A Taste of Sauvignon (5 page)

She hesitated, weighing her options. “I guess I could eat a little something.”

“What's today's
pesce crudo
, Raoul?”

“We have some abalone sashimi. First catch of the season. We're full tonight, but you can eat here, at the bar.”

Abalone . . . what Esteban had been waiting for all winter. He gave Raoul a thumbs-up. “Give us a double order. And give Sauvignon another glass of”—he knew little about wine—“whatever she's drinking.”

“I
eat here every week,” Esteban said in answer to Savvy's blank expression.

With a graciousness that would put some of the most sophisticated men of her acquaintance to shame, he continued without pointing out how elitist she was to be surprised that he, a mere truck farmer, was also a regular at one of the valley's finest eateries. “It's hard to get fresh abs without driving over to the coast or down to the city. Unless I dive for them myself.”

“You dive for abalone? I hear that's really dangerous.” She owed him her polite consideration after her faux pas
,
yet her interest was real.

He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “They lose a couple of divers every year. Riptides. Exhaustion. Guys get stuck in a crevice and panic. It happens.”

“You risk your life for a sea snail?”

Raoul slapped down a matched set of silverware rolled in white linen. Savvy smiled gratefully at the guy next to her who offered up his chair to Esteban so he didn't have to eat standing. A moment later, their abalone arrived on a bed of romaine, garnished with kelp, lemon slices, and a purple blossom.

“I've never tried this,” she confessed, eyeing the dish uneasily.

“Don't feel bad. They're almost extinct. It's illegal to harvest them in a lot of places: South Africa, Australia, even Washington state.”

“Looks like raw chicken.”

“Bodega gets all their abalone at Salt Point. The suckers don't make it easy. First you've got to find one hidden among all the seaweed, then you gotta sneak up on it before it torques—twists itself and clings fast to the rocks—and then, hold your breath long enough to pry it loose and bring it to the top.”

“Hold your breath? You don't use an air tank?”

He shook his head. “There're strict rules. It's against the law to use scuba to hunt for abalone.”

She lowered her nose to her plate to take a cautious sniff. If it smelled like fish, it wasn't fresh. All she could smell though was clean, fresh ocean.

She watched Esteban unroll the cloth napkin, fold it neatly in half across his lap, pick up his knife and fork, and slice one, precise stroke across the raw flesh of his sashimi. It was the simplest of gestures, so why had her lungs stopped working? What was that mysterious sensation inside her? An urgent impatience . . . but for what?

Some women raved about six-packs; others, butts. Savvy had a thing for hands. Bad ones were a deal-breaker. But it wasn't only their shape. Poor grooming was a turnoff too. In her book, not even Joe Manganiello could get away with more than a sliver of white on the tips of his nails.

Worst of all was clumsiness. Watching Esteban, though, there was no ham-handed fisting of his fork, no inept sawing back and forth with his knife. He had the most masculine hands she'd ever seen, yet he used them with the elegance of a dancer. To hell with her prep-school manners. She cocked her head and stared at the ballet on the bar.

With his left hand, he inverted his fork, resting his index finger along its spine as he made another incision. Laying his knife along the plate's edge with a muted clatter, he smoothly transferred the forkful of creamy flesh to his right hand and slid it between white teeth.

“Mm.”
He closed his eyes, relishing it.

Savvy swallowed along with him, though her mouth was empty. When he opened his eyes and shot her a look of pure pleasure, her heart leapt into her throat.

She gulped again and shifted her gaze to her wineglass to collect herself, though in her mind's eye she still saw
him
. Clearly, Esteban Morales had missed his calling. He should've been a hand model . . . for Tractor Supply Company. Because though he used them with the finesse of a brain surgeon, his hands were super-sized, good for hefting axes or reining draft horses.

He lifted his fork in the next bite, snagging her attention again in spite of herself.

What would it feel like to be touched by hands like that?
The whole side of her head would fit in his palm. His fingers could span her waist from rib to hip. The deep ache grew more compelling . . . demanding satisfaction.

“I'll take you there sometime,” he was offering.

