Once Tasted: A Silver Creek Novel (21 page)

This was getting dangerous.

What could she do, tell him she couldn’t have a meeting about the winery because spending time with him only increased his irresistibility? How pathetic would that make her? And it would be beyond ridiculous to adopt her usual hostile attitude when here he was offering a hand with the pruning. She had to meet him halfway at the very least and match his cooperative tone. The trick would be to work with him and not let the pleasure she derived go to her head. Or her heart.

It took less than a minute for her to realize just how difficult it would be.

“Okay,” she said. “So you see these leaves, how some of them are shading the grapes?” She pushed the leaves back to reveal the tight clusters hanging behind the green curtain. “We want to pull the leaves—not all but a number of them—so that more morning light and air reach the fruit. Watch what I do.” Demonstrating, she snapped off the leaves that covered the grapes. “The
véraison
—when the grapes start to change color—is starting. You see that slight darkening there?” She touched the berries lightly with her fingers. “We want
the sun to sweeten and ripen the fruit. Pulling leaves also allows the air to circulate around the bunches and prevents rot or mildew.”

“But you’ll let these other leaves remain?” He reached out to finger a leaf hanging near her wrist. His breath caressed her ear.

“Um …” She tried to remember what they were talking about. “Yes,” she said, nodding and surreptitiously stepping to the side. “We want a dappled canopy, to give the grapes some light shade as the day progresses. Otherwise they run the risk of getting sunburned and too hot.” And Reid was like her personal sun. She fought the need to fan herself.

“Okay. So am I doing this right?” He found an adjacent cluster of grapes also shaded by leaves, and Mia watched him break off leaf stems. He had beautiful hands. Dexterous and callused, they’d caressed her skin, her nipples, the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, her straining clitoris. Those fingers had been inside her, sliding in and out.

“Is that how you want it, Mia?”

“Yes.” Lord, she sounded as breathless as she’d been when those hands were working their magic on her. She admitted defeat. Another minute standing next to Reid, feeling his heat and watching the play of his muscles, and she would be whimpering with need. “But, you know, on second thought, it’s getting kind of hot.” And she prayed he’d think that was the reason for the quivery note in her voice. “Maybe we should have our meeting in the winery. I’ll come back and finish the row after lunch.”

He cocked his head. She could feel his eyes assessing her behind the dark-green lenses of his sunglasses.

“You sure?” he asked.

A flush stole over her cheeks. “Absolutely.”

Lord, she only hoped she was.

* * *

It wasn’t long before Reid concluded that Mia had hit upon the perfect torment. Standing next to her in the leafy aisle, he’d been assailed by colors, scents, and textures: the bright green of the densely planted grapes, the smell of the hot earth under the summer sun, the spring of the soft carpet of clover that lay between the trellised rows, the ribbed veins of the leaves, the smooth casing of the still unripened grapes, rich and vibrant. Yet compared to the woman standing next to him, they faded to a dull, blurry beige.

It was Mia, warm, glowing, and unconsciously sensuous, who dazzled, making him dizzy with need. He’d watched her fingers brush the leaves, skim over the clustered fruit, and he felt his body go hard. He’d caught her scent—a mix of warm woman, soap, and flowers—and seen how the sweat dampened her hair, causing the tendrils to curl even more wildly and cling to her neck, and he’d wanted to take her into his arms, lower her onto the ground, and make love to her under the brilliant noonday sun.

He was sure that she’d been as intensely aware of him. The blush coloring her cheeks, the trembling of her parted lips, and the hitch in her breathing were impossible to overlook.

But had she obligingly fallen into his waiting arms?

Nope.

She’d instead been Mia-like. Abruptly calling an end to any further pulling of the leaves, she’d marched with the grim determination of a soldier back up the path to the cool darkness of the winery, which, after being outdoors, felt like stepping into a freezer. But with the way his blood was pumping in his groin and his body was aching to touch hers, he could have made sex in a freezer work. Really, anyplace with a vertical or horizontal
surface—a closet, a cave, the flatbed of her truck—would have worked.

