A Taste of Sauvignon (6 page)

He started for the house, avoiding his father like the plague. He knew Madre had told him when he heard their raised voices from where he was washing up in the bathroom.

“What were you thinking, inviting that woman back into our home? Don't you know sending his daughter over here is a scheme orchestrated by St. Pierre to pilfer our land? You're falling straight into his trap!”

“You're getting too suspicious in your old age, Geraldo. It's not Xavier who is after the farm this time, it's the other investors.
Sauvignon es una chica agradable
. A nice girl. She would never betray us!”

“You've been listening too much to that cook of theirs. Of course she's going to take their side!”

His parents hardly ever yelled. All of this had brought out the worst in Padre. If he found out Esteban had lied to Savvy about his two-million-dollar counteroffer, no telling how he might react.

Esteban toweled his face in the mirror. Sometimes it was a pain in the butt, being bilingual. Sitting down to eat with people who didn't speak the same language wasn't his idea of fun, even when they
didn't
have a history of bad blood. Interpreting was an exercise in rapid-fire decision-making. The slightest nuance might change the entire meaning of a phrase.

He could opt to interpret everything that was said, even if that severely disrupted the normal flow of conversation. On the other hand, if he didn't bother translating at all, he'd catch it from Madre for being disrespectful. That left the middle ground. But where exactly was that? People didn't realize how fast thoughts flew out of their mouths. Or that some thoughts were way harder to translate than others. His head hurt already. Forget about eating—tonight's dinner was a recipe for disaster.

What if both Padre
and
Savvy found out he'd lied about the counteroffer?

And how much did Madre know? She was bilingual too, just didn't often have the confidence to intercede because she hadn't gone to school in America. Had Padre told her he was countering?
¡Mierda!
So much to keep straight! This was what he got for lying.

S
avvy scampered into the kitchen wearing skinny jeans and a baby-blue cashmere sweater with a printed scarf as a belt. “I won't be home for dinner,” she announced airily.

Over at the granite-topped island, Jeanne's hand froze above the yellow squash she was slicing. “Who are you? And where is my Sauvignon?”

“What?” Savvy asked, looking down at her outfit. Was she that obvious? She'd always missed having a mother. At her age, though, it felt kind of weird to have another woman hovering over her shoulder. Or maybe she was just afraid Jeanne could read her dirty mind. She was already skittish enough, now that she'd made her decision. “Does a girl have to wear black every day?”

“I thought
you
did,” Jeanne replied. “I am amazed that you could find something else, even in a closet the size of a small Caribbean country.”

“Hacked from Char,” she explained, spinning to give Jeanne the full effect.

“Ah.” Her smile faded. She sniffed.

“Jeanne! What's the matter?”

“Nothing, mademoiselle
,
nothing,” said Jeanne, clearing her throat.

Savvy went to her. “Tell me.”

Jeanne lowered the hand holding the knife. “It's just . . . in that shade of blue, you look every bit as beautiful as your
maman.”

Savvy made a sympathetic face and gave her a one-armed hug.

Jeanne wiped her eye with her sleeve. “Where are you going?”

“Next door, to the Moraleses,” Savvy replied, snitching a morsel of cheese destined for the squash dish.

“I assume the land negotiations are going well?”

That's all?
No comment on the unprecedented fact that she was dining at the home of the opposition?

“We've hit a little glitch. I'm not giving up though. I have a plan.”

“That's my girl.” As Jeanne worked, her keen eyes flickered over Savvy. “Why is it that your cheeks are so red
?”

Savvy flicked a glance into the wall mirror. “Same rouge as ever, must've been a little heavy-handed.” She whirled back around, fanning herself. “Do we have any good bread?”

“In my net bag, right there.” She motioned with a sticky hand. “I bought extra today.”

Savvy reached past Jeanne to withdraw a paper-wrapped baguette from her bag. Then, with a clink, she pulled a bottle of last year's cab from the cooler built into the island.

“Chanel No. 5, yes?” said Jeanne.

Couldn't she get away with anything around here?

Jeanne lifted a knowing brow. “Your dresses are all black, but your scent wardrobe is very diverse. It's a good choice for a date.”

“I told you, Jeanne,” she said, kissing her cheeks. “It's nothing but business.
À tout à l'heure!”

