Prologue

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On the night he was murdered, Bernardo Baptista dined simply on bread

and cheese and a bottle of Merlot. The wine was a bit young, and

Bernardo was not. Neither would continue to age.

Like his bread and cheese, Bernardo was a simple man. He had lived in

the same little house in the gentle hills north of Venice since his

marriage fifty-one years before. His five children had been raised

there. His wife had died there.

Now at seventy-three, Bernardo lived alone, with most of his family a

stone's throw away, at the edges of the grand Giambelli vineyard where

he had worked since his youth.

He had known La Signora since her girlhood, and had been taught to

remove his cap whenever she passed by. Even now if Tereza Giambelli

traveled from California back to the castello and vineyard, she would

stop if she saw him. And they would talk of the old days when her

grandfather and his had worked the vines.

Signore Baptista, she called him. Respectfully. He had great

appreciation for La Signora, and had been loyal to her and hers the

whole of his life.

For more than sixty years he had taken part in the making of Giambelli

wine. There had been many changes--some good, in Bernardo's opinion,

some not so good. He had seen much.

Some thought, too much.

The vines, lulled into dormancy by winter, would soon be pruned.

Arthritis prevented him from doing much of the hand work, as he once

had, but still, he would go out every morning to watch his sons and

grandsons carry on the tradition.

A Baptista had always worked for Giambelli. And in Bernardo's mind,

always would.

On this last night of his seventy-three years, he looked out over the

vines--his vines, seeing what had been done, what needed to be done, and

listened as the December wind whistled through the bones of the grape.

From the window where that wind tried to sneak, he could see the

skeletons as they made their steady climb up the rises. They would take

on flesh and life with time, and not wither as a man did. Such was the

miracle of the grape.

He could see the shadows and shapes of the great castello, which ruled

those vines, and ruled those who tended them.

It was lonely now, in the night, in the winter, when only servants slept

in the castello and the grapes had yet to be born.

He wanted the spring, and the long summer that followed it, when the sun

would warm his innards and ripen the young fruit. He wanted, as it

seemed he always had, one more harvest.

Bernardo ached with the cold, deep in the bones. He considered heating

some of the soup his granddaughter had brought to him, but his Annamaria

was not the best of cooks. With this in mind, he made do with the cheese

and sipped the good, full-bodied wine by his little fire.

He was proud of his life's work, some of which was in the glass that

caught the firelight and gleamed deep, deep red. The wine had been a

gift, one of many given to him on his retirement, though everyone knew

the retirement was only a technicality. Even with his aching bones and a

heart that had grown weak, Bernardo would walk the vineyard, test the

grapes, watch the sky and smell the air.

He lived for wine.

He died for it.

He drank, nodding by the fire, with a blanket tucked around his thin

legs. Through his mind ran images of sun-washed fields, of his wife

laughing, of himself showing his son how to support a young vine, to

prune a mature one. Of La Signora standing beside him between the rows

their grandfathers had tended.

Signore Baptista, she said to him when their faces were still young, we

have been given a world. We must protect it.

And so they had.

The wind whistled at the windows of his little house. The fire died to

embers.

And when the pain reached out like a fist, squeezing his heart to death,

his killer was six thousand miles away, surrounded by friends and

associates, enjoying a perfectly poached salmon, and a fine Pinot Blanc.

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Part One

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The Pruning

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A man is a bundle of relations, a knot of roots,

whose flower and fruitage is the world.

--RALPH WALDO EMERSON

~o~

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Chapter One

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Contents - Prev | Next

The bottle of Castello di Giambelli Cabernet Sauvignon, '02, auctioned

for one hundred and twenty-five thousand, five hundred dollars,

American. A great deal of money, Sophia thought, for wine mixed with

sentiment. The wine in that fine old bottle had been produced from

grapes harvested in the year Cezare Giambelli had established the

Castello di Giambelli winery on a hilly patch of land north of Venice.

At that time the castello had been either a con or supreme optimism,

depending on your point of view. Cezare's modest house and little stone

winery had been far from castlelike. But his vines had been regal, and

he had built an empire from them.

After nearly a century, even a superior Cabernet Sauvignon was likely

more palatable sprinkled on a salad rather than drunk, but it wasn't her

job to argue with the man with the money. Her grandmother had been

right, as always. They would pay, and richly, for the privilege of

owning a piece of Giambelli history.

Sophia made a note of the final bid and the buyer's name, though she was

unlikely to forget either, for the memo she would send to her

grandmother when the auction was over.

She was attending the event not only as the public relations executive

who had designed and implemented the promotion and catalogue for the

auction, but as the Giambelli family representative at this exclusive,

precentennial event.

As such, she sat quietly in the rear of the room to observe the bidding,

and the presentation.

Her legs were crossed in a long, elegant line. Her back convent-school

straight. She wore a black pin-striped suit, tailored and Italian, that

managed to look both businesslike and utterly feminine.

It was exactly the way Sophia thought of herself.

Her face was sharp, a triangle of pale gold dominated by large, deep-set

brown eyes and a wide, mobile mouth. Her cheekbones were ice-pick keen,

her chin a diamond point, sculpting a look that was part pixie, part

warrior. She had, deliberately, ruthlessly, used her face as a weapon

when it seemed most expedient.

Tools, she believed, were meant to be used, and used well.

A year before, she'd had her waist-length hair cut into a short black

cap with a spiky fringe over her forehead.

It suited her. Sophia knew exactly what suited her.

She wore the single strand of antique pearls her grandmother had given

her for her twenty-first birthday, and an expression of polite interest.

She thought of it as her father's boardroom look.

Her eyes brightened, and the corners of her wide mouth curved slightly

as the next item was showcased.

It was a bottle of Barolo, '34, from the cask Cezare had named Di Tereza

in honor of her grandmother's birth. This private reserve carried a

picture of Tereza at ten on the label, the year the wine had been deemed

sufficiently aged in oak, and bottled.

Now, at sixty-seven, Tereza Giambelli was a legend, whose renown as a

vintner had overshadowed even her grandfather's.

This was the first bottle of this label ever offered for sale, or passed

outside the family. As Sophia expected, bidding was brisk and spirited.

The man sitting beside Sophia tapped his catalogue where the photograph

of the bottle was displayed. "You have the look of her."

Sophia shifted slightly, smiled first at him--a distinguished man

hovering comfortably somewhere near sixty--then at the picture of the

young girl staring seriously out from a bottle of red in his catalogue.

"Thank you."

Marshall Evans, she recalled. Real estate, second generation Fortune

500. She made it her business to know the names and vital statistics of

wine buffs and collectors with deep pockets and sterling taste.

"I'd hoped La Signora would attend today's auction. She's well?"

"Very. But otherwise occupied."

The beeper in her jacket pocket vibrated. Vaguely annoyed with the

interruption, Sophia ignored it to watch the bidding. Her eyes scanned

the room, noting the signals. The casual lift of a finger from the third

row brought the price up another five hundred. A subtle nod from the

fifth topped it.

In the end, the Barolo outdistanced the Cabernet Sauvignon by fifteen

thousand, and she turned to extend her hand to the man beside her.

"Congratulations, Mr. Evans. Your contribution to the International Red

Cross will be put to good use. On behalf of Giambelli, family and

company, I hope you enjoy your prize."

"There's no doubt of it." He took her hand, lifted it to his lips. "I

had the pleasure of meeting La Signora many years ago. She's an

extraordinary woman."

"Yes, she is."

"Perhaps her granddaughter would join me for dinner this evening?"

He was old enough to be her father, but Sophia was too European to find

that a deterrent. Another time, she'd have agreed, and no doubt enjoyed

his company. "I'm sorry, but I have an appointment. Perhaps on my next

trip east, if you're free."

"I'll make sure I am."

Putting some warmth into her smile, she rose. "If you'll excuse me."

She slipped out of the room, plucking the beeper from her pocket to

check the number. She detoured to the ladies' lounge, glancing at her

watch and pulling the phone from her bag. With the number punched in,

she settled on one of the sofas and laid her notebook and her electronic

organizer on her lap.

After a long and demanding week in New York, she was still revved and,

glancing through her appointments, pleased to have time to squeeze in a

little shopping before she needed to change for her dinner date.

Jeremy DeMorney, she mused. That meant an elegant, sophisticated

evening. French restaurant, discussion of food, travel and theater. And,

of course, of wine. As he was descended from the La Coeur winery

DeMorneys, and a top account exec there, and she sprang from Giambelli

stock, there would be some playful attempts to pry corporate secrets

from each other.

And there would be champagne. Good, she was in the mood for it.

All followed by an outrageously romantic attempt to lure her into bed.

She wondered if she'd be in the mood for that as well.

He was attractive, she considered, and could be amusing. Perhaps if they

both hadn't been aware that her father had once slept with his wife, the

idea of a little romance between them wouldn't seem so awkward, and

somehow incestuous.

Still, several years had passed…

"Maria." Sophia neatly tucked Jerry and the evening to come away, when

the Giambelli housekeeper answered. "I've a call from my mother's line.

Is she available?"

"Oh, yes, Miss Sophia. She hoped you would call. Just one moment."

Sophia imagined the woman hurrying through the wing, scanning the rooms

for something to tidy when Pilar Giambelli Avano would have already

tidied everything herself.

Mama, Sophia thought, would have been content in a little rose-covered

cottage where she could bake bread, do her needlework and tend her

garden. She should have had a half dozen children, Sophia thought with a

sigh. And had to settle for me.

"Sophie, I was just heading out to the greenhouse. Wait. Catch my

breath. I didn't expect you to get back to me so quickly. I thought

you'd be in the middle of the auction."

"End of it. And I think we can say it's been an unqualified success.

I'll fax a memo of the particulars this evening, or first thing in the

morning. Now, I really should go back and tie up the loose ends. Is

everything all right there?"

"More or less. Your grandmother's ordered a summit meeting."

"Oh, Mama, she's not dying again. We went through that six months ago."

"Eight," Pilar corrected. "But who's counting? I'm sorry, baby, but she

insists. I don't think she plans to die this time, but she's planning

something. She's called the lawyers for another revamp of the will. And

she gave me her mother's cameo brooch, which means she's thinking

ahead."

"I thought she gave you that last time."

"No, it was the amber beads last time. She's sending for everyone. You

need to come back."

"All right, all right." Sophia glanced down at her organizer and blew a

mental kiss goodbye to Jerry DeMorney. "I'll finish up here and be on my

way. But really, Mama, this new habit of hers of dying or revamping

every few months is very inconvenient."

"You're a good girl, Sophie. I'm going to leave you my amber beads."

"Thanks a bunch." With a laugh, Sophia disconnected.

Two hours later, she was flying west and speculating whether in another

forty years she would have the power to crook her finger and have

everyone scrambling.

Just the idea of it made her smile as she settled back with a glass of

champagne and Verdi playing on the headphones.

* * * * *

Not everyone scrambled. Tyler MacMillan might have been minutes away

from Villa Giambelli rather than hours, but he considered the vines a

great deal more urgent than a summons from La Signora.

And he said so.

"Now, Ty. You can take a few hours."

"Not now." Ty paced his office, anxious to get back into the fields.

"I'm sorry, Granddad. You know how vital the winter pruning is, and so

does Tereza." He shifted the portable phone to his other ear. He hated

the portables. He was always losing them. "MacMillan's vines need every

bit as much care as Giambelli's."

"Ty--"

"You put me in charge here. I'm doing my job."

"Ty," Eli repeated. With his grandson, he knew, matters must be put on a

very basic level. 'Tereza and I are as dedicated to MacMillan wines as

we are to those under the Giambelli label, and have been for twenty

years. You were put in charge because you're an exceptional vintner.

Tereza has plans. Those plans involve you."

"Next week."

"Tomorrow." Eli didn't put his foot down often; it wasn't the way he

worked. But when necessary, he did so ruthlessly. "One o'clock. Lunch.

Dress appropriately."

Tyler scowled down at his ancient boots and the frayed hems of his thick

trousers. "That's the middle of the damn day."

"Are you the only one at MacMillan capable of pruning vines, Tyler?

Apparently you've lost a number of employees over the last season."

"I'll be there. But tell me one thing."

"Of course."

"Is this the last time she's going to die for a while?"

"One o'clock," Eli responded. "Try to be on time."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Tyler muttered, but only after he clicked the phone

off.

He adored his grandfather. He even adored Tereza, perhaps because she

was so ornery and annoying. When his grandfather had married the

Giambelli heiress, Tyler had been eleven years old. He'd fallen in love

with the vineyards, the rise of the hills, the shadows of the caves, the

great caverns of the cellars.

And in a very real sense he'd fallen in love with Tereza Louisa Elana

Giambelli, that whip-thin, ramrod-straight, somewhat terrifying figure

he'd first seen dressed in boots and trousers not so different from his

own, striding through the mustard plants between the rising rows of

grapes.

She'd taken one look at him, lifted a razor-sharp black eyebrow and

deemed him soft and citified. If he was to be her grandson, she'd told

him, he would have to be toughened up.

She'd ordered him to stay at the villa for the summer. No one had

considered arguing the point. Certainly not his parents, who'd been more

than happy to dump him for an extended period so they could fly off to

parties and lovers. So he had stayed, Tyler thought now as he wandered

to the window. Summer after summer until the vineyards were more home to

him than the house in San Francisco, until she and his grandfather were

more parents to him than his mother and father.

She'd made him. Pruned him back at the age of eleven and trained him to

grow into what he was.

But she didn't own him. It was ironic, he supposed, that all her work

should have formed him into the one person under her aegis most likely

to ignore her demands.

Harder, of course, to ignore the demands when she and his grandfather

unified. With a shrug, Tyler started out of the office. He could spare a

few hours, and they knew it as well as he. The MacMillan vineyards

employed the best, and he could easily have absented himself for most of

a season with confidence in those left in charge.

The simple fact was he hated the big, sprawling events the Giambellis

generated. They were invariably like a circus, with all three rings

packed with colorful acts. You couldn't keep track, and it was always

possible one of the tigers would leap the cage and go for your throat.

All those people, all those issues, all those pretenses and smoky

undercurrents. He was happier walking the vineyards or checking the

casks or plunking down with one of his winemakers and discussing the

qualities of that year's Chardonnay.

Social duties were simply that. Duties.

He detoured through the charming ramble of the house that had been his

grandfather's into the kitchen to refill his thermos with coffee.

Absently he set the portable phone he still carried on the counter and

began rearranging his schedule in his head to accommodate La Signora.

He was no longer citified, or soft. He was just over six feet with a

body sculpted by fieldwork and a preference for the outdoors. His hands

were wide, and tough with calluses, with long fingers that knew how to

dip delicately under leaves to the grape. His hair tended to curl if he

forgot to have it trimmed, which he often did, and was a deep brown that

showed hints of red, like an aged burgundy in the sunlight. His rawboned

face was more rugged than handsome, with lines beginning to fan out from

eyes of clear and calm blue that could harden to steel.

The scar along his jaw, which he'd earned with a tumble off a stand of

rocks at age thirteen, only annoyed him when he remembered to shave.

Which he reminded himself he would have to do before lunch the following

day.

Those who worked for him considered him a fair man, if often a

single-minded one. Tyler would have appreciated the analysis. They also

considered him an artist, and that would have baffled him.

To Tyler MacMillan, the artist was the grape.

He stepped outside into the brisk winter air. He had two hours before

sunset, and vines to tend.

Donato Giambelli had a headache of outrageous proportions. Her name was

Gina, and she was his wife. When the summons from La Signora had come,

he had been happily engaged in eye-crossing sex with his current

mistress, a multitalented aspiring actress with thighs strong enough to

crack walnuts. Unlike his wife, all the mistress required was the

occasional bauble and a sweaty romp three times a week. She did not

require conversation.

There were times he thought Gina required nothing else.

She babbled at him. Babbled at each of their three children. Babbled at

his mother until the air in the company jet vibrated with the endless

stream of words.

Between her, the baby's screaming, little Cezare's banging and Tereza

Maria's bouncing, Don gave serious thought to opening the hatch and

shoving his entire family off the plane and into oblivion.

Only his mother was quiet, and only because she'd taken a sleeping pill,

an air-sickness pill, an allergy pill and God knew what else, washed

them all down with two glasses of Merlot before putting her eye mask in

place and passing out.

She'd spent most of her life, at least the portion he knew of it,

medicated and oblivious. At the moment, he considered that superior

wisdom.

He could only sit, his temples throbbing, and damn his aunt Tereza to

hell and beyond for insisting his entire family make the trip.

He was executive vice president of Giambelli, Venice, was he not? Any

business that needed to be conducted required him, not his family.

Why had God plagued him with such a family?

Not that he didn't love them. Of course he loved them. But the baby was

as fat as a turkey, and there was Gina pulling out a breast for its

greedy mouth.

Once, that breast had been a work of art, he thought. Gold and firm and

tasting of peaches. Now it was stretched like an overfilled balloon,

and, had he been inclined to taste, flavored with baby drool.

And the woman was already making noises about yet another one.

The woman he'd married had been ripe, lush, sexually charged and empty

of head. She had been perfection. In five short years she had become

fat, sloppy and her head was full of babies.

Was it any wonder he sought his comfort elsewhere?

"Donny, I think Zia Tereza will give you a big promotion, and we'll all

move into the castello." She lusted for the great house of

Giambelli--all those lovely rooms, all the servants. Her children would

be raised in luxury, with privilege.

Fine clothes, the best schools and, one day, the Giambelli fortune at

their feet.

She was the only one giving La Signora babies, wasn't she? That would

count for quite a bit.

"Cezare," she said to her son as he tore the head off his sister's doll.

"Stop that! Now you made your sister cry. Here now, here, give me the

doll. Mama will fix."

Little Cezare, eyes glinting, tossed the head gleefully over his

shoulder and began to taunt his sister.

"English, Cezare!" She shook a finger at him. "We're going to America.

You'll speak English to your zia Tereza and show her what a smart boy

you are. Come, come."

Tereza Maria, screaming over the death of her doll, retrieved the

severed head and raced up and down the cabin in a flurry of grief and

rage.

"Cezare! Do as Mama says."

In response, the boy flung himself to the floor, arms and legs

hammering.

Don lurched up, stumbled away and locked himself in the sanctuary of his

in-flight office.

Anthony Avano enjoyed the finer things. He'd chosen his two-story

penthouse in San Francisco's Back Bay with care and deliberation, then

had hired the top decorator in the city to outfit it for him. Status and

style were high priorities. Having them without having to make any real

effort was another.

He failed to see how a man could be comfortable without those basic

elements.

His rooms reflected what he thought of as classic taste--from the silk

moire walls, the Oriental carpets, to the gleaming oak furniture. He'd

chosen, or his decorator had, rich fabrics in neutral tones with a few

splashes of bold colors artfully arranged.

The modern art, which meant absolutely nothing to him, was, he'd been

told, a striking counterpoint to the quiet elegance.

He relied heavily on the services of decorators, tailors, brokers,

jewelers and dealers to guide him into surrounding himself with the

best.

Some of his detractors had been known to say Tony Avano was born with

taste. And all of it in his mouth. He wouldn't have argued the point.

But money, as Tony saw it, bought all the taste a man required.

He knew one thing. And that was wine.

His cellars were arguably among the best in California. Every bottle had

been personally selected. While he couldn't distinguish a Sangiovese

from a Semillon on the vine, and had no interest in the growing of the

grape, he had a superior nose. And that nose had steadily climbed the

corporate ladder at Giambelli, California. Thirty years before, it had

married Pilar Giambelli.

It had taken that nose less than two years to begin sniffing at other

women.

Tony was the first to admit that women were his weakness. There were so

many of them, after all. He had loved Pilar as deeply as he was capable

of loving another human being. He had certainly loved his position of

privilege in the Giambelli organization as the husband of La Signora's

daughter and as the father of her granddaughter.

For those reasons he had, for many years, attempted to be very discreet

about his particular weakness. He had even tried, a number of times, to

reform.

But then there would be another woman, soft and fragrant or sultry and

seductive. What was a man to do?

The weakness had eventually cost him his marriage, in a technical if not

a legal sense. He and Pilar had been separated for seven years. Neither

of them had made the move toward divorce. She, he knew, because she

loved him. And he because it seemed like a great deal of trouble and

would have seriously displeased Tereza.

In any case, as far as Tony was concerned, the current situation suited

everyone nicely. Pilar preferred the countryside, he the city. They

maintained a polite, even a reasonably friendly relationship. And he

kept his position as president of sales, Giambelli, California.

Seven years they had walked that civilized line. Now, he was very afraid

he was about to fall off the edge of it.

Rene was insisting on marriage. Like a silk-lined steamroller, Rene had

a way of moving toward a goal and flattening all barriers in her path.

Discussions with her left Tony limp and dizzy.

She was violently jealous, overbearing, demanding and prone to icy

sulks.

He was crazy about her.

At thirty-two, she was twenty-seven years his junior, a fact that

stroked his well-developed ego. Knowing she was every bit as interested

in his money as the rest of him didn't trouble him. He respected her for

it.

He worried that if he gave her what she wanted, he would lose what she

wanted him for.

It was a hell of a fix. To resolve it, Tony did what he usually did

regarding difficulties. He ignored it as long as humanly possible.

Studying his view of the bay, sipping a small vermouth, Tony waited for

Rene to finish dressing for their evening out. And worried that his time

was up.

The doorbell had him glancing over, frowning slightly. They weren't

expecting anyone. As it was his majordomo's evening off, he went to see

who was there. The frown cleared as he opened the door to his daughter.

"Sophie, what a lovely surprise."

"Dad."

She rose slightly on her toes to kiss his cheek. Ridiculously handsome,

as ever, she thought. Good genes and an excellent plastic surgeon served

him well. She did her best to ignore the quick and instinctive tug of

resentment, and tried to focus on the equally quick and instinctive tug

of love.

It seemed she was forever pulled in opposing directions over her father.

"I'm just in from New York, and wanted to see you before I headed up to

the villa."

She scanned his face--smooth, almost unlined and certainly untroubled.

The dark hair wisped attractively with gray at the temples, the deep

blue eyes were clear. He had a handsome, squared-off chin with a center

dimple. She'd loved dipping her finger into it as a child and making him

laugh.

The love for him swarmed through her and tangled messily with the

resentment. It was always so.

"I see you're going out," she said, noting his tuxedo.

"Shortly." He took her hand to draw her inside. "But there's plenty of

time. Sit down, princess, and tell me how you are. What can I get you?"

She tipped his glass toward her. Sniffed, approved. "What you're

having's fine."

She scanned the room as he walked over to the liquor cabinet. An

expensive pretext, she thought. All show and no substance. Just like her

father.

"Are you going up tomorrow?"

"Going where?"

She tilted her head as he crossed back to her. "To the villa."

"No, why?"

She took the glass, considering as she sipped. "You didn't get a call?"

"About what?"

Loyalties tugged and tangled inside her. He'd cheated on her mother, had

carelessly ignored his vows as long as Sophia could remember, and in the

end had left them both with barely a backward glance. But he was still

family, and the family was being called to the villa.

"La Signora. One of her summits with lawyers, I'm told. You might want

to be there."

"Ah, well, really, I was--"

He broke off as Rene walked in.

If there was a poster girl for the trophy mistress, Sophia thought as

her temper sizzled, Rene Foxx was it. Tall, curvy and blonde on blonde.

The Valentino gown showcased a body ruthlessly toned, and managed to

look understated and elegant.

Her hair was swept up, slicked back to leave her lovely, pampered face

with its full, sensuous mouth--collagen, Sophia thought cattily--and

shrewd green eyes.

She'd chosen diamonds to marry the Valentino, and they flashed and

shimmered against her polished skin.

Just how much, Sophia wondered, had those rocks set her father back?

"Hello." Sophia sipped more vermouth to wash some of the bitterness off

her tongue. "Rene, isn't it?"

"Yes, and it has been for nearly two years. It's still Sophia?"

"Yes, for twenty-six."

Tony cleared his throat. Nothing, in his opinion, was more dangerous

than two sniping females. The man between them always took the bullet.

"Rene, Sophia's just in from New York."

"Really?" Enjoying herself, Rene took Tony's glass, sipped. "That

explains why you're looking a bit travel-frayed. We're about to leave

for a party. You're welcome to join us," she added, hooking her arm

through Tony's. "I must have something in my closet that would work on

you."

If she was going to go claw to claw with Rene, it wouldn't be after a

coast-to-coast flight and in her father's apartment. Sophia would choose

the time, and the place.

"That's so considerate, but I'd feel awkward wearing something so

obviously too large. And," she added, coating her words with sugar, "I'm

just on my way north. Family business." She set her glass down. "Enjoy

your evening."

She walked to the door, where Tony caught up with her to give her

shoulder a quick, placating pat. "Why don't you come along, Sophie?

You're fine as you are. You're beautiful."

"No, thank you." She turned, and their eyes met. His were full of

sheepish apology. It was an expression she was too accustomed to seeing

for it to be effective. "I'm not feeling particularly festive."

He winced as she shut the door in his face.

"What did she want?" Rene demanded.

"She just dropped by, as I said."

"Your daughter never does anything without a reason."

He shrugged. "She may have thought we could drive up north together in

the morning. Tereza's sent out a summons."

Rene's eyes narrowed. "You didn't tell me about that."

"I didn't get one." He dismissed the entire matter and thought of the

party and just how he and Rene would look making their entrance. "You

look fabulous, Rene. It's a shame to cover that dress, even with mink.

Shall I get your wrap?"

"What do you mean you didn't get one?" Rene slapped the empty glass on a

table. "Your position at Giambelli is certainly more important than your

daughter's." And Rene meant to see it remained that way. "If the old

woman's calling the family, you go. We'll drive up tomorrow."

"We? But--"

"It's the perfect opportunity to take your stand, Tony, and to tell

Pilar you want a divorce. We'll make it an early night, so we'll both be

clearheaded." She crossed to him, slid her fingers down his cheek.

With Tony, she knew, manipulation required firm demands and physical

rewards, judiciously melded.

"And when we get back tonight, I'll show you just what you can expect

from me when we're married. When we get back, Tony…" She leaned in,

bit teasingly at his bottom lip. "You can do anything you want."

"Let's just skip the party."

She laughed, slipped away from his hands. "It's important. And it'll

give you time to think of just what you want to do to me. Get my sable

for me, won't you, darling?"

She felt like sable tonight, Rene thought as Tony went to comply.

She felt rich tonight.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter Two

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The valley, and the hills that rose from it, wore a thin coat of snow.

Vines, arrogant and often temperamental soldiers, climbed up the slopes,

their naked branches spearing through the quiet mist that turned the

circling mountains to soft shadows.

Under the pearly dawn, the vineyard shivered and slept.

This peaceful scene had helped spawn a fortune, a fortune that would be

gambled again, season after season. With nature both partner and foe.

To Sophia, the making of wine was an art, a business, a science. But it

was also the biggest game in town.

From a window of her grandmother's villa, she studied the playing field.

