A Taste of Sauvignon (12 page)

“L
isten to this,” said Savvy, reading off her phone. “You put the lavender into the boiler canister, and the steam comes out through a hose and is captured in this vertical tube called a condenser, which separates the liquid, called hydrosol, from the oil. And that's it,” she said, leaning across the table in her enthusiasm. Even her thick lenses couldn't hide the sparkle in her eyes. “That's all there is to it! That's the basic process of distillation.” She popped her forkful of calamari into her mouth.

Reluctantly, Esteban tore his eyes away from her plump lips and tried to keep his mind on why he'd brought her here, to Bodega, tonight.

Last time they were together at the lavender store, bad as he wanted to rip that dress right off of her and do her in the truck bed, he'd driven her straight home. After the coast, he needed her to realize what he wanted from her went beyond sex.

She'd sounded thrilled when he'd called a few days later to set up tonight's date, squeezed in between all his preparations for opening day.

A twinge of guilt nagged him at his real intention. Yeah, he wanted to see her again. She was all he thought about from dawn to dusk, while he worked the farm. And after dusk? Not one night had gone by that he hadn't lost sleep over the vision of her straddling him on the sand. Her furrowed brow, her parted lips as he drove into her again and again.

But their sex on the beach wasn't all that haunted him. There was something else that kept him up, and not in a good way.

“There's so much to learn!” said Savvy, swallowing a sip of wine, the burgundy liquid swirling perilously close to the rim of her glass when she set it back down.

“I know. I can't believe the price that grower who supplies Smells Like Napa is getting for her Hidcote bundles at wholesale. That's got to be over a five hundred percent profit margin.”

That wasn't the only thing he had trouble believing. How was it that he, Esteban Morales, was with Sauvignon St. Pierre? The leaf green she was wearing tonight made her rosy cheeks look even pinker. She didn't seem to notice the attention they were attracting in the restaurant. The heads turning, the whispering. Especially that
güey
with the man bag sitting over at the bar who wouldn't stop glancing their way.

Maybe she was used to it, but he wasn't. Were they talking about how beautiful she was? Her famous, yet notorious father? Or were they wondering why one of Napa Valley's most eligible bachelorettes was hanging out with a truck farmer?

“Let's go visit that ranch together.”

Esteban thought as he swigged his draft. “You can't just show up at someone's ranch and ask for a tour.”

“It's all set up. Anne Rathmell's expecting us.”

“What did you say to her?”

“That I overheard her conversation at Smells Like Napa, and I was interested in looking at her still and my farmer friend wanted to see which lavender varieties grow best on her land.”

“And just like that, she invited us over.”

She shrugged. “Just like that.”

The server set down their salads.

Esteban was starting to realize that things moved faster in Savvy's world than they did in his. She had this confidence hardwired into her that she could make things happen with a click of her heels.

Meanwhile, he was still trying to come to grips with all that had happened in the past couple of weeks since she'd first set foot on his property.

“So, are you in? Will you come with me?”

Like he had it in him to say no
.
“I'll come.”

She clapped her hands. “This is going to be so much fun, learning all about lavender together.”

That was exactly what he'd been thinking. That, and about banging her like a screen door in a hurricane. Inside his Levi's, his balls tightened.

But there wouldn't be any more careless banging anytime soon. Going forward, things were going to be different. She wasn't just another
chula.

He needed to come clean about that damn counteroffer. Now.

“There's something we need to talk about.”

With an easy smile, she tilted her head, twisting a diamond earring. “You look so serious.”

He took a preparatory breath. “I told you the real estate deal was dead because that's what I believed. But those weren't Padre's exact words.” He looked her straight in the eye. “He didn't say he wouldn't take
any
offer.”

Smile gone, she stared back at him, unblinking.

“That is, not exactly. He told me to counter at two million.”

“Two million?”
She dropped her fingers from her earring and leaned toward him.

He let it sink in.

“I figured no way was that going to happen. I was still blown away that someone thought it was worth one-point-five. That's why—especially with the language barrier and all—I decided on my own to simplify things. Cut through the bull and tell you there was no sense in negotiating any more.”

She leaned across the table. “Wait. So what you're saying is that it's not that your land is so very precious that your father won't let it go at any price. He's holding out for more money.”