She was halfway out of the room when she heard Jeanne's footsteps behind her.

“Wait—I almost forgot. Take this too.” She opened a cupboard and withdrew a small glass jar. “A little hostess gift.”

The label was in French. “Did you get another package from your sister in Lyon?”

“No. This I sent for special.”

“Thanks, Jeanne. You're so thoughtful.”

“Give Maria my regards,” Jeanne called as Savvy walked out the door.

“I will. Oh, and Jeanne, could you do me a favor when you see Char?”

Jeanne lifted a brow.

“Remind her I said we need to sit down and talk about her prenup.”

 

Esteban listened for the slam of Savvy's car door. He needed to catch her before she set foot in the house, to lay the ground rules.
First and foremost, don't talk about the offer on the land.

Too late. By the time he got back from the living room carrying a flimsy, straw-bottomed chair that he prayed wouldn't collapse under his weight, she was already standing on the other side of the glass, hand poised to knock.

“Is that Señorita Sauvignon? Tell her to come in!” said Madre.

But his mouth wouldn't work. That blue sweater had struck him speechless. All he could do was hold the door open and try not to gape as she sashayed across the threshold.

She had breasts. Two of them. Peach-sized, by his estimation. They'd gone completely unnoticed earlier, beneath those dreary nun habits.

She handed Madre a skinny loaf of bread, a bottle of red wine, and a yellowish jar, and the two women reunited as if they hadn't seen each other for sixty years instead of sixty minutes, kissing, laughing, and chirping like a couple of magpies.

Padre rode in from the living room on a wave of palpable suspicion, quieting the women, making Esteban's muscles tense up tighter than a gnat's ass. When Savvy turned to Padre with a look of open curiosity, Esteban remembered with a start that they'd not yet been formally introduced. If he'd had his way, they never would be. Worrying about keeping his stories straight had him so stressed he couldn't wait for dinner to be over, and it hadn't even started yet. How was he going to think clearly with that sweater sitting across from him?

“Padre, this is Sauvignon.”

“Savvy,” she said respectfully. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

Padre nodded curtly and took the hand she offered.

There was the scrape of chairs as everyone took their seats. After only a few days, Savvy was starting to look right at home in Esteban's usual spot.

Madre set her pot in the center of the table and told everyone to help himself.

“Smells wonderful!” said Savvy, ladling broth into her bowl.

In Spanish, Padre said the blessing, picked up his spoon, and paused, frowning. “What is this?” he grumbled.

“Es pollo en vino,”
replied Madre matter-of-factly.

A hush fell over the room. Esteban and Savvy stilled, eyeing his parents uneasily.

“It's French. I made it in honor of Señorita Savvy,” Madre replied, serving herself last. “And even if you don't like it, you will eat it anyway, so as not to make a fool of yourself in front of our guest.”

Esteban groaned inwardly.
Off to a great start
—

“It's a sad state of affairs when a man is told what to do in his own house,” Padre groused in Spanish.

Smiling brightly, Madre turned to Savvy. “He says, it looks delicious.”

From the edge of his rickety seat, Esteban waited with bated breath as Padre mouthed his first spoonful of the stew.

Savvy tore a hunk of bread from the baguette. “Here, Mr. Morales . . .”

Esteban cringed.
Don't make it worse!

“I brought you some . . .” She stopped short, gaze flickering helplessly between Esteban and Madre.

Padre was used to rolled up tortillas, not doughy French bread....

“Pan,”
said Madre. “
Pan
is bread in Spanish.”

“Pan.”
Savvy smiled and nodded encouragingly, tempting Padre like a dog with a bone.

Though he eyed it suspiciously, Padre finally accepted her offering.
“Gracias.”
He dipped the bread into his broth. When he'd eaten it, he tore another hunk off the loaf.

Esteban and his mother sighed with relief. The ice had been broken.

Madre's gift of gab took it from there. Crazy how two women who were poles apart in age, nationality, and class could find so much to talk about, yet their shared interests seemed to go on forever. Vegetables, roses, weather, cooking—after a while Esteban lost track. He'd almost let his guard down enough to actually
taste
his second helping of chicken when Padre's hand went to his obliques in a gesture that was becoming more and more familiar lately.

“His back again,” said Madre in English. In Spanish, she said to him, “I made another batch of oregano oil. I'll rub some on your back later on.”