It was pruning season, and she imagined while she'd been traveling vines

had already been accessed, considered, and those first stages toward

next year's harvest begun. She was glad she'd been called back so that

she could see that part of it for herself.

When she was away, the business of the wine occupied all her energies.

She rarely thought of the vineyard when she wore her corporate hat. And

whenever she came back, like this, she thought of little else.

Still, she couldn't stay long. She had duties in San Francisco. A new

advertising campaign to be polished. The Giambelli centennial was just

getting off the ground. And with the success of the auction in New York,

the next stages would require her attention.

An old wine for a new millennium, she thought. Villa Giambelli: The next

century of excellence begins.

But they needed something fresh, something savvy for the younger market.

Those who bought their wine on the run--a quick impulse grab to take to

a party.

Well, she'd think of it. It was her job to think of it.

And putting her mind to it would keep it off her father and the scheming

Rene.

None of her business, Sophia reminded herself. None of her business at

all if her father wanted to hook himself up with a former underwear

model with a heart the size and texture of a raisin. He'd made a fool of

himself before, and no doubt would again.

She wished she could hate him for it, for his pathetic weakness of

character, and his benign neglect of his daughter. But the steady,

abiding love just wouldn't shift aside. Which made her, she supposed, as

foolish as her mother.

He didn't care for either of them as much as he did the cut of his suit.

And didn't give them a thought two minutes after they were out of his

sight. He was a bastard. Utterly selfish, sporadically affectionate and

always careless.

And that, she supposed, was part of his charm.

She wished she hadn't stopped by the night before, wished she wasn't

compelled to keep that connection between them no matter what he did or

didn't do.

Better, she thought, to keep on the move as she had for the past several

years. Traveling, working, filling her time and her life with

professional and social obligations.

Two days, she decided. She would give her grandmother two days, spend

time with her family, spend time in the vineyard and the winery. Then it

was back to work with a vengeance.

The new campaign would be the best in the industry. She would make sure

of it.

As she scanned the hills, she saw two figures walking through the mist.

The tall gangly man with an old brown cap on his head. The

ramrod-straight woman in mannish boots and trousers with hair as white

as the snow they trod. A Border collie plodded along between them. Her

grandparents, taking their morning walk with the aging and endlessly

faithful Sally.

The sight of them lifted her mood. Whatever changed in her life,

whatever adjustments had been made, this was a constant. La Signora and

Eli MacMillan. And the vines.

She dashed from the window to grab her coat and join them.

At sixty-seven, Tereza Giambelli was sculpted, razor-sharp, body and

mind. She had learned the art of the vine at her grandfather's knee. Had

traveled with her father to California when she'd been only three to

turn the land of the ripe valley to wine. She'd become bilingual and had

traveled back and forth between California and Italy the way other young

girls had traveled to the playground.

She'd learned to love the mountains, the thatch of forest, the rhythm of

American voices.

It was not home, would never be home as the castello was. But she had

made her place here, and was content with it.

She had married a man who had met with her family's approval, and had

learned to love him as well. With him she had made a daughter, and to

her lasting grief, birthed two stillborn sons.

She had buried her husband when she was only thirty. And had never taken

his name or given it to her only child. She was Giambelli, and that

heritage, that responsibility was more vital and more sacred even than

marriage.

She had a brother she loved who was a priest and tended his flock in

Venice. She had another who had died a soldier before he had really

lived. She revered his memory, though it was dim.

_

And she had a sister she considered foolish at best, who had brought a

daughter more foolish yet into the world.

It had been up to her to continue the family line, the family art. She

had done so.

Her marriage to Eli MacMillan had been carefully considered,

scrupulously planned. She had considered it a merger, as his vineyards

were prime and nestled below hers in the valley. He was a good man and,

more important in her calculations, a good vintner.

He had cared for her, but other men had cared for her. She enjoyed his

company, but she had enjoyed the company of others. In the end, she'd

thought of him as the Merlot, the softer mellowing juice blended to her

stronger, and admittedly harsher, Cabernet Sauvignon.

The right combination could produce excellent results.

Her acceptance of his marriage proposal had been contingent on complex

and detailed business arrangements. The arrangements had benefited both

their companies, and had contented her.

But Tereza, who was rarely surprised, had been so, to find comfort,

pleasure and simple satisfaction in a marriage now approaching its

twentieth year.

He was a fine-looking man still. Tereza didn't discount such matters, as

they spoke of genes. What made up a man was as important, to her mind,

as what that man made of himself.

Though he was ten years her senior, she saw no sign of him bowing to

age. He still rose at dawn every day, and would walk with her,

regardless of the weather, every morning.

She trusted him as she had no man since her grandfather, and cared for

him more than she had any man not of her blood.

He knew all of her plans, and most of her secrets.

"Sophia arrived late last night."

"Ah." Eli laid a hand on her shoulder as they walked between the rows.

It was a simple gesture, and habitual for him. It had taken Tereza some

time to grow used to this casual touching from a man, from a husband. A

longer time still to come to depend on it. "Did you think she wouldn't

come?"

"I knew she would come." Tereza was too used to being obeyed to doubt

it. "If she'd come straight from New York, she would have been here

sooner."

"So, she had a date. Or did some shopping."

Tereza's eyes narrowed. They were nearly black and still sharp in

distance vision. Her voice was sharp as well, and carried the exotic

music of her homeland. "Or stopped off to see her father."

"Or stopped off to see her father," Eli agreed in his slow, comfortable

way. "Loyalty's a trait you've always admired, Tereza."

"When it's earned." There were times, much as she cared for him, when

Eli's unending tolerance infuriated her. "Anthony Avano has earned

nothing but disgust."

"A pitiful man, a poor husband and a mediocre father." Which made him,

Eli mused, very like his own son. "Yet he continues to work for you."

"I let him into Giambelli too intimately in those early years." She'd

trusted him, she thought, had seen potential in him. Had been deceived

by him. That she would never forgive. "Still, he knows how to sell. I

use whatever tools perform their task. Firing him long ago would have

been a personal satisfaction and professionally unwise. What's best for

Giambelli is what's best. But I don't like to see my granddaughter cater

to the man. Uh."

She tossed aside thoughts of her son-in-law with an impatient wave of

the hand. "We'll see how he takes what I have to say today. Sophia will

have told him I called her home. So, he'll come."

Eli stopped, turned. "And that's exactly as you wanted it. You knew

she'd tell him."

Her dark eyes glinted, and her smile was cool. "And if I did?"

"You're a difficult woman, Tereza."

"Yes. Thank you."

He laughed and, shaking his head, began to walk with her again. "Your

announcements today are going to cause trouble. Resentment."

"I should hope so." She stopped to examine some of the younger vines

supported by trellis wires. Cane-pruning would be required here, she

thought. Only the strongest of them would be permitted to grow and to be

trained.

"Complacency becomes rot, Eli. Tradition must be respected, and change

explored."

She scanned the land. The mist was raw and the air damp. The sun would

not burn through it that day, she was certain.

Winters, she thought, grew longer with every year.

"Some of these vines I planted with my own hands," she continued. "Vines

my father brought from Italy. As they grew old, the new was made from

them. The new must always have room to sink their roots, Eli, and the

mature are entitled to their respect. What I built here, what we've

built in our time together, is ours. I'll do as I think best with it,

and for it."

"You always have. In this case, as in most, I agree with you. It doesn't

mean we'll have an easy season ahead of us."

"But a vintage one," she said. "This year…" She reached over to turn a

naked vine in her fingers. "A fine and rare vintage. I know it."

She turned, watched her granddaughter run up the slope toward them.

"She's so beautiful, Eli."

"Yes. And strong."

"She'll need to be," Tereza said and stepped forward to catch Sophia's

hands in hers. "Buon giorno, cara. Come va?"

"Bene. Bene." They kissed cheeks, hands tightly linked. "Nonna." Sophia

eased back, studied her grandmother's face. It was a handsome face, not

soft and pretty as the girl on the label made so long ago, but strong,

nearly fierce. Carved, Sophia always thought, as much by ambition as

time. "You look wonderful. And you."

She shifted to throw her arms around Eli. Here, it was all very simple.

He was Eli, just Eli, the only grandfather she'd ever known. Safe,

loving and uncomplicated.

He gave her a little lift with the hug, so her toes just left the

ground. It made her laugh, and cling. "I saw you from my window." She

stepped back as her feet hit the ground again, then lowered to pat and

stroke the patient Sally. "You're a painting, the three of you. The

Vineyard, I'd call it," she continued, straightening to button Eli's

jacket at his throat against the chill. "What a morning."

She closed her eyes, tipping her head back and breathing deep. She could

smell the damp, her grandmother's soap and the tobacco Eli must have

secreted in one of his pockets.

"Your trip was successful?" Tereza asked.

"I have memos. My memos have memos," she added, laughing again as she

hooked her arms through theirs so they could walk together. "You'll be

pleased, Nonna. And I have some brilliant ideas, she says with due

modesty, on the promotion campaign."

Eli glanced over, and when he saw Tereza wasn't going to comment, patted

Sophia's hand. The trouble, he thought, would start very quickly now.

"The pruning's begun." Sophia noted the fresh cuts on the vines. "At

MacMillan as well?"

"Yes. It's time."

"It seems a long way till harvest. Nonna, will you tell me why you've

brought us all here? You know I love to see you, and Eli, and Mama. But

preparing the vines isn't the only work that's required for Giambelli."

"We'll talk later. Now we'll have breakfast before those monsters of

Donato's are up and driving us all insane."

"Nonna."

"Later," Tereza said again. "We're not all yet here."

Villa Giambelli sat on a knoll above the center of the valley and beside

a forest that had been left to grow wild. Its stones showed gold and red

and umber when the light struck them, and its windows were many. The

winery had been built to replicate the one in Italy, and though it had

been expanded, and ruthlessly modernized, it was still in operation.

A large, attractively outfitted tasting room, where patrons could, by

appointment, sample the products along with breads and cheeses, had been

added to it. Wine clubs were welcomed to lavish affairs four times a

year, and tours could be arranged through the offices there or in San

Francisco.

Wine, bought from the winery itself on those occasions, could be shipped

anywhere in the world.

The caves, with their cool, damp air, that pocketed the hills were used

for storage and the aging of the wine. The fields that had built Villa

Giambelli and its facilities stretched for more than a hundred acres,

and during harvest the very air smelled of the promise of wine.

The central courtyard of the villa was tiled in Chianti red and boasted

a fountain where a grinning Bacchus forever hoisted his goblet. When the

winter cold had passed, dozens and dozens of pots would be set out so

that the space was alive with flower and scent.

It boasted twelve bedrooms and fifteen baths, a solarium, a ballroom and

a formal dining room that could accommodate sixty. There were rooms

dedicated to music, and rooms celebrating books. Rooms for work and for

contemplation. Within its walls was a collection of Italian and American

art and antiques that was second to none.

There were both indoor and outdoor pools, and a twenty-car garage. Its

gardens were a fantasy.

Balconies and terraces laced the stone, and a series of steps afforded

both family and guests private entrances and exits.

Despite its size, its scope and its priceless treasures, it was very

much a home.

The first time Tyler had seen it, he'd thought of it as a castle, full

of enormous rooms and complicated passages. At the moment, he thought of

it as a prison, where he was sentenced to spend entirely too much time

with entirely too many people.

He wanted to be outside in the raw air tending his vines and drinking

strong coffee out of a thermos. Instead he was trapped in the family

parlor sipping an excellent Chardonnay. A fire was snapping gaily in the

hearth, and elegant little hors d'oeuvres were set around the room on

platters of colorful Italian pottery.

He couldn't understand why people wasted the time and effort on bits of

finger food when slapping a sandwich together was so much quicker and

easier.

Why was it food had to be such a damn event? And he imagined if he

uttered such heresy in a household of Italians, he'd be lynched on the

spot.

He'd been forced to change out of his work clothes into slacks and a

sweater--his idea of formal wear. At least he hadn't strapped himself

into a suit like… what was the guy's name? Don. Don from Venice with

the wife who wore too much makeup, too much jewelry and always seemed to

have a shrieking baby attached to some part of her body.

She talked too much, and no one, particularly her husband, appeared to

pay any attention.

Francesca Giambelli Russo said little to nothing. Such a contrast to La

Signora, Ty mused. You'd never make them as sisters. She was thin and

drifty, an insubstantial little woman who stayed glued in her chair and

looked as though she'd jump out of her skin if anyone addressed her

directly.

Ty was always careful not to do so.

The little boy, if you could call a demon from hell a boy, was sprawled

on the rug smashing two trucks together. Eli's Border collie, Sally, was

hiding under Sophia's legs.

Great legs, Ty noted absently.

She was looking as sleek and polished as ever, like something lifted off

a movie screen and dropped down in three dimensions. She appeared to be

fascinated by whatever Don was saying to her, and kept those big, dark

chocolate eyes of hers on his face. But Ty watched as she discreetly

slipped Sally hors d'oeuvres. The move was too slick and calculated for

her to have had her full attention on the conversation.

"Here. The stuffed olives are excellent." Pilar stepped up beside him

with a small plate.

"Thanks." Tyler shifted. Of all the Giambellis, Tyler was most

comfortable with Pilar. She never expected him to make endless, empty

conversation just for the sake of hearing her own voice. "Any idea when

we're going to get this business rolling?"

"When Mama's ready, and not before. My sources tell me lunch is set for

fourteen, but I can't pin down who we're waiting for. Whoever it is, and

whatever this is about, Eli seems content. That's a good sign."

He started to grunt, remembered his manners. "Let's hope so."

"We haven't seen you around here in weeks--been busy," she said even as

he uttered the words, then she laughed. "Naturally. What are you up to,

other than business?"

"What else is there?"

With a shake of her head, she pressed the olives on him again. "You're

more like my mother than any of us. Weren't you seeing someone last

summer? A pretty blonde? Pat, Patty?"

"Patsy. Not really seeing. Just sort of…" He made a vague gesture.

"You know."

"Honey, you need to get out more. And not just for… you know."

It was such a mother thing to say, he had to smile. "I could say the

same about you."

"Oh, I'm just an old stick-in-the-mud."

"Best-looking stick in the room," he countered and made her laugh again.

"You always were sweet when you put your mind to it." And the comment,

even from a man she considered a kind of surrogate son, boosted the

spirits that seemed to flag all too easily these days.

"Mama, you're hoarding the olives." Sophia dashed up, plucked one off

the plate. Beside her lovely, composed mother, she was a fireball,

crackling with electricity. The kind that was always giving you hot,

unexpected jolts if you got too close.

Or so it always seemed to Ty.

For that single reason, he'd always tried to keep a safe and comfortable

distance.

"Quick, talk to me. Were you just going to leave me trapped with Don the

Dull forever?" Sophia muttered.

"Poor Sophie. Well, think of it this way. It's probably the first time

in weeks he's been able to say five words at the same time without Gina

interrupting him."

"Believe me, he made up for it." She rolled her dark, exotic eyes. "So,

Ty, how are you?"

"Fine."

"Hard at work for MacMillan?"

"Sure."

"Know any words with more than one syllable?"

"Some. Thought you were in New York."

"Was," she said, mimicking his tone as her lips twitched. "Now I'm

here." She glanced over her shoulder as her two young cousins began to

shriek and sob. "Mama, if I was ever that obnoxious, how did you stop

yourself from drowning me in the fountain?"

"You weren't obnoxious, sweetie. Demanding, arrogant, temperamental, but

never obnoxious. Excuse me." She handed the plate to Sophia and went to

do what she'd always done best. Make peace.

"I suppose I should have done that," Sophia said with a sigh as she

watched her mother scoop up the miserable young girl. "But I've never

seen a pair of kids less appealing in my life."

"Comes from being spoiled and neglected."

"At the same time?" She considered, studied Don ignoring his screaming

son, and Gina making foolish cooing noises to him. "Good call," she

decided. Then because they weren't her problem--thank Jesus--she turned

her attention back to Tyler.

He was such a… man, she decided. He looked like something carved out

of the Vacas that guarded the valley.

And he was certainly more pleasant to contemplate than the four-year-old

temper tantrum behind her.

Now if she could just pry a reasonable conversation out of him, she

could be nicely occupied until lunch was served.

"Any clues about the theme of our little gathering today?" Sophia asked

"No."

"Would you tell me if you knew?"

He shrugged a shoulder and watched Pilar murmur to little Tereza as she

carried her to the side window. She looked natural, he thought.

Madonnalike, he supposed was the suitable word. And because of it, the

irritable, angry child took on an attractive, appealing look.

"Why do you suppose people have kids when they're not going to pay any

real attention to them?"

Sophia started to speak, then broke off as her father and Rene walked

into the room. "That's a good question," she murmured and, taking the

glass from his hand, finished off his wine. "Damn good question."

At the window, Pilar tensed, and all the simple pleasure she'd gotten

from distracting the unhappy little girl drained away.

She felt instantly frumpy, unattractive, old, fat, sour. Here was the

man who had discarded her. And here was the latest in the long line of

replacements. Younger, lovelier, smarter, sexier.

But because she knew her mother would not, Pilar set the child on the

floor and walked over to greet them. Her smile was warm and easy and

graced a face much more compelling than she thought. Her simple slacks

and sweater were more elegant, more feminine than Rene's slick power

suit.

And her manner carried an innate class that held more true sparkle than

diamonds.

"Tony, how good you could make it. Hello, Rene."

"Pilar." Rene smiled slowly and trailed a hand down Tony's arm. The

diamond on her finger caught the light.

She waited a beat, to be certain Pilar saw it, registered the meaning.

"You look… rested."

"Thank you." The backs of her knees dissolved. She could feel the

support going out from under her as completely as if Rene had rammed the

toe of her hot red pump into them. "Please, come in, sit. What can I get

you to drink?"

"Don't fuss, Pilar." Tony waved her off, even as he leaned down to give

her an absent peck on the cheek. "We'll just go say hello to Tereza."

"Go to your mom," Ty said under his breath.

"What?"

"Go, make an excuse and get your mom out of here."

She saw it then, the diamond glint on Rene's finger, the blank shock in

her mother's eyes. She shoved the plate at Ty and strode across the

room. "Mama, can you help me with something for a minute?"

"Yes… just let me…"

"It'll only take a second," Sophia continued, quickly pulling Pilar from

the room. She just kept moving until they were well down the hall and

into the two-level library. There, she pulled the pocket doors closed

behind her, leaned back against them.

"Mama. I'm so sorry."

"Oh." Trying to laugh, Pilar ran an unsteady hand over her face. "So

much for thinking I pulled that off."

"You did beautifully." Sophia hurried over as Pilar lowered to the arm

of a chair. "But I know that face." She cupped her mother's in her

hands. "Apparently so does Tyler. The ring's ostentatious and obvious,

just like she is."

"Oh, baby." Her laugh was strained, but she tried. "It's stunning,

gorgeous--just like she is. It's all right." But already she was turning

the gold band she continued to wear round and round her finger. "Really,

it's all right"

"The hell it is. I hate her. I hate both of them, and I'm going back in

there and telling them right now."

"You're not." Pilar got up, gripped Sophia's arms. Did the pain she

could see in her daughter's eyes show as clearly in her own? And was

that her fault? Had this endless limbo she'd lived in dragged her

daughter into the void? "It solves nothing, changes nothing. There's no

point in hate, Sophie. It'll only damage you."

No, Sophia thought. No. It could forge you.

"Be angry!" she demanded. "Be furious and bitter and crazed." Be

anything, she thought. Anything but hurt and defeated. I can't bear it.

"You do it, baby." She ran her hands soothingly up and down Sophia's

arms. "So much better than I could."

"To walk in here this way. To just walk in and shove it in our faces. He

had no right to do that to you, Mama, or to me."

"He has a right to do what he wants. But it was poorly done." Excuses,

she admitted. She'd spent nearly thirty years making excuses for Anthony

Avano. A hard habit to break.

"Don't let it hurt you. He's still your father. Whatever happens, he

always will be."

"He was never a father to me."

Pilar paled. "Oh, Sophia."

"No. No." Furious with herself, Sophia held up a hand. "I am obnoxious.

This isn't about me, but I just can't help making it about me. It's not

even about him," she said, winding down. "He's oblivious. But she's not.

She knew what she was doing. How she wanted to do it. And I hate her

coming into our home and lording that over you--no, damn it, over us.

All of us."

"You're ignoring one factor, baby. Rene may love him."

"Oh, please."

"So cynical. I loved him, why shouldn't she?"

Sophia whirled away. She wanted to kick something, to break something.

And to take the jagged shards of it and swipe them over Rene's perfect

California face. "She loves his money, his position and his goddamn

expense account."

"Probably. But he's the kind of man who makes women love

him--effortlessly."

Sophia caught the wistfulness in her mother's voice. She'd never loved a

man, but she recognized the sound of a woman who had. Who did. And that,

the hopelessness of that, emptied her of temper. "You haven't stopped

loving him."

"If I haven't, I'd better. Promise me one thing? Don't cause a scene."

"I hate to give up the satisfaction, but I suppose chilly disinterest

will have more impact. One way or the other, I want to knock that smug

look off her face."

She walked back, kissed both her mother's cheeks, then hugged her. Here

she could, and did, love without shadows and smudges. "Will you be all

right, Mama?"

"Yes. My life doesn't change, does it?" Oh, and the thought of that was

damning. "Nothing really changes. Let's go back."

"I'll tell you what we're going to do," Sophia began when they were in

the hall again. "I'm going to juggle my schedule and clear a couple of

days. Then you and I are going to the spa. We're going to sink up to our

necks in mud, have facials, get our bodies scrubbed, rubbed and

polished. We'll spend wads of money on overpriced beauty products we'll

never use and lounge around in bathrobes all day."

The door of the powder room opened as they walked by, and a middle-aged

brunette stepped out. "Now that sounds wonderfully appealing. When do we

leave?"

"Helen." Pilar pressed a hand to her heart even as she leaned in to kiss

her friend's cheek. "You scared the life out of me."

"Sorry. Had to make a dash for the john." She tugged at the skirt of her

stone-gray suit over hips she was constantly trying to whittle, to make

certain it was back in place. "All that coffee I drank on the way up.

Sophia, aren't you gorgeous? So…" She shifted her briefcase, squared

her shoulders. "The usual suspects in the parlor?"

"More or less. I didn't realize she meant you when Mama said the lawyers

would be coming." And, Sophia thought, if her grandmother had called in

Judge Helen Moore, it meant serious business.

"Because Pilar didn't know, either, nor did I until a few days ago. Your

grandmother insisted I handle this business personally." Helen's shrewd

gray eyes shifted toward the parlor.

She'd been involved, one way or another, with the Giambellis and their

business for nearly forty years. They never failed to fascinate her.

"She keeping all of you in the dark?"

"Apparently," Pilar murmured. "Helen, she's all right, isn't she? I took

this latest business about changing her will and so on as part of this

phase she's been in this past year, since Signore Baptista died."

"As far as I know, healthwise, La Signora is as hale as ever." Helen

adjusted her black-rimmed glasses, gave her oldest friend a bolstering

smile. "As her attorney, I can't tell you any more about her

motivations, Pilar. Even if I completely understood them. It's her show.

Why don't we see if she's ready for the curtain?"

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Chapter Three

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Contents - Prev | Next

La Signora never rushed her cue. She had planned the menu personally,

wanting to set the tone for the lavish, and the casual. The wines served

were from the California vineyards, both Giambelli and MacMillan. That,

too, was meticulously planned.

She would not discuss business at the meal. Nor would she, much to

Gina's annoyance, allow three ill-mannered children at the table.

They had been sent to the nursery with a maid who would be given a

bonus, and Tereza's considerable respect if she lasted an hour with

them.

When she deigned to speak to Rene, it was with chilly formality. Because

of it, she felt a grudging admiration for the woman's spine. There had

been others, many others, who had withered visibly under that frost.

Along with family, and Helen, whom she considered one of her own, she

had invited her most trusted wine-maker and his wife. Paulo Borelli had

been with Giambelli, California for thirty-eight years. Despite his age,

he was still called Paulie. His wife, Consuelo, was a plump, cheerful

woman with a big laugh who had once been a kitchen maid at the villa.

The final addition was Margaret Bowers, the head of sales for MacMillan.

She was a divorced woman of thirty-six who was currently being bored

senseless by Gina's chatter and wishing desperately for a cigarette.

Tyler caught her eye and gave her a sympathetic smile.

Margaret sometimes wished desperately for him, too.

When the food was cleared and the port passed, Tereza sat back.

"Castello di Giambelli celebrates its centennial in one year," she

began. Immediately conversation stopped. "Villa Giambelli has been

making wine in the Napa Valley for sixty-four years. MacMillan has been

doing so for ninety-two. That is two hundred and fifty-six years

combined."

She scanned the table. "Five generations have been vintners and wine

merchants."

"Six, Zia Tereza." Gina fluttered. "My children give you six."

"From what I've seen your children are more likely to be serial killers

than vintners. Please, don't interrupt."

She lifted her port, nosing the wine, sipping slowly. "In those five

generations we have earned a reputation, on two continents, for

producing wine of quality. The name Giambelli is wine. We have

established traditions and have blended them with new ways, new

technology, without sacrificing that name or what it means. We will

never sacrifice it. Twenty years ago, we established a partnership of

sorts with another fine vintner. MacMillan of Napa Valley has run side

by side with Giambelli, California. The partnership has aged well. It's

time for it to be decanted."

She felt rather than saw Tyler tense. She gave him high marks for

holding his tongue, and met his eyes now. "Changes are necessary, and

for the good of both. The next hundred years begin today. Donato."

He snapped to attention. "Si, yes," he corrected, remembering she

preferred English at her California table. "Yes, Aunt Tereza."

"Giambelli, Italy and California have been ran exclusive of each other.

Separate. This will no longer be the case. You will report to the chief

operating officer of the newly formed Giambelli-MacMillan company, which

will have bases in both California and Venice."

"What does this mean? What does this mean?" Gina exploded in Italian,

shoving awkwardly from the table. "Donato is in charge. He is next in

line. He carries the name. He is your heir."

"My heir is who I say is my heir."

"We give you children." Gina slapped a hand on her belly, then waved an

arm in disgust at the table. "Three children, and more will come. No one

gives the family children but me and Donato. Who will carry on the name

when you're gone if not my babies?"

"Do you bargain with your womb?" Tereza said evenly.

"It's fertile," she snapped back even as her husband tried to pull her

back into her chair. "More than yours, more than your daughter's. One

baby each, that's all. I can have a dozen."

"Then God help us all. You'll keep your fine house, Gina, and your

pocket money. But you will not find yourself mistress of the castello.

My castello," she added coolly. "Take what you're given, or lose a great

deal more."

"Gina, basta! Enough," Don ordered and had his hand slapped for his

trouble.

"You're an old woman," Gina said between her teeth. "One day you'll be

dead and I will not. So we will see." She swept out of the room.

"Zia Tereza, scusi," Donato began and was cut off by a sharp gesture.