Admittedly, it was hard to make love to a woman who was determined to keep her distance. What was he supposed to do? Lasso her again? Not his style. He had sex with women who
wanted
him.

He’d never bothered to pursue a woman who wasn’t as eager as he. But never once in his life had he imagined he’d find a woman sending him the “stay back, way back” signals after he’d given her three orgasms.

Mia had always been different. Other women didn’t drive him to distraction while seated at the opposite end of a work desk. Yet here he was thinking about circling around, lifting her sweet butt onto the scarred wood, sweeping the papers off, and lowering her down as his hands popped the metal button of her jeans. He wanted to taste her again.

Damn it, he could practically hear the physical awareness humming between them, the pluck of a tightly stretched string.

He didn’t know whether to be annoyed or grateful that she was fighting her attraction with everything she had—yet another example of how thoroughly she was messing with his head.

There was a white legal pad and a pen in the middle of the desk. When he stretched across the pine slab to retrieve them, she stilled. He guessed she was holding her breath, waiting to see if his arm inched any closer.

He considered staying exactly where he was so he could watch her face turn bright red from the effort.

Tempting as it was, he shoved the childish impulse away. Grabbing the legal pad, he uncapped the pen. “Let’s start with the physical improvements. What do you want in a tasting room?”

Her tongue swept over her lip. God, he wanted
his
tongue there, running over the soft contour. How would she taste right now?

“At one point I designed one for Thomas.”

“Go ahead, shoot.”

“Well, there should be a bar. People like to chat up the pourer. It doesn’t have to be too big, enough to accommodate six to eight people—”

“That sounds about right.” He jotted it down. “Stools?”

“Not necessary. I don’t want the space to get too cluttered.”

He hid a smile. She really had thought about this.

“Where did you want to have the bar set up?” he asked.

“I thought we could use the area to the right of the front room. When the visitors stand there, they can see into the barrel room.” She gestured at the thick thermal-glass panes enclosing the temperature-controlled barrel room.

He looked at the area and then drew a rough sketch on the paper. “Any tables at all?” he asked.

“I thought maybe four would be enough.” As they’d talked, her voice had grown in confidence. “Again, it doesn’t have to be fancy. We could stand some used oak barrels on end.”

He considered the space, then marked down where four tables might fit. The idea was good. There’d be enough room to line the walls with wine racks and still maintain the airy, open feeling of the front room. What pleased Reid even more was how enthusiastic Mia had become in describing the tasting room. She’d even used “we” when discussing her plans. Did that mean she was accepting the idea of them as partners?

A test was in order, he decided. “And we could extend the space by creating a terrace on the other side of the French doors.”

No frown, no instant smackdown at his presumption. Instead, she considered his idea, studied it with the care
he’d given hers. “Yes, that would work. That would allow people to enjoy the wine when it’s nice outside. The vineyard’s easy to see from that vantage point.”

“We can price wood versus wrought-iron furniture and decide which is the better buy,” he said.

Again, she seemed more than happy to accept his suggestion. “There’s only one problem. The ground outside the winery isn’t very even. I’d worry about people tripping.”

“That’s an easy fix. I’ll bring the tractor back and rake and level the ground, and then we can lay down some stone tiles. I know where we can get some ceramic or stone tiles at a good price—”

“From your gravel guy?” she asked.

He smiled. “No, someone else. We found a company outside Mendocino that did the pool area and all the walkways at the guest ranch. They’re reasonable and do good work.”

“If their work is good enough for Silver Creek Ranch, I think it’ll probably be good enough for the Bodell Family Vineyard,” she said wryly, adding, “The area doesn’t need to be big.”

