The Very Thought of You (17 page)

“How much of my twelve hundred fifty dollar bid is paying for the ride?” he asked as they walked toward the basket.

“None of it is. Like all the other items in the auction, it was donated.”

“That's very generous. Is the owner a relative or something?”

“No. We saved his life at the clinic last year. He just happened to be half a block away when he had a heart attack. Someone drove him over, and Dr. Ed worked on him while we waited for an ambulance. Thank goodness it turned out to be a mild attack. He said to call him if there was ever anything he could do to repay us. So that's why we're here today.”

Nick put his arm around Molly's back. “You people are full of good deeds, aren't you?”

She wondered if that was a compliment or a subtle reminder about her connection to his tenants. She let it drop. Whatever his intentions, she'd made up her mind not to let anything ruin the day's excursion.

Molly introduced Nick to the owner/operator. They chatted for a few moments about the mechanics of becoming airborne. When, finally, the last of the riders climbed aboard, the owner fired the jets, and they lifted off with a gentle sway. The sun spread a carpet of heat over the valley, and Molly slipped into her jacket. Why spoil the day with a sunburn? Trees dotted the ground on either side of the field and merged in the distance. The balloon hovered well above the earth. They rose higher over the leafy canopies, and the whole valley spread out below them. The air was crisp and clear. Molly spotted the skyscrapers in downtown San Francisco. The bay sparkled under a brilliant sun, giving the illusion of buildings floating on water.

She kept a grip on the basket's wicker rim and lifted her face to the breeze as it swept over her. It sifted through her hair like gentle fingers. She hoped it wouldn't undo all the hard work she'd gone through for at least half an hour that morning to tame it. She'd used tons of conditioner, then had to rinse almost forever, which had made her late.

Nick stood close behind her. When the basket brushed a leafy branch and gave a little bump, he clasped her shoulders presumably to steady her. Except she only swayed a tiny bit. It was nice to feel a man's strong touch. Nick's touch, if she wanted to admit it. It excited her. Everything about him excited her. She'd have to be hooked up to life support not to feel the tingle that caused goose bumps to sprout on her skin.

He kept his hands on her shoulders, even after the basket steadied. It wasn't hard to figure out that he liked being close to her. Chemistry seemed to build between them and it was useless to deny her attraction to him. It grew stronger in spite of everything. It defied the odds. She tried to project into the hours ahead, after the ride ended and they were alone again. Would their molecules mesh or combust? She had a premonition that before the day ended, she'd have her answer.

“I have an idea,” Nick said once they were back on land and inside his car. “Why don't we have our picnic at my house in Napa? It's not very far, about twenty minutes or so. I'd like to show it to you. That is, if you don't have to rush right back to the city.”

“That sounds like fun.” No equivocating, no pretending she had another commitment, like a Saturday night date. He probably didn't have one, either, unless he planned to hurry her in and out. A quick peek at her watch confirmed it was close to two thirty. By the time they drove to his house and he showed her the spectacular view and whatever else, ate their lunch — leisurely, she hoped — then drove back to San Francisco in the Saturday evening traffic, it should be too late for him to spruce up for a big blowout on the town. At least, that's how she imagined it, how she wanted to imagine it.

She remembered the heat from his hands when he'd held her shoulders. It had flared right through her jacket as if he'd branded her. She didn't foresee putting up a whole lot of resistance if he wanted physical contact again. After wandering for almost a year in the dating desert, she'd more than earned a wallow at the waterhole. It didn't mean she'd fall madly in love with him. She shrugged out of her jacket and tossed it onto the rear seat.

Nick headed toward the highway. Beams of sunlight intensified the car's bright black finish; cool air began to circulate inside. He rummaged in the storage compartment between their seats and fished out a CD. “Do you like Tony Bennett?”

“Hmm.”