“That's too bad,” Savvy said. “I don't mean to interfere, but wouldn't it give you peace of mind to know Mr. Morales wouldn't have to keep working forever? If only he would consider reopening negotiations on your property . . .” She took an innocent sip from her bottle of Coke.

Padre looked up sharply, his spoon falling to his empty flan plate with a clatter. He scowled inquiringly at Esteban, prompting new concern on Madre's face.

“Señorita Savvy says she's glad you're keeping an open mind with regard to negotiations,” Esteban told his father.

“What do you mean, an open mind? Didn't you give her my counteroffer?”

“That was only this afternoon. Give her time to present it.”

Padre grunted. “Tell her to take all the time she needs. No one is
loco
enough to pay that much money.”

“What did he say?” asked Savvy.

“He said he'll think about it,” replied Esteban.

Savvy smiled.

“Well!” said Madre. “If everyone is finished . . .” She rose to whisk away the empty pot. Esteban and Savvy carried their own plates to the sink, where he picked up the small jar Savvy had brought.

“Lavender honey, from France,” said Savvy.

Esteban opened the lid, touched the honey's surface with a finger and licked it off. “What kind of lavender?” He studied the foreign print on the label.

“I don't know. Jeanne sent away to Provence for it.”

“That Jeanne . . . so thoughtful. Give her my thanks,” said Madre. “Esteban, did you tell Savvy about your lavender?”

¡Mierda!
When he was nervous, he slipped into Spanish. He hated being tagged as an immigrant . . . hated worse the fact that he hated it. Once he had kids of his own, they'd be rid of that stigma—born Americans. But the fact that he was bilingual wasn't news. He'd been acting as an interpreter—if a dishonest one—for the past hour.

“Has she seen your experiments?”

“Madre. I doubt she's interested in—”

“What experiments?” asked Savvy.

“Go out and show her the greenhouse,” said Madre, dismissing them with a wave. “Go on. I'll take care of these few dishes.”

Savvy tilted her head and smiled. “I've always had a thing for greenhouses. So many interesting scents.”

He was such a sucker. She'd probably never been in a greenhouse in her life. But Madre had been prompting him to be more outgoing since he was a shy little kid. She knew if there was anything he could open up about, it was lavender.

“Let's go,” he said, leading the way.

F
or the first time in days, no clouds smudged the evening sky, only a sliver of new moon glowing in the dusk.

Savvy fairly skipped along in the cool evening air, trying to keep up with Esteban's long strides. She wanted to kiss Mrs. Morales, first for the chance to finally meet her husband and now to be alone with her son.

A dense wall of humidity hit her the moment she stepped inside the glass-paned building. She inhaled in stages, the thick, fragrant air heavy in her lungs.

“I love the smell of healthy, growing things. My friends thought I was weird, but I used to hang out in the greenhouse at college sometimes. Even took an Intro to Botany course for one of my electives, junior year.” She winced at her lame attempt at small talk. What did Esteban care about her college courses? The whole time she'd had her nose buried in Evolution and Speciation, he'd been planted right here, studying this slip of land by the feel of the soil in his fingers, learning about the seasons by watching the sky.

But he wasn't unreceptive. “What's it smell like to you?”

“A million things, all at once . . .” She belly-breathed, trying to break down the complex aroma into its individual components. “Like the color green. Do smells have color, to you? You know. Sharp . . . metallic . . .”

“That's the magnesium in the chlorophyll.”

He picked up a pair of garden clippers with curved blades lying on a shelf.

A long trough of gray-green plants with narrow, toothed leaves ran down the center of the greenhouse. They seemed to be color-coded by their blossoms, ranging from pink through lilac and violet blue to deep purple.

Esteban snipped off a sprig of dusky blue violet and held it under her nose. “Describe this one to me.”

Savvy loved a challenge. “A potent musk and . . . camphor?”

He nodded. “
Lavandula angustifolia
. True English lavender.”

He moved down the row to some light blue flowers. “How about this?”

“Um, more rosemary-ish.” She lit up with sudden recognition. “Like the stuff Celine sprays on our sheets!” Immediately, she wanted to go curl up in a corner of the greenhouse and die. He was a
farmer
, for the love of God. Not everyone was lucky enough to sleep on perfumed sheets.

