Autumn in the Vineyard (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (23 page)

Frankie was about to go “business” on him when the buzzer sounded. Chaos erupted around her, the sound of metal slicing and the scent of fresh cut vines swept through the air. Torn between donkey kicking her cousin in the throat and shoving his clippers someplace creative, Frankie faltered for a brief moment. She wanted to win, needed to win. But she also wanted to know where Charles was and if he was okay.

“Frankie,” carried out over the crowd.

She jerked her head toward the voice and found Nate. He was big, bad, and barreling her way, ready to pounce on Kenneth if she gave him the go-ahead. It made her insides turn to mush and kicked her heart into high gear.

Noticing that Kenneth was already gone and the other teams were partway through filling their first crate, she sent Nate a got-this wink and shifted into high gear.

Head down, hands fluid, focus set to tunnel vision, Frankie fell easily into the zone. She cradled, swiped, dropped, and scooted—over and over—her fingers never hesitating, her feet judging the exact spacing to catch the falling cluster. She filled the first crate, then the third, a full fourth, and before she knew it her row was harvested, the grape cart loaded, and Reagan was rushing it toward their scale.

Not even breaking a sweat, Frankie whispered to Abby, who, true to her word, was incredible with a pair of shears, to go for a three full boxes. She jogged past Jordan with a high five and a direct order to just overflow one crate, and took her position at the fourth and final section, waiting for her final leg of the relay. Her plan, since she could cut twice as fast as Jordan, was to fill the final three.

Nate stood on the other side of the trellis, under a flapping DELUCA, REIGNING CORK KING sign, casually leaning against the flag post. Those intense eyes traveled over her entire body and back, but when they locked with her it took everything she had not to grip him by the front of the shirt and kiss him.

With each passing second, she felt her breath pick up. Filling four crates in just under two minutes didn’t have her sweating, but one smoking hot look from Nate and she was ready to combust.

“That was the sexiest thing I have ever seen,” Nate said. And even over the shouts of the crowd she could hear the huskiness in his voice. He wanted her. Bad. “Christ woman, you had a late start and still managed to smoke everyone. Poor Gabe is struggling to make up the time he lost gawking at you.”

Frankie tore her eyes away and looked at the other teams. Gabe was making his way toward the platform with the cart, but most of the other teams, including Charles’s, were only midway through their first set. In fact, her team was the only one on their second leg, and Abby was tearing it up.

“Abby’s fast, but Jordan’s your weak link.” Nate said. “Putting her against Marc was a bad move. She’ll get frustrated midway through and Marc will make up the lost time.”

“That’s why she’s only filling one crate.”

“So you’re leaving the last three for yourself? Risky, since I bet your arms are taxed from the first four.” So golden boy had done his homework.

“Not even breaking a sweat, DeLuca.” Frankie shielded her eyes from the sun, watching Regan rush by with Abby’s three boxes, full and overflowing. “Plus, three, seven, a dozen, doesn’t matter, I can out-cut you.”

“Is that right?”

“Yup, I’ve spent every harvest since I was five in the field.” Something her grandfather had forced her to do. “Plus, I always close the deal.”

At that, he flat out grinned. “With these?” He reached over the trellis, his finger skimming the top of her tool belt. To most people it would look like he was just checking out her clippers, but the way his fingers brushed back and forth over the handle of her secateurs—purposely dipping under the hem of her T-shirt to tease her skin—it was clear he was trying to get to her.

And it was working.

She stepped back and, crate in place, reached for her clippers. Jordan was filling her crate quickly and Frankie wanted to be ready. “Yup, and you might want to keep your eyes on the grapes or you’re just going to end up watching my ass the whole way.”

“Looking forward to it, sweet cheeks.”

“What do you mean a tie?” Frankie shouted, mid-high five. All four women went from smiling and throwing around their cutting-prowess to utter confusion as they looked at the row of giant metal scales, which took up most of the community park’s outdoor stage. “I was already at the scale while Nate was loading up his last crate on the cart.”

“I was right behind you and I’m a faster loader.” The jerk smiled.

“You both set the crates down at the same time,” the mayor said, his mustache curling down.

“But I was the fastest cutter.”

“Then how, if we finished at the same time, do I have six more pounds than you?” Nate said jerking his chin to the scales. His read one hundred and eight, whereas Frankie’s team picked one hundred and two pounds.

“That just means you overestimated the size of the clusters and the crates.” Frankie shrugged. “Amateur mistake.”

“Since there’s no precedent for this kind of thing, Mrs. Rose is getting the rule book out.” The mayor shifted nervously on his feet.

Mrs. Rose was the current wine commissioner of St. Helena, and therefore the person appointed to settle this dispute. She was also built like an ox, had the personality of a pit bull, and was completely unpredictable.

“If you two could come to an agreement on which table you want, preferably different tables, we can finish up here and get on over to the Punt Luck before Mrs. Rose comes back,” the mayor said, adding the last part only after he’d checked the surrounding area for Mrs. Rose.

“You’re right, Mayor.” Nate held his hands up and took a step back. “Ladies first.”

“Why? So you can look like the good guy?” Frankie crossed her arms. If she won this it was going to be because she earned it, not because Nate was giving her some pity pick. This town already thought she’d made it on her grandfather’s coattails. “Not going to happen.”

“Why the hell not?”