"Your wife does you no credit, Donato, and your work falls short of my

expectations. You have this year to correct those matters. You will

remain in your position with Giambelli until the time of the next

pruning. Then we will reassess. If I am pleased, you will be promoted,

with a salary and the benefits that apply. If I am not, you will remain

with the company on paper only. I will not see one of my blood removed,

but you will not find your life so easy as you have. Is this

understood?"

His tie was suddenly too tight, and the meal he'd just eaten threatened

to revolt in his belly. "I've worked for Giambelli for eighteen years."

"You worked for twelve. You have put in appearances for the last six,

and even those appearances have been inconsistent recently. Do you think

I don't know what you do, or where you spend your time? Do you think I'm

not aware of what your business is when you take trips to Paris, to

Rome, to New York and California at Giambelli expense?"

She waited for this blow to land, saw the faint sheen of sweat skin his

face. And was disappointed in him yet again. "Your wife is foolish,

Donato, but I am not. Have a care."

"He's a good boy," Francesca said quietly.

"He might have been. Perhaps he'll be a good man yet. Margaret, you'll

pardon the family histrionics. We're temperamental."

"Of course, La Signora."

"You will, if you choose to accept, oversee and coordinate the heads of

sales of Giambelli-MacMillan, California and Venice. This will require

considerable travel and responsibility on your part, with the

appropriate salary increase. You'll be needed in Venice in five days to

establish your base there and familiarize yourself with the operation.

You have until tomorrow to decide if you want to consider this

arrangement, and if so we will discuss the details."

"I don't need time to decide, thank you." Margaret kept her voice brisk

and even, and her heart pounded like wild surf. "I'll be happy to

discuss the details at your convenience. I'm grateful for the

opportunity." She shifted to Eli, nodded. "Grateful to both of you for

the opportunity."

"Well said. Tomorrow then. Paulie, we've already discussed our plans,

and I appreciate your input and your discretion. You'll assist in

coordinating the operation in the fields, the winery. You know the best

men here, and at MacMillan. You'll serve as foreman."

"I have nothing but respect for Paulie." Ty's voice was calm, even if

temper and frustration had twin grips on his throat. "His skills and his

instincts. I have nothing but admiration for the operation here at the

villa, and the people involved in it. And the same from what I know of

Giambelli, Venice. But we have a top-flight operation, and people, at

MacMillan. I won't see that operation or those people overshadowed by

yours, La Signora. You're proud of what you and yours have accomplished,

of the legacy you've inherited and intend to pass on. So am I of mine."

"Good. So listen. And think." She gestured to Eli.

"Ty, Tereza and I didn't come to this decision overnight, nor do we do

it lightly. We've discussed this for a long time."

"You're not obliged to bring me into those discussions," Ty began.

"No." Eli interrupted before the heat he saw building in his grandson's

eyes could flash. "We're not. We've worked out, with Helen, how the

legalities and formalities should and must be met. We've strategized how

to implement this true merger to the benefit of all involved--not just

for this season, but for the season a hundred years from now."

He leaned forward. "Do you think I want any less for MacMillan than you?

Any less for you than you want for yourself?"

"I don't know what you want. I thought I did."

"Then I'll make it clear, here and now. By doing this, we'll become not

only one of the biggest winemakers in the world, but the best in the

world. You'll continue to oversee MacMillan."

"Oversee?"

"With Paulie as foreman, and you as operator, as vintner. With some

addendums."

"You know the fields, Ty," Tereza said. She understood his resentment.

It pleased her. That hot, choking anger meant it mattered to him. It

would have to matter a very great deal. "You know the vines, and the

casks. But what you do, what you learn stops at the bottle. It's time to

go on from there. There's more to wine than the grape. Eli and I intend

to see our grandchildren blended."

"Grandchildren?" Sophia interrupted.

"When is the last time you worked in the fields?" Tereza demanded of

her. "When is the last time you tasted wine that wasn't uncorked from a

pretty bottle taken from a cabinet or a chilled bucket? You've neglected

your roots, Sophia."

"I've neglected nothing," Sophia shot back. "I'm not a winemaker. I'm a

publicist."

"You'll be a winemaker. And you," she said, pointing at Ty, "you'll

learn what it is to sell, to market, to ship. You'll teach each other."

"Oh, really, Nonna--"

"Quiet. You have the year. Pilar, Sophia won't have as much time to

devote to her usual duties. You'll fill that gap"

"Mama." Pilar had to laugh. "I don't know anything about marketing or

promotion."

"You have a good brain. It's time you used it again. To succeed we'll

need all the family." Tereza shifted her gaze to Tony. "And others. You

will remain in sales, and will, for now, keep your title and privileges

there. But you will report, as does Donato and all department heads and

managers, to the COO. From this time on we have a business relationship

only. Do not come to my house or to my table again uninvited."

It was a downslide. His title was one matter. His salary, and long-term

benefits, another. She had the power to strip him clean. He used the

single shield he had. "I'm Sophia's father."

"I know what you are."

"I beg your pardon, signora." Rene spoke with meticulous politeness,

underlined by steel. "If I may speak?"

"You are, invited or not, a guest under my roof. What do you wish to

say?"

"I realize that my presence here isn't particularly welcome." Her tone

never varied, her eyes never left Tereza's.

"And that my relationship with Tony doesn't meet with your approval. But

he is, and has been, an asset to your company. As I intend to be one to

him, that can only benefit you."

"That remains to be seen. You'll excuse us." She scanned the table.

"Helen, Eli and I must speak with Sophia and Tyler. Coffee will be

served in the parlor. Please enjoy."

"You say it," Sophia began, trembling with anger as the rest filed out

of the room, "and it's done. Have you gotten so used to that, Nonna,

that you believe you can change lives with a few words?"

"Everyone has a choice."

"Where is the choice?" Unable to sit, she surged to her feet. "Donato?

He's never worked outside the company. His life is absorbed by it.

Tyler? He's given all his time and energy to MacMillan since he was a

boy."

"I can speak for myself."

"Oh, shut up." She rounded on him. "Five words in succession tie your

tongue in knots. And I'm supposed to teach you how to market wine."

He got to his feet and, to her shock, grabbed her hands, jerking her

forward as he turned them palms up. "Like rose petals. Pampered and

soft. I'm supposed to teach you how to work?"

"I work every bit as hard as you do. Just because I don't sweat and

stomp around in muddy boots doesn't mean I don't give my best."

"You're off to a hell of a start, both of you." Eli sighed and poured

more port. "You want to fight, fight. It'll be good for you. The problem

is neither of you has ever had to do anything that didn't suit you down

to the ground. Maybe you'll fail, maybe you'll both fall flat on your

asses trying to do something else. Something more."

Sophia tossed up her chin. "I don't fail."

"You have a season to prove it. Would you care to know what you'll have

at the end of it? Helen?"

"Well, this has been fun so far." Helen lifted her briefcase onto the

table. "Dinner and a show, for one low price."

She took out files, laid them down and set her briefcase back on the

floor. Adjusted her glasses. "In the interest of brevity and

comprehension, I'll keep this simple and in layman's terms. Eli and

Tereza are merging their respective companies, streamlining them, which

will cut some costs and incur others. I believe it's a very wise

business decision. Each of you will carry the title of vice president,

operations. Each of you will have varied tasks and responsibilities,

which are set down in the contracts I have with me. The contract term is

one year. If at the end of that year your performances are unacceptable,

you will be shifted back to a lesser position. Those terms will be

negotiable at that time and in that eventuality."

As she spoke she slid two thick contracts from the files. "Ty, you will

remain in residence at MacMillan, the house and its contents will

continue to be available for your use. Sophia, you will be required to

move here. Your apartment in San Francisco will be maintained by

Giambelli during this year, for your use when you're required to do

business in the city. Ty, when you're required to do business there,

accommodations will be provided. Travel to other destinations for the

company will, of course, be arranged and paid for by the company. The

castello in Italy is available to either of you, whether your travel

there is business, pleasure or a combination of both."

She glanced up, smiled. "So far, not so bad, right? Now the carrot. If

at the end of this contract year, Sophia, your performance is

acceptable, you will receive twenty percent of the company, one-half

interest in the castello and the title of co-president. Reciprocally,

Tyler, should your performance be acceptable, you will receive a like

twenty percent, full interest of the house where you now reside and the

tide of co-president. You will both be offered ten acres of vineyards,

to develop your own label if you wish, or the market value thereof

should you prefer."

She paused, and added the final weight. "Pilar receives twenty percent

as well, if she agrees with her own contract terms. This gives like

shares to everyone. In the event of Eli's or Tereza's death, their

respective share passes, spouse to spouse. On that unhappy day when

neither of them are with us, their forty-percent share will be disbursed

as follows: Fifteen percent to each of you, and ten percent to Pilar.

This will give each of you, in time, thirty-five percent of one of the

biggest wine companies in the world. All you have to do to earn it is

adhere to the contract stipulations during this year."

Sophia waited until she was certain she could speak, and kept her hands

tightly gripped together in her lap. She was being offered more than

she'd ever imagined or would have asked for. And was being slapped down

like a child at the same time. "Who decides on the acceptability of our

performances?"

"In the interest of fairness," Tereza said, "you will rate each other on

a monthly basis. Eli and I will also give you performance evaluations,

and these will be added to the evaluations generated by the COO."

"Who the hell is COO?" Tyler demanded.

"His name is David Cutter. Recently of Le Coeur, and based in New York.

He'll be here tomorrow." Tereza got to her feet. "We'll leave you to

read your contracts, to discuss, to consider." She smiled warmly.

"Helen? Coffee?"

Rene refused to budge. There was one thing she'd learned in her modeling

career, during her brief stint as an actress and in her lifelong social

climb. The only right direction to move is up.

She'd tolerate the old woman's insults, the estranged wife's distress

and the daughter's killing glares as long as it meant winning.

Despising them didn't stop her from tolerating them, as long as it was

necessary.

She had the diamond on her finger, one she'd selected personally, and

intended the wedding band to follow quickly. Tony was her entree into

the world of the ridiculously rich, and she was sincerely fond of him.

Nearly as fond as she was of the idea of the Giambelli fortune.

She'd make certain he did whatever was necessary in the next year to

solidify his position with Giambelli, and she intended to do so as his

wife.

"Tell her now," she ordered and picked up her coffee cup.

"Rene, darling." Tony moved his shoulders. He could already feel the

weight of the shackles. "This is a very awkward time."

"You've had seven years to deal with this, Tony. Get it done, and get it

done now." She sent a significant look toward Pilar. "Or I will."

"All right, all right." He patted her hand. He preferred awkward to

ugly. With a pleasant smile on his face, he got to his feet and crossed

over to where Pilar sat trying to calm a mildly distressed and obviously

confused Francesca.

"Pilar, could I have a word with you? A private word."

A dozen excuses ran through her head. She was, in her mother's absence,

hostess. The room was full of guests. Her aunt needed her attention. She

should order more coffee.

But they were only that, excuses, and would do nothing but postpone what

had to be faced.

"Of course." She murmured soothing words in Italian to her aunt, then

turned toward Tony.

"Shall we use the library?" At least, Pilar thought, he wasn't bringing

Rene with him. Even as they passed, Rene shot her one look, hard and

bright as the stone on her finger.

A victor's look, Pilar thought. How ridiculous. There'd be no contest to

win, and nothing to lose.

"I'm sorry Mama chose to make this announcement, and have this

discussion, with so many people in attendance," Pilar began. "If she'd

told me beforehand, I'd have urged her to talk to you privately."

"Doesn't matter. Her personal feelings for me are very clear." As his

feathers were rarely ruffled, those feelings had rolled off him for

years. "Professionally, well, I might have expected better. But we'll

smooth it over." Smoothing things over was what he did second best.

Ignoring them was his strong point.

He stepped into the room, sat in one of the deep leather chairs. Once

he'd thought he would live in this house, or at least maintain a base

there. Fortunately, as things had turned out, he preferred the city.

There was little to do in Napa but watch the grapes grow.

"Well, Pilar." His smile was easy, charming as always. "How are you?"

"How am I, Tony?" Hysterical laughter wanted to bubble into her throat.

She suppressed it. That was one of her strongest points. "Well enough.

And you?"

"I'm good. Busy, of course. Tell me, what do you intend to do about La

Signora's suggestion you take a more active part in the company?"

"It wasn't a suggestion, and I don't know what I intend to do about it."

The idea of it was still buzzing through her head like a swarm of

hornets. "I haven't had time to think it through."

"I'm sure you'll be fine." He leaned forward, his face earnest.

That, she thought with a rare flare of bitterness, was part of his skill

and his deception. This pretense of caring. This veneer of interest.

"You're a lovely woman, and certainly an asset to the company in any

capacity. It'll be good for you to get out and about more, to be

occupied. You may even find you have a talent for it. A career might be

just what you need."

She had wanted a family. Husband, children. Never a career. "Are we here

to talk about my needs, Tony, or yours?"

"They're not exclusive of each other. Not really. Pilar, I think we

should look at this new direction Tereza has plotted out as an

opportunity for both of us to start fresh."

He took her hand in the easy way he had with women, cupping it

protectively and provocatively in his. "Perhaps we needed this push. I

realize that the idea of divorce has been difficult for you."

"Do you?"

"Of course." She was going to make it sticky, he thought. What a bore.

"The fact is, Pilar, we've led separate lives for a number of years

now."

Slowly, deliberately, she pulled her hand from his. "Are you speaking of

the lives we've led since you moved to San Francisco, or the lives we

led while we continued to maintain the pretense of a marriage?"

Very sticky, he thought. And sighed. "Pilar, our marriage failed. It's

hardly constructive to rehash the whys, the blames, the reasons after

all this time."

"I don't believe we ever actually hashed them, Tony. But maybe the

time's past where doing so would make any difference."

"The fact is by not ending things legally I've been unfair to you.

You've been clearly unable to start a new life."

"Which hasn't been a problem for you, has it?" She rose, walked over to

stare into the fire. Why was she fighting this? Why did it matter?

"Let's at least be honest here. You came here today to ask me for a

divorce, and it had nothing to do with my mother's decisions. Decisions

you knew nothing about when you put that ring on Rene's finger."

"Be that as it may, it's foolish for either of us to pretend this wasn't

long overdue. I put off the divorce for your sake, Pilar." Saying it, he

believed it. Absolutely believed it, which made his tone utterly

sincere. "Just as I'm asking for it now, for your sake. It's time you

moved on."

"No," she murmured. She didn't turn yet, not yet, to look at him.

Somehow when you looked at him, into those quietly sincere eyes, you

ended up believing the lie. "We can't even be honest here. If you want a

divorce, I won't stop you. I doubt I could in any case. She won't be as

easily handled as I was," she added, turning back. "Maybe that's good

for you. Maybe she's right for you. I certainly wasn't."

All he heard was that he would get what he wanted without trouble. "I'll

handle the details. Quietly, of course. After all this time, it won't

interest the press. Actually, it's hardly more than signing a few papers

at this point. In fact, I'm sure all but our most intimate friends think

we're already divorced."

When she said nothing, he got to his feet. "We'll all be happier once

this is behind us. You'll see. Meanwhile, I think you should speak with

Sophia. It's best coming from you--woman to woman. No doubt that when

she sees you're agreeable, she'll feel more friendly toward Rene."

"Do you underestimate everyone, Tony?"

He held up his hands. "I simply feel that we'll all be more comfortable

if we can keep this friendly. Rene will be my wife, and as such will be

part of my professional and social life. We'll all see each other now

and then. I expect Sophia to be polite."

"I expected you to be faithful. We all live with our disappointments.

You got what you came for, Tony. I'd suggest you take Rene and leave

before Mama finishes her port. I think there's been enough

unpleasantness in this house for one day."

"Agreed." He started for the door, hesitated. "I do wish you the best,

Pilar."

"Yes, I believe you. For some reason, I wish you the same. Goodbye,

Tony."

When he closed the doors behind him, she walked carefully to a chair,

sat slowly as if her bones might shatter at too sharp a move.

She remembered what it was like to be eighteen and wildly in love, full

of plans and dreams and brilliance.

She remembered what it was like to be twenty-three and sliced through

the heart by the stab of betrayal and the true loss of innocence. And

thirty, fighting to cling to the shreds of a disintegrating marriage, to

raise a child and hold a husband who was too careless to pretend to love

you.

She remembered what it was like to be forty and resigned to the loss,

empty of those dreams, those plans with the brilliance dulled dark.

Now, she thought, she knew what it was to be forty-eight, alone, with no

illusions left. Replaced, legally, by the new, improved model, as she'd

been replaced covertly so often.

She lifted her hand, slid her wedding ring up to the first knuckle.

She'd worn that simple band for thirty years. Now she was being told to

discard it, and the promises she'd made before God, before family,

before friends.

Tears burned at her eyes as she slipped it from her finger. What was it,

after all, she thought, but an empty circle. The perfect symbol for her

marriage.

She had never been loved. Pilar let her head fall back. How lowering,

how sad, to sit here now and accept, admit what she had refused to

accept and admit for so long. No man, not even her husband, had ever

loved her.

When the doors opened, she closed her fingers around the ring, willed

the tears to wait.

"Pilar." Helen took one look. Her lips tightened. "Okay, let's forget

the coffee section of today's entertainment."

At home, she crossed to a painted cabinet, opened it and selected a

decanter of brandy. She poured two snifters, then walked over to sit on

the footstool in front of Pilar's chair.

"Drink up, honey. You look pale."

Saying nothing, Pilar opened her hand. The ring glinted once in the

firelight.

"Yeah, I figured that when the slut kept flashing the rock of ages on

her finger. They deserve each other. He never deserved you."

"Stupid, stupid to be shaken like this. We haven't been married for

years, not in any real sense. But thirty years, Helen." She held up the

ring and, looking through that empty circle, saw her life. Narrow and

encapsulated. "Thirty goddamn years. She was in diapers when I met

Tony."

"That's the big ouch. So she's younger and got bigger breasts." Helen

shrugged. "God knows those reasons alone are enough to hate her fucking

guts. I'm with you there, and so's the crowd. But think of this. If she

sticks with him, by the time she's our age, she'll be feeding him baby

food and changing his diapers."

Pilar let out a moaning laugh. "I hate where I am, and I don't know how

to get someplace else. I didn't even fight back, Helen."

"So you're not a warrior." Helen rose to sit on the arm of the chair,

wrapped an arm around Pilar's shoulder. "You're a beautiful,

intelligent, kind woman who got a raw deal. And damn, honey, if this

door finally closing isn't the best thing for you."

"God, now you sound like Tony."

"No need to be insulting. Besides, he didn't mean that, and I do."

"Maybe, maybe. I can't see clearly now. I can't see through the next

hour much less the next year. God, I didn't even make him pay. Didn't

have the guts to make him pay."

"Don't worry, she will." Helen leaned over, kissed the top of Pilar's

head. No man like Tony should slip through life without paying, she

thought.

"And if you want to scald him a bit, I'll help you outline a divorce

settlement that will leave him with permanent scars and one shriveled

testicle."

Pilar smiled a little. She could always count on Helen. "As entertaining

as that might be, it'd just drag things out, and make it more difficult

for Sophie. Helen, what the hell am I going to do with the new life

that's been dumped in my lap?"

"We'll think of something."

Sophia was doing a lot of thinking herself. She was already getting a

headache from reading the pages of the contract. She got the gist of it,

even mired in the legalese. And the gist was La Signora maintained

control as she always had. Over the next year Sophia would be expected

to prove herself, which she'd thought she had. If she did, to her

grandmother's satisfaction, some of that much-desired control would be

passed to her hands.

Well, she wanted it. She didn't much care for the way she'd have to go

about getting it. But she could see the reasoning.

The hardest part was in nearly always being able to see her

grandmother's reasoning. Perhaps because, under it all, they thought so

much alike.

She had not taken a deep and intimate interest in the making of wine.

Loving the vineyards for their beauty, knowing the basics wasn't the

same as investing time, emotion and effort into them. And if she would

one day step into her grandmother's place, she needed to do so.

Maybe she preferred boardrooms to fermenting tanks, but…

She glanced over at Tyler, who was scowling down at his own contract.

This one took the tanks over the boardroom. That would make them a good

business match, or contrast, she supposed. And he had every bit as much

at stake as she did.

Yes, La Signora had, once again, been as brilliant as she'd been

ruthless. Now that her temper had cleared away to allow for cool common

sense, she could see not only that it could work, but that it would.

Unless Ty mucked things up.

"You don't like it," she said.

"What the hell's to like about it? It was a goddamn ambush."

"Agreed. That's Nonna's style. Troops fall in line more quickly and in a

more organized fashion when you order them to right before the battle.

Give them too much time to think, they might desert the field. Are you

thinking of deserting the field, Ty?"

His gaze lifted, and she saw the steel in his eyes. Hard and cold. "I've

run MacMillan for eight years. I'm not walking away from it."

No, he wouldn't muck it up. "Okay. Let's start from there. You want what

you want, I want what I want. How do we get it?" She pushed to her feet,

paced. "Easier for you."

"Why is that?"

"I essentially give up my apartment and move back home. You get to stay

right where you are. I have to take a crash course in winemaking, and

all you have to do is socialize and go to a few meetings now and then."

"You think that's easier? Socializing involves people. I don't like

people. And while I'm going to meetings about things I don't give a

rat's ass about, some guy I don't even know is going to be looking over

my shoulder."

"Mine, too," she snapped back. "Who the hell is this David Cutter?"

"A suit," Ty said in disgust.

"More than that," Sophia murmured. If she'd believed that, she wouldn't

have been concerned. She knew how to handle suits. "We'll just have to

find out how much more." That was something she could take care of very

shortly, and very thoroughly. "And we're going to have to find a way to

work with him, and each other. The last part shouldn't be that hard.

We've known each other for years."

She was moving fast where he preferred to pace himself. But damned if he

wasn't going to keep up. "No, we haven't. I don't know you, or what you

do or why you do it."

She put her palms on the table, leaned forward. Her magnificent face

moved close to his. "Sophia Tereza Maria Giambelli. I market wine. And I

do it because I'm good at it. And in one year, I'm going to own twenty

percent of one of the biggest, most successful and important wine

companies in the world."

He rose slowly, mimicked her pose. "You're going to have to be good at

it, and a lot more for that. You're going to have to get your hands

dirty, and get mud on your designer boots and ruin your pretty

manicure."

"Do you think I don't know how to work, MacMillan?"

"I think you know how to sit behind a desk or on a first-class seat on a

plane. That superior ass of yours isn't going to find life so cozy for

the next year. Giambelli."

She saw the red haze at the edges of her vision, a sure sign temper was

taking over and she was about to do something foolish. "Side bet. Five

thousand dollars says I'm a better winemaker than you are executive at

the end of the season."

"Who decides?"

"Neutral party. David Cutter."

"Done." He reached over and gripped her slim hand in his big, hard one.

"Buy yourself some rough clothes and some boots that were made for work

instead of fashion. Be ready to start your first lesson tomorrow, seven

A.M."

"Fine." She set her teeth. "We'll break at noon, head down to the city

for your first lesson. You can take an hour out to buy some decent suits

that have been tailored in the last decade."

"You're supposed to move here. Why do we have to go to the city?"

"Because I need a number of things in my office, and you need to be

familiarized with the routine there. I also need things from my

apartment. You've got a strong back and your ass isn't bad, either," she

added, smiling thinly. "You can help me move."

"I've got something to say."

"Well, goodness. Let me prepare myself."

"I don't like your mouth. Never did." He jammed his hands in his pockets

because when she smirked, as she was doing now, he really just wanted to

pop her one. "But I've got nothing against you."

"Oh, Ty. That's so… touching."

"Look, just shut up." He dragged a hand through his hair, jammed it back

in his pocket. "You do what you do because you're good at it. I do what

I do because I love it. It's all I've ever wanted to do. I got nothing

against you, Sophia, but if it looks like you're going to cost me my

vines, I'll cut you out."

Intrigued, and challenged, she studied him from a new angle. Who'd have

thought the boy next door could be ruthless? "All right, so warned. And

same goes, Ty. Whatever I have to do, I protect what's mine."

Blowing out a breath, she looked down at the contracts, then lifted her

gaze back to his. "I guess we're on the same page here."

"Looks that way."

"Got a pen?"

"No."

She walked to a server, found two in a drawer. She offered him one,

flipped through her contract to the signature page. "I guess we can

witness each other's." She drew a deep breath, held it. "On three?"

"One, two. Three."

In silence, they signed, slid contracts across the table, witnessed.

Because her stomach was churning, Sophia topped off their glasses,

waited for Tyler to lift his. "To the new generation," she said.

"To a good season."

"We won't have one without the other." With her eyes on his, she clinked

glasses. "Salute."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter Four

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Contents - Prev | Next

The rain was razor-thin and mean with cold, a miserable drizzle that

sliced through the bones and into the spirit. It turned the light

blanket of snow into a mire of mud and the dawn light into a gloomy

smear on the sky.

It was the sort of morning when a reasonable person snuggled in bed. Or

at the very least lingered over a second cup of coffee.

Tyler MacMillan, Sophia discovered, was not a reasonable person.

The phone woke her, had her sliding a hand reluctantly out of the

covers, groping for the receiver, then dragging it under the warmth with

her. "What?"

"You're late."

"Huh? I am not. It's still dark."

"It's not dark, it's raining. Get up, get dressed, get out and get over

here. You're on my time now."

"But…" The drone of the dial tone made her scowl. "Bastard," she

muttered, but she couldn't dram up enough energy to put any punch into

it.

She lay still, listening to the hiss of rain on the windows. It sounded

as if it had ice around the edges. And wouldn't that be pleasant?

Yawning, she tossed back the covers and got out of bed. She might have

been on his time now, she thought, but before long he'd be on hers.

The rain dripped off the bill of Ty's cap and occasionally snuck under

his collar to slide down his back. Still, it wasn't heavy enough to stop

the work.

And a rainy winter was a blessing. A cool, wet winter was the first

crucial step toward a rare vintage.

He would control what he could control--the work, the decisions, the

precautions and the gambles. And he would pray that nature got on board

with the team.

The team, he thought, hooking his thumbs in his pockets and watching

Sophia trudge through the mud in her five-hundred-dollar boots, that had

increased by one.

"I told you to wear rough clothes."

She puffed out a breath, watched the rain dissolve it. "These are my

rough clothes."

He studied her sleek leather jacket, the tailored trousers, the stylish

Italian boots. "Well, they will be before it's over."

"I was under the impression rain delayed pruning."

"It's not raining."

"Oh?" Sophia held out a hand, palm up, and let the rain patter into it.

"Isn't that strange, I've always defined this wet substance falling out

of the sky as rain."

"It's drizzling. Where's your hat?"

"I didn't wear one."

"Jesus." Annoyed, he pulled his own cap off, tugged it over her head.

Even its wet, battered ugliness couldn't detract from her style. He

imagined it was bred into her, like bones.