“No, it doesn’t. We can start out small and expand as the number of visitors grows. And since the weather’s fine, the outdoor space can serve until the indoor tasting room’s ready. The visitors will be able to enjoy the product and experience the beauty of this place—”

“You think the vineyard’s beautiful?” She sounded genuinely surprised.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

She shrugged. “Well, in comparison to your ranch, we’re a little ramshackle, a little—”

“—different,” he finished for her. “But no less beautiful, no less special.”

Their eyes met, and a slow flush crept over her cheeks.

Ah, he thought happily. Progress. Definite progress.

T
HE SUN WAS
sinking toward the horizon when Mia arrived at Silver Creek, her canvas bag clinking with the wine she’d selected for dinner with Quinn. It was the least she could do after being invited to dinner. It was precautionary, too, since Quinn couldn’t identify a Chardonnay from a Riesling. Life was too short to drink the kind of wine that found its way into her kitchen. To be fair, though, Mia couldn’t tell Quinn’s goats apart, despite having been introduced to Henny, Alberta, Gertrude, and Maybelle a number of times.

Quinn had told her to come by the smallest of the enclosures, where she was feeding the shaggy tribe their dinner. There was lots of excited bleating and butting and stomping of cloven hooves as the goats went at the hay and pellets she placed in the suspended feeders.

Even with the din and commotion, Quinn noticed Mia hanging over the metal railing.

“Hi,” she called. “Perfect timing. I’m just about finished with these rascals.”

“No hurry.” Mia slipped the canvas bag off her shoulder. “I brought you some wine.”

“Good. My first thought was for us to go up to the restaurant for dinner and let you enjoy Jeff and Roo’s
magic, but the ranch is booked solid and, frankly, I’m all guested out—Jim and I led the afternoon trail ride, and I had a real motormouth in my group.” She shook her head at the memory. “Luckily, I had a stroke of brilliance and asked Tess to cook. She’s whipping something up and bringing it over to my place, so that my brothers can plan guy stuff with their buddy Brian for Ward and Tess’s wedding.”

“That’s great. I like your sister-in-law-to-be.”

“Yeah, I do, too. I also appreciate the fact that she’s a way better cook than I am.” Quinn scratched the pale-gray head of one of the goats. They were all the same creamy gray.

“Is that Maybelle?” Mia asked hopefully.

“Nope. She’s over there, defoliating the blackberry bush.” Quinn pointed to a very busy goat. “This is Gertrude. She likes an after-dinner scratch.” Finished obliging Gertrude, Quinn opened the gate and joined Mia. She gave a sharp whistle through her teeth, and her black-and-tan sheltie, Sooner, appeared at her side.

“Home,” Quinn said, and the dog took off at a brisk trot, leading the way past the P
RIVATE
O
NLY
sign and up the dirt road that led to the Knowleses’ own quarters.

The cottage Quinn had moved into after college was a dollhouse version of her parents’ place. Constructed of honey-brown timber and stone, it had two bedrooms, a living room with an open kitchen, and a small study. In the back was a fenced-in yard for dogs lucky enough to find their way into Quinn’s care until she could place them in permanent homes. Inside was just as animal friendly. Cat trees stood in corners, and canvas drop cloths protected the sofa and chairs from muddy paws
and sharp claws. The last time Mia visited, there’d been a rabbit living in the study.

Today, when Quinn led her into the mudroom and toed off her cowboy boots, setting them neatly beside five other pairs as well as some olive-green Wellies, Mia heard a screeching squawk and then “Out of my way, Pirate!”

“A new resident?” she inquired. “A boyfriend, perhaps?”

Quinn laughed. “That’s a good one. No, that’s Alfie, a blue-fronted Amazon parrot. My cat Pirate and he have a relationship. Go on and introduce yourself. I have to feed this lot.” She gestured to the heavy-duty bins that were lined up against the other wall. Mia knew they were brimming with dog, cat, and other critter food. “Just keep your fingers away from Alfie’s cage. He can be temperamental.”

“Thanks for the warning.” With the harvest approaching, she definitely needed all ten fingers.