Brave Enough(32)

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for the people I love.”

“You were raised in a very loving home, I guess.”

“I was.”

“Tell me about it. Tell me about your family.”

My head rises and falls with his chest as he takes a deep breath and lets it out. “My dad took this job before I was born. Moved Mom and me here when I was just a baby, to live full-time in the caretaker’s quarters. This place was all I ever knew for most of my life. I grew up with my hands in this dirt, surrounded by Chiara grapes and Chiara wine.”

“I wish I’d known you then,” I admit quietly.

I feel almost cheated that I was kept so far from the “common” people, as I’m sure Dad thought of them. While I was enjoying a luxurious family retreat in the mountains, Tag and his parents were working the fields that kept this place running. They are the backbone of Chiara, not my family.

“I saw you several times over the years. You were like a beautiful princess, kept in the highest room of the tallest tower, far away from the common folk.” I doubt Tag knows how accurate that statement actually is. “I never dreamed the little girl that I saw from a distance would grow into such an amazing woman.”

I hide my smile against his muscular pectoral. “I saw you from a distance once or twice. It’s probably a good thing they never let me get too close. I bet, even then, you’d have fascinated me.”

“Oh absolutely,” he says without one hint of doubt. I laugh and look up at him. He’s grinning down at me.

“I’m sure you were every bit as humble back then, too.”

“Of course.”

“When did you leave?”

“I enlisted in the Army when I was nineteen. I’d had enough of working the vines and just wanted out. I met some great guys, saw the world. Did a lot of different . . . things.”

I don’t ask what those “things” are; I just wait for him to continue. When he doesn’t, I prompt, “And?”

I feel a sigh swell in his chest. “And then Dad died. Mom couldn’t work these fields, of course. I knew your father would have to hire someone else, maybe even a family like ours, which would inevitably mean that Mom would have to move. I couldn’t stand the thought of that, so I came home a year after my first tour was up. Been back here ever since.”

“Do you regret it? I mean, if he hadn’t died, would you have come back?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. But I don’t regret it. Now that I’ve seen what’s out there, Chiara is as precious to me as it always was to my parents. This is my home. These fields, these grapes, this life . . . it’s part of who I am. And I’ll do anything . . . anything to make sure there’s a place for us here.”

I feel the frown work its way onto my brow. “Is that why you’re helping me?”

There’s a short pause before Tag moves with the speed of a snake’s strike. He has me on my back, pressing me so quickly into the clothes on which we rest that it startles a squeak out of me.

“I want to help you because I want to help you. Yes, I do want for my mother to be able to stay in her home for the rest of her life, no matter how long or short that might be, but I also want to help you. No one likes for their fate to be decided by someone else.”

He says the last with such passion, it spurs more questions. “But what happens when this is over? Aren’t you afraid that Dad will have you and Stella removed?”

“As ruthless as he is, or as he talks at least, I’m not sure he’d actually be able to throw my mom out. She’s cared for him, his family and his home for half his life. Me, on the other hand? There’d be a greater likelihood he’d toss me out on my ass, but then he’d have to find someone immediately, someone experienced and competent and familiar with this type of terrain, and have them trained in a matter of weeks. Harvest is just around the corner. It’s crucial that things go smoothly. I think he’s too smart to be that impulsive. I think he’ll bide his time and keep trying to manipulate you through your charity. But in the end, I think it’s a distinct possibility that we can both get what we want.”

“And you’re willing to bet all that you have here?”

“I am. Because I’m not betting on your dad; I’m betting on me. On my ability to read people, on what I know and what I want, and the lengths I’ll go to get it. William O’Neal is still a smart businessman when you take emotion out of it. I’m betting on being able to rationalize with him if it comes to that, help him see what I have to offer. After all, he owns these fields, but I’ve worked them my whole life. And I’ve got plans for this place, plans that he’ll like if he’d listen.” He stares down at me, raising a hand to brush my hair behind my ear. “In short, yes. I’m willing to risk it. It’s a risk, but a calculated one. And the possible rewards are . . . compelling,” he says, smiling devilishly down at me.