"There are two primary reasons for pruning," he began.

"Ty, I'm aware there are reasons for pruning."

"Fine. Explain them to me."

"To train the vine," she said between her teeth. "And if we're going to

have an oral lesson, why can't we do it inside where we'd be warm and

dry?"

"Because the vines are outside." And because, he thought, here he ran

the show. "We prune to train the vines to facilitate their shape for

easier cultivation and harvesting, and to control disease."

"Ty--"

"Quiet. A lot of vineyards use trellising techniques instead of hand

pruning. Here, because farming's an unending experiment, we use both.

Vertical trellising, the Geneva T-support and other types. But we still

use the traditional hand-pruning method. The second purpose is to

distribute the bearing wood over the vine to increase its production,

while keeping it consistent with the ability to produce top-quality

fruit."

When he told her to be quiet, he did so like a patient parent might to a

small, irritable child. She imagined he knew it and fluttered her

lashes. "Is there going to be a quiz, Professor?"

"You don't prune my vines, or learn trellising, until you know why

you're doing it."

"We prune and trellis to grow grapes. We grow grapes to make wine."

Her hands moved as she spoke. It was like a ballet, he'd always thought.

Graceful and full of meaning.

"And," she continued, "I sell the wine through clever, innovative

promotion and marketing techniques. Which, I'll remind you, are as

essential to this vineyard as your pruning shears."

"Fine, but we're in the vineyard, not in your office. You don't take an

action here without being aware of the cause and the consequence."

"I've always thought it more being aware of the odds. It's a gamble,"

she said, gesturing widely. "A high-stakes game, but a game at the

core."

"You play games for fun."

She smiled now and reminded him of her grandmother. "Not the way I play

them, sweetheart. These are older vines here." She studied the rows on

either side of them.

The rain was dampening his hair, teasing out those reddish highlights,

the color of a good aged Cabernet. "Head pruning here, then."

"Why?"

She adjusted the bill of the cap. "Because."

"Because," he continued, taking his pruners out of their sheath on his

belt, "we want the bearing spurs distributed evenly on the head of the

vine."

He turned her, slapped the tool in her hands. He pushed a cane aside,

exposing another, then guided her hands toward it and made the cut with

her. "We want the center, the top, left open. It needs room to get

enough sun."

"What about mechanical pruning?"

"We do that, too. You don't." He shifted her to the next cane. She

smelled female, he decided. An exotic counterpoint to the simple perfume

of rain and damp earth.

Why the hell did she have to splash on perfume to work in the fields? He

nearly asked her, realized he wouldn't like or understand her reasons,

and let it go.

"You work by hand," he told her, and did his level best not to breathe

her in. "Cane by cane. Plant by plant. Row by row."

She scanned the endless stream of them, the countless vines being tended

by laborers, or waiting to be tended. The pruning, she knew, would run

through January, into February. She imagined herself bored senseless

with the process before Christmas.

"We break at noon," she reminded him.

"One. You were late."

"Not that late." She turned her head, and her body angled into his. He

was leaning over her, his arms around her so that his hands could cover

hers on cane and tool. The slight shift was uncalculated. And potent.

Their eyes met, irritation in his, consideration in hers. She felt his

body tense, and the tingle of response inside her own. A slightly

quickened pulse, a kind of instinctive scenting of the air, and the

resulting stir of juices.

"Well, well." She all but purred it, and let her gaze skim down to his

mouth, then back again. "Who'd have thought it?"

"Cut it out." He straightened up, took a step back as a man would on

finding himself unexpectedly at the edge of a very long drop. But she

simply continued her turn so that their bodies brushed again. And a

second step back would have marked him a coward. Or a fool.

"Don't worry, MacMillan, you're not my type." Big, rough, elemental.

"Usually."

"You're not mine." Sharp, slick, dangerous. "Ever."

If he'd known her better, he'd have realized such a statement wasn't an

insult to her. But a challenge. Her mild, and purely elemental, interest

climbed up another level. "Really? What is?"

"I don't like cocky, aggressive women with fancy edges."

She grinned. "You will." She turned back to the canes. "We'll break at

twelve-thirty." Once again she looked over her shoulder at him.

"Compromise. We're going to have to do a lot of it to get through this

season."

"Twelve-thirty." He pulled off his gloves, held them out to her. "Wear

these. You'll get blisters on those city-girl hands."

"Thanks. They're too big."

"Make do. Tomorrow you bring your own, and you wear a hat. No, not

there," he said as she started to clip another cane.

He moved in behind her again, put his hands over hers and angled the

tool correctly.

And didn't see her slow, satisfied smile.

Despite the gloves, she got the blisters. They were more annoying than

painful as she did a quick change for the afternoon in the city. Dressed

and polished, she grabbed her briefcase and called out a goodbye as she

dashed out the door. During the short drive to MacMillan she ran over

her needs and obligations for the rest of the day. She was going to have

to pack quite a bit into a very short amount of time.

She zipped up to the front entrance of the sprawling

cedar-and-fieldstone house, gave two quick toots of the horn. He didn't

keep her waiting, which pleased her. And he had changed, she noted, so

that counted for something. Though the denim shirt and comfortably faded

jeans were a long level down from what she considered casual office

wear, she decided to tackle his wardrobe later.

He opened the door of her BMW convertible, scowled at her and the

ragtop. "You expect me to fold myself into this little toy?"

"It's roomier than it looks. Come on, you're on my time now."

"Couldn't you have driven one of the four-wheels?" he complained as he

levered himself into the passenger seat.

He looked, she thought, like a big, cranky Jack in a very small, spiffy

box. "Yes, but I didn't. Besides, I like driving my own car." She proved

it, the minute his seat belt was secured, by punching the gas and flying

down the drive.

She liked the glimpses of mountain through the rain. Like shadows behind

a silver curtain. And the row upon row of naked vines, waiting, just

waiting for sun and warmth to lure them into life again.

She sped past the MacMillan winery, its faded brick upholstered with

vines, its gables proud and stern. It was, to her, a romantic and lovely

entrance to the mysteries of the caves it guarded. Inside, as inside the

winery at Giambelli, workers would be lifting, twisting the aging

bottles of champagne or readying the tasting room if there was a tour or

wine club scheduled for the day. Others might be transferring wine from

vat to vat as it cleared and clarified.

There was work, she knew, in the buildings, in the caves, in the plants,

even as the vines slept.

And, she thought, there was work for her in San Francisco.

She was racing out of the valley like a woman breaking out of jail. Ty

wondered if she felt that way.

"Why is my seat warm?"

"Your what? Oh." She glanced over, laughing. "Just my little way of

warming your ass up, darling. Don't like it?"

She clicked the button, turned off the heated seat. "Our top priority,"

she began, "is the centennial campaign. There are a lot of stages, some

of which, like the auction earlier this week, are already implemented.

Others are still on the drawing board. We're looking for something fresh

but that also honors tradition. Something classy and discreet that

appeals to our high-end and/or more mature accounts, and something kicky

that catches the interest of the younger and/or less affluent market."

"Yeah, right."

"Ty, this is something you have to understand the causes and

consequences of as well. Selling the wine is every bit as essential as

what you do. Otherwise, you're just making it for yourself, aren't you?"

He shifted, tried to find room for his legs. "Sure would be easier that

way."

"Look, you make different levels of wine. The superior grade that costs

more to produce, more to bottle, more to store and so on, and your

middle of the line right down to the jug wine. More goes in the process

than the wine."

"Without the wine, nothing else matters."

"Be that as it may," she said with what she considered heroic patience,

"it's part of my job, and now yours, to help sell those grades to the

consumer. The individual consumer and the big accounts. Hotels,

restaurants. To pull in the wine merchants, the brokers, and make them

see they must have Giambelli, or what will now be Giambelli-MacMillan,

on their list. To do that, I have to sell the package as well as what's

inside the bottle."

"The packaging's fluff," he said, eyeing her deliberately. "It's what's

inside that tips the scales."

"That's a very clever, and subtle, insult. You get a point. However,

packaging, marketing, promotion are what up the product on the scale to

begin with. With people, and with wine. Let's stick with wine for the

moment, shall we?"

His lips twitched. Her tone had gone frigid and keen, a sure sign he'd

indeed scored a point. "Sure."

"I have to make the idea of the product intriguing, exclusive,

accessible, substantial, fun, sexy. So I have to know the product and

there we're on even ground. But I also have to know the account, and the

market I'm targeting. That's what you have to learn."

"Surveys, statistics, parties, polls, meetings."

She reached over and patted his hand. "You'll live through it." She

paused, slowed down slightly. "Do you recognize that van?"

He frowned, squinting through the windshield as a dark, late-model

minivan turned on the road up ahead into the entrance to Villa

Giambelli. "No."

"Cutter," Sophia muttered. "I just bet it's Cutter."

"We could put off the trip to San Francisco and find out."

It was tempting, and the hope in Ty's voice amused her. Still, she shook

her head and kept on driving. "No, that would make him too important.

Besides, I'll grill my mother when I get home."

"I want in that loop."

"For better or worse, Ty, you and I are in this together. I'll keep you

in my loop, you keep me in yours."

It was a long way from coast to coast. It was, in some ways, another

world, a world where everyone was a stranger. He'd ripped out the roots

he'd managed to sink into New York concrete with the hope he could plant

them here, in the hills and valleys of northern California.

If it had been that, only that, David wouldn't have been worried. He'd

have found it an adventure, a thrill, the kind of freewheeling gamble

he'd have jumped at in his youth. But when a man was forty-three and had

two teenagers depending on him, there was a great deal at stake.

If he'd been certain remaining with La Coeur in New York was what was

best for his kids, he'd have stayed there. He'd have stifled there,

trapped in the glass and steel of his office. But he'd stopped being

sure when his sixteen-year-old son had been picked up for shoplifting,

and his fourteen-year-old daughter had started painting her toe-nails

black.

He'd been losing touch with his kids, and in losing touch, losing

control. When the offer from Giambelli-MacMillan had fallen in his lap,

it had seemed like a sign.

Take a chance. Start fresh.

God knew it wouldn't be the first time he'd done both. But this time he

did so with his kids' happiness tossed into the ante.

"This place is in the middle of nowhere."

David glanced in the rearview mirror at his son. Maddy had won the toss

in San Francisco and sat, desperately trying to look bored, in the front

seat. "How," David asked, "can nowhere have a middle? I've always

wondered that."

He had the pleasure of seeing Theo smirk, the closest he came to a

genuine smile these days.

He looks like his mother, David thought. A young male version of Sylvia.

Which, David knew, neither Theo nor Sylvia would appreciate. They had

that in common as well, both of them bound and determined to be seen as

individuals.

For Sylvia, that had meant stepping out of marriage and away from

motherhood. For Theo… time, David supposed, would tell.

"Why does it have to be raining?" Maddy slumped in her seat and tried

not to let her eyes gleam with excitement as she studied the huge stone

mansion in front of the car.

"Well, it has something to do with moisture gathering in the atmosphere,

then--"

"Dad." She giggled, and to David it was music.

He was going to get his children back here, whatever it took. "Let's go

meet La Signora."

"Do we have to call her that?" Maddy rolled her eyes. "It's so

medieval."

"Let's start out with Ms. Giambelli and work from there. And let's try

to look normal."

"Mad can't. Geeks never look normal."

"Neither do freaks." Maddy clumped out of the car on her ugly black

boots with their two-inch platforms. She stood in the rain, looking to

her father like some sort of eccentric princess with her long pale hair,

pouty lips and long-lashed blue eyes. Her little body--she was still

such a little thing--was draped and swathed in layers of black. There

were three silver chains dangling from her right ear--a compromise, as

David had been terrified when she'd started campaigning to have her

nose, or somewhere even more unsanitary, pierced.

Theo was a dark contrast. Tall, gangly, with his deep brown hair a

curling, unkempt mass around his pretty face, straggling toward his

still bony shoulders. His eyes were a softer blue, and too often for his

father's taste, clouded and unhappy.

He slouched now in jeans that were too baggy, shoes nearly as ugly as

his sister's and a jacket that sagged past his hips.

Just clothes, David reminded himself. Clothes and hair, nothing

permanent. Hadn't his own parents nagged him into rebellion about his

personal style when he'd been a teenager? And hadn't he promised himself

he wouldn't do the same with his kids?

But God, he wished they'd at least wear clothes that fit.

He walked up the wide fan of steps, then stood in front of the deeply

carved front door of the villa and dragged a hand through his own thick,

dark blond hair.

"What's the matter, Dad? Nervous?"

There was a smirk in his son's voice, just enough of one to strain the

wire holding David's composure together. "Give me a break, okay?"

Theo opened his mouth, a sarcastic retort on the tip of his tongue. But

he caught the warning look his sister gave him and saw his father's

strained expression. "Hey, you can handle her."

"Sure." Maddy shrugged. "She's just an old Italian woman, right?"

With a half-laugh, David punched his finger to the buzzer. "Right."

"Wait, I gotta get my normal face on." Theo put his hands on his face,

shoving, pulling at the skin, drawing his eyes down, twisting his mouth.

"I can't find it."

David hooked an arm around his neck, and the other around Maddy's. They

were going to be all right, he thought, and held on. They were going to

be fine.

"I'll get it, Maria!" Pilar dashed down the foyer, a spray of white

roses in her arms.

When she opened the door she saw a tall man holding two children in

headlocks. All three of them were grinning.

"Hello. Can I help you?"

Not an old Italian woman, David thought as he hastily released his

children. Just a beautiful woman, with surprise in her eyes and roses

lying in the crook of her arm. "I'm here to see Ms. Giambelli."

Pilar smiled, scanned the faces of the boy and girl to include them.

"There are so many of us."

"Tereza Giambelli. I'm David Cutter."

"Oh. Mr. Cutter. I'm sorry." She held out a hand for his. "I didn't

realize you were expected today." Or that you had a family, she thought.

Her mother hadn't been forthcoming with details. "Please come in. I'm

Pilar. Pilar Giambelli…" She nearly added her married name, a force of

habit. Then determinedly let it go. "La Signora's daughter."

"Do you call her that?" Maddy asked.

"Sometimes. When you meet her, you'll see why."

"Madeline, my daughter. My son, Theodore."

"Theo," Theo mumbled.

"I'm delighted to meet you. Theo. And Madeline."

"Maddy, okay?"

"Maddy. Come into the parlor. There's a nice fire. I'll arrange for some

refreshments if that suits you. Such a nasty day. I hope it wasn't a

terrible trip."

"Not so bad."

"Endless," Maddy corrected. "Awful." But she stared at the room when

they entered. It was like a palace, she thought. Like a picture in a

book, where everything was in rich colors and looked old and precious.

"I bet it was. Let me have your coats."

"They're wet," David began, but she simply plucked them out of his hand

and draped them over her free arm.

"I'll take care of them. Please, sit, make yourselves at home. I'll let

my mother know you're here and see about something hot to drink. Would

you like coffee, Mr. Cutter?"

"I absolutely would, Ms. Giambelli."

"So would I."

"No, you wouldn't," he said to Maddy and had her sulking again.

"A latte, perhaps?"

"That's cool. I mean," she corrected when her father's elbow reminded

her of her manners, "yes, thank you."

"And, Theo?"

"Yes, ma'am, thank you."

"It'll just take a minute."

"Man." Theo waited until Pilar was safely out of the room, then plopped

into a chair. "They must be mega-rich. This place looks like a museum or

something."

"Don't put your boots up on that," David ordered.

"It's a footstool," Theo pointed out.

"Once you put feet into those boots they cease to be feet."

"Chill, Dad." Maddy gave him a bracing, and distressingly adult, pat on

the back. "You're like COO and everything."

"Right." From executive vice president, operations, to chief operating

officer, in one three-thousand-mile leap. "Bullets bounce off me," he

murmured, then turned toward the doorway when he heard footsteps.

He started to tell his kids to stand up, but he didn't have to bother.

When Tereza Giambelli walked into a room, people got to their feet.

He'd forgotten she was so petite. They'd had two meetings in New York,

face-to-face. Two long, involved meetings. And still he'd walked away

from them with the image of a statuesque Amazon rather than the

fine-boned, slim woman who walked toward him now. The hand she offered

him was small and strong.

"Mr. Cutter. Welcome to Villa Giambelli."

"Thank you, signora. You have a beautiful home in a magnificent setting.

My family and I are grateful for your hospitality."

Pilar stepped into the room in time to hear the smooth speech and see

the practiced formality with which it was delivered. It was not, she

thought, what she'd expected from the man holding two travel-rumpled

teenagers in playful headlocks. Not, she decided, noting the sidelong

glances from his children, what they were used to from him.

"I hope the trip wasn't tedious," Tereza continued, shifting her

attention to the children.

"Not at all. We enjoyed it. Signora Giambelli, I'd like to introduce you

to my children. My son, Theodore, and my daughter, Madeline."

"Welcome to California." She offered her hand to Theo, and though he

felt foolish, he shook it and resisted sticking his own in his pocket.

"Thanks."

Maddy accepted the hand. "It's nice to be here."

"You hope it will be," Tereza said with a hint of a smile. "That's

enough for now. Please, sit. Be comfortable. Pilar, you'll join us."

"Of course."

"You must be proud of your father," Tereza began as she took a seat.

"And all he's accomplished."

"Ah… sure." Theo sat, remembered not to slouch. He didn't know much

about his father's work. In his world, his dad went to the office, then

came home. He nagged about schoolwork, burned dinner, sent for takeout.

Or, mostly during the last year, had called home and said he'd be late

and Theo or Maddy should call for takeout.

"Theo's more interested in music than wine, or the business of wine,"

David commented.

"Ah. And you play?"

This was his father's deal, Theo thought. How come he had to answer so

many questions? Adults didn't get it anyway. "Guitar. And piano."

"You must play for me sometime. I enjoy music. What sort do you prefer?"

"There's just rock. I go for techno, and alternative."

"Theo writes music," David put in, and surprised a blink out of his son.

"It's interesting material."

"I'd like to hear it once everyone's settled. And you," Tereza said to

Maddy. "Do you play?"

"I had piano lessons." She shrugged a shoulder. "I'm not really into it.

I want to be a scientist." Her brother's snort had her temper rising.

"Maddy's interested in everything." David spoke quickly before blood

could be shed. "The high school here, from what I've been told, should

speak to both her and Theo's specific interests very well."

"Arts and science." Tereza leaned back. "They take after their father

then, as wine is both. I assume you'll want a few days to settle in,"

she continued as a cart was wheeled in. "A new position, a new location,

new people. And, of course, a new school and routine for your family."

"Dad says it's an adventure," Maddy said and earned a stately nod from

Tereza.

"And we'll try to make it so."

"I'm at your disposal, signora," David said, and watched Pilar as she

rose to serve coffees and cakes. "I appreciate, again, the use of your

guest house. I'm sure settling in will be a pleasure."

Because he was watching her, he caught the quick widening of Pilar's

eyes. So, he thought, that one comes as a surprise to you. I wonder why.

"Thanks."

"Enjoy," Pilar murmured.

When the coffee was served, they fell into light conversation. David

followed Tereza's lead and left business out of it. Time enough, he

concluded, to get to the meat.

In precisely twenty minutes, Tereza got to her feet. "I regret my

husband was unavailable to see you today, and meet your charming

children. Would it be convenient for you to meet with us tomorrow?"

"At your convenience, signora." David rose.

"At eleven then. Pilar, will you show the Cutters the guest house, and

see they have all they need?"

"Certainly. I'll just get our coats."

What the hell was this? Pilar wondered as she retrieved jackets.

Normally she had her finger on the pulse of the household. Yet her

mother had managed to slip an entire family in on her without sending up

a single alarm.

So many changes, and practically overnight. It was time she paid more

attention, she decided. She didn't care for the order of things to

change when she wasn't prepared for it.

Still, she conversed easily when she returned and geared herself up to

play gracious hostess. "It's a short drive. An easy walk really, in good

weather."

"Winter rain's good for the grapes." David took her jacket, helped her

into it.

"Yes. So I'm reminded whenever I complain about the wet." She stepped

outside. "There's a direct line from house to house, so you've only to

call if you need anything or have a question. Our housekeeper's Maria,

and there's nothing she can't do. Thank you," she added when David

opened the side door of the van for her.

"You'll have wonderful views," she added, shifting around to speak to

the children when they climbed in the back. "From whichever bedrooms you

choose. And there's a pool. Of course, you won't be able to enjoy that

just now, but you're welcome to use the indoor pool here at the main

house whenever you like."

"An indoor pool?" Theo's mood brightened. "Cool."

"That doesn't mean you drop in wearing your bathing trunks whenever you

feel like it," his father warned. "You don't want to give them the run

of the house, Ms. Giambelli. You'll be in therapy in a week."

"Hasn't worked for you," Theo shot back.

"We'll enjoy having young people around. And it's Pilar, please."

"David."

Behind their backs, Maddy turned to her brother and fluttered her lashes

wildly.

"David. Just take the left fork. You can see the house there. It's a

pretty place, and the rain gives it a bit of a fairy-tale aspect."

"Is that it?" Suddenly interested, Theo leaned up. "It's pretty big."

"Four bedrooms. Five baths. There's a lovely living room, but the

kitchen/great room is friendlier, I think. Anybody cook?"

"Dad pretends to," Maddy said. "And we pretend to eat it."

"Smart-ass. Do you?" David asked Pilar. "Cook?"

"Yes, and very well, but rarely. Well, perhaps your wife will enjoy the

kitchen when she joins you."

The instant and absolute silence had Pilar cringing inside.

"I'm divorced." David pulled up in front of the house. "It's just the

three of us. Let's check it out. We'll get the stuff later."

"I'm very sorry," Pilar murmured when the kids bolted from the van. "I

shouldn't have assumed--"

"Natural assumption. A man, a couple of kids. You expect the full family

complement. Don't worry about it." He patted her hand casually, then

reached across to open her door. "You know, they're going to have to

fight over the bedrooms. I hope you don't mind screaming scenes."

"I'm Italian," was all she said and stepped out into the rain.

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Chapter Five

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Italian, David thought later. And gorgeous. Aloof and gracious at the

same time. Not an easy trick. In that area, she was her mother's

daughter.

He knew how to read people, an invaluable trick of the trade in the

climb up the slippery executive ladder in any major corporation. His

read of Pilar Giambelli was that she was as accustomed to giving orders

as she was to taking them.

He knew she was married, and to whom, but since she hadn't been wearing

a ring he assumed the marriage to the infamous Tony Avano was over, or

in serious trouble. He'd have to find out which before he let himself

consider her on a more personal level.

There was a daughter. Anyone in the business had heard of Sophia

Giambelli. A firecracker by reputation who had style and ambition in

spades. He'd be meeting her along the way, and wondered just how she'd

taken to his induction as COO. Might have to play some politics there,

he mused, and reached for the cigarettes in his pocket. Only to remember

they weren't there because he'd quit three weeks and five days earlier.

And it was killing him.

Think about something else, he ordered himself, and tuned in to the

music played at a brutal volume in his son's new room. Thank God it was

at the other end of the hall.

There'd been the expected combat over bedrooms. Still, his kids had been

fairly restrained all in all. He put that down to reluctant manners in

front of a stranger. In any case the squabble had been out of habit and

without real heat as every room in the house was appealing.

Damn near perfect, he thought, with its gleaming wood and tile, silky

walls and lush furnishings.

The perfection, the casually elegant style, the absolute order of things

gave him the willies. But he expected the kids would soon put that to

rights. Tidy they weren't. So however polished the box, the contents

would soon be jumbled and they'd all feel more at home.

Already weary of unpacking, he wandered to one of the windows and stared

out over the fields. Pilar was right. The view was stunning. This was

part of his turf now. He intended to leave his mark.

Down the hall Maddy wandered out of her room. She'd tried to act casual

about it after arguing with Theo over who got what. The fact was she was

thrilled. For the first time in her life she didn't have to share a

bathroom with her idiot brother. And hers was done in this cool pattern

of dark blues and deep reds. Big splashy flowers, so she imagined taking

a bath there would be like swimming in some weird garden.

Plus she had a huge four-poster bed. She'd locked the door so she could

roll all over it in privacy.

Then she'd remembered that she wouldn't see New York when she looked out

the windows, or be able to call one of her friends and hang out. She

wouldn't be able to walk to the movies whenever she felt like it. She

wouldn't be able to do anything she was used to doing.

Homesickness had settled so hot and heavy in her belly it ached. The

only person she could talk to was Theo. It was the poorest of choices,

in her opinion, but the only one left.

She pushed open his door to a blast of the Chemical Brothers. He was

lying on his bed, his guitar across his chest as he tried to match the

guitar riff blasting on his stereo. The room was already in chaos, as

she imagined it would stay until he moved out to go to college.

He was such a pig.

"You're supposed to be unpacking."

"You're supposed to mind your own business."

She flopped, stomach down, on the foot of his bed. "There's nothing to

do here."

"You just figuring that out?"

"Maybe Dad'll hate it, and we'll go home."

"No chance. Did you see how he slicked up for the old lady?" Because he

felt homesick, too, he set his guitar aside and opted to speak to the

bane of his existence. "What's up with that?"

"He sounded like something out of a movie. You know how he looks when he

puts on one of his suits for a meeting?" She rolled over on her back.

"He sounded like he looks then. Nothing's going to be the same now. He

was looking at that woman."

"Huh?"

"The Pilar woman. What kind of a name is that?"

"I guess it's Italian or something. What do you mean looking at her?"

"You know. Scoping her out."

"Get out."

"Man, guys don't notice anything." Feeling superior, she sat up, tossed

back her hair. "He was checking her out."

"So what?" Theo gave a little jerk of the body, a horizontal shrug.

"He's checked out women before. Hey, I bet he's even had sex with some

of them."

"Gee, you think?" While the sarcasm dripped, she pushed off the bed to

pace to the window. Rain and vines, vines and rain. "Maybe if he has sex

with his boss's daughter, he'll get caught, he'll get fired, and we'll

go back home."

"Home where? He loses his job, we've got no place to go. Grow up,

Maddy."

She hunched her shoulders. "This sucks."

"Tell me about it."

Ty was thinking the same thing about life in general as Sophia whipped

him into a meeting--a brainstorming session, she called it. She'd

rattled off names at him as she'd zipped through the advertising

section. Gesturing, calling out orders and greetings, snatching up

messages as she went.

He remembered none of the names, of course, and the faces had all been a

blur as he'd kept pace with Sophia. The woman moved like a linebacker

with an intercepted ball in her hand. Fast and slick.

There were three other people in the room now, all what he thought of as

Urban Warriors with their trendy clothes and trendy hair and little

wire-rim glasses and electronic palm books. Two were female, one was

male. All were young and handsome. He couldn't for the life of him

remember who was who, as they'd all had androgynous names.

He had some kind of fancy coffee in his hand he hadn't wanted and

everyone was talking at once and munching on biscotti.

He was getting a killer headache.