Nate knew as well as Frankie did that for a company like DeLuca Vineyards or Baudouin Wines, location wasn’t as crucial. They were the big guys of wine. People would seek out their booths, if only to brag that they’d rubbed shoulders with
a wine tycoon. But to a fledgling winery like her own, who needed as many people as possible to taste, love, and vote for her wine, location could mean the difference between paying Tanner off and having to sell her grapes.

“Because I won this and you know it. And as soon as you’re ready to admit it to me and everyone here, let me know so I can pick my table and everyone else can pick theirs.”

Nate smiled, his whisky eyes dropping to her mouth. “Are we arguing?”

“I don’t know, are we?” And to Frankie’s horror she sounded breathy instead of angry—and she’d moved closer. The worst part was that she couldn’t even remember what they had been arguing about.

“I sure as hell hope so,” Nate whispered, the space between them quickly disappearing.

Before she could get out another word, or tilt her head up so he could reach her more easily, a shot rang out and juice splattered all over Frankie’s top.

“Now, seeing as there are no rules for this kind of situation, I get to make the rules. Anyone got a problem with that?”

Nate sure as hell didn’t. Not when Mrs. Rose stood—rule book in one hand and the starter’s pistol in the other—with her teeth bared and her frosted bun glistening under the afternoon sun.

Frankie, however, had other ideas, and opened her mouth to speak when Mrs. Rose pointed her .45 with perfect accuracy at Frankie’s scale. “Rule One: Another peep out of you and I start firing.”

Frankie looked at Nate’s scale. Dripping with juice and pulp, his needle now teetered between one hundred and five and one hundred and six pounds. With a sigh, she wisely closed her mouth, but not before letting loose a series of colorful opinions under her breath.

“Good. We’re in agreement.” Mrs. Rose went on. “Rule Two: You both have three minutes to decide who wants what table or I start shooting crates until you are both underweight, we have a new winner, and I get to go eat some of Pricilla’s Chocolate or Die Cake. Understand?”

What Nate understood was that the starter pistol wasn’t loaded with blanks, and if he and Frankie couldn’t come to some kind of agreement, then Charles would win by default. Something he wasn’t willing to let happen. Not after the look on Frankie’s face when her cousin had approached her at the start of the race. He didn’t know what had been said, but he knew that Kenneth had hit the intended target with painful accuracy.

Nate looked at Kenneth, who was preening, and back to Mrs. Rose. “Five minutes, no shooting, and I will buy you an entire Chocolate or Die cake. Deal?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t have the patience or the self-control. Instead he took Frankie’s hand and pulled her toward town hall, surprised when she laced their fingers and followed without argument. Which was a damn shame, because he wouldn’t mind a little verbal foreplay to get things sparking for the discussion they were about to have.

Weaving through the rows of vines, he took her around the back of town hall and out of sight of all the onlookers, to the utility shed. He pulled her inside and shut the door. And then
his hands were on her. Gripping her hips, and backing her up against the door.

Her hands, however, were crossed over her breasts. Her full breasts. Her full, they’ve got to be Ds, breasts. What he wouldn’t give to know if the lace matched the shirt, both up and downstairs. But he only had five minutes—well about four and some change and that wasn’t enough time.

“I say we race the length of the park,” she said. “Fastest one wins.”

“I didn’t bring you in here to talk about how to settle this.”

“Then why are we in here?”

“Because last time I kissed you in public, you kneed me.” He leaned in, he couldn’t help it, and trailed little kissed over her jaw, her neck. God, she smelled good, like hot chick and Pop Tarts or something. All he knew was that she smelled good. Better than good. “And since I’ve been rock hard for a solid week, I didn’t want to risk it.”

Her hands fisted in his hair and she brought his face to hers. “Are you going to kiss me or do I need to start yelling?”

“Oh, I’m going to kiss you until you start yelling”—he smiled—“my name.”

“We’ll, see,” she whispered before dragging his head down and crushing her mouth to his.

His body went haywire, with all of the emotions and pent-up tension from the past week tangling into one complicated, and really freaking hot ball that settled right in his groin. Especially when her hands smoothed down his chest, teased across his stomach, and—bingo—right over the front of his pants. Her fingers traced the hard ridge of him through his denim and before he could return the favor, his zipper was down, pants
around his ankles, and her warm hands were firmly wrapped around him.

Her hands.
Oh my god, her hands officially blew his mind. Which was the only excuse he had for bucking into them. Because they cradled him, while stroking from base to tip, tightening a little more every time the motion was repeated, driving him closer to the edge with each pass.

Nate’s eyes rolled back into his head and he had to reevaluate his earlier statement. This was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

“Christ, Frankie, I already said we weren’t racing, so slow down. You’re killing me,” he growled. And of course Frankie, who never listened to a damn thing he said, picked up the mind-blowing pace. A part of him died at the thought of her stopping. Another part of him knew that if she stroked him one more time with those hands, this would all be over. And he was, after all, a gentleman.

Grabbing her wrist, he stopped her and for several intense breaths he held perfectly still, afraid that if he moved, even an inch of friction would set him off.

“Slow down? We only have like a minute and you’re almost there,” she murmured, her mouth still working his.

Almost didn’t even describe how close he was.

“Like it or not, sweet cheeks, I am a DeLuca and in my world, it is always ladies first,” he whispered, then took her mouth in one hell of a hot kiss. A kiss that got a whole lot hotter when Frankie started using her teeth and tongue to nip and tease at his lips.