“No!” He looked around to be sure no one had overheard, then lowered his voice. “No. That's not it. What I told you is true. Padre only pulled two million out of his hat as a symbol. Two mil, ten mil . . . those are all just numbers to someone like him. He can't even conceive of them, in real life. He was trying to make the point that no amount of money would ever be enough. That money has nothing to do with it.”

Savvy sat back. “I don't know what to say. Two million is twenty-five percent over the current offer. I can't imagine NTI would go that high.”

“So you agree then. There's no sense in even presenting it.”

She flattened her palms on the tablecloth. “NTI hired our firm to buy that land. Now that you've told me about this, I think I'm obligated to share it with them.”

A tiny arrow of panic zinged through him.

“Can you see it from my point of view?”

What could he say?

“I'll need to get the offer in writing. Do you think that'll be a problem?”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily. “Padre won't like it, but now that he's made the offer verbally, he'll feel obliged to back it up.”

“Let me guess. Honor, right?” She smiled wryly. “I'll draw up the paperwork. Tell him not to stress too much. I doubt it'll go any further.”

 

“Thanks for dinner,” said Savvy as they strolled through the Bodega parking lot to Esteban's truck.

He
should be thanking
her.
The more time he spent with Savvy, the more he liked her. Now that he'd told Savvy about Padre's extreme offer and she'd agreed that it wasn't likely to go anywhere, he felt like a weight had been taken off his back. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

In the Chevy, she took off her glasses and scooted across the seat toward him. In the process, her not-black dress slid up. He glanced over at her naked eyes boring into his, then down at the finest pair of knees in Napa.
Caramba.

She reached around his neck with both hands, kissing his cheek. His temple. His ear. He lifted his chin, relishing the soft velvet of her lips forging a trail across his skin.

Ay, Savvy.
He couldn't resist kissing her back.

“I love being with you,” she murmured in her proper, prep school tones.

“Me too,” he managed. He cleared his throat. They should get going.

She started kissing him again and it didn't feel like a good-night kiss.

Now
, before his
verga
put a dent in the steering wheel . . .

A blinding flash of white light flooded her window.
“Oh!”
Savvy screamed and pressed into his shoulder, covering her face with her hands.

¡¿Qué chingados es eso?!
Esteban was out of the truck in a split second, leaving his door hanging wide open. The
güey
with the man bag was running back toward the restaurant.

Within a half dozen strides, Esteban grabbed his shirt, spun him around, and pulled back his fist. “What are you doing,
pendejo?
”

The man shrank, shielding his face with his arm. “Nothing! I'm not doing anything! Let me go!”

Esteban heard crunching on pavement and felt a hand clutch his arm. “Stop it!” said Savvy. “Let him go, Esteban! He's just a paparazzo. He's not worth it.”

“Where's your camera?” demanded Esteban, drawing back a little farther. The
güey
whimpered, tucking his face into the crook of his elbow.

Just then the silhouette of a couple came around the corner of the building, halting mid-step when they witnessed the scene. The man thrust a sheltering arm across his date.

“Please!” man-bag dude screamed. “Help! Somebody help me!”

“Let him go,” Savvy pleaded, tugging urgently at Esteban's arm with both hands, her voice lowered. “C'mon, before you're the one in trouble!”

In disgust, Esteban dropped him. He fell to his side, then scrambled to his feet and ran away.

“La madre que te parió!,”
Esteban called to his back.
Gracias a Dios,
Savvy didn't know Spanish.

L
ate the next evening, tired as Savvy was, she couldn't sleep. Papa made a detour on his way to his study when he saw her sitting at the breakfast table.

He looked askance at the bag of cookies and the tall glass of milk. “I thought French women did not snack,” he said, kissing her cheek.

“I'm hungry,” she said, letting the excess drip off her third Oreo before popping it into her mouth. She downed it, adding, “Besides, I'm an American. Born right here in Napa County, remember? We Americans are actually known for our snacking.” She gave him a crumby black grin and inserted her hand back into the bag.

Papa raised one eyebrow. “So it seems.”

He lowered himself into the chair next to her. “How is my little lawyer?”

Why now, when the NTI land deal was at an impasse? Wasn't it a little late for him to develop an interest in Savvy's job? Except for the time she'd gotten into the gifted program back in elementary school, he'd never paid the slightest bit of attention to her classes, her report cards. In fact, Papa would probably have been fine with all three of his daughters lounging by the pool the rest of their lives. So it was kind of ironic that they'd all three ended up passionately involved in one kind of work or another. Then again, maybe not, when you considered Papa's own workaholic tendencies. Maman's too, come to think of it. She'd left for L.A. to make a movie only weeks after Meri was born.

