More than a Mistress(20)

She had other dreams, too. Tender ones, of Travis holding her in his  arms, just holding her, nothing more. Or dancing with her, in a  flower-filled garden, his kisses as soft as the whisper of the breeze.  The dreams were silly; she knew that. They were half-remembered perfume  commercials, playing in her head. Grown women did not have such girlish,  romanticized flights of imagination.

High overhead, a hawk cried out its pleasure as it soared toward the sun  on a thermal current of hot valley air. Alex tilted her head back,  looked up and wondered what it felt like to be so free. She had never  been free, not of the responsibility to live the life first her father,  and then her husband, had laid out for her. And it had seemed enough,  until that Friday evening, two weeks ago, when she'd gone into the  exciting embrace of a stranger.

It had taken her a while to understand why she was wasting her time  thinking about a man who didn't deserve it but, finally, she did. It was  because she didn't have enough to keep her busy.

The idea-that there was more to life than the things that filled hers-had actually been perking for a while.

She'd never really thought about the way she lived before. She'd been  raised to be an obedient daughter in the expectation that she'd marry  someone in the same circle of people she'd known all her life, and that  she'd be an excellent hostess and a good wife to him. She was an expert  at making half an hour's worth of polite conversation about absolutely  nothing and planning an elegant meal for ten or two hundred. She'd never  questioned her role: she'd deferred first to her father's wishes and  then to her husband's. She'd hated her marriage but she'd probably have  stayed in it, if she hadn't returned home one day and found Carl in her  bedroom with another woman.                       
       
           



       

Oh, yes. Until two weeks ago, she'd played her role impeccably.

Alex paused and scuffed her bare toes in the cool, sandy soil.

Her father would have turned purple at the sight of her walking around  this way. Carl, too. It isn't suitable, they'd have said, but their  shock would have been nothing compared to that of her attorneys and  business manager when she'd refused to simply sign away Peregrine  Vineyards without first meeting the prospective buyer, even though the  vineyard had been for sale for several months without so much as an  offer.

Her business manager had looked vaguely alarmed. "Surely, you're not  having second thoughts about selling Peregrine? We've explained how much  money it would take to make the vineyard profitable, Ms. Thorpe, and  that we are convinced it's not worth the investment."

"You have. And I still wish to sell. But I want to meet the buyer."

"Whatever for?" one of the lawyers had asked.

She thought about telling them that she'd decided to take a greater  interest in the workings of her inherited estates but from the looks on  their faces, she'd decided it might be best to leave that news for  another day. Instead, she'd told them that she had a special fondness  for Peregrine, which was true enough.

She'd seen the winery years before, when she'd inherited it. Carl had  taken her to the Napa Valley for what she'd foolishly thought was a  romantic getaway weekend but had only been his way of checking out the  property. Her disappointment had been minimal; by then, she'd known not  to expect much from her marriage. What had surprised her was that she'd  fallen in love with Peregrine on sight. The acres of grapevines, the  gently rolling hills, the big Victorian farmhouse standing on a grassy  rise...

"It's beautiful," she'd said, and then added, impulsively, "Why don't we fix up the house and use it for weekends?"

"Don't be foolish, Alex," Carl had replied brusquely. "Peregrine isn't a toy, it's a business venture."

He was right, of course. That was why she was selling it. Alex sighed,  tucked her hands into the pockets of her linen trousers and began  walking. Okay, maybe it was silly but she didn't want to hand Peregrine  over to a faceless entity. It was why she'd insisted on a meeting.

"But it isn't done," her senior attorney had said, the same way she  imagined he'd have said, "My God, Ms. Thorpe, there's an alligator  swimming in your bathtub."

"Why isn't it?" Alex had replied politely, and the men had rushed in  with explanations that ranged from the logical to the absurd, but it had  all come down to the same thing.

Her father would not have permitted it, and neither would Carl.

"My father is dead," Alex had said. "And Carl Stuart is no longer my husband."

And so, here she was, walking the dusty rows of the vineyards, looking  at the grapevines as if she knew something about them when she didn't  know anything, heading toward the Victorian farmhouse for a meeting with  a man who'd probably been told he'd have to endure fifteen minutes of  idiotic fluff, if he wanted the purchase to go through.

Alex paused at the end of the row of grapevines, where she'd left her  shoes, and put them on. She didn't know why, but she felt uncertain. It  was a new feeling, and she didn't like it. She'd felt this way only once  before, after she'd bid on Travis.

She frowned, straightened her shoulders and walked up the rise. This was  not the time to let her thoughts wander. She'd never see Travis again.  What she had to concentrate on now was the man waiting for her at the  house.

What would she say to him? What would she ask? She didn't even know his  name, or his function. In her determination to face down her advisor and  her attorneys, she'd forgotten to ask them any of the things she should  have. He represented the buyer. That was all she knew.

One of her lawyers would be present at this meeting, of course, but she  didn't want to let him do all the talking. She wanted to participate.  She was a good judge of people; she could ask questions that would give  her some insight into this unknown buyer's intentions because, silly or  not, she wanted Peregrine to have the best possible stewardship.

Alex smoothed back her hair. The breeze had teased the strands loose  from the knot her hairdresser had secured at her nape this morning.  Glancing down, she saw that her toes, exposed in her Italian sandals,  were faintly gritty from her walk.

"A good beginning, Alex," she muttered-and came to a dead stop.

There was a car in the driveway, parked alongside her rented sedan. Her  attorney drove a black Cadillac and this car was black. But it was a  Porsche. Her heart banged against her ribs. Travis drove a black  Porsche.

Alex laughed. California was awash in black Porsches. Anyway, what would a cowboy want with a vineyard?                       
       
           



       

Her cellular phone rang just as she reached the porch. She plucked it from her shoulder-bag and heard her attorney's voice.

"Ms. Thorpe, forgive me, but I'm afraid I'm going to be delayed."

Alex sighed, opened the screen door and stepped into the slate-floored foyer.

"Delayed? For how long?"

"Actually, I'm not sure I'm going to be able to make it at all. I tried calling you-"

"Never mind. We'll just have to reschedule."

"Well, if you'd be interested in a suggestion..." She smiled at his new caution. "Certainly."

"You might wish to go ahead and hear what Mr. Baron has to say."

She felt the blood drain to her toes. "Who?"

"Mr. Baron. Travis Baron. I didn't realize you two were already  acquainted, Ms. Thorpe, but Mr. Baron tells me that you're old friends."

"Old friends," Alex said, in a strangled whisper.

"It was the only thing I could think of telling him," low male voice said.

Alex jerked around. Travis stood in the entrance to the living room. He  was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and those boots. Those cowboy boots...

"Alex? You are old friends, aren't you?"

She looked into the deep green eyes of the man she'd been dreaming  about. They were not friends, and surely not old ones. They weren't even  lovers. Not even she was naive enough to think that one long day spent  in bed made a man and a woman into lovers.

"Alex?"

Alex licked her lips. "Yes," she said, into the phone, "yes, we're ...we're old friends, Mr. Baron and I."

Travis smiled. She tried not to think of how his mouth tilted when he smiled, and how it had felt against her own.

"Good," her attorney said. ,"Fine. Just listen to what Mr. Baron has to say. Don't agree to anything, of course."

"Of course," Alex said, her eyes never leaving Travis, and she pressed  the Disconnect button. "Mr. Baron." Her voice was cool but her hand was  trembling as she put the phone away, and she hoped he couldn't see it.

"Back to formalities, Princess?"

Alex flushed. "Perhaps you'd like to explain your presence."