He inserted the disc, and the tenor's voice filled the car with a low, silky growl. Contentment spread through Molly as if she were on a real date with a desirable man. At least she had the desirable part right. She glanced at Nick. His index finger tapped the steering wheel in time to the music. He even hummed a couple of bars. His body language hinted he was relaxed and enjoying himself. Nothing about him seemed to suggest he had an agenda. If he did, like he planned to get in her face and break his rule about not mentioning finances, she couldn't see it.

When they reached Route 29, the four-lane highway that bisected the valley, he headed north. Several wineries dotted the land on either side of the road. They were set amid seemingly endless acres of grapevines. Most of the properties stretched toward the gently sloping hills. If the cars in the parking lots were any indication, plenty of people took advantage of the winery tours and the picnic areas that sprouted on some of the grounds. It occurred to Molly the bottle of wine included in the item he bid on waited for them at Thistle Creek.

She reminded Nick. “They promised me a great vintage. Not that I'd know the difference. If you want, we could stop by there and pick it up.”

“It doesn't matter to me. I'll leave it up to you.”

“Maybe not. Everyone's probably busy in the tasting room. I just thought because you paid for it.”

“I'm sure I have some wine at the house. I know there's beer in the fridge. That's what I usually drink.”

“I'd better phone the winery to let them know we won't stop by,” she said and called them on her cell. She was glad Nick had suggested they picnic at his house. The private room at Thistle Creek was beautifully appointed with redwood beams and acres of glass walls that let in the view of the grapevines and rolling hills, but it was in the midst of a very public area. Today she wanted privacy. If Nick's place were half as nice as it sounded, it would provide the perfect ambiance.

They cruised along the main highway for a few minutes before he turned onto a secondary road. From there he headed north along the Silverado Trail. They drove by wineries whose names she recognized. Some of those labels ran well into the high two figures and even three. Special pressings cost even more. No connoisseur, she usually stuck to whatever brand of wine her supermarket put on sale.

Thickly canopied trees cast dappled shade onto the narrow road. Houses, some mansion-sized, perched on the hills. She wondered if one of them belonged to Nick.

Minutes later, he maneuvered onto another two-lane road. As they came around a bend, a high stone wall appeared. He pulled up in front of the tall wrought iron gate blocking their path. He lowered the car window, reached out, and punched a code into a metal keypad set into the stone. The gate swung open and they proceeded through. Grapevines staked in even rows bordered the drive and covered the ground as far as Molly could see.

“Do you own a winery?”

“No. This spread belongs to a friend. He sold me a half acre.”

Nick followed the twisting drive over a rise. When it branched in two directions, he took the one that veered toward a low rectangular stone building. His house, she presumed. He parked in front and cut the motor.

“This is what's taken up so much of my time and … ” He rubbed three fingers together in the international sign for money. “Someday, I hope to finish it. The building is the original winery. The first vines were planted here over a hundred years ago. Todd, the guy who owns this property, built a state-of-the-art complex about a quarter mile down the road. This just sat vacant, and when he offered to sell it to me, I jumped at it.”

He disengaged the locks, and Molly stepped out of the car. Nick joined her.

“How long have you owned your half acre?”

“A little under three years.”

“I would have picked your house out right away.”

“How's that?”

She pointed to the roof. “The solar panels. Greening the environment. Isn't that your passion?”

“Yeah.” A grin played around the corners of his mouth. “It's one of them, anyway.”

He didn't have to explain. His tone and the deep pitch of his voice said it for him. He was no stranger to passion. She wondered how many women he'd invited here and what he did with them once he hustled them inside his stone bunker. She also wondered what he planned to do with her, if anything. A pleasant shiver skipped down her spine.

“Those panels took eight months to install. I had to replace the original roof. Before we go inside, I want to show you the view.”

He placed his hand against her back and led her around to the other side of the house. She felt something possessive in those long fingers that seemed more to caress than guide her. Or maybe it was her imagination. They walked across an ill-tended lawn — apparently, no time or money to sod it — toward where the ground sloped away leaving an unobstructed view of San Francisco Bay in the distance. The tall buildings that delineated the downtown area seemed to poke at the sky through the hazy light.