“Sorry, where?”

“Salt Point.”

Now, balanced on his thumb and middle finger, he held out his fork to her mouth. “Here. Taste.”

Savvy tensed.
She
wasn't the one who'd ordered raw mollusks. She didn't make snap decisions, especially where vomiting and diarrhea might be involved. She weighed pros and cons, considered costs and benefits. Besides, her appetite for food had dissolved, replaced by a different kind of craving.

In the end, it was the hand that convinced her. How could there be anything bad at the end of those fingers? She remained fixated on it, acutely aware of his eyes intent on her mouth, watching as she closed her lips around the tines while he slowly drew them out. The seafood tasted both sweet and salty, with a scallop-like texture. “Mmmm!”

“I wouldn't lie to you.” He took another bite, his gaze still on her mouth. Simultaneously, they savored each other's pleasure . . . the raw flesh melting like lemon butter on their tongues. He lifted his eyes—crinkled at the corners from a life spent outside—to hers in a triumphant grin. The total effect was like sunshine pouring down on her.

Savvy was having way too much fun. Being with Esteban whirled her away into another world, a world without conference tables and briefs. She sucked in a steadying breath. Indulging in frivolous pleasures wasn't the way to reach your goals.

“Go back. Tell me about lavender.”

“S'got a ton of potential,” he replied easily, while they ate. “Ornamental, for starters. I could sell plants to nurseries or go the direct route, straight to the consumer. Then there's culinary. Everyone's heard of lavender in sweet things like cookies. It makes a great syrup for fruit, with sugar. And it's good in drinks. Now it's being used in place of rosemary and thyme in foods that aren't sweet, too. The most valuable thing, though, is the oil. It's used for perfumes, bug repellent, natural medicine—you name it. But it has to be extracted, and that means investing in equipment . . . learning how to use it.”

“Can you make a profit?”

He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, refolded it, and laid it back on his lap while she tried not to stare at those hands.

“It's kind of a rogue industry. It's hard to find good information, especially about wholesale pricing. Technically, there
is
no established lavender industry in the U.S. I've looked at retail prices in catalogs and on websites, and the numbers are all over the place, depending on the quality.” He chuckled. “Everyone says theirs is the best, but who knows, when there's no regulation? No standards?”

“There have to be regulations,” she said.

He shrugged. “Look it up. If you can find a law about growing lavender somewhere, I'd like to see it.”

“I would be very surprised, but anyway—what do you have against grapes?”

“Not a thing, except I only have five acres. Maybe if I had more ground and all the time in the world before I needed to make a profit. Grapes have a long lead time, though. They need a big investment before you see positive returns, let alone payback. Then there's the processing. Who's going to make the wine?”

“You could just sell the grapes to a processor.”

“Look.” He swigged his beer. “I get what this investment company wants to do. Five more acres tacked on to hundreds already planted in grapes makes perfect sense for them. Not for the little guy like me, though. Besides, there's something about seeing a thing through from start to finish. Like Madre's pepper jelly. I like knowing something went from seed to finished product all on our farm, crafted by our hands.”

“This lavender scheme—sounds like it's still a pipe dream.” She had to be sure.

He made a face. “I've been experimenting for three years. I'm still looking for the variety that will thrive in our
terreno.”

She shot the last swallow of wine in her glass. All that was left on their small plates now were the garnishes.

“One-point-six million,” said Savvy. “And I need to know by tomorrow.”

“T
he new offer is six percent over market value,” Esteban told his father. They'd just completed their first joint task of the day, partially covering the seed potatoes with soil. Once the plants began to grow, they would continue to fill the trenches as needed until, finally, dirt was mounded up around each vine. Esteban squinted down into the trench. “
Mierda
. I wish this soil wasn't so heavy.” Then he looked skyward. “That, or we'd get a long spell of dry weather.”

“A good farmer works with the weather the Lord gives him,” said Padre. “The spuds did fine when we planted them in this spot three years ago.” Potatoes were one of those crops that had to be rotated each year so the nutrients didn't leach out of the soil. “The water will be good for them when the tubers are forming.”