"No, Kris, what I'm looking for is subtle but powerful. A strong image

with an emotional message. Trace, quick sketch: couple--young, casual,

late twenties. Relaxing on a porch. Sexual, but keep it casual."

Since the man with the blond choppy hair picked up the pencil and sketch

pad, Ty assumed he was Trace.

"It's sunset," Sophia continued, rising from her desk to wander the

room. "End of day. This is a working couple, no kids, upwardly mobile,

but settled."

"Porch swing," the perky black woman in a red vest suggested.

"Too settled. Too country. Wicker love seat, maybe," Sophia said.

"Strong color in the cushions. Candles on the table. Fat ones, not

tapers."

She leaned over Trace's shoulder, made humming noises. "Good, good, but

do it this way. Have them looking at each other, maybe have her leg

swung over his knees. Friendly intimacy. Roll up his sleeves, put her in

jeans, no, in khakis."

She sat on the edge of her desk, lips pursed as she pondered. "I want

them to be having a conversation. Relaxed, having a moment. Enjoying

each other's company after a busy day."

"What if one of them's pouring the wine. Holding the bottle."

"We'll try that. You want to sketch that one out, P.J.?"

With a nod perky P.J., as Ty now thought of her, picked up her pad.

"You should have water." The second woman, a redhead who looked bored

and annoyed, stifled a yawn.

"I see we've interrupted Kris's nap," Sophia said sweetly, and Ty caught

the quick, simmering glare under the redhead's lowered lashes.

"Suburban scenes bore me. At least water adds an element, and subliminal

sexuality."

"Kris wants water." Sophia nodded, pushed to her feet to wander the room

while she considered. "Water's good. A pond, a lake. We can get good

light from that. Reflections. Take a look, Ty. What do you think?"

He did his best to tune back in and look intelligent as Trace turned his

sketch around. "I don't know anything about advertising. It's a nice

sketch."

"You look at ads," Sophia reminded him. "All the time, whether you

consciously take in the message or not. What does this say to you?"

"It says they're sitting on the porch drinking wine. Why can't they have

kids?"

"Why should they?"

"You got a couple, on a porch. Porch usually means house. Why can't they

have kids?"

"Because we don't want young kids in an ad for an alcoholic beverage,"

Kris said, with a hint of a sneer in her voice. "Advertising 101."

"Evidence of kids then. You know, some toys on the porch. Then it says

these people have a family, have been together awhile and are still

happy to sit on the porch together and have a glass of wine at the end

of the day. That's sexy."

Kris started to open her mouth, then noted the gleam come into Sophia's

eyes. And wisely closed it again.

"That's good. That's excellent," Sophia said. "Even better for this one.

Toss toys on the porch, Trace. Keep the wine bottle on the table with

the candles. Here's our cozy yet hip suburban couple.

"Celebrate the sunset," she murmured. "It's your moment. Relax with

Giambelli. It's your wine."

"More cozy than hip," Kris muttered.

"We use an urban setting for hip. Two couples, friends getting together

for an evening. Apartment scene. Keep them young, keep them slick. Show

me the city out the window. Lights and silhouettes."

"Coffee table," P.J. put in, already sketching. "A couple of them

sitting on the floor. The others lounging on the couch, everybody

talking at once. You can almost hear music playing. Food scattered on

the table. Takeout. This is where we pour the wine."

"Good, perfect. Celebrate Tuesday. Same tags."

"Why Tuesday?" Ty wanted to know in spite of himself.

"Because you never make big plans for Tuesday." Sophia slid onto the

edge of the desk again, crossed her legs. "You make plans for the

weekend. You fall into plans otherwise. Tuesday night with friends is

spontaneous. We want people to pick up a bottle of our wine on the spur.

Just because it's Tuesday. Your moment, your wine. That's the pitch."

"The wine's Giambelli-MacMillan."

She nodded. "Correct. We need to identify that as well within the

campaign. A wedding. Celebrate our marriage. Champagne, flowers, a

gorgeous couple."

"Honeymoon's sexier," Trace commented as he refined his other sketch.

"Same elements, but in a snazzy hotel room. Wedding dress hanging on the

door and our couple in a lip lock with champagne on ice."

"If they're in a lip lock, they're not going to be thinking about

drinking," Ty said.

"Good point. Hold the kiss, but the rest is great. Show me…" Her hands

began to move. "Anticipation. Silk, flowers, and put the flutes in their

hands. Give me eye lock instead of lip lock. Go, my children, and create

magic. See what you can get me in the next few hours. Think: Moments.

The special and the ordinary."

She recrossed her legs as her team headed out, talking over one another.

"Not bad, MacMillan. Not bad at all."

"Good. Can we go home now?"

"No. I've got a lot of stuff to deal with here, and more to pack up in

order to set up an office at the villa. Can you draw?"

"Sure."

"That's a plus." She scooted off the desk to cross over and dig a sketch

pad from a wall of shelves.

There were a lot of things on the shelves, Ty noted. Not just business

junk, but the knickknacks people, particularly female people, in his

opinion, seemed to collect. Leading the pack of the dust catchers were

frogs. Little green frogs, larger bronze frogs, dancing frogs,

fashionably dressed frogs and what appeared to be mating frogs.

They didn't seem to jibe with the sleekly dressed woman who bulleted

down office corridors on high heels and smelled like a night in the

forest.

"Looking for a prince?"

"Hmm?" She glanced back, following his gesture. "Oh. No, princes are too

high-maintenance. I just like frogs. Here's what I see. A kind of

montage. The vineyards, the sweep of them in the sunlight. Vines

pregnant with grapes. A solitary figure walking through the rows. Then

close up, enormous baskets of grapes, just harvested."

"We don't use baskets."

"Work with me here, Ty. Simplicity, accessibility, tradition. Gnarled

hands holding the basket. Then on to the casks, rows and rows of wooden

casks, dim light of the caves. The mystery, the romance. A couple of

interesting-looking guys in work clothes drawing out the free flow.

We'll use red, a lovely spill of red wine out of a cask. Then different

workers tasting, testing. Then finally a bottle. Maybe two glasses and a

corkscrew beside it.

"From vine to table. A hundred years of excellence. No, from our vines

to your table." Her brow furrowed as she pictured the ad in her mind.

"We lead with the hundred years of excellence, then the montage, and

below: From our vines to your table. The Giambelli-MacMillan tradition

continues."

She turned back to him, looked over his shoulder, then let out a snort.

He'd been sketching while she talked, and the result was circles and

stick men and a lopsided column she supposed was a bottle of red.

"You said you could draw."

"I didn't say I could draw well."

"Okay, we're in some trouble here. Sketching isn't my strong suit,

though compared to you, I'm da Vinci. I work better when I have some

visual aides." She blew out a breath, paced. "We'll make do. I'll have

the team fax me sketches as we go. We'll coordinate schedules so that we

can hold a weekly session either here or at my office in the villa."

She dropped down on the arm of his chair, frowned into space. She was

tuned in to her team, and had sensed the undercurrents. It was something

she needed to deal with right away. "I need a half hour here. Why don't

you head over to Armani, and I'll meet you there."

"Why am I going to Armani?"

"Because you need clothes."

"I have plenty of clothes."

"Honey, your clothes are like your drawing. They meet the basic

definition, but they aren't going to win any prizes. I get to outfit

you, then you can buy me the proper vintner attire." She gave his

shoulder an idle pat, then rose.

He wanted to argue, but didn't want to waste time. The sooner they were

finished and driving north, the happier he'd be.

"Where's Armani?"

She stared at him. The man had lived an hour out of San

Francisco for years. How could he not know? "See my assistant. She'll

point you in the right direction. I'll be right behind you."

"One suit," Ty warned as he walked to the door. "That's it."

"Mmm." They would see about that, she thought. It might be fun to dress

him up a bit. Sort of like molding clay. But before the fun started, she

had work. She walked back to her desk and picked up the phone. "Kris,

can I see you a minute? Yeah, now. My time's pretty tight."

With a roll of her shoulders, Sophia began gathering files and disks.

She'd worked with Kris for more than four years, and was very aware

there had been considerable resentment when the fresh-out-of-college

Sophia had taken over as head of the department. They'd come to terms,

delicately, but she had no doubt that Kris's nose was now seriously out

of joint.

Couldn't be helped, Sophia thought. Had to be dealt with.

There was a brisk knock, and Kris stepped in. "Sophia, I've got a pile

of work."

"I know. Five minutes. It's going to be rough shuffling things around

between here and Napa for the next several months. I'm in a pinch,

Kris."

"Really? You don't look pinched."

"You didn't see me pruning vines at dawn. Look, my grandmother has

reasons for what she does and how she does them. I don't always

understand them, and I very often don't like them, but it's her company.

I just work here."

"Right. Um-hmm."

Sophia stopped packing up, laid her palms on her desk and met Kris's

eyes dead-on. "If you think I'm going to enjoy juggling my time between

the work I love and mucking around the vineyards, you're crazy. And if

you think Tyler is gunning for a position here in these offices, think

again."

"Excuse me, but he now has a position in these offices."

"And one you believe should be yours. I'm not going to disagree with

you, but I'm telling you it's temporary. I need you here. I'm not going

to be able to drive down here every day, I'm not going to be able to

take all the meetings or delegate every assignment. Essentially, Kris,

you've just been promoted. You don't get a new title, but I will do

everything I can to see that you get the financial compensation for the

extra responsibilities that are about to be dumped on you."

"It's not about the money."

"But money never hurts," Sophia finished. "Ty's position here, and his

title, are titular. He doesn't know anything about promotion and

marketing, Kris, and isn't particularly interested in either."

"Interested enough to make comments and suggestions this morning."

"Just a minute." She could be patient, Sophia thought, but she would not

be pushed. "Do you expect him to sit here like a moron? He's entitled to

express an opinion, and it so happens he made very decent suggestions.

He's been tossed off the cliff without a parachute, and he's coping.

Take a lesson."

Kris set her teeth. She'd been with Giambelli nearly ten years and was

sick to death of being passed over for their precious bloodline. "He has

a parachute, and so do you. You were born with it. Either one of you

screw up, you bounce. That doesn't go for the rest of us."

"I won't go into personal family business with you. I will say you're a

valued member of the Giambelli, and now the Giambelli-MacMillan,

organization. I'm sorry if you feel your skills and talents have been

overlooked or undervalued. Whatever I can do to correct this, will be

done. But these adjustments must be made, and over the next several

months it would pay all of us to make sure we don't screw up. I have to

be able to depend on you. If I can't, I need you to let me know so that

I can make other arrangements."

"I'll do my job." Kris turned to the door, yanked it open. "And yours."

"Well," Sophia murmured when the door slammed smartly. "That was fun."

On a sigh, she picked up her phone again. "P.J., I need a minute."

"No, we want classic. This very subtle chalk stripe to start."

"Fine, great. I'll take it. Let's go."

"Tyler." Sophia pursed her lips and patted his cheek. "Go try it on,

like a good boy."

He snagged her wrist. "Mom?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Cut it out."

"If you'd done more than brood for the last thirty minutes on your own,

we'd be practically out the door. This one," she said, handing him the

rich brown with narrow stripes, "and this." She selected a classic black

three-piece.

To cut off any complaints, she wandered away from him to ponder the

shirts. "Shawn?" She gestured to one of the associates she knew by

sight. "My friend Mr. MacMillan? He's going to need guidance."

"I'll take good care of him, Ms. Giambelli. By the way, your father and

his fiancée were in just this morning."

"Really?"

"Yes, shopping for their honeymoon. If you're looking for something

special for the wedding, we have a fabulous new evening jacket that

would be smashing on you."

"I'm a little pressed for time today," she managed. "I'll come back and

see it first chance I get."

"Just let me know. I'll be happy to send some selections to you for

approval. I'll just check on Mr. MacMillan."

"Thanks." She picked up a dress shirt blindly, stared hard at the

cream-on-cream pattern.

Not wasting a minute, she thought. Shopping for the honeymoon before the

divorce is final. Spreading the word far and wide.

Maybe, maybe it was best she'd be out of her usual loop in the city for

a while. She wouldn't be running into people chatting about her father's

wedding every time she turned around.

Why was she letting it hurt her? And if it did, this much, how much

worse was it on her mother?

No point in raging, she told herself, and started through the shirts

like a woman panning for gold in a fast stream. No point in sulking.

No point in thinking.

She moved from shirts to ties and had a small mountain of choices when

Ty came out of the dressing room.

He looked annoyed, faintly mortified and absolutely gorgeous.

Take the farmer out of the dell, she mused, and just look what you got.

Big, broad shoulders, narrow hips and long legs in a classic Italian

suit.

"My, my." She angled her head, approving. "You do clean up well,

MacMillan. Leave fashion to the Italians and you can't go wrong. Call

the tailor, Shawn, and let's get this show on the road."

She walked over with two shirts, the cream-on-cream and a deep brown,

held them up to the jacket.

"What's the matter?" Ty asked her.

"Nothing. Both of these will do very well."

He took her wrist again, holding it until she shifted her gaze to his.

"What's wrong, Sophie?"

"Nothing," she repeated, troubled that he could see the worry brewing

inside her. "Nothing important. You look good," she added, working up a

smile. "All sturdy and sexy."

"They're just clothes."

She pressed a hand to her heart, staggered back a step. "MacMillan, if

you can think that, we have a long way to go before we get close to

middle ground." She plucked up a tie, draped it over the shirt. "Yes,

definitely. How do the pants fit?" she began and reached down to check

the waistband.

"Do you mind?" Flustered, he batted her hand away.

"If I was going to grope, I'd start lower. Why don't you put on the

black suit? The tailor can fuss with you."

He grumbled for form, but was relieved to escape to the privacy of the

dressing room. Nobody was going to fuss with him for another minute or

two.

He wasn't attracted to Sophia. Absolutely not. But the woman had been

studying him, touching him. He was human, wasn't he? A male human. And

he'd had a perfectly natural human male reaction.

Which he was not going to share with some tailor or a skinny clerk named

Shawn.

What he would do was calm himself back down, let them measure whatever

needed to be measured. He'd buy everything Sophia pushed on him and get

the ordeal over with.

He wished he knew what had happened between the time he'd gone into the

dressing area the first time and come out again. Whatever it was had put

unhappiness into those big, dark eyes of hers. The kind of unhappiness

that made him want to give her a shoulder to lean on.

That was a normal reaction, too, he assured himself as he stripped off

the chalk-striped and put on the black. He didn't like to see anything

or anyone hurting.

Still, under the circumstances he was going to have to stifle any and

all normal reactions to her.

He glanced at himself in the mirror, shook his head. Who the hell were

either of them going to fool by dressing him up in some snappy

three-piece suit? He was a damn farmer, and happy to be one.

Then he made the mistake of looking at the tag. He'd never realized a

series of numbers could actually stop the heart.

He was still in shock, and no longer remotely aroused, when Shawn came

chirpily into the dressing room with the tailor in tow.

"Consider it an investment," Sophia advised as she drove out of the city

and north. "And darling, you did look fabulous."

"Shut up. I'm not talking to you."

God, he was cute, she thought. Who knew? "Didn't I buy everything you

told me to buy? Even that ugly flannel shirt?"

"Yeah, and what did it cost you? Shirts, some trousers, a hat and boots.

Under five hundred bucks. My bill came to nearly twenty times that. I

can't believe I got hosed for ten thousand dollars."

"You'll look every inch the successful executive. You know, if I met you

when you were wearing that black suit, I'd want you."

"Is that so?" He tried to stretch out his legs in the little car, and

failed. "I wasn't wearing it this morning and you wanted me."

"No. I had a momentary lust surge. Entirely different. But there's

something about a man in a well-cut three-piece suit that does it for

me. What does it for you?"

"Naked women. I'm a simple man."

She laughed and, pleased to be on the open road, punched the gas. "No,

you're not. I thought you were, but you're not. You did well in the

office today. You held your own."

"Words and pictures." He shrugged. "What's the big deal?"

"Oh now, don't spoil it. Ty, I didn't say anything before we went in

because I didn't want your impressions to be colored with my opinions,

or my experience, but I think I should give you a basic personality

rundown of the people you'll work most closely with on my end."

"The guy goes along. He's got a good brain for what he does and likes

the work. Probably single so he doesn't have someone pushing him in the

ambition department. And he likes working around attractive women."

"Close enough." Impressed, she glanced over at him. "And a good

thumbnail for someone who claims not to like people."

"Not liking them much doesn't mean I can't read them. Perky P.J. now…"

He trailed off as she glanced his way and laughed. "What?" he said.

"Perky P.J. That's perfect."

"Yeah, well, she's got a lot of energy. You intimidate her, but she

tries not to let it show. She wants to be you when she grows up but

she's young enough to change her mind about that."

"She's easy to work with. She'll take whatever you toss at her and make

it shine. She's good at finding fresh angles, and she's learned not to

be afraid to squash an idea one of us lobs that doesn't hit the mark

with her. If you run into snags that I'm not around to untangle, you

should go to her."

"Because the redhead already hates my guts," Ty finished. "And doesn't

think much of yours, either. She doesn't want to be you when she grows

up. She wants to be you now, and she wouldn't mind if you had a sudden,

bloody accident that took you out so she could step into your shoes and

run the show."

"You did get a lot out of your first day in school. Kris is good, really

good with concepts, with campaigns and, when it's something she believes

in, with details. She's not a good manager because she rubs people wrong

and tends to be high-handed with other members of the staff. And you're

right, at the moment she hates you just because you exist in what she

considers her space. It's not personal."

"Yeah, it is. It's always personal. It doesn't worry me, but if I were

you, I'd watch my back. She'd like to leave her heel marks all over your

ass."

"She's tried, and she's failed." Idly, Sophia tapped her fingernails on

the steering wheel. "I'm a great deal tougher than people think I am."

"I got that already."

Ty settled back as best he could. They'd see how tough she was after a

few weeks in the field.

It was going to be a long, chilly winter.

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Chapter Six

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Contents - Prev | Next

Pilar was nearly asleep, finally, when the phone rang at two A.M. She

shot up in bed, snatching at the phone as her heart slammed into her

throat.

An accident? Death? Tragedy?

"Hello. Yes?"

"You ignorant bitch. Do you think you can scare me off?"

"What?" Her hand trembled as she raked it through her hair.

"I'm not going to tolerate you or your pitiful attempts at harassment."

"Who is this?" She groped for the light, then blinked in the sudden

flash.

"You know damn well who it is. You got a fucking nerve calling me,

spouting off your filth. Shut up, Tony. I'll say what I have to say."

"Rene?" Recognizing her husband's placating voice in the background,

Pilar struggled to clear her head, to think over the wild drumming of

her heart. "What is this? What's the matter?"

"Just cut the goddamn innocent act. It might work with

Tony, but it doesn't with me. I know what you are. You're the whore,

sweetheart, not me. You're the fucking liar, the fucking hypocrite. If

you ever call here again--"

"I didn't call." Fighting for calm, Pilar dragged the covers up to her

chin. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Either you or your bitch of a daughter, and it's all the same to me.

Get this straight. You're out of the picture, and you have been for

years. You're a frigid, dried-up excuse for a woman. Fifty-year-old

virgin. Tony and I have already seen the lawyers, and we're making legal

what everyone's known for years. There isn't a man out there who wants

you. Unless it's for your mother's money."

"Rene, Rene. Stop. Stop now. Pilar?"

Pilar heard Tony's voice through the rush of blood in her head. "Why are

you doing this?"

"I'm sorry. Someone called here, said perfectly vile things to Rene.

She's very upset." He had to shout over the shrieks. "Of course, I told

her you'd never do such a thing, but she… she's upset," he repeated,

sounding frazzled. "I have to go. I'll call you tomorrow."

"She's upset," Pilar whispered, and began to rock as the dial tone

buzzed in her ear. "Of course she has to be soothed. What about me? What

about me?"

She hung up the phone, tossed back the covers before she gave in to her

first instinct and curled into a defensive ball under them.

She was trembling as she yanked on a robe, as she dug deep into her

lingerie drawer for her secret emergency pack of cigarettes. Stuffing

them in a pocket, she pushed through the French doors and rushed out

into the night.

She needed air. She needed a cigarette. She needed, Pilar thought as she

ran across her terrace and down the stone steps, peace.

Wasn't it enough that the only man she'd loved, the only man she'd ever

given herself to hadn't cherished her? Hadn't respected her enough to

keep his vows? Did she have to be plagued now by her latest replacement?

Awakened in the middle of the night and screamed at, sworn at?

She strode away from the house, through the gardens, keeping to the

shadows so that if anyone in the house was awake they wouldn't see her

through the windows.

Pretenses, she thought, furious to find her cheeks were wet. We must

maintain pretenses at all cost. Wouldn't do to have one of the servants

see Ms. Giambelli smoking in the shrubbery in the middle of the night.

Wouldn't do for anyone to see Ms. Giambelli doing her best to stave off

a nervous breakdown with tobacco.

A dozen people might have called Rene, she thought bitterly. And she

very likely deserved the abuse tossed out at her by each and every one.

From the tone of Tony's voice, Pilar knew he had a pretty good idea just

who'd made the call. Easier, she supposed bitterly, to let Rene believe

it was the discarded wife rather than a more current lover.

Easier to let the long-suffering Pilar take the slaps and the insults.

"I'm not fifty," she muttered, fighting with her lighter. "Or a goddamn

virgin."

"Me neither."

She whirled, dropping the lighter with a little crash of metal on stone.

Temper warred with humiliation as David Cutter stepped from shadow to

moonlight.

"I'm sorry I startled you." He bent down for her lighter. "But I thought

I should let you know I was here before you continued your

conversation."

He flicked the lighter on, studying her tear-stained cheeks and damp

lashes in the flare. Her hands were shaking, so he steadied them.

"I couldn't sleep," he continued. "New place, new bed. Took a little

walk. Want me to keep on walking?"

It was breeding, she supposed, that prevented her from a fast,

undignified retreat. "I don't smoke. Officially."

"Neither do I." Still he took a deep, appreciative sniff of the

smoke-stung air. "Quit. It's killing me."

"I've never smoked officially. So I, occasionally, sneak outside and

sin."

"Your secret's safe with me. I'm very discreet. Sometimes venting to a

stranger works wonders." When she only shook her head, he tucked his

thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. "Well, it's a nice night after the

rain. Want to walk?"

She wanted to run back inside, bury herself under the covers until this

new mortification passed. She had plenty of reason to know

embarrassments faded quicker when you stood up and moved on.

So she walked with him.

"Are you and your family settling in?" she asked as they fell into step

together.

"We're fine. Period of adjustment. My son got into some trouble in New

York. Kid stuff, but there was a pattern to it. I wanted to change the

canvas."

"I hope they'll be happy here."

"So do I." He dug a handkerchief out of his jeans, silently passed it to

her. "I'm looking forward to getting a good look at the vineyards

tomorrow. They're spectacular now, with a bit of moon and a hint of

frost."

"You're good at this," she murmured. "At pretending you didn't come

across an hysterical woman in the middle of the night."

"You didn't look hysterical. You looked sad, and angry." And beautiful,

he thought. White robe, black night. Like a stylized photograph.

"I had an upsetting phone call."

"Is someone hurt?"

"No one but me, and that's my own fault." She stopped, stooped to crush

the cigarette and bury it under the mulch on the side of the path. Then

she turned, took a long look at him.

It was a good face, she decided. A strong chin, clear eyes. Blue eyes,

she remembered. Deep blue that looked nearly black in the night. The

faintest smile on his lips now told her he knew she was examining,

considering. And was patient and confident enough to let her.

And she remembered the way he'd been grinning when he'd had his arms

around his children. A man who loved his children, understood them

enough to point out their interests to strangers as he had to her

mother, inspired Pilar's trust.

In any case, it was difficult to maintain pretenses when you were

standing in your robe with that man in the middle of the night.

"Make up your mind?" he asked her.

"I suppose. In any case, you're all but living with the family, so

you'll hear things. My husband and I have been separated for a number of

years. He informed me recently, very recently, that we are getting

divorced. His bride-to-be is very young. Beautiful, sharp-edged. And…

very young," she said again with a half-laugh. "It's ridiculous, I

suppose, how much that part bothers me. In any case, it's an awkward and

difficult situation."

"It'll be more awkward and difficult for him if he ever takes a good

look at what he let go."

It took her a moment to adjust to the compliment. "That's very kind of

you."

"No, it's not. You're beautiful, elegant and interesting."

And not used to hearing it, he realized as she simply stared at him.

That, too, was interesting. "That's a lot for a man to let go. Divorce

is tough," he added. "A kind of death, especially if you took it

seriously to begin with. Even when all you've got left of it is the

illusion, it's a hell of a shock to watch it shatter."

"Yes." She felt comforted. "Yes, it is. I've just been informed that the

lawyers will legalize the end of my marriage very shortly. So I suppose

I'd better start picking up the pieces."

"Maybe you should just sweep a few of them out of the way." He touched

her shoulder, leaving his fingers there, lightly, when he felt her tense

and shift slightly away. "It's the middle of the night. Some of the

daylight rules don't apply at three in the morning, so I'm going to tell

you straight out. I'm very attracted to you."

She felt a little clutch in her belly. Whether it was pleasure or

anxiety, she hadn't a clue. "That's very flattering."

"It's not flattery, it's fact. Flattery's what you get from a guy at a

cocktail party who's thinking about making a move on you. I ought to

know."

He grinned at her now, wide and easy, the way he'd been grinning when

she'd first seen him. The clutch came again, harder and deeper this

time. She realized, stupefied, that it was pure, animal attraction.

"I've scooped out plenty of flattery along the way. Just as I imagine

you've deflected plenty. So I'm telling you straight." Now the grin

faded, and his eyes, dark in the shadows, went quiet, serious. "The

minute you opened the door today, it was like I was hit by a

thunderbolt. I haven't felt that in a long time."

"David." She took another step back, then came up short when he reached

for her hand.

"I'm not going to put any of those moves on you. But I thought about

it." He continued to watch her, steady, intense while her pulse began to

sprint. "Which is probably why I couldn't sleep."

"We barely know each other. And I'm…" A fifty-year-old virgin. No, she

thought, she damn well wasn't. But close. Close enough.

"True enough. I didn't intend to bring this up quite so soon, but it

seemed the moment. A beautiful woman in a white robe, a sprinkle of

moonlight in a garden. You can't ask a man to resist everything.

Besides, it gives you something to think about."

"Yes, it certainly does. I should go."

"Will you have dinner with me?" He brought her hand to his lips--it

seemed like the moment for that, too. Enjoyed the light tremor of it,

the subtle scent. "Soon?"

"I don't know." She tugged her hand from his and felt like a foolish and

fumbling young girl. "I… good night."

She rushed back down the path and was breathless by the time she reached

the steps. Her stomach was fluttering, her heart skipping in her chest.

They were sensations she hadn't experienced in so long, it was almost

embarrassing.

But she no longer felt angry. And no longer felt sad.

