Seduced on the Red Carpet. Ann Christopher
her elbows on the thick stone wall, she breathed in the sweet air, which was so different from the low-hanging and unidentifiable gray cloud that smothered L.A. and the exhaust-filled fumes of New York. It was so clean and pure she was surprised her lungs didn’t seize up in shock.
In the far distance she could see workers walking between the rows, probably assessing the grapes for ripeness. It was, she knew from her pretrip research, almost harvest time. Maybe she could even pick a grape or two before her trip was over.
Pulling out her 35mm camera, which she’d slung over her shoulder earlier, she took a few shots. Maybe she could start a Napa Valley scrapbook. She did love scrapbooking. Willard obligingly posed for a couple of pictures and then they were off again, wandering with nowhere to be.
Wasn’t there a heated pool around here somewhere? And a spa? Wait…yeah. Over there. Inside an enormous wrought-iron fence was one of those deep blue natural pools that looked like a pond carved out of a hill. There was even a stone waterfall, as though they’d stumbled into some sort of hidden jungle oasis. People lounged on towel-covered chairs beneath market umbrellas, chatting happily and sipping wine from oversized glasses.
Livia focused her lens, snapping a few more shots and wishing she could stay here in this laid-back and peaceful environment forever, or at least discover somewhere in L.A. that made her feel this mellow.
“Not swimming?”
So much for relaxation. J.R.’s deep voice way too close to her ear wound her up tight, making her skin tingle and her breath come short. Resolutely determined to ignore him, she kept her elbows on the fence and the camera up to her face, taking pictures of God knew what in her sudden distraction—probably scattered flip-flops, empty orange juice glasses and the corners of peoples’ noses. He didn’t take the hint. Big surprise. Doing the worst possible thing, he rested his elbow on the fence beside hers, igniting her skin with the slight brush of his.
God.
“Hello, J.R.,” she finally said, keeping her voice tart and refusing to look at him. “Stalking me again?”
Too bad the smug amusement in his voice disturbed her as much as his touch and masculinity. “Actually, I’ve been staking out the pool. I don’t want to miss it if you take a dip. Will you be putting on a two-piece anytime soon?”
That did it. Jerking the camera down, she glared at him, meeting that honey gaze and feeling its kick right in her solar plexus. He wore the Chambers Winery colors and a Negro League cap again today, but he was fresh and clean, smelling of soap and masculine deliciousness. The lethal combination of his arrogance, proximity and boyish wickedness—he had dimples! Dimples!—was making her agitated and hot enough to burst out of her sensitized skin, and it really pissed her off.
“I spoke to Mrs. Chambers about you a little while ago. You should probably update your résumé.”
He laughed and that was sexy, too. “Thanks for the warning. So you like being on the other side of the lens, eh?”
“Yes. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Are you any good?”
“Naturally,” she said, hoping he didn’t ask to see any of her last few shots. “Don’t you have some work to do in the fields? Mud to wallow in? Something?”
He tsked. “If you’re not nice to me, Livia, I’m not going to give you your present.”
Present? Really? That sounded interesting, but she couldn’t be swayed from her absolute and unadulterated dislike of him. This man disturbed her way too much. “Thanks, but I don’t want anything from you. Except maybe your swift departure.”
“Really?” That amber gaze skimmed over her, silky-smooth and smoldering. “You sure about that?” he wondered softly.
She stared at him, her dry mouth and tight throat rendering her incapable of answering. That was bad enough. Worse was the sudden fullness in her breasts and the subtle but insistent ache between her thighs.
The moment lasted way too long, until she managed to find her voice and create a diversion. “I wouldn’t mind taking your Black Yankees cap.”
His eyes widened with surprise. “You know the Negro Leagues?”
“I…love baseball. I’m reading a Jackie Robinson biography right now.”
“Oh,” he said faintly.
So much for her diversion. This revelation that they had baseball in common seemed only to sharpen his interest; she felt it swirling around her and wrapping her up tight in its cocoon.
He didn’t seem to like it any better than she did and his next words came with great reluctance, as though he was kicking them out of his mouth.
“You’re really something. You know that?”
She couldn’t answer. The air was pregnant with so many things between them that she couldn’t trust her voice.
He blinked and recovered and, unsmiling, presented her with a bowl that he’d hidden behind his back.
Oh, wow. It was filled with the most beautiful dusty purple grapes.
“Oh,” she said helplessly, feeling special and decadent, like a latter-day Cleopatra who’d been gifted with all the treasures this wondrous land had to offer. “Thank you.”
He dimpled again, but the piercing intensity with which he studied her didn’t diminish by so much as a watt. Was this a seduction? Did he know that she would have thrown a diamond bracelet back in his face, but her driving curiosity would never let her reject a bowl of grapes from a vintner?
“You’re welcome. They’re pinot noir. Do you drink pinot?”
“Yes. Are they ripe?”
They had to be; she could smell their fragrance already.
“You tell me.”
He pulled one off the stem for her and her unwilling gaze went to his hands, which were long-fingered and even with short, clean nails. That hand had touched hers yesterday. That hand had made her feel all kinds of unwanted sensations. That hand was trouble.
To her agonized dismay, he wiped and then squeezed the grape in a careful grip between thumb and forefinger, making her wonder how a man this size could be so gentle. The grape burst open into a star pattern with a bead of dark juice that was one of the most sensual things she’d ever seen as it trickled down his brown skin.
Her gaze flickered up to his face. She couldn’t breathe. “It’s ripe.”
“What does it taste like?”
He held it to her lips, utterly still and watchful, as though the earth would stop revolving for him until he saw what she would do. There was only one thing she could do. Opening her mouth, she took the grape, taking care to brush his thumb with her tongue as she did.
His breath hitched. “What does it taste like?”
His skin tasted salty and warm, absolutely delicious. But he was probably asking about the grape, so she pressed it to the roof of her mouth, crushing it and letting the flavors wash over her. “I don’t know—”
“Yes, you do,” he urged.
She thought hard, struggling to put it into words. “Strawberry, maybe…or is it raspberry? With something that’s a little, I don’t know…a little spicy.”
That pleased him. Those eyes of his crinkled at the corners, thrilling her beyond all reason. “I’ll make a world-class viticulturist out of you yet, Livia,” he murmured.
With that, he pressed the bowl into her hands and turned to go, granting her wish to be alone, and she stared after him, wanting him to stay.
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