Season of Change(88)

                “Back on the streets so soon, Christine?” A woman’s voice, familiar, condescending.

                Christine looked up at Cami Ippolito, her former boss and supposed best friend. She almost reached between her shoulder blades to check for the knife that Cami had left in her back. “What are you doing in Sonoma?”

                “I’m interviewing winemakers.” Cami in turn looked down on Christine’s jean skirt, towering above her in trendy five-inch wedges. “That is, unless you want your job back. There’s still time to reblend.”

                With effort, Christine kept her mouth closed, but her hands fisted. She felt Slade come up behind her, saw the flash of burgundy tie in her peripheral vision, watched as Cami’s eyes connected with Slade’s beautiful untrustworthy green ones.

                “Although I’m beginning to see your job’s appeal. Is this one of your bosses?” Cami’s smile was lipstick smooth, designed to rile women and entice men. She introduced herself to Slade.

                Other winemakers looked with interest and recognition at Christine, making assumptions about who Slade was. Several nudged their buddies and inched closer. The crowd flowed around them as they jockeyed for position.

                She would not feel sorry for Slade and what was about to happen—a winemaker’s version of the Spanish Inquisition. They’d pry and prod and try to judge if Slade was an also-ran, a threat, or someone they should suck up to.

                Let him see what he was bringing to Harmony Valley. Let him see.

                Christine squeezed in at the end of the bar, composing her letter of resignation in her head, leaving Slade to deal with the swarm of sharks circling him.

                Not that he was in any danger. Slade was a shark himself.





                                      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

                “WHAT CREATED YOUR interest in wine?”

                “What style of winemaking do you favor for your reds—the French or the Californian?”

                “How long can you hold out before you accept an offer on those permits or the winery itself?”

                Each question asked with a smile as false as one of Evy’s. Each question backloaded with subtle messages—What, you think wine-making is easy? Yeah, you don’t know a thing. Really, you think you can’t be bought?

                Familiar frustration built as dark as a thundercloud on a stormy night. The winemakers swarming him thought he wasn’t good enough—not to leap into making wine, not without years of experience and a pedigree. Those last few years, his father hadn’t thought he could succeed at anything, either, including life.

                Slade wanted to prove the crowd wrong. He could do this. He could make so much money that these jealous types would cluster around him for an entirely different reason.

                But that would require him to turn down offers for the permits or the winery itself. It would require him to recommend to his partners they stay the course and make wine. It wouldn’t free him from his past. From the house. From his scar.

                Christine sat at the end of the bar, halfway through a glass of white wine. He imagined her slender arm reaching through the crowd, reaching for his tie, leading him away, as if he was hers.

                She remained where she was.

                Cami leaned in close, smelling of alcohol and musky perfume. “She’ll leave you. At the first sign of trouble. It’s what the Alexanders do. She’s probably planning to leave you right now.”