“It's awesome.” He must have paid plenty for part of an acre. If he sold it, would the money be enough to placate his tenants? Then one look at his face killed the thought. Passion — the kind that had nothing to do with the seduction of women — again etched into every muscle, pore, and sexy crease. In order for him to surrender this little bit of paradise, someone would have to yank the deed from his stiff, dead hands.

“Someday I'd like to sink a hot tub, just about where we're standing.”

She had a sudden vision of being cradled in a gush of steamy bubbles as she sipped wine and enjoyed the bay and city views. She almost felt the soothing water as it lapped against her breasts. Then she pictured Nick sitting beside her, his dark hair damp and mussed. He tipped a beer bottle up to his mouth. Foamy water sluiced off his tanned shoulders. Her bare cleavage suggested she was naked.

“ … a swimming pool over there.”

And, of course, if
she
were naked … an image of him reclining against the rim of the tub, his long legs outstretched, hit her with the force of a Muni bus.

“Molly?”

His voice shredded her fantasy.

“Sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

Noooo. Not with the squirmy feeling that had crept up her thighs. “Oh, sure. What did you say?”

“It would be great to have a swimming pool someday.”

He sounded uncertain but probably not about the pool as much as her having left planet Earth for a moment.

“That's a few years from now … if at all.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Come on. I'll show you inside the house. It's really unfinished, so don't expect too much.”

He had her full attention now. Hot tubs, pools, solar panels — there seemed no end to his spendthrift ways.

Unfinished turned out to be an understatement. Once through the front door, it became obvious the house contained nothing more than a big empty space. Almost three years and all he had to show for it was a new roof. If he had gobs of money, wouldn't he at least have put in a bathroom? It would be a necessity if he worked to make the house livable every chance he got. Maybe he didn't have pots of money to throw around after all.

“The bathroom's in here if you'd like to use it.” He opened a door and exposed an area spacious enough to host a wine tasting. A gleaming black porcelain tub — more than adequate for two and featuring Jacuzzi jets — was nestled into the far corner. The gray slate floor, plump charcoal towels, and pricey chrome fixtures made her blink. Spotless, it looked as if a herd of maids had recently galloped through the room. The only thing missing was a crystal chandelier dropping like a starburst from the ceiling. Instead, he'd installed recessed lighting.

On second thought … about those pots of money … just let him cry poverty even once.

“Uh, maybe later.”

“I put that in first, for obvious reasons. The rest will fall into place eventually. I'll stick a couple of bedrooms and another bath over there.”

He waved toward the far end of the room where a pair of matching stained glass windows, reminiscent of Tiffany, were cut into the stone wall. Vivid shades of indigo and lavender in the grape clusters set off the different hues that composed the surrounding green leaves.

“Hopefully it'll happen in my lifetime, barring … umm … circumstances … and before someone carts me off to a rest home.”

Circumstances?
Cute. His pitch was so subtle she couldn't come right out and accuse him of breaking his rule.

“I've given myself another couple of years to complete everything. As you can see, it will take a lot of work.”

Molly scanned the main living area. A scuffed stone floor supported a pair of sawhorses. A blueprint, tacked down at the corners, lay open on them. She walked over and glanced at it. Although she was unfamiliar with architectural drawings, the convergence of lines seemed to indicate different rooms. She assumed it was the plan for his house. “Is this the ‘other stuff' you mentioned earlier? You said it could turn out not to be worth all the trouble.”

He nodded. “I planned to finish everything a year ago. That was the initial goal I set. Obviously, I had to retrench. I just can't spare the kind of time needed. Or, for that matter, the expense right now.”

That was the second time he slipped in money. Talk about continually breaking a rule, without actually
breaking
it. He was good.

Her synapses still fired, too. “If you don't see any way to complete the work, why don't you sell the property?”