Savvy wasn't falling for it. “I'm doing well, Papa.”

“My compliments on the photograph,” Papa said, as if it were an afterthought.

Savvy froze, cookie poised, dripping with milk. “Pardon?” she asked warily.

“Why, for making use of all of the weapons in your arsenal in pursuit of your goal.”

She licked off her milk moustache and frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“My bright daughter, using her feminine wiles to snare her prey. What was it Machiavelli said? ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.' ”

She snorted as she dipped another cookie. “Machiavelli was an unethical, self-centered bastard. Where do you think the expression ‘Old Nick' came from for the devil? Niccolò, Papa. Good ol' Niccolò Machiavelli.”

He sat back with a confused, hurt look. “All Machiavelli said was that the truth is better than an abstract ideal.” He made lofty air quotes. “ ‘The ends justify the means.' Why do you think he has been the model of successful businessmen down through the ages?”

Impatiently, Savvy shook her head and peered into the bag. All gone. “What's this all about?”

He gave her a look. “You have not seen the story?”

“What stor—”
The paparazzo.
Wiping her fingers, she rose to retrieve her phone from over on the counter and started scrolling as she walked absently back to the table. Before she got there, her feet stopped moving.

The Oreos almost came back up.

“Papa! I am one hundred percent not using Esteban for . . .
that!”

Papa's brows went together. “Why such a strong reaction? You are misunderstanding. I am not reprimanding you.
Au contraire, ma chére.
I am giving you credit.”

“Well, you're wrong! That's not what I'm doing with Esteban. I like him. It's real.”

Papa threw up his hands. “Fine,” he harrumphed. “I see that is your story, and you are sticking to her.” With a disdainful glance at the empty cookie bag, he strode away, leaving Savvy sucking cookie residue out of her teeth.

“Who are you sticking to?” asked Meri, entering from another room.

Savvy huffed, “Papa out and out accused me of sleeping with Esteban Morales to get him to sell his land. Can you believe him? Like we're just some sort of—I don't know, hook-up buddies.”

“So much for Bodega being Stan-free,” Meri replied in the droll way she had.

Savvy's palms went up. “Is that all you can say in my defense?”

Meri poured a glass of water and plopped down beside her. “
Is
that why you slept with him?” Her eyes bored ruthlessly into Savvy's.

“No!”
Yes.
That had been her initial intention, even though it hadn't turned out that way.

Inside her silk robe, Meri lifted a shoulder. “Then don't worry about it. You know Papa. Tomorrow there'll be another scandal, and he'll forget all about this one.” She drank the rest of her water and poured another to take up to her room. “G'night.” She padded away on bare feet.

If Meri only knew. Scandal was all Savvy could think about, now that her period was late.

To say that her cycle was regular was an understatement. She knew when her period would start with the same certainty that she knew Justice Sotomayor would always rule on the liberal side.

Today was the day.

But there'd been nothing. Not one drop of red. Not a trace.

She invented a bunch of excuses to calm her racing heart:

Human bodies weren't machines.

No one was regular
all
the time.

She'd been stressed lately.

She was getting older.

Maybe hormones played a part. After all, she'd just discovered her sexuality, hadn't she? In spite of her worry, a small smile played on her lips at the thought of what Esteban had done to her . . . all the long-submerged feelings he'd awakened. That was enough to make any woman's hormones go cuckoobananapants.

The footsteps returned.

Meri poked her head around the entrance to the kitchen to see Savvy still sitting in the same place. She tilted her head sympathetically, came over, and put her arms around Savvy. “It'll be okay. I'm going to bed. You should, too. Love you.”

Much as Savvy hated to admit it, Papa was right. Using Esteban for her own gain was exactly what she had had planned. Workaholism wasn't the only thing she'd inherited from Papa. She was a Machiavellian. She'd thought she had such lofty ethics coming out of law school. So above the stereotypical lawyer antics. If she had to resort to sleeping with people to win cases, maybe that meant she wasn't cut out to be an attorney.

Then again, maybe that meant she
was
.

“Love you, too,” she murmured to the empty room.