* * * * *

It was just midnight in New York when Jeremy DeMorney took the call. He

considered the person on the other end of the phone no more than a tool.

One to be wielded as necessary.

"I'm ready. Ready to move to the next stage."

"Well." Smiling, Jerry poured himself a snifter of brandy. "It's taken

you a considerable amount of time to make up your mind."

"I have a lot to lose."

"And more to gain. Giambelli's using you, and they'll toss you out

without a flinch if it suits their purposes. You know it, I know it."

"My position is still secure. The reorganization hasn't changed that."

"For the moment. You'd hardly be calling me if you weren't concerned."

"I'm tired of it, that's all. I'm tired of not being appreciated for my

efforts. I don't care to be watched over and evaluated by strangers."

"Naturally. Sophia Giambelli and Tyler MacMillan are being groomed to

step into the traditional shoes, whether they earn it or not, they'll

wear them. Now there's David Cutter. A smart individual. La Coeur is

sorry to lose him. He'll be taking a serious look at all areas of the

company. A serious look that could very well turn up certain…

discrepancies."

"I've been careful."

"No one's ever careful enough. What do you intend to bring to the table

now? It's going to have to be more than the ante we discussed

previously."

"The centennial. If there's trouble during the merger, bleeding over to

the next, banner year, it will eat at the foundation of the company.

There are things I can do."

"Poisoning an old man, for instance?"

"That was an accident."

The panic, the hint of whine in the tone made Jerry smile. It was all so

perfect. "Is that what you call it?"

"It was your idea. You said it would only make him ill."

"Oh, I have a lot of ideas." Idly, Jerry examined his nails. La Coeur

paid him for his ideas--his less radical ideas--as much as they did

because his name was DeMorney. "You implemented it, friend. And bungled

it."

"How was I to know he had a weak heart?"

"As I said, no one's ever careful enough. If you were going to kill

someone, you should have gone for the old woman herself. With her gone,

they couldn't plug the holes in the dike as fast as we could drill

them."

"I'm not a murderer."

"I beg to differ." You're exactly that, Jerry thought. And because of it

you'll do anything, everything, I want now. "I wonder if the Italian

police would be interested enough to exhume Baptista's body and run

tests if they happened to get an informative and anonymous call. You've

killed," Jerry said after a long pause. "You'd better be prepared to do

whatever's necessary to back yourself up. If you want my help, and my

financial backing to continue, you'll start showing me what you can do

for me. You can begin by getting me copies of everything. The legal

papers, the contracts, the plans for the ad campaign. Every step of it.

The vintner's logs, Venice and Napa."

"It'll be risky. It'll take time."

"You'll be paid for the risk. And the time." He was a patient man, a

wealthy one, and could afford both. Would invest both, to bury the

Giambellis. "Don't contact me again until you have something useful."

"I need money. I can't get what you ask without--"

"Give me something I can use. Then I'll give you payment. COD, friend.

That's how it works."

"They're grapevines. Big deal."

"They're going to be a big deal for us. The grapevines," David informed

his sulking son, "are what's going to buy your burgers and fries for the

foreseeable future."

"Are they going to buy my car?"

David glanced in the rearview mirror. "Don't push your luck, pal."

"Dad, you can't live out here in Nowheresville without wheels."

"The minute you stop breathing, I'll check out the nearest used-car

lot."

Three months before--hell, David thought--three weeks before that

comment would have resulted in his son's frozen silence or a snide

remark. The fact that Theo's response was to clutch his throat, bug out

his eyes and collapse gasping on the backseat warmed his father's heart.

"I knew we should've taken those CPR classes," David said absently as he

turned into MacMillan Wineries.

"It's okay. He goes, it's more fries for us."

Maddy didn't mind being out early. She didn't mind driving around the

hills and valleys. What she did mind was having nothing to do. Her

greatest hope at the moment was that her father would break down and buy

Theo a car. Then she could nag her brother to drive her somewhere.

Anywhere.

"Pretty place." David stopped the van, got out to look over the fields

and the workers steadily pruning vines in the frosty morning. "And this,

all this, my children," he continued, sliding an arm around each of them

when they joined him, "will never be yours."

"Maybe one of them has a babe for a daughter. We'll get married, then

you'll work for me."

David shuddered. "You're scaring me, Theo. Let's go check it out."

Ty spotted the trio heading down through the rows, and swore under his

breath. Tourists, he thought, hoping for a tour and a friendly guide. He

didn't have time to be friendly. And he didn't want outsiders in his

fields.

He started to cut over to head them off, stopped and studied Sophia.

This, he decided, was her turf. Let her deal with people, and he'd deal

with the vines.

He crossed to her, noted grudgingly she was doing the job, and doing it

well. "We got some tourists heading down," he told her. "Why don't you

take a break here and steer them to the winery, the tasting room?

Someone should be around to give them the standard tour."

Sophia straightened, turned to scope out the newcomers. The father and

son were pretty much out of L.L. Bean, she concluded, while the daughter

had taken a left turn into Goth-land.

"Sure, I'll take them." And get a nice hot cup of coffee for the

trouble. "But a quick look at the fields, and a brief, informative

explanation of the pruning phase, would lead nicely into the winery and

make Dad more inclined to pop for a couple bottles."

"I don't want civilians tramping through my fields."

"Don't be so territorial and cranky." She put on a bright smile,

deliberately grabbed Ty's hand and dragged him toward the family.

"Good morning! Welcome to MacMillan Vineyards. I'm Sophia, and Tyler and

I would be happy to answer any questions you might have. It's winter

pruning time at the moment. An essential, even crucial part of the

winemaking process. Are you touring the valley?"

"In a manner of speaking." She had her grandmother's eyes, David

thought. The shape and the depth of them. Pilar's were softer, lighter,

hinted of gold. "Actually, I was hoping to meet both of you. I'm David

Cutter. These are my children. Theo and Maddy."

"Oh." Sophia recovered quickly, taking David's offered hand even while

her mind leaped forward. Checking us out, she thought. Well, that would

work both ways.

Thus far, her research had only unearthed that David Cutter was a

divorced, single parent of two who'd climbed the corporate ladder at La

Coeur with a steady, competent hand over two decades.

She'd determine more in a face-to-face. "Well, welcome again. All of

you. Would you like to come into the winery or the house?"

"I'd like to take a look at the fields. Been a while since I've seen a

pruning in process." Gauging the mood, caution and resentment, David

turned to Tyler. "You've got a beautiful vineyard, Mr. MacMillan. And a

superior product from them."

"You got that right. I've got work to do."

"You'll have to excuse Tyler." Setting her teeth, Sophia wrapped her arm

through his like a rope to hold him in place. "He has a very narrow

focus, and right now all he sees are the vines. Added to that, he has no

discernible social skills. Do you, MacMillan?"

"Vines don't need chitchat."

"All growing things do better with audio stimulation." Maddy didn't

flinch at Ty's annoyed expression. "Why do you prune in winter?" she

demanded. "Instead of in the fall or early spring?"

"We prune during the dormant season."

"Why?"

"Maddy," David began.

"It's okay." Ty took a closer look at her. She might dress like an

apprentice vampire, he thought, but she had an intelligent face. "We

wait for the first hard frost that forces the vines into dormancy.

Pruning then prepares for the new growth in the spring. Pruning over the

winter decreases the yield. What we're after is quality, not quantity.

Overbearing vines produce too many inferior grapes."

He glanced back at David. "I guess you don't have a lot of vineyards in

Manhattan."

"That's right, and one of the reasons I accepted this offer. I've missed

the fields. Twenty years ago, I spent a very cold, wet January in

Bordeaux pruning vines for La Coeur. I've done some fieldwork off and on

over the years, just to keep a hand in. But nothing like that very long

winter."

"Can you show me how to do it?" Maddy asked Tyler.

"Well, I…"

"I'll start you off." Taking pity on Tyler, Sophia radiated cheer. "Why

don't you and Theo come with me? We'll get a close-up look at how this

is done before we go into the winery. It's a fascinating process,

really, though this phase appears to be very basic. It requires

precision and considerable practice. I'll show you." She herded the kids

out of earshot.

"Theo's going to trip over his tongue." David let out a sigh. "She's a

beautiful woman. Can't blame him."

"Yeah, she looks good."

The warning tone had David struggling with a grin. He nodded soberly.

"And I'm old enough to be her father, so you've got no worries in that

direction."

From his viewpoint, Cutter was just the type Sophia usually went for.

Older, slicker, classier. Under the rough gear, there was class. Being a

farmer didn't mean he couldn't spot it.

But that was beside the point.

"There's nothing between me and Sophia," he said, very definitely.

"Either way. Let's just clear the air here, okay? I'm not here to get in

your way, or interfere with your routine. You're the vintner, MacMillan,

and I'm not. But I do intend to do my job, and to keep abreast of every

step and phase of the vineyards."

"You've got the offices. I've got the fields."

"Not entirely, no. I was hired to coordinate, to oversee, and I was

hired because I know the vines. I'm not just a suit, and frankly, I was

tired of trying to be one. Mind?"

He plucked the pruners out of Tyler's belt sheath and turned to the near

row. Gloveless, he lifted canes, studied and made his cut.

It was quick, efficient. And correct.

"I know the vines," David repeated, holding the tool out to Tyler. "But

that doesn't make them mine."

Irritated, Tyler took back the tool, shoved it into its sheath like a

sword into a scabbard. "All right, let's clear some more air. I don't

like someone looking over my shoulder, and knowing he's going to be

giving me grades like I was in high school. I'm here to make wine, not

friends. I don't know how they did things at La Coeur, and I don't care.

I run this vineyard."

"You did," David said evenly. "Now we run it, whether we like it or

not."

"We don't like it," he said shortly and strode away.

Hardheaded, inflexible, territorial, David mused. It was going to be an

interesting little battle. He glanced over to where Sophia entertained

his children. Theo's throbbing hormones were all but sending out bolts

of sex-crazed red light. And that, David thought wearily, was going to

be complicated.

He strolled over, watched with approval as his daughter cut through a

cane. "Good job. Thanks," he said to Sophia.

"My pleasure. I assume you'll want to meet with me to be briefed on my

promotional campaign plans. I'm setting up an office at the villa. Would

this afternoon work for you? Maybe two o'clock."

Clever girl, he thought. Make the first move, establish turf. What a

family. "Sure, that works for me. I'll just get these two out of your

hair."

"I want to see the rest," Maddy said. "There's nothing to do at home

anyway. It's boring."

"We haven't finished unpacking."

"Are you in a hurry for that?" Sophia laid a hand on Maddy's shoulder.

"If you're not you can leave Theo and Maddy with me. I have to go back

to the villa in an hour or so, and I can drop them off. You're in the

guest house, right?"

"That's right." He glanced at his watch. He had some time before his

meeting. "If they're not in the way."

"Not at all."

"Fine. I'll see you at two. You guys stay out of trouble."

"You'd think we look for it," Maddy muttered under her breath.

"If you don't," Sophia said as David walked away, "you're not having

enough fun."

She liked the kids. Maddy's intense questioning was entertaining, and

kept her on her toes. And it was sweet to find herself the object of a

teenage boy's crush-at-first-sight.

Also, who knew more about a man, how he behaved, how he thought, how he

planned, than his children? A morning with David Cutter's teenagers

would be interesting and, she believed, informative.

"Let's go drag Ty away," Sophia suggested, "and make him take us through

the winery. I'm not as familiar with MacMillan's operation as I am with

Giambelli's." She tucked her tool away. "We'll all learn something."

Pilar paced the chambers of Judge Helen Moore and tried not to fret. Her

life, she thought, seemed to be tumbling out of her control. She wasn't

at all sure how to grab it back. Worse, she was no longer sure how much

of it she wanted to keep.

Steps had to be taken, of that she was sure. She was so sick of feeling

used and useless.

Most of all, she needed a friend.

She'd barely seen her mother or her daughter that morning. Purposely. It

was cowardly, she supposed, to avoid those closest to her. But she

needed time to shore up the damage, to make her decisions, to coat over

the ridiculous hurt that still scraped inside her gut.

Instinctively she reached down to toy with her wedding ring and felt the

quick jolt when it wasn't there. She'd have to get used to that naked

finger. No, damned if she would. She was going to go out today, this

afternoon, and buy some ridiculously expensive, knock-your-eyes-out

bauble to go on the third finger of her left hand.

A symbol, she told herself. Of freedom and new beginnings.

Of failure.

On a sigh of defeat, she dropped into a chair just as Helen rushed in.

"Sorry, we ran a little over."

"It's all right. You always look so distinguished and terrifying in your

robes."

"If I ever lose this extra fifteen pounds, I'm going to start wearing a

bikini under them." She stripped the robe off, hung it up. Rather than a

bikini, she wore a quiet brown suit.

Too matronly, Pilar thought. Too boxy. And very Helen.

"I really appreciate your making time for me today. I know how busy you

are."

"We've got two hours." Helen flopped into the chair behind her desk,

pulled off her shoes and curled her toes. "Want to go out for lunch?"

"Not really. Helen… I know you're not a divorce lawyer, but--Tony's

moving to finalize things quickly. I don't know what to do."

"I can handle it for you, Pilar. Or I can recommend someone. I know

several sleek sharks who'd do the job."

"I'd feel a lot more comfortable if you handled it, and if it was kept

as simple as possible. And as clean."

"Well, that's disappointing." With a frown, Helen pushed up her glasses.

"I'd love to leave Tony bleeding from the ears. I'll need your financial

papers," she began, pulling over a yellow legal pad for notes.

"Fortunately, I browbeat you into separating your finances from his

years ago. But we're going to keep your ass covered. He may very well

make demands, monetary ones, real estate and so on. You are not going to

agree to anything."

She tipped down her glasses to stare at Pilar over the rims with a look

that terrified lawyers. "I mean that, Pilar. He gets nothing. You are

the injured party. He's petitioning for the divorce. He wants to get

remarried. He walks out with what he walked in with. I'm not going to

allow you to let him profit from this. You got that?"

"It's not a matter of money."

"Not for you. But he lives high, and he's going to want to continue

living high. How much have you funneled to him over the last decade or

so?"

Pilar shifted uncomfortably. "Helen…"

"Exactly. Loans that are never repaid. The house in San Francisco, the

house in Italy. The furnishings in both."

"We sold--"

"He sold," Helen corrected. "You wouldn't listen to me then, but you

will now or you find another lawyer. You never recouped your fair share

of the real estate, which your money paid for in the first place. And I

know damn well he slid plenty of your jewelry and personal property into

his pocket, too. That stops cold."

She pushed up her glasses, sat back. The gesture, the body language

changed her from judge to friend. "Pilar, I love you, and that's why I'm

going to say this to you. You've let him treat you like a doormat. Hell,

you all but stitched 'Welcome' on your tits and invited him to step all

over you. And I, and others who love you, hated watching it."

"Maybe I did." She wasn't going to cry now; just absorb the fresh hurt.

"I loved him, and part of me thought that if he needed me enough, he'd

love me back. Something happened last night, and it's changed things.

Changed me, I suppose."

"Tell me."

Rising, Pilar wandered the office and told Helen of the phone call.

"When I listened to him making those careless apologies, cutting me off

to placate Rene after she'd attacked me, I was disgusted with all of us.

And later, after I'd calmed down again, I realized something. I don't

love him anymore, Helen. Maybe I haven't for years. That makes me

pitiful."

"Not anymore, it doesn't." Helen picked up the phone. "Let's order in.

I'll explain what needs to be done. Then, sweetie, we're going to do it.

Please." She held out a hand. "Let me help you. Really help."

"Okay." Pilar sighed. "Okay. Will it take more than an hour?"

"Doesn't have to. Carl? Order me two chicken clubs, with side salads,

two cappuccinos and a big bottle of fizzy water. Thanks." She hung up

the phone.

"Perfect." Pilar sat again. "Is there a good, overpriced jeweler near

here?"

"As a matter of fact there is. Why?"

"If you've got time before you have to don your robes again, you could

help me buy something symbolic and gaudy." She held up her left hand.

"Something that'll make Rene crazy when she sees it."

Helen nodded with approval. "Now we're talking."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter Seven

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Contents - Prev | Next

Sunday slid into the week like a balm on a mild, nagging itch. She

wouldn't be spending her morning hours covered in wool and flannel and

pruning vines. She wouldn't have Ty breathing down her neck just waiting

for her to make a mistake.

She could drive into the city, do some power shopping, see people. She

could remember what it was like to have a life.

With this in mind, Sophia considered calling one of her friends to set

up a few hours of socializing. Then she decided she'd rather spend that

frivolous time with her mother.

Next free day, she decided, she'd make plans with friends. She'd spend a

weekend in San Francisco, have a dinner party at her apartment, go to a

club. Now she was going to nag her mother into taking a girl day.

Sophia knocked briskly on her mother's bedroom door, then pushed it open

without waiting for an answer. She'd never had to wait for her mother.

The bed was already made, the curtains open to the wavering sunlight. As

Sophia stepped inside, Maria walked in from the adjoining bath.

"Mama?"

"Oh, long up and about. I think she's in the greenhouse."

"I'll find her." Sophia stepped back, hesitated. "Maria, I've barely

seen her all week. Is she all right?"

Maria's lips tightened as she fussed unnecessarily with the yellow roses

on Pilar's dresser. "She doesn't sleep well. I can tell. Eats like a

bird, and then only if you insist. I scolded her just yesterday, and she

says it's holiday stress. What stress?" Maria threw up her hands. "Your

mama, she loves Christmas. It's that man who troubles her. I won't speak

ill of your father, but if he makes my baby sick, he'll answer to me."

"Get in line," Sophia murmured. "We'll look after her, Maria. I'll hunt

her down now."

"See that she eats!"

Christmas, Sophia thought as she jogged downstairs. It was the perfect

excuse. She'd ask her mother to give her a hand with some last-minute

Christmas shopping.

She scanned the house as she hurried through. Her mother's poinsettias,

red and white stars in dozens of silver pots, were mixed with miniature

hollies in lush arrangements throughout the foyer. Fresh greenery twined

with tiny white lights and glossy red ribbon swagged doorways.

The three Giambelli angels were displayed on the long refectory table in

the family parlor. Tereza, Pilar and Sophia, she thought, the carved

faces reflecting each of them at the age of twelve.

How alike they looked. It was always a little jolt, a little tug of

amused pleasure to see them. The continuity, the undeniable blood tie of

those three generations. She'd been thrilled when she was given her

angel all those years ago. Thrilled to see her own features on the

graceful, winged body. And, she realized as she trailed a fingertip over

the trio, she was still.

One day it would fall to her to commission an angel for a child of her

own. What an odd thought, she mused. Not unpleasant, but certainly odd.

The next generation, when the time came, was hers to begin.

Measured by those who'd come before, she was falling a bit behind on

that particular family duty. Then again, it wasn't something she could

pencil in on her monthly calendar. Fall in love. Get married. Conceive

child.

Nope, such things didn't schedule neatly into a life. She imagined she'd

enjoy those things with the right man at the right time. But it was so

easy, too easy, to make a mistake. And love, marriage, children couldn't

be casually crossed off the slate like an inconvenient dentist

appointment.

Unless you were Anthony Avano, she corrected, annoying herself with the

automatic snap of resentment that accompanied the thought. In that area

she had no intention of following in her father's footsteps. When she

made the choice, and the promises that went with it, she would keep

them.

So for now, three angels would have to be enough.

She turned to study the room. Candles in spears and chunks of silver and

gold, more greenery artfully arranged. The grand tree, one of four that

would traditionally stand in the villa, dripping with crystal garland,

laden with precious ornaments brought over from Italy, stood regally by

the windows. Presents were already tucked under it, and the house

smelled of pine and candle wax.

Time had gotten away from her, she thought guiltily. A great deal of it.

Her mother, grandmother and the staff had worked like trojans to dress

the house for the holidays while she'd buried herself in work.

She should have taken the time, made the time to help. Didn't put it on

your appointment calendar, did you, Sophia? she thought with a wince.

The annual Christmas party was nearly on them, and she'd done nothing to

help with the planning or preparations.

She'd amend that immediately.

She went out the side door, instantly regretting she hadn't stopped for

a jacket, as the wind had a bite. As a result she ran down the winding

stone path, cut left and sprinted to the greenhouse.

The warm, moist heat felt so inviting. "Mama?"

"Down here. Sophie, wait until you see my paper-whites. They're

spectacular. I think I'll take them and the amaryllis into the parlor.

Very festive."

Pilar stopped, looked up. "Where's your jacket?"

"Forgot." Sophia leaned over and kissed her mother's cheek, then took a

good, long look.

Her mother's ancient sweater was pushed up at the elbows and bagged at

the hips. Her hair was tied back at the nape of her neck. "You're losing

weight."

"Oh, I am not." Pilar waved that away with hands covered in stained

gardening gloves. "You've been talking to Maria. If I don't gorge myself

three times a day she's convinced I'm going to waste away. As it is, I

stole two sugar cookies on the way out here and expect them to pop out

on my hips any moment."

"That should hold you till lunch. Which I'll buy. I'm so behind on my

shopping. Help."

"Sophia." With a shake of her head, Pilar shifted her long trough of

narcissi and began to fuss with the tulips she was forcing. They would

bloom, she thought, and bring color to the dreary days of winter. "You

started your holiday shopping in June and finished it in October. Just

as you always do to make the rest of us hate you."

"Okay, caught me." Sophia boosted herself up on the work counter.

"Still, I'm dying to go into the city and play for a few hours. It's

been a brutal week. Let's run away for the day."

"I was just there a couple of days ago." Frowning, Pilar set the tulips

aside. "Sophie, is this new order of things your grandmother's set up

too much for you? You're up at dawn every day, and then you spend hours

in your office here. I know you're not seeing any of your friends."

"I thrive on pressure. Still, I could use an assistant, and I believe

you're supposed to fit that bill."

"Cam, we both know I'd be useless to you."

"No, I don't know that. Okay, we move to Plan B. I'm putting you to

work. You've done all the decorating in the house and it looks

beautiful, by the way. I'm sorry I didn't help."

"You've been busy."

"I shouldn't have been too busy. But now it's office time, and that'll

segue into party-planning time. You need to bring me up to date on that,

which is part of an assistant's duty. Now, which flowers do you want to

take in? I'll help you with them, then we start the clock."

The girl, Pilar thought, made the head spin. "Sophie, really."

"Yes, really. You're the trainee. I'm the boss." She scooted off the

counter, rubbed her hands together. "I get to make up for all the years

you bossed me around. Especially between the ages of twelve and

fifteen."

"No, not the hormone years. You couldn't be so cruel."

"Bet me. You asked if this new system was too much for me. It's not. But

it's damn close. That's a fact. I'm not used to doing all my own filing

and phone tags and typing. Since I'm not about to admit to Nonna, or to

MacMillan, that I'm feeling the least bit squeezed, you could help me

out."

Pilar blew out a breath, tugged off her gloves. "You're doing this to

keep me busy, just as Maria hounds me to eat."

"Partially," Sophia admitted. "But that doesn't change the fact that I

spend time every day doing basic office work. If I could pass that over,

I might actually begin to date again in this decade. I miss men."

"All right, but don't blame me if you can't find anything in your

files." Pilar pulled the thin band out of her hair, scooped her fingers

through it. "I haven't done basic office work since I was sixteen, and

then I was so miserable at it, Mama fired me."

She turned, started to laugh, then noticed Sophia was gawking at her

hand.

Embarrassed, Pilar nearly stuck her hand, and the five-carat square-cut

ruby on her finger, behind her back. "It's a little much, isn't it?"

"I don't know. I think I've been struck blind by the glare." Sophia took

her mother's hand, examined the stone and the stunning channel-set

diamonds around the square. "Wow. Magnifico."

"I wanted something. I should have told you. You've been so busy… Damn

it." Pilar tried to explain. "I've used your schedule to avoid talking

to you. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize to me for buying a ring, Mama. Except I

believe that one might be considered a small monument."

"I was angry. You should never do anything when you're angry." To give

herself something to do, Pilar picked up her gardening tools, began to

replace them. "Baby, Helen is handling the divorce for me. I

should've--"

"Good. She won't let you get scalped. Don't look at me like that, Mama.

You've been careful, all my life you've been careful never to speak

against my father. But I'm not blind, and I'm not stupid."

"No." Overcome by sadness, Pilar set her little trowel aside. "No,

you've never been either." And had seen, had understood so much more

than a child should.

"If you let him, he'd take your money and anything else that wasn't

nailed down. He wouldn't be able to help himself. I feel better knowing

Aunt Helen's looking out for your interests. Now let's get these flowers

into the house."

"Sophie." Pilar laid a hand on her daughter's arm as Sophia picked up a

pot of amaryllis. "I'm so sorry this hurts you."

"You've never hurt me. He always has. I don't suppose he can help that,

either." She picked up a second pot. "Rene's going to swallow her tongue

when she gets a load of that rock."

"I know. That was the idea."

For over fifty years, Giambelli, California had held lavish Christmas

parties for family, friends, employees and associates. As the company

had grown, so had the guest list.

Following the tradition set by the Italian branch of the company, the

parties were held simultaneously on the last Saturday before Christmas.

The house was open to family and friends, and the winery to employees.

Associates, depending on their position on the feeding chain, were

placed in the proper location.

Invitations to the main house were prized like gold and often used as a

symbol of status or success. Still, the Giambellis didn't stint on the

festivities in the winery. Food was elegant and plentiful, wine flowed

freely, and both the decorations and the entertainment were top-notch.

Every member of the family was expected to make an appearance at both

venues.

Having done so since her fifteenth year, Sophia was well aware that the

winery party was a great deal more entertaining. And less full of

irritating relations.

She could hear one of her cousin Gina's progeny shrieking at the other

end of the hall. Her hopes that Don and his herd would remain in Italy

had been dashed the evening before when they'd arrived.

Still even their presence wouldn't be as annoying as that of her father

and Rene. Her mother had stuck firm on their being invited, going head

to head with La Signora on the issue. The consolation was their

invitation had been to the winery.

That, she thought as she fastened on her diamond teardrop earrings,

would stick sharply in Rene's craw.

She stepped back, studied the results in her cheval glass. The

shimmering silver gown with its short, fitted jacket worked well. The

scooped neck was a nice frame for the diamond necklace. Both it and the

earrings had been her great-grandmother's.

She turned, checked the line of her skirt, then called out an invitation

at the knock on her door.

"Look at you!" Helen came in, pretty and plump in frosty pink. "You

sparkle all over."

"It's great, isn't it?" Sophia took another turn, for the fun of it. "I

bought it in New York, thinking of New Year's, but I had to press it

into duty tonight. Not too much with the diamonds?"

"Diamonds are never too much. Honey." She shut the door. "I wanted a

minute. I hate to bring this up now, right before you have to socialize

with hundreds of people, but Pilar told me Tony and Rene will be here."

"What is it?"

"The divorce is final. Yesterday. It was really no more than a formality

after all these years. Since Tony was in a hurry and didn't complicate

matters with financial negotiations, it was really just a matter of

filing the papers."