“Not when they're trying to cure,” countered Esteban.

“They can cure in the field.” Potatoes left in the field for a few days of dry weather helped the skins to mature, enabling them to be stored longer. Esteban didn't bother to argue that they'd be curing them in the field anyway, even if the soil was ideal.

Esteban already knew what Padre's decision would be with regard to the increased offer, so why didn't he just come out with it? They were on the same page when it came to the farm. But Padre was the patriarch. It fell to him to lead, and Esteban to follow. Still, he needed some kind of answer for Sauvignon by the end of the day.

When his cell rang toward the end of the drizzly afternoon, he knew who it was without looking.

“Do you have any news for me?” she asked briskly.

She had worked him last night at Bodega. Totally sucked him in with her polite interest in his abalone and her lily of the valley perfume. Then, just when he let his defenses down, she'd T-boned him with the second offer.

Esteban was sowing the spring's first spinach crop, a task he would repeat every ten days during the growing season.

“Not yet,” he said, swiping his sleeve across his forehead. “If I were you, I wouldn't get my hopes up.”

“I'm coming over.”

“Suit yourself.” She could camp out in the damn pumpkin patch until Halloween if she thought it would convince Padre to sell, but she'd be wasting her time.

As he slipped his phone back into his jeans, he noticed Padre making his way over to him. Must've heard him talking on the phone.

“Two million dollars,” his father said.

“
What?”

“You heard me.”

“That's half a million more than it's worth!”

Padre straightened up to his full five feet ten inches against his towering son. “Land is worth different things to different people.” He held up two fingers. “If they want it, it's two million. Tell them they can take it or leave it.” With that, he turned and strode back to his peas.

For the first time, Esteban noticed the slight stoop in his father's spine as he walked away. Padre wouldn't be around forever. A strange surge of protectiveness welled up in him. He raised his voice as high as he dared at Padre's back. “Why are you doing this? You don't want to leave here. Neither does Madre.”

But apparently, Padre had already uttered that day's quota of words.

Not long afterward, Esteban heard Savvy's car. He tramped out of the sticky soil toward the lane, in the opposite direction from where Padre had gone.

Last night at Bodega he'd traded his work pants for his good jeans. Today he was back to dressing like the truck farmer that he was. But since there was nothing he could do about looking like a ditch-digger, he distracted himself by wondering what
she
would be wearing today. He'd only ever seen her in drab black. He reached up to pick a pearly pink blossom as he passed by the magnolia tree and twirled it between his fingers and thumb. What would she look like in pink?

He tossed the flower away before he reached the car, letting her open her own door so he didn't defile it with his grimy hand. When she stood before him, all haughty and expectant, he skimmed her over, head to toe.

“Black again. I knew it.”

Her mouth tightened into a line and her eyes narrowed to slits. “Hmph,” she snorted. “You forgot to mention that in addition to your day job growing beans, you moonlight as a personal shopper.”

He couldn't help grinning. “Good one.” To his pleasure, her eyes sparkled back at his and she bit back a grin of her own. But not for long.

“So. What's the word?”

He threw up his soiled hands. “I'd invite you into the house to talk, but there's not much sense in it.”

She lifted her brow impatiently.

“Our land's not for sale, at any price. Tell your investors not to bother with any more offers.”

She raised her chin in defiance. “I'll talk to him.” She took a few steps toward the field and his heart leapt into his throat.

“Won't do you any good,” he called to her back. She couldn't go out there.

She halted, glancing back with suspicion. “Does your father really not speak English?”

“Go ahead then.” He gestured far afield to where Padre, the size of a June bug, worked. “Ask him yourself.” With studied casualness, Esteban propped his hands on his hips. What would he do if she took him up on it?

She looked down at her good heels. Then up, at the expanse of wet field. Her mouth formed a determined line.

 

Not selling wasn't an option.

In Savvy's mind's eye, the valley floor transformed itself into the mud-brown carpet in the headmistress's office at Five Oaks Preparatory Academy.

That day Savvy decided to become a lawyer. Lawyers were the guys in suits carrying briefcases who had swooped in to fix things when
Maman
died. Lawyers were smart. They made things happen. If lawyers could convince Papa to send his little girls away, what
couldn't
they do? Once she became a lawyer, she'd never feel powerless again.

Vaguely, she felt the touch of a hand on her elbow. When had Esteban moved to her side, and why was he observing her with concern, as if she were an injured child? As if he saw beyond her tortoiseshell frames, past the somber dress and the carefully arranged bun to the little girl behind the façade, desperate to put her world in order?

“Hey,” he said softly. “You can't always get what you want.” She heard compassion, not sarcasm in his voice. “Just because Padre doesn't want to sell, it's no reflection on you.”

She examined him with mute detachment.

“Do you want me to tell them? Your clients?”

The word
clients
snapped her out of her reverie. “Absolutely not. That wouldn't be appropriate. I'll deal with it.” Maybe she couldn't have
everything
, but she was going to get that land for NTI. No way could she fail at her very first assignment.

She studied Esteban in the hazy afternoon light. In his formfitting chambray shirt and faded jeans, with his feet planted firmly on the ground, he was the picture of a simple farmer. Yet this particular farmer was exquisitely made, with the best hands she'd ever seen on a man. Her nostrils flared at his scent, sharper now than it had been last night. At Bodega he'd had the clean smell of soap. Now, at the end of his workday, he smelled earthy, like growing things and sun-warmed soil—the source of all life. Standing next to him made those funny things happen to her insides all over again.

Suddenly she knew what she had to do.

“Sauvignon?”

It was time.

She smiled. “Savvy,” she said through lowered lids.

Long past time.

“Call me Savvy.”

Something caught his eye over her shoulder, and she turned to see his mother toddling toward them.

“Señorita!” the older woman said, brushing away Savvy's offer of a handshake. “Give me a hug.” She pressed her to her pillowy bosom. “I've come to invite you for supper,” she announced. “I'm making coq au vin.”

“
Coq au vin?”
Her favorite. Jeanne made it at least once a month. Savvy's forehead wrinkled. She could easily imagine Mrs. Morales whipping up a mean batch of empanadas or some spicy mole sauce. But the classic French dish?

Mrs. Morales read her mind. “All you need is an old rooster and some Rioja.”

Esteban looked as stunned as Savvy. Still, her mission had just become more complicated and this might help. “I'd love to.”

“So you'll come! The rooster is in the pot, and I have salad, fresh from the garden. Everything will be ready in an hour or so.”

Savvy brightened. This could fit right in with her plan. “That sounds wonderful. I'll bring something—bread. And wine.”

Mrs. Morales clapped her hands with pleasure. “
¡Bueno!
See you at six. Esteban, you and Padre come in and clean up soon.” She bustled back toward the house.

 

“You don't have to come,” Esteban told Savvy, after his mother was out of earshot. “Madre always has something on the stove.” He patted his stomach. “Must be why I got so big.”

“I couldn't turn her down, hurt her feelings. Unless, of course, you have a problem with me coming for dinner . . .”

He shrugged. “Why would I?” There were so many reasons.

“Good.” She smiled brightly. “See you in an hour.”

Mierda
, thought Esteban, watching her walk to her car. In little more than a week, that woman had turned his perfectly ordered life into a perfect shit storm. So why had he felt such concern for her when she got that lost-puppy look, after he told her the land deal was dead? Why couldn't he peel his eyes off her now, as she dodged the rocks, making her way across the spongy ground to her car? Was it his imagination, or did she exaggerate the sway of her hips as she walked? As if she read his sinful mind, she whirled around and shot him one, final smile.
Lost puppy, my ass.
She was a temptress. Maybe Padre was right. The St. Pierres were nothing but trouble.

Now what?
For once, he was glad Padre didn't talk much. He didn't want to answer any questions about the way his outrageous counteroffer had been not received, let alone break the news that Savvy St. Pierre was coming for dinner. That was just taking a bath with a toaster. Let Madre take the heat—this was all her idea.