for a moment
longer, then again turned toward Gabby. "Are you okay?" he
repeated.

This time she found her voice. "I'm fine."
She said it, maybe she even meant it. She looked down at herself,
saw welts rising on her arms, the ugly bruises Max's hands had
made. Then, only then, she started to tremble.

"Oh, baby." Will came toward her, gathered
her gently, so gently, into his arms. "I didn't know what in hell I
was hearing through that door." She felt his breath in her hair,
the rapid hammer of his heart against her chest. "Dammit, I'm so
glad I came back." He pulled back a bit, held her at arm's
length.

For a moment he said nothing, just looked at
her with those sky-blue eyes of his, but she swore she could hear
words spill from his mouth into the chilly air.
I love
you
.

Then his lips moved, and she heard actual
words spoken. "I came back to apologize. I was such a jerk. I can't
believe the things I said to you. I am really sorry, Gabby. Can you
forgive me?"

"Oh, Will." Forgive him? Who was kidding who?
"I said such terrible things, too. I am so sorry." She collapsed
against him, crying, choking, telling him she'd been so unfair,
knowing in her soul that it was oh, so right to trust him. And
hoping she'd never forget that again.

First thing Monday morning, well before eight
o'clock, Gabby did something highly irregular. When she arrived at
work, she bypassed the winery and instead went straight to the
Winsted residence. Mrs. Finchley greeted her at the front door, as
neat and starched as a naval officer in her housekeeper's
uniform.

"Sorry to stop by so early," Gabby said, "but
I'd like to speak with Max if he's available, please."

The older woman's brows arched. "Is there a
problem?"

No, except for the fact that your boss
assaulted me Friday night
. Gabby made a dismissive wave of the
hand. "Oh, it's just something I'd like to fill Max in on before he
gets busy at the winery."