"I see." Sophia picked up her evening bag, opened and closed the catch.

"Have you told Mama?"

"Yes. Just now. She's fine. Or she's holding up. I know it's important

to her you do the same."

"Don't worry about me. Aunt Helen." She crossed the room, took Helen's

hands. "You're a brick. I don't know what she'd have done without you."

"She needs to move on."

"I know."

"And so do you." She squeezed Sophia's hands. "Don't let Rene have the

satisfaction of seeing this hurts you, on any level."

"I won't."

"Good. Now I've got to go down and run herd on my husband. If I leave

James alone down there this early, he'll sneak canapés and ruin the

caterer's presentation." She opened the door, glanced back. "Tony didn't

do many admirable things in his life. You're one of them."

"Thanks." Alone, Sophia let out a long breath. Then she straightened her

shoulders, marched back to her mirror. Opening her bag she took out her

lipstick. And painted her lips bloody-murder red.

David sipped a full-bodied Merlot, mingled with the crowd packed into

the towering stone walls of the winery, tried to tune out the hot licks

from the band that was currently thrilling his son, and scanned the area

for Pilar.

He knew the Giambellis would put in an appearance. He'd been well

schooled on the pomp and protocol for the holiday festivities. He'd be

expected to split his time between parties, which--though it hadn't been

put precisely that way--was both a privilege and a duty.

He was learning fast that nearly every assignment in this organization

came under the heading of both.

He could find no complaint with it. He'd been given a challenge, which

he needed. He was being well compensated financially, which he

appreciated. And he was associated with a company he respected. And that

he valued.

Everything he'd seen in the past weeks had confirmed that

Giambelli-MacMillan was a tight, family-oriented ship, run with

efficiency and little sentiment. It wasn't cold, but it was calculated.

Product was king and queen here. Money was respected and expected, but

it was not the goal. Wine was. He'd found the opposite true in his later

years with La Coeur.

Now, seeing his son actually enjoying himself, watching his daughter

interrogate some poor winemaker over some point of procedure, he was

content.

The move had been exactly what all of them had needed.

"David. Good to see you."

He turned, surprise registering briefly as he looked into Jeremy

DeMorney's smiling face.

"Jerry, I didn't know you'd be here."

"I try never to miss an annual Giambelli bash and always hit the winery

before the villa. Very democratic of La Signora to invite reps from the

competition."

"She's quite a lady."

"One of a kind. How are you taking to working for her?"

"It's early days yet. But the move's gone well. I'm glad to get the kids

out of the city. How are things back in New York?"

"We're managing to grope along without you." The little sting in the

statement wasn't softened by the smirk. "Sorry, we're still a little

sore. Hated losing you, David."

"Nothing lasts forever. Anyone else here from La Coeur?"

"Duberry flew in from France. He's known the old lady for a hundred

years. Pearson's representing the local group. A few top levels from

other labels. Gives us all a chance to drink her wine and spy on each

other. Got any gossip for me?"

"Like I said, it's early days yet." He spoke casually, but he'd become

wary. Jerry's policy of gossip and corporate backstabbing had been one

of the reasons it had been so easy to leave La Coeur. "Great party

though. Excuse me, there's somebody I've been waiting for."

Maybe all my life, David thought as he left Jerry without a backward

glance and worked through the crowd to Pilar.

She wore blue. Deep blue velvet with a long rope of pearls. She looked

warm and regal, and he would have said utterly confident if he hadn't

noticed the quick flicker of panic in her eyes.

Then she shifted her head, just a little, and focused on him. And God

help him, she blushed. Or at least more color came into her face. The

idea that he'd put it there drove him crazy.

"I've been watching for you." He took her hand before she could do

anything about it. "Like a kid at a school dance. I know you have to

mingle, but I want a minute first."

It was like being swept away by a single warm wave. "David--"

"You can't mingle without wine. It won't do." He tugged her forward.

"We'll talk about business, about the weather. I'll only tell you you

look beautiful five or six dozen times. Here." He plucked a flute of

champagne from a tray. "I don't see how you can drink anything else

looking the way you do."

That same flutter was back in her stomach. "I can't keep up with you."

"I can't keep up with myself. I'm making you nervous." He touched his

glass lightly to hers. "I'd say I was sorry for that, but I'd be lying.

It's best to start out a relationship with honesty, don't you think?"

"No. Yes. Stop." She tried to laugh. He looked like some sort of

sophisticated knight in his formal black with his rich blond hair

glinting in the shimmer of light. A foolish thought, she told herself,

for a middle-aged woman to have. "Are your children here?"

"Yeah. They whined about being dragged here, and now they're having the

time of their lives. You're beautiful. I did mention I was going to tell

you that, didn't I?"

She nearly giggled before she reminded herself she was forty-eight, not

eighteen, and supposed to know better. "Yes, I believe you did."

"I don't suppose we could find a dark corner and neck."

"No. That's a definite."

"Then you'll just have to dance with me, and give me a chance to change

your mind."

It staggered her that she thought he could change it. That she wanted

him to. Inappropriate, she told herself firmly. Ridiculous. She was

years older than he.

God, what was she supposed to do? Say? Feel?

"There are a thousand thoughts going through your head," he murmured. "I

wish you'd tell me all of them."

"Jesus." She pressed a hand to her belly where a soft, gooey ball slid

in among the flutters. "You're awfully good at this."

"I'm glad you think so because I start feeling clumsy every time I see

you."

"Fooled me." She drew in a breath, steadied herself. "David, you're very

attractive--"

"You think so?" He touched her hair, couldn't help himself. He loved the

way it curved against her cheek. "Could you be more specific?"

"And very charming," she added, struggling to keep her voice firm. "I'm

very flattered, but I don't know you. And besides…" She trailed off,

her smile freezing. "Hello, Tony. Rene."

"Pilar. You look lovely." Tony leaned over to kiss her cheek.

"Thank you. David Cutter, Tony Avano and Rene Foxx."

"Rene Foxx Avano," Rene corrected with a purr. She lifted her hand,

wiggled her fingers to send the diamond circlet wedding ring flashing.

"As of today."

It wasn't a stab in the heart, Pilar realized, as she'd thought it would

be. But more of a burn, a quick shock that annoyed as much as it hurt.

"Congratulations. I'm sure you'll be very happy together."

"Oh, we already are." Rene slid her arm through Tony's. "We're flying

out to Bimini right after Christmas. It'll be lovely to be out of this

cold and rain. You really should take time for a little vacation

yourself, Pilar. You're looking pale."

"Strange. I was thinking how vital she looks tonight." Gauging the

ground, David lifted Pilar's hand, kissed her fingers. "Delicious, in

fact. I'm glad I had a chance to meet you, Tony, before you left the

country."

Smoothly, David slid an arm around Pilar's waist. "I've had considerable

trouble reaching you the last few days." He gave Rene a glance, just a

few degrees short of polite. "Now I see why. Let my office know your

travel plans, won't you? We've business to discuss."

"My people know my plans."

"Apparently mine don't. You'll excuse us, won't you? We need to make the

rounds before heading up to the villa."

"That was unkind," Pilar whispered.

"So what?"

Gone was the flirtatious charm. In its place was power of the cold and

ruthless sort. It wasn't, she thought, any less appealing on him.

"Over and above the fact that I didn't like him on principle, I'm COO

and should have been informed if one of the VPs was going out of the

country. He's been dodging me for days, avoiding my calls. I don't care

for it."

"He's just not used to having to report to you, to anyone."

"He'll have to adjust." Over her head, David spotted Tyler. "So will

others. Why don't you help clear the way a little and introduce me to

some of the people who are wondering what the hell I'm doing here?"

Ty was trying to be invisible. He hated big parties. There were too many

people to talk to, and too few who had anything to say. He'd already

calculated his plan. One hour in the winery, one hour in the main house.

Then he could slide away, go home, catch a little ESPN and go to bed.

As far as he was concerned, the music was too loud, the winery too

crowded and the food too rich. Not that he minded looking at people,

especially when they were all slicked up and polished and trying to look

better than the people they were talking to.

It was kind of like watching a play, and as long as he could stay safely

in the audience he could manage for a while.

He'd watched the little drama between Pilar and Rene. Tyler was fond

enough of Pilar that he'd have sacrificed his corner and gone to her

side if David Cutter hadn't already been there. Cutter irritated him on

principle, but Tyler had to give him points for quick action. The little

hand kiss had been a good move, one that seemed to annoy Rene and Avano.

And whatever he'd said had wiped that idiot smile off Avano's face in a

hurry.

Avano was an asshole, Tyler thought, sipping his wine. But with Rene

prodding at him, he could be a dangerous one. If Cutter could keep him

in line, it was almost worth having him in the mix.

Almost.

"Why are you standing over here all by yourself?"

Tyler looked down, frowned at Maddy. "Because I don't want to be here."

"Why are you? You're an adult. You can do what you want."

"You keep thinking that, little girl, you're doomed to disappointment."

"You just like being irritable."

"No, I just am irritable."

She pursed her lips at him, nodded. "Okay. Can I have a sip of your

wine?"

"No."

"In Europe, children are taught to appreciate wine."

She said it so grandly, standing there in her layers of black and

dead-ugly shoes, Ty wanted to laugh. "So, go to Europe. Around here it's

called contributing to the delinquency."

"I've been to Europe, but I don't remember it very well. I'm going to go

back. Maybe I'll live in Paris for a while. I was talking to Mr.

Delvecchio, the winemaker. He said wine was a miracle, but it's really

just a chemical reaction, isn't it?"

"It's both. It's neither."

"It has to be. I was going to do an experiment, and I thought you could

help me."

Tyler blinked at her, a pretty, badly dressed girl with an inquiring

mind. "What? Why don't you talk to your father?"

"Because you're the vintner. I thought I would get some grapes, put them

in a bowl and see what happens. I'd have another bowl, with the same

type and weight of grapes, and I'd do stuff to it. The kind of things

you do."

"I eat grapes in a bowl," he said, but she'd caught his interest.

"See, one bowl would be left alone, Mr. Delvecchio's miracle. The other

I'd process, using additives and techniques. Pushing the chemical

reaction. Then I could see which worked best."

"Even if you use the same type of grapes, you'll have variations between

your tests."

"Why?"

"You're talking store-bought this time of year. They may not have come

from the same vineyard. Even if they do, you get variations. Soil type,

fertility, water penetration. When they were picked. How they were

picked. You can't test the grapes on the vine because they're already

off the vine. The must in each bowl could be considerably different even

if you left them both alone."

"What's must?"

"Juice." Bowl wine, he thought. Interesting. "But if you wanted to try

it, you should use wooden bowls. The wood'll give the must some

character. Not much, but some."

"A chemical reaction," Maddy said with a grin. "See? It's science, not

religion."

"Baby. Wine's that and a whole lot more." Without thinking, he offered

her his glass.

She sipped, delicately, her gaze shifting just in case her father was

nearby. Experimentally she let the wine roll around on her tongue before

she swallowed. "It's pretty good."

"Pretty good?" With a shake of his head, he took the glass back from

her. "That's vintage Pinot Noir. Only a barbarian would call it 'pretty

good'."

She smiled, charmingly now because she knew she had him. "Will you show

me the big wine barrels and the machines sometime?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"Mr. Delvecchio said you do the white in stainless steel and the reds in

wood. I didn't get a chance to ask him why. Why?"

Didn't he look cute? Sophia thought. Big, grouchy MacMillan deep in what

seemed to be a serious conversation with the miniature Morticia. And if

things were as they appeared, he was enjoying himself. He even looked

good doing it.

The fact that he did made her even more pleased she'd decided against

bringing a date. Having a date meant her attention would have to be

focused. Being loose gave her much more room to circulate and enjoy

whoever's company intrigued her the most.

At the moment, she thought Tyler fit the bill.

It would take her a little while to work her way over to him. After all,

she had social obligations to dispense. But she kept him at the corner

of her vision as she began to work the crowd.

"Sophia. Stunning as always."

"Jerry. Happy holidays." She leaned in, kissed both of his cheeks.

"How's business?"

"We've had a banner year." He slipped an arm around her shoulders,

steering her through the groups in the tasting room and toward the bar.

"And expect another. A little bird tells me you're planning a brilliant

promotion campaign."

"Those little birds chatter entirely too much, don't they?" She beamed

at the bartender. "Champagne, please. Another from the flock was singing

about you launching a new label. Mid-market, with an American target."

"Someone's going to have to shoot those birds. I saw the write-up in

Vino on your Cabernet '84."

"An excellent vintage."

"And the auction went quite well for you. Shame on you, Sophia, for

standing me up when you were in New York. You know I'd looked forward to

seeing you."

"Couldn't be helped. But I'll cash in my rain check next trip."

"I'm counting on it."

She lifted her wine, sipped.

He was an attractive man, smooth, almost silkily attractive. The

faintest sprinkling of silver at the temples to add distinction, the

slight dip in the chin to add charm.

Neither of them would mention her father, or the poorly kept secret of

Jerry's wife's infidelity. Instead, they would keep it light, mildly

flirtatious, friendly.

They understood each other, Sophia thought, very well. The competition

between Giambelli and La Coeur was high, and often exhilarating. And

Jeremy DeMorney was not above using whatever means came to hand to push

his edge.

She admired that.

"I'll even spring for dinner," she told him. "And the wine.

Giambelli-MacMillan wine. We'd want the best, after all."

"Then perhaps some La Coeur brandy, back in my apartment."

"Now, you know how I feel about mixing business with… business."

"You're a cruel woman, Sophia."

"You're a dangerous man, Jerry. How're your kids?"

"The children are fine. Their mother has them in Saint Moritz for the

holidays."

"You must miss them."

"Of course. I thought I might spend a day or two in the Valley before

heading home. Why don't you and I mix pleasure with pleasure?"

"That's tempting, Jerry, but I'm swamped. I don't think I'll come up for

air until after the first of the year." She caught a movement out of the

corner of her eye, watched her mother slip off toward the ladies' room.

With Rene a few feet behind.

"Speaking of swamped, I have something I have to deal with right now.

Lovely to see you."

"And you," he replied as she worked her way through the crowd. It would

be even lovelier to see her, he thought, when she and the rest of her

family were ruined.

Helping bring that about would be mixing business with business, he

thought. And pleasure with pleasure.

Rene pushed through the door of the cozy, wood-walled ladies' lounge one

step behind Pilar. "Managed to land on your feet, didn't you?" Rene

leaned against the door, to discourage anyone from joining them.

"You got what you wanted, Rene." Though her hands wanted to tremble,

Pilar opened her evening bag and pulled out her lipstick. She'd intended

to steal two private minutes before making her last rounds and heading

up to the villa. "I shouldn't be an issue for you anymore."

"Ex-wives are always an issue. I'll tell you this, I won't tolerate you

calling me, or Tony, and spewing out your neurotic abuse."

"I didn't call."

"You're a liar. And a coward. Now you're going to hide behind David

Cutter." She grabbed Pilar's hand, jerked it up so the ring fired in the

lights. "What did you have to do to wheedle this out of him?"

"I don't need a man to buy me jewelry, Rene, or anything else. That's an

elemental difference between us."

"No, I'll tell you the difference between us. I go after what I want, in

the open. If you think I'm going to let Tony slink away because you've

gone whining to your family, you're wrong. You're not going to shove him

out, your David Cutter isn't going to shove him out. And if you try…

just think of all the interesting information he could pass along to

your competitors."

"Threatening the family, or the business, isn't going to help secure

Tony's position. Or yours."

"We'll see about that. I'm Mrs. Avano now. And Mr. and Mrs. Avano will

be joining the family, and the other top-level executives, at the villa

tonight. I'm sure our invitation was misdirected."

"You'll only embarrass yourself," Pilar told her.

"I don't embarrass easily. Remember this. Tony has a piece of Giambelli,

and I have a piece of him. I'm younger than you, and a hell of a lot

younger than your mother. I'll still be here when you're gone."

"Will you?" Deliberately, Pilar turned to the mirror, slowly, carefully

painted her lips. "How long do you think it will take for Tony to cheat

on you?"

"He wouldn't dare." Secure in her own power, Rene smiled. "He knows if

he does, I'll kill him. I'm not the passive, patient wife. Tony told me

what a lousy lay you were. We laugh about it. My advice? If you want to

keep Cutter on the string, pass him down to your daughter. She strikes

me as someone who knows how to entertain a man in bed."

Even as Pilar whirled, Sophia opened the door. "Oh, what fun. Girl talk?

Rene, how brave of you to wear that shade of green with your coloring."

"Fuck you, Sophia."

"Erudite, as always. Mama, you're needed at the villa. I'm sure Rene

will excuse us. She'll want plenty of room and privacy to fix her face."

"On the contrary, I'll just leave the two of you alone so you can hold

your mother's hand while she dissolves into helpless tears. I'm not

finished, Pilar," Rene added as she opened the door. "But you are."

"That was entertaining." Sophia studied her mother's face. "You don't

look like you're about to dissolve into tears, helpless or otherwise."

"No, I'm done with them." Pilar dropped her lipstick back in her bag,

closed it with a snap. "Sophie, honey, your father married her today."

"Well, hell." On a long sigh, Sophia stepped over, put her arms around

her mother, laid her head on Pilar's shoulder. "Merry Christmas."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter Eight

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Contents - Prev | Next

Sophia bided her time. She needed to catch her father alone to say what

she had to say, and not when Rene was draped all over him like poison

ivy on a tree trunk. She promised herself she'd be calm, mature and

crystal clear. Losing her temper was not an option.

She worked the crowd as she waited, danced once with Theo, who'd been so

entertaining he'd nearly cured her sour mood.

When she spotted Rene on the dance floor with Jerry, she made her move.

It didn't surprise her to see her father tucked into a corner table

flirting with Kris. It revolted her slightly, but didn't surprise her

he'd turn on the charm for another woman on his wedding day.

But as she approached, she caught the subtle signals--a light touch, a

promising glance--that told her it was more than flirtation. And that

did surprise her.

Her father, she was certain, was cheating on Rene with Kris. Still, it

was so like him, so ridiculously like him, it barely put a hitch in her

stride.

She didn't know which of the three of them in that sticky triangle was

the biggest fool, and at the moment, it wasn't her problem.

"Kris, I'm sorry to break up this tender moment, but I need to speak

with my father. Alone."

"Nice to see you, too." Kris got to her feet. "It's been so long since

you've bothered to come by the office, I nearly forgot what you look

like."

"I don't believe I report to you, but I'll be sure to send in a photo."

"Now, princess," Tony began.

"Don't push it." Sophia kept her tone quiet, level, but the look she

sent her father had his color going up and his mouth closing. "Let's

just put this entire situation down to Christmas-party insanity. We'll

have a meeting, Kris, in my office, when my schedule permits. For

tonight, let's put business aside for personal matters. You can consider

yourself lucky I saw you before Rene did. Now I need to speak to my

father on family business."

"With you at the wheel, your family's not going to have much of a

business." Deliberately Kris leaned down, skimmed a fingertip over the

back of Tony's hand. "Later," she murmured and strolled away.

"Sophie, you have the entirely wrong impression. Kris and I were just

having a sociable drink."

Her gaze cut like a blade. "Save it for Rene. I've known you longer.

Long enough not to have the slightest interest in your bimbos. Please

don't interrupt," she said before he could sputter out a protest. "This

won't take long. I hear congratulations are in order. Or if not in

order, required by elemental manners. So fucking congratulations."

"Now, Sophie." He stood, reached for her hand, but she snatched it out

of reach. "I know you're not fond of Rene, but--"

"I don't give a damn about Rene, and at the moment, I don't give much of

one about you."

He looked sincerely surprised, sincerely hurt. She wondered if he

practiced the expression in his shaving mirror. "You don't mean that.

I'm sorry you're upset."

"No, you're not. You're sorry I've cornered you about it.

You were married today, and you didn't bother to tell me. That's one."

"Princess, it was a small, simple ceremony. Neither Rene nor I felt--"

"Just be quiet." His answer had been quick and smooth, but she knew the

truth. He hadn't so much as thought of telling her. "You came to a

family function, and under the business cloak, this is a family

function, flaunting yourself and your new wife and a side piece for good

measure. That's insensitive enough, but it goes up a considerable number

of levels as you didn't have the decency to tell Mama about the marriage

first. That's two."

Her voice had risen, just enough to turn some heads. Uneasy, Tony moved

in closer. He took her arm, stroked it, tugged gently. "Why don't we go

outside and I'll explain. There's no need to cause a scene in here."

"Oh, there is. Every need. I'm desperately trying to resist the

temptation to do just that. Because here's the kicker, you son of a

bitch. You pushed that woman in my mother's face." She jabbed a finger

into his chest as her temper reared up and took over. "You let Rene

corner her, let her spew all over her, let her make scenes and cause

pain while you sit over here and slobber over yet another woman--and one

young enough to be your daughter, if you ever remembered you have one.

That's three, goddamn you. That's three and you're out. You stay away

from her, and you stay away from me. You keep your distance, and see

that your wife does the same. Or I'll hurt you, I promise you, I'll make

you bleed."

She whirled away before he recovered, caught the amused smirk on Kris's

face. She took a step in that direction, then another, not entirely

certain what she intended to do. Then her arm was gripped and she was

being swept away into the crowd.

"Bad idea," Ty said quietly as he slid his grip from her arm to her

waist to keep her close. "Really bad idea to murder staff members at the

company Christmas bash. Let's go outside."

"I don't want to go outside."

"You need to. It's cold. You'll cool off. So far you only entertained a

handful of people who were close enough to hear your rip into Avano.

Nicely done, by the way. But with the steam puffing out of your ears,

you're going to end up putting on a show for the whole party."

He all but pushed her out the door.

"Stop shoving, stop dragging. I don't like being manhandled." She jerked

free, rounded and nearly, very nearly struck him.

"Go ahead. First shot's free. After that, I hit back."

She sucked in a breath, blew it out, sucked in another while she

continued to glare at him. With every breath her glittery gown threw out

sparks in the moonlight.

She was, Ty thought, outrageous and magnificent. And dangerous as a

handful of dynamite with the fuse already hissing.

"There you go," he said with a nod. "A few more and you might be able to

see past the blood in your eyes."

"The bastard."

She stalked away from the ivy-covered stone walls of the winery, its

shrubberies draped in festive lights. Away from the laughter, the music

that pulsed against the tall, narrow windows. Into the shadows of the

old cypress trees where she could rant privately until she was calm

again.

He heard her muttering in Italian, some of which he understood, none of

which sounded particularly pleasant.

"I couldn't help it." She turned back to where he stood, waiting while

she worked it off. Her busy hands dropped to her sides.

"No, I don't guess you could. Always were a brat." Because it was cold,

and she was starting to shiver, he stripped off his jacket, dropped it

over her shoulders.

Her temper had fizzled, left her feeling raw and empty inside. "I don't

care about him and Kris, even though it complicates my department. I can

deal with that, with her. But he hurt my mother."

"She's handling it, Sophie. She's going to be okay." He jammed his hands

in his pockets before he gave in to the urge to stroke and pet. She

looked so damn miserable. "I'm sorry he hurt you."

"Yeah. Well, what else is new?" The blast of anger had left her with a

dull headache and a raw stomach. "I guess I should thank you for getting

me out of there before I cut loose on bystanders."

"If you mean Kris, she doesn't strike me as a bystander. More an

operator. But no thanks necessary either way."

She turned back, saw by his face he was beginning to be embarrassed.

Because she found that endearing she rose on her toes, lightly kissed

his cheek. "Still. Thanks. I wasn't shouting, was I? I lose track when

I'm in a tantrum."

"Not very much, and the band was loud."

"That's something then. Well, I believe my work is done here. Why don't

you walk me up to the villa? You can make sure I don't throw another

tantrum."

"I guess. You want your coat?"

"That's all right." She smiled and pulled his jacket a little closer.

"I've got yours."

The gardens of the villa sparkled with thousands of fairy lights. The

heated terraces were decked with flowers and ornamental trees. Table

groupings invited guests to spill out into the starlight, enjoy the

night and the music that slipped through the doors and windows of the

ballroom.

Pilar used it as an excuse to have a moment in the air before returning

inside to circulate among the guests and do her duty. She considered

sneaking in an emergency cigarette.

"Hiding out?"

She jumped in her shadowy corner, then relaxed when she saw it was her

stepfather. "Caught me."

"I was sneaking out myself." In an exaggerated move, he craned his neck,

looking side to side, then whispered, "You carrying?"

The laugh felt marvelous. "Just one," she whispered back. "We can share

it."

"Light it up, partner. Your mother's busy. We've got enough time to suck

one down."

She lit the cigarette, and they stood in the shadows, companionably,

conspiratorially passing it between them.

Relaxed in his company, she leaned back on the wall of the house, looked

out. Lights were glowing in the fields, highlighting the naked twists

and fingers of the vines. Behind them, the glamour of the music swelled.

"It's a beautiful party."

"As always." With enough regret for both of them, Eli stubbed out the

last of the cigarette. "You and your mother and Sophia have outdone

yourselves this year. I hope Tereza let you know how much we appreciate

all the work you put into this event."

"She has. In her way."

"Then let me thank you in mine." He slipped his arms around her, guided

her into a dance. "A pretty woman should never be without a dance

partner."

"Oh, Eli." She laid her head on his shoulder. "What would I do without

you? I'm such a mess."

"Not you. Pilar, you were a grown woman with a child of your own when I

married your mother. I've tried not to interfere in your life."

"I know."

"Tereza does enough of that for both of us," he said and made her

chuckle. "However," he continued, "I'm going to speak my mind. He was

never good enough for you."

"Eli--"

"Never would have been good enough. You wasted a lot of years on Tony

Avano, but you managed to get a wonderful daughter out of it. Treasure

that, and don't waste the rest of your life wondering why it didn't work

out."

"He married Rene. Just like that."

"All the better." He nodded when she jerked back to stare at him. "For

you, for Sophia, for everyone involved. They suit, such as they are. And

their marriage simply takes him one step further out of your life. If I

had my way, he'd be out of the business as well. Completely out. And I

suspect that's what's going to happen within the next year."

"He's good at his job."

"Others will be equally as good, and won't give me indigestion. Your

mother's had her reasons for keeping him on. But those reasons aren't as

important as they once were. Let him go," Eli said, kissing her

forehead. "He'll sink or he'll swim. Either way, it's no longer your

problem."

From the terrace below, Tony listened, and his mouth hardened. He was

still stinging from what he continually told himself had been a

completely uncalled-for and inappropriate attack by his own daughter.

He'd have been able to shrug it off, but it had been in public. In

public at a business event.

And business, he thought, wasn't what it had been.

He didn't believe, not really, that the Giambellis would cut him loose.

But they were going to make his life difficult.

They thought he was stupid, that he was careless. But they were wrong.

He already had a plan in place to ensure his financial security held.

God knew he needed money, and plenty of it. Rene was already draining

the resources he had.