He let it slide. “Lavandula Goodwin Creek Grey. Good container plant.”

“Let me pick one,” she said eagerly. People in the industry said Papa had a phenomenal nose for blending wines. Savvy had always been pretty good at deciphering scents, too.

Esteban passed her the clippers, warm from his hand. “Go for it.”

She chose a long spike of deep violet flowers soaring above compact foliage. “Wow!” Her head flew backward. “Soft and sweet, yet at the same time, pungent.”

Esteban grinned. “That's
Lavandula x intermedia Grosso
—lavandin for short. Sounds better than ‘grosso.' ” He grinned sideways. “Some people think it's the most fragrant strain. But it's a mule—a hybrid. It can't reproduce.” He gave her an appreciative look. “You have a good sense of smell, did you know that?”

“Papa says I inherited that from him.”

He hid all three cuttings behind his back. “Close your eyes.”

She did as she was told, excited to play.

“Is this the first, second, or third stem I cut?”

“Third.”

“Okay. How about this one.”

“First.”

“Maybe your Papa is right.”

“Ha!” she said happily. “Now it's your turn.”

“It's a waste of time. I live with these plants.” He swept one long arm across the rows. “I can pick out every one of these blindfolded.”

“Oh really? Let's see about that.” Brazenly, she tugged on the knot of her scarf-slash-belt.

His eyes flew open in mild surprise. “You don't trust me?”

“I'm a lawyer. I don't trust anybody.” She gave him an impish grin. “Turn around.” Though she was five-seven, taller than the average woman, she still had to reach up high to flip the slippery silk over his eyes and tie it at the back of his head, careful not to get his shoulder-length black hair caught in the knot.

Then she took him by the upper arms, spinning him until he stood straight and tall as an oak tree before her. But while he might have the edge when it came to size, she could
see
. It occurred to her that she could scrutinize him hard as she wanted now, starting at the top . . . moving down. Like she'd done with the David in the Academia. She shivered with a secret thrill.

Beneath the blindfold, his nose was a little too prominent to be considered classic, but his full lower lip more than made up for it. That untamed look, the farmer tan, and his rock-hard body added up to more than the sum of its parts. From the moment she'd met him, there had never been a time when she hadn't been acutely aware of Esteban's merest movement, even on that very first day, the day she'd killed Marlena . . .

Her fingers furled and unfurled at her sides, itching to touch his clean-shaven cheek.
Not yet.
She'd held out for this long. Now, knowing the drought would soon end, she basked in anticipation. Besides, she'd only inspected the tip of the iceberg. Decadently, she let her eyes languish farther south, to the red plaid cotton shirt that stretched over muscular shoulders. Pearl-covered snaps lined up where stodgy buttons ought to have been. One quick yank, and—

A glint off his belt buckle caught her eye—but not for long. Much more intriguing was the denim-clad area beneath it, deep navy in the fold, fading to cornflower where the fabric bulged outward. Her lips parted and she became aware of her chest rising and falling with her breath. There it was again—that persistent, demanding yearning . . . for what? She knew the facts of life. But knowing something wasn't the same as experiencing it. She'd always been too busy studying. Working. Excelling. Now, though, she was almost ready. A syrupy warmth infused her stomach and spiraled downward.

“Well?” He raised his gorgeous hands—the ones she'd had to concentrate on not staring at all through dinner with his parents—in a shrug, unwittingly showing off the delectable hollows in the center of his palms. Her smallish breasts would hardly fill them up. She hoped she wouldn't disappoint.

“What are you waiting for?”

She'd totally lost track of which sample of lavender was which. She stuck a random cutting under his nose.

“Easy. Lavandin,” he said.

“Wrong!” She held out a different flower, biting her lip to keep from giggling.

“Again.”

Savvy had always been a good girl. A rule follower. Who knew being mischievous could be so much fun?

Above her scarf, his forehead wrinkled in a frown. “That's . . . one more time.”

She waved yet another, random sample, and he gave it a sniff.

“You're cheating.” His hands went toward the blindfold.

“Nonononono!” Her pent-up laughter spilled out and she held down his forearms, impressed by their ropy firmness. “Don't take it off yet. I'll play fair. I promise.”

But wild impulses hijacked her intentions. Here he was, her very own David. Her blind captive, to do with as she pleased. How could she resist?

Before she could change her mind, she went up on her toes, slipping her hand around the curve of his neck beneath the fall of his hair. In the second before he caught on, it was like hugging a surprised tree trunk. Then he became malleable, letting her take the lead, passively allowing his head to be guided down to where she pressed her closed lips to his.

She hadn't been expecting him to turn the tables. What had been putty in her hands seconds earlier abruptly hardened into to decisive, capable
male
.

With one mighty arm, Esteban hauled her into his chest, while his other hand cradled the back of her head. His mouth opened over hers, his tongue delved into her . . . and she was gone. Swept away . . . her heart slamming against her chest, her pulse rocketing out of control.

Had she really thought she could tease this earthy man with no repercussions?

His eyes were still blinded, while hers were fastened on him, watching him dive in to ravish her again and again with his mouth, his everywhere-hands taking possession of her. They spanned her lower back, pressing her into him with a controlled power that made her gasp. Breathlessly, she stared over his shoulder at a wall of green while his fingers fumbled in her chignon, extracting her bobby pins, scattering them without a care. Once her hair flowed free, he wrapped it around his fist like a rope and used it to gently force her head back, giving him access to plaster a row of kisses down her neck.

She bet he'd been kissing women for ages.

A low scraping sound in his chest filled her with an unsettling heat. Panic mingled with pleasure.

Seducing Esteban had begun as business stratagem, a means to an end. But it wasn't turning out as planned. Unexpectedly, she felt like the victim, not the perpetrator.

Why should she care? Was she naïve enough to think that she was his first? She doubted there were too many twenty-seven-year-old men around who still had their V-cards. Besides, this wasn't about love. It was about trading favors while checking off a necessary item from her to-do list.

The atmosphere thickened as his breath came faster, heavier. His hand had released her hair and was on the back of her head again, tilting it to give him better access. Sensations crowded out thoughts. She grew dizzy with the oppressive heat of the surroundings, the cloying, almost hypnotic smell of grassy musky blossoms, the feel of his hands on her body . . . until she felt hard plastic slip from her temples and hit the gravel with a soft
ssshht.

“
My glasses!” Reflexively, her hands flew up, flailing at the air like a mime's against the side of an imaginary box.

Esteban whipped off his blindfold.

“Help me find my glasses!”

Everyone who knew Savvy knew not to mess around when it came to her glasses. Even Char and Meri had learned, at a very young age, that the “most-rational” sister turned into an instant crazy person if one of them dared to play hide-and-seek with her “eyes.” Without them, she was virtually blind.

Unfortunately, Esteban did not know her that well yet.

Vaguely, she saw him—or a shape that might be him—stoop, and then rise.

“Did you find them?” she cried.

“Got 'em.”

Frantically, she clawed at the clammy air. “Where are they? Give them to me!”

“In my pocket.”

“Give them to me! I can't see!”

“Oh, so it's okay for me to be blind, but not you?” he asked calmly. Logically.

This was no time for logic. She lunged in the direction of his front pockets, but he caught her wrists.

“Tu es hermosa,”
he breathed, transferring both her wrists to one of his hands, bringing them to the center of her pounding chest.

“You're okay,” he whispered. “I won't hurt you.”

Her arms relaxed a little.

Tenderly, he planted a kiss on one cheek, then the other. He stroked her loose hair with his free hand. “I've been imagining what you looked like without those things.”

He bunched up her hair next to her ear, then fanned it out and let it fall. “You look completely different this way.” This time, when he kissed her, the already pleasant familiarity was a comfort, not threat. “
Una mujer—
a woman—not a lawyer.”

Objection.
She'd fought long and hard for her professional persona. No one was invited behind that mask, other than family, thank you very much.

Gradually, his kisses began to prod again. When he found that she tolerated, even welcomed, them, they became darker, more insistent. He cast her wrists away finally and reached around with both hands to cup her rear end, pressing her into his hardness.

Without sight, Savvy's other senses were heightened. The atmosphere in the greenhouse was like a steam room. The heady smell of lavender filled her deprived lungs to bursting. All she could see was his blurry outline in a sea of green. All she could hear was the sound of his voice, softly murmuring in Spanish.

Her mind swirled and twirled.... She couldn't get enough air. . . . She was going to faint