Of course he'd been unwise to become involved with Kris. He was doing

his best to break that off, delicately. So far that had been a bit more

problematic than he'd anticipated. It was flattering, really, that a

lovely young woman like Kris would be so attached, so reluctant to part

ways. And angry, he recalled, angry enough to call Rene in the middle of

the night.

Still, he'd handled that. Rene had assumed the caller was Pilar, and he

hadn't corrected her. Why should he have?

He sipped his wine, enjoyed the starlight and, as was his way, began to

put trouble aside before it could take root.

He was handling Kris as well, he decided. Promising to help her move

into Sophia's position with Giambelli had stemmed that flood, just as a

nice little bauble generally stemmed floods from Rene.

It was all, he thought, knowing your quarry's weakness.

And knowing it, using it, maintained the status quo.

He intended to continue living his life as he believed he deserved. It

was time to tap his sources, a little more here, a little more there.

And look toward the future.

Sophia moved through her circle of friends and did her best to avoid her

cousin Gina. The woman was becoming more than a pest. She'd moved up the

scale to embarrassment. Not only was she dressed in what appeared to be

a Christmas-red tent with fifty pounds of sequins, but she was busily

chirping to anyone she could corner about her husband's brilliance.

Don, Sophia noted, was keeping very close to the bar. He was easily

half-drunk and trying to make himself invisible.

"Your mother all right?"

Sophia stopped to smile at Helen. "Last time I saw her. Hello, Uncle

James." She turned to give Helen's husband a hard hug. James Moore had

been one of the constants in her life, and often more a father to her

than her own.

He'd let himself go pudgy, had lost more hair than he'd kept, but behind

his silver wire glasses, his eyes twinkled green at her. He looked like

everyone's favorite uncle and was one of the top, and most devious,

criminal defense attorneys in California.

"Prettiest girl in the room, isn't she, Helen?"

"Always."

"You haven't been by to see me in weeks."

"I'll make up for it." She gave his cheek a second kiss. "La Signora has

been keeping me busy."

"So I hear. We brought you a present."

"I love presents. Gimme."

"It's over there, making time with that redhead."

Sophia glanced over and gave a quick yip of pleasure as she spotted

Lincoln Moore. "I thought Linc was still in Sacramento."

"He'll fill you in," James told her. "Go on over. Talk him into marrying

you this time."

"James." Helen arched a brow. "We're going to find Pilar. Go enjoy

yourself."

Lincoln Moore was tall, dark and handsome. He was also the closest thing

Sophia had to a brother. At various stages of their lives, her two-month

seniority had been used to advantage--by both of them. Their mothers'

friendship had been a bond that had ensured they'd grow up together.

Because of it, neither of them had ever felt like an only child.

She walked up behind him, slid an arm through the crook of his and asked

the redhead, "Is this guy coming on to you?"

"Sophie." With a laugh, he picked her off the floor, gave her a quick

turn. "My surrogate sister," he told the redhead. "Sophia Giambelli,

Andrea Wainwright. My date. Be nice."

"Andrea." Sophia offered a hand. "We'll talk."

"No, you won't. She lies about me. It's a hobby."

"It's nice to meet you. Line's told me a lot about you."

"He lies, too. Did you both come in from Sacramento?"

"No, actually, I'm an intern at Saint Francis, the emergency-medicine

rotation."

"Basketball injury." Linc held up his right hand, showed off the splint

on his right finger. "Dislocated it trying to jam. Andy took a look at

it, fixed me up. Then I hit on her."

"Actually, he hit on me before I fixed him up. But since I couldn't

dislocate the rest of his fingers, here I am. And it is a great party."

"I'm living in San Francisco again," Linc told Sophia. "I decided to

take my father up on a job with his firm. I want some real law

experience before I get too deep in the political thing. I'm a glorified

law clerk, and not that glorified, but it's going to give me what I want

until I pass the bar."

"That's great! Linc, that's fabulous. I know your parents must be

thrilled to have you home again. We'll make time to catch up, okay?"

"Absolutely. I heard you've got your hands full right now."

"Never too full. When do you take the bar?"

"Next month."

"He's brilliant, you know," she told Andy. "It can be a real pain in the

butt."

"Don't start, Sophie."

"Enjoy yourselves." She spotted Ty coming in, looking miserable. "Duty

calls. Don't sneak out without seeing my mother. You know she dotes on

you." Sophia brushed at his jacket. "God knows why."

"I won't. I'll call you."

"You'd better. Nice meeting you, Andrea."

"You, too." Andy glanced up at Linc. "So, are you brilliant?"

"Yeah. It's a curse." Grinning, he drew her onto the dance floor.

"Smile, MacMillan."

Ty looked down at Sophia. "Why?"

"Because you're going to dance with me."

"Why?" He bit back a sigh as she took his hand. "Sorry. Been hanging

around with Maddy Cutter too long. The kid never stops asking

questions."

"The two of you seemed to be hitting it off. We'd dance better if you

actually touched me."

"Right." He laid a hand at her waist. "She's an interesting kid, and

bright. Have you seen my grandfather?"

"Not for a bit. Why?"

"I want to see him, and La Signora. Then I figure I'm done with this and

can go home."

"You're such a party animal." She slid her hand over his shoulder and

tugged playfully at his hair. There was so much of it, she thought. All

thick and unruly. "Live a little, Ty. It's Christmas."

"Not yet. There's still a lot of work to be done before Christmas, and

to be done after."

"Hey." She tugged his hair again so that he stopped scanning the crowd

for his grandfather and looked at her. "There's no work to be done

tonight, and I still owe you for coming to my rescue."

"You weren't in trouble. Everyone else was." It wasn't gratitude he was

looking for, but distance. A safe distance. She was always dangerous,

but pressed up against a man, she was lethal. "And I have some charts

and some grafts I want to go over. Why is that funny?" he demanded when

she chuckled.

"I was just wondering what you'd be like if you ever loosened up. I bet

you're a wild man, MacMillan."

"I get loose," he muttered.

"Tell me something." She skimmed her fingers down the nape of his neck,

enjoyed the way those lake-blue eyes flared with annoyance. "Something

that has nothing to do with wine or work."

"What else is there?"

"Art, literature, an amusing childhood experience, a secret fantasy or

desire."

"My current fantasy is to get out of here."

"Do better. Come on. The first thing that pops into your head."

"Peeling that dress off you, and seeing if you taste like you smell." He

waited a beat. "Good, that shut you up."

"Only momentarily, and only because I'm assessing my reaction. I find

myself a great deal more intrigued by the image than expected." She

tipped her head back to study his face. Oh yes, she liked his eyes,

especially now, when there were sparks of heat in them. "Why do you

suppose that is?"

"I've answered enough questions for one night." He started to step back,

but she clamped her hand on his shoulder.

"Why don't we fulfill our duty here, then go to your place?"

"Is it that easy for you?"

"It can be."

"Not for me, but thanks." His tone turned careless and cold as he looked

away from her again and around the room. "But I'd say you've got plenty

of alternates here if you're up for a quick one-night stand. I'm going

home."

He stepped back, walked away.

It took her nearly ten seconds before she had her wind back, and another

three before the fury spurted up and scored her throat. The delay

allowed him to get out of the room and down the first flight of stairs

before she came after him.

"No, you don't." She hissed it under her breath, then stalked past him.

"In here." She strode into the family parlor, banged the pocket doors

closed.

"Cazzo! Culo! You son of a bitch." Even now her voice was quiet,

controlled. He couldn't know how much that cost her.

"You're right." He cut her off before she could spew all the venom.

"That was out of line, and I'm sorry."

The apology, quietly given, turned temper to tears, but she held them

back by sheer raw will. "I'm a whore, in your opinion, because I think

of sex the way a man does."

"No. Jesus." He hadn't meant that, only to get under her skin the way

she got under his. Then get the hell away from her. "I don't know what I

think."

"It would be all right, wouldn't it, if I pretended reluctance, if I let

you seduce me. But because I'm honest, I'm cheap."

"No." He gripped her arms now, hoping to steady them both. "You got me

worked up. You always have. I shouldn't have said what I did. Anything

that I did. For God's sake, don't cry."

"I am not going to cry."

"Good. Okay. Look, you're beautiful, outrageous and over my head. I've

managed to keep my hands off you up till now, and I'm going to keep them

off."

"You've got them on me now."

"Sorry." He dropped his arms to his sides. "Sorry."

"You're saying you insulted me because you're a coward?"

"Look, Sophie. I'm going home, soak my head. We'll get back to work

tomorrow and forget this happened."

"I don't think so. I get you worked up, do I?" She gave him a little

shove, moving in, and he stepped back. "And your answer to that is to

take a slap at me."

"It was the wrong answer. I said I was sorry."

"Not good enough. Try this."

She was on him before he could act. All that was left was reaction.

Her mouth was hot, and soft and very skilled. It fed ravenously on his.

Her body was lush and smooth and very female. It pressed intimately

against his.

His mind blanked. He could admit that later--just snapped from on to off

like a switch, giving him no shield against the panther leap of arousal.

She tasted like she smelled; he learned that much.

Dark and dangerous and female.

He'd jerked her closer before he could stop himself, responded to the

sharp nip of her teeth even as his system went to fast overload.

One minute she was wrapped around him like some exotic, strangling vine,

and the next he was cut loose with every ounce of blood drained from his

head.

"Deal with it." She ran a finger lightly over her own bottom lip, then

turned to shove the doors open again.

"Just a damn minute." He had her arm, spun her around. He wasn't sure

what he planned to do, but he didn't plan for it to be pleasant.

Then he saw the utter shock on her face. Before he could react she was

shoving him aside, racing across the room to the refectory table.

"Dio! Madonna, who would do such a thing?"

He saw it then, the three Giambelli angels. Red ran down the carved

faces like blood from slash wounds. Written across the chest of each, in

that same violent hue, were vicious messages.

BITCH #1

BITCH #2

BITCH #3

"Sit down, Sophie. I'll get them out before your mother or grandmother

sees them. Take them home, clean them up."

"No, I'll do it. I think it's nail polish. A nasty girl trick." she said

quietly. Temper would do no good, she thought as she gathered the three

figures. And she couldn't find her anger under the sadness. "Rene, I

suppose. Or Kris. They both hate the Giambelli women at the moment."

"Let me take care of it for you." He laid his hands on her shoulders.

"Whoever did it knew it would hurt you. I can get them cleaned up and

put back before anyone notices."

She wanted to push the angels into his big, strong hands, and herself

along with them. Because she did, she stepped away from him. "I take

care of my own, and you're in a hurry to go home."

"Sophie."

His tone was so patient, so kind, she sighed. "I need to do it myself.

And I need to be angry with you a little while longer. So go away."

He let her go, but once he was outside, he turned and climbed the stone

steps to the ballroom. He'd hang around awhile, he decided. Just to be

sure the only thing anyone hurt that night were wooden angels.

In her room, Sophia carefully cleaned off the figures. It was, as she

suspected, smears of bold red nail polish. A petty vandalism, and an

ugly one, but not permanent.

You can't destroy the Giambellis so easily, she thought. We're tougher

than that. Tough enough, she thought, for her to ignore the nastiness of

the act and leave the perpetrator of it disappointed.

She took them back downstairs, replaced them and found that single act

steadied her again.

Easier, she realized, than steadying herself against what had passed

between her and Tyler.

Moron, she thought, wandering to an antique mirror to add a fresh

dusting of powder to her nose. The moron could certainly kiss when he

put some effort into it, but that didn't make him less of a moron. She

hoped he suffered. She hoped he spent a long, sweaty, uncomfortable

night. If he looked haggard and miserable the next day, she might, just

might let him off the hook.

Then again.

She watched herself in the mirror as she traced a finger over her lips.

Dropped her hand quickly to retrieve her lipstick when the doors opened.

"Sophia."

"Nonna." She glanced toward the three angels. All was as it should be.

"Just doing some repairs. I'll be right back up."

Tereza closed the doors behind her. "I saw you go out after Tyler."

"Mmm." Keeping it at that, Sophia carefully painted her lips.

"Do you think, because I'm old, I don't recognize the look in your eye?"

"What look is that, Nonna?"

"Hot blood."

Sophia gave a little shrug, recapped her lipstick. "We had an argument."

"An argument didn't require you to replace your lipstick."

Laughing now, Sophia turned. "What sharp eyes you have, Grandma. We did

have an argument, and I solved it my way. It's both legal and moral for

me to kiss Ty, Nonna. We're not blood kin."

"I love you, Sophia. And I love Tyler."

Sophia softened. The words came rarely from Tereza. "I know."

"I didn't put the two of you together so you would hurt each other."

"Why did you put us together?"

"For the good of the family." Because the day had been long, Tereza gave

in and sat. "Hot blood can cloud the judgment. This is a pivotal year,

and already before it begins, we have upheaval. You're a beautiful young

woman."

"Some say I look like my grandmother."

Tereza allowed herself a small smile. She, too, glanced toward the three

carved figures, and her eyes softened. "A little, perhaps. But more you

favor your grandfather. He was beautiful, like a painting. I married for

duty, but it wasn't a hardship. And he was kind. Beauty is a weapon,

cam. Take care how you use it, for without that kindness, it will turn

and strike back at you."

Sophia sat. "Am I… hard, Nonna?"

"Yes." Tereza reached over, touched her hand lightly to Sophia's.

"That's not a bad thing. A soft woman is too easily molded, and too

easily bruised. Your mother's been both. She's my daughter, Sophia," she

added coolly, when Sophia stiffened. "I will speak my mind there. You're

not soft, and you go your own way. I'm pleased with you. I say only that

hard can become brittle, without care. Take care."

"Are you pleased with me, Nonna, because in going my own way, I go

yours?"

"Perhaps. You're Giambelli. Blood tells."

"I'm also Avano."

Tereza inclined her head, her voice turned fierce. "You're proof, aren't

you, of which line is stronger? Your father's in you. He's a sly man,

and you can be sly. He's ambitious, and so are you. But his weaknesses

have never been yours. His lack of heart has ruined him as much as his

lack of courage. You have both heart and courage, and so you can be hard

and not brittle."

"I know you hate him," Sophia said softly. "Tonight, so do I."

"'Hate' is a strong word. You shouldn't use it against your father,

whatever he is, whatever he's done. I have no hate for Anthony Avano."

Tereza got to her feet again. "I have no feelings toward him now. He's

made his last choice that concerns me. We'll deal with each other one

final time, then he'll no longer exist for me."

"You mean to cut him loose."

"He made his choice," Tereza repeated. "Now he'll deal with the

consequences of it. It's not for you to worry over." She held out a

hand. "Come, you should be at the party. We'll find your mother and show

them three generations of Giambelli women."

It was very late when Tony let himself into the apartment. He wondered

if anyone knew he had the key, after all this time.

He'd brought his own bottle of wine, a choice from his personal cellar.

The Barolo would keep things civilized. Business discussions, and the

word blackmail never entered his mind, should always be conducted in a

civilized manner.

He uncorked the bottle in the kitchen, left the wine on the counter to

breathe and selected two glasses. Though he was disappointed not to find

fresh fruit in the refrigerator, he made do with the wheel of Brie.

Even at three in the morning, presentation mattered.

It was lucky he'd made the appointment so late. It had taken quite some

doing to wind Rene down. She'd spent over an hour, even after the drive

back to the city, haranguing him about the Giambellis, their treatment

of her, his future with the company. And money.

Money was the main matter, of course.

He could hardly blame her for it.

Their lifestyle required a great deal of money. Unlike Pilar, Rene

didn't bring unlimited funds to the table. And unlike Pilar, Rene went

through money like it would shortly become unfashionable to have any in

your pocket.

No matter, he thought, arranging crackers with the cheese. It would be a

simple and civilized matter to increase their cash flow.

The Giambellis intended to cut him loose. He was certain of that now.

Neither Pilar nor Sophia would stand up for him. He'd known that was a

possibility, but had chosen to ignore it and hope for the best. Or

rather, he admitted here, in private, he'd allowed Rene to push him into

a corner.

But he had options. Any number of options. The first of which should be

coming along any minute.

This first business deal would be a stopgap, buy him time. He had other

avenues, and they could be widened if necessary. He had contacts, and

prospects.

Tereza Giambelli would be very sorry she'd underestimated him. A great

many people would be sorry.

In the end he would land on his feet, as he always had. He had no doubt

of it.

The knock on the door made him smile. He poured two glasses of wine, set

them and the bottle on a tray with the cheese and crackers. He set the

tray on the coffee table in the living room.

He shot his cuffs, smoothed his hair, then walked to the door prepared

to begin negotiations.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Part Two

--------

The Growing

-----------

Not a having and a resting, but a growing and a becoming,

is the character of perfection as culture conceives it.

--MATTHEW ARNOLD

~o~

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Chapter Nine

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Contents - Prev | Next

"I don't know why we had to come back here."

"Because I needed a few more things." She could have put it off, Sophia

admitted. But no reason to waste a trip into San Francisco without

stopping by her apartment. Hadn't she taken pity on Ty and driven Eli's

SUV instead of her convertible?

"Look," she continued. "I explained that at the beginning I'm going to

have to spot-check the offices. Kris is going to continue to resist the

new feeding chain. She needs to see you and me together, a team."

"Some team."

"I'm managing." She pulled into her parking slot, set the brake. "I

think we should call a holiday truce. At the moment, Ty, I just don't

have the time to fight with you."

She climbed out, slammed her door, jammed her keys in her briefcase.

"What's the problem?"

"I don't have a problem. You're the problem."

He walked around to her side, leaned on the fender. She'd been edgy for

two days, he thought. Long enough for anybody to stew. He didn't think

it was about their incident at the Christmas party. She'd come out on

top of that one.

"A team, remember? Are you still upset about the angels?"

"No. I took care of them, didn't I? Good as new."

"Yeah, you deal, all right. So what's the problem now?"

"You want to know the problem? Fine. I hate getting up at the crack of

dawn every day, tromping around the fields in the cold. But I'm doing

it. Then I go back and do the work I'm trained to do. But I'm obliged to

juggle it from the villa and the offices here, where I have a

second-in-command who's not only slept with my father but is ready to

mutiny."

"Fire her."

"Oh, that's an idea." She tapped a finger to her temple, while her voice

dripped disdain. "Why hasn't that occurred to me? Could it be because

we're weeks into a reorganization, in the middle of a huge and intense

and vital promotional campaign and I have no one qualified to take over

her work? Yes, you know, I think that might be the reason I haven't

kicked her bitchy, cheating ass out."

"Look, brat, you got sand in your shoe, you shake it out."

"I don't have time," she snapped and, to prove it, yanked out her

Filofax. It bulged. "Would you like to take a look in here, see my

schedule for the next six weeks?" She jammed it back in her briefcase.

"So you're pressed." He gave a little shrug. "Take the mornings off to

do what you have to do. I'll carry you in the vineyard."

The look she gave him shot like a bullet.

"Nobody carries me, MacMillan. But you're damn right I'm pressed. I'm

supposed to be training my mother, who has little to no interest in

public relations. I've had to cancel three dates with three very

interesting men because I'm buried in work. My social life is going down

the toilet. I haven't been able to get through goddamn Rene for two days

to contact my father, who hasn't been to his office. And it's imperative

I speak with him about one of our top accounts within the next

forty-eight hours as someone--who unfortunately won't be me--is going to

need to fly to San Diego for a meeting in approximately forty-nine

hours."

"What about Margaret? I thought she was taking over most of the major

accounts."

"Do you think I didn't try that? Do I look stupid?" Tired, frustrated

and fed up, she stalked to the garage elevator and stabbed the button.

"She left for Italy yesterday afternoon. Neither she nor her office is

fully updated on the Twiner account because it's always been my father's

baby. Since I don't want the people at Twiner to know we've got a hole

in the loop, I've been tap-dancing with them for days."

"Nobody carries you," Ty pointed out. "But you're carrying Avano."

"No, I'm through carrying him. But I'll carry Giambelli, and that's why

I'm covering for him as long as I can. I don't like it, I'm pissed off

and I have a stupid headache."

"Okay." He surprised them both by reaching up to rub her stiff shoulders

when they stepped onto the elevator. "Take some aspirin, then we'll work

it through a step at a time."

"She's got no right to block me from speaking to my own father. Not on a

personal level or a business one."

"No, she doesn't." That, Ty assumed, was the real headache. "It's a

power play. She won't get her kicks unless you let her know it steams

you. Work around him."

"If I work around him, it makes him look like a… damn it. He is a

fool. I'm so angry with him for putting me into this spot. If I don't

clean it up by end of day--"

"You'll clean it up by end of day."

"Yeah." She let out a breath, stepped off the elevator on her floor.

Turned to study him. "Why are you being nice to me?"

"It throws you off. Plus, Twiner is a big stake. I don't spend all my

time in the fields," he said when she lifted her eyebrows at him. "If

you'd told me you were trying to track down your father, I'd have given

you a hand with it. You haven't gone to Cutter."

She pressed her lips together. "No. But I figure he knows something's

up. He'll pinpoint the target soon enough."

"Then we'll just have to be faster. Teamwork, remember?"

"That's only because you dislike him more than you dislike me."

"And your point is?"

It made her laugh as she put the key in the lock. "As good a reason as

any. I just need to grab a few things, including some old files I want

my mother to study. And I think I might have some notes on Twiner

that'll partially plug this hole. I'll have you back home by dinner."

She stopped, turned. "Unless," she said, adding a slow smile, "you'd

like to order in and try out a different kind of teamwork."

"Cut it out."

"You liked kissing me."

"When I was a kid I liked green apples. I found out they're hell on the

system."

"I'm ripe."

He reached past her to turn the knob. "You're telling me."

She gave his arm a friendly squeeze as she turned. "I'm starting to like

you, MacMillan. What the hell will we do about that?" She pushed open

the door, took one step inside, froze.

"Dad?"

She had a brief impression, no more than a blur, before Ty was shoving

her out the door again. But that blurred image stayed in her mind, was

all she could see.

Her father, slumped in her chair, the side of his face, the glinting

silver at his temples, the front of his shirt all crusted and dark. And

his eyes, his handsome, clever eyes, filmed over and staring.

"Dad. He's… I have to… My father."

She was pale as a sheet and already beginning to shudder when Ty pushed

her against the wall outside her apartment. "Listen to me, Sophia.

Listen. Use your cell phone. Call nine-one-one. Do it now."

"An ambulance." She fought her way through the fog that wanted to

slither over her brain, and began to fight Tyler. "He needs an

ambulance. I have to go to him."

"No." He gripped her arms, gave her one brisk shake. "You can't help

him." He tabled the idea of going back in to check on Tony himself.

Sophia couldn't be left alone. And he'd already seen enough to be

certain there was nothing to be done.

He pulled Sophia to the floor, opened her briefcase himself and dug out

her cell phone. "I need the police," he said.

Sophia lowered her head to her knees as Tyler gave the emergency

operator the necessary information. She couldn't think. Wouldn't think

yet. Somehow she had to steady herself and get through.

"I'm all right." Her voice was quiet, almost calm, even if her hands

couldn't be. "I know he's dead. I have to go in to him."

"No." He settled down on the floor beside her and draped an arm over her

shoulders as much in restraint as comfort. "You don't. You're not. I'm

sorry, Sophia. There's nothing you can do."

"There's always something." She lifted her head. Her eyes were dry.

Burning dry. "Someone killed my father, and there has to be something I

can do. I know what he was." Her voice broke there, and the tears that

were scalding her throat poured up and out. "He's still my father."

"I know it." He tightened his grip until she laid her head on his

shoulder. There was something to do, he thought as she wept. Even if it

was only to wait.

He didn't leave her. Sophia told herself to remember that whatever

happened between them--or didn't--when things had been at their very

worst, Tyler had stayed with her.

She sat on the sofa in the apartment across the hall from her own. She'd

been to a couple of parties there, she recalled. The gay couple who

lived there threw delightful parties. And Frankie, a graphic artist who

often worked at home, had opened the apartment to her, and the police.

And bless him, had discreetly closed himself in the bedroom to give them

privacy.

No doubt the story would make its way like an electric fire through the

building. But for now, he was being a pal. She'd remember that, too.

"I don't know what he was doing in my apartment," Sophia said, again.

She tried to study the face of the man who questioned her. Like his

name--Detective Lamont? Claremont?--his features kept slipping out of

focus.

"Did your father, or anyone else, have a key?" The name was Claremont.

Alexander Claremont.

"No, I… Yes." Sophia lifted a hand, pressed a fingertip against her

temple as if to loosen the thought. "My father. I gave him a key not

long after I moved in. He was having some decorating work done on his

place, and I was going to be out of the country. I offered to let him

use my place while I was gone. I don't think I ever got the key back. I

never thought of it again."

"Did he often use your place?"

"No. He didn't use it when I offered, but stayed at a hotel." Or said he

had, she thought. Had he used her apartment then, and since? Hadn't

there been times she'd come back from a trip and felt someone had been

there in her absence?

Little things out of place.

No, that was stupid. It would have been the cleaning service. Her father

would have had no reason to use her apartment. He'd had his own, with

Rene.

He cheated on your mother, a voice murmured in her brain. He cheated on

Rene.

"Ms. Giambelli?"

"I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"You want some water? Something?" Tyler interrupted, to give her a

moment to tune back.

"No, no thanks. I'm sorry, Detective. I keep losing the thread."

"It's all right. I asked when was the last time you had contact with

your father."

"Saturday night. There was a party at our vineyard. It's an annual

event. My father was there."

"What time did he leave?"

"I couldn't say. There were a great many people. He didn't say goodbye

to me."

"Did he attend alone?"

"No, his wife was with him. Rene."

"Your father is married?"

"Yes, he was married the day of the party. Rene Foxx. Hasn't she been

contacted?"

"I was unaware of her. Can I reach her at your father's address?"

"Yes, I… Yes," she said again, biting back what had nearly tumbled off

her tongue.

"Do you own a gun, Ms. Giambelli?"

"No."

"You had no handgun in your apartment?"

"No. I don't like guns."

"Did your father own a gun?"

"I don't know. Not to my knowledge."

"When was the last time you were in your apartment?"

"Over a week ago. As I told you, I'm staying primarily in Napa for the

next several months. I came here today, after Mr. MacMillan and I left

the offices downtown, to pick up a few more things."

"What was your relationship with your father?"

She toughened up. Sitting beside her, Tyler felt it. "He was my father,

Detective. Why don't I save you the trouble of asking me if I killed

him. No, I didn't. Nor do I know who killed him, or why."

Claremont's voice remained steady. "Did your father have any enemies?"

"Obviously."

"That were known to you," he added without skipping a beat.

"No. I don't know of anyone who would have killed him."

Claremont looked down at his pad, appeared to study some notes.

"How long have your parents been divorced?"

"They've been legally separated over seven years."

"Separated?"

"Yes. They haven't lived together, in any real sense, since I was a

child."

"Would this Rene Foxx be your father's second wife?"

"That's correct."

"Just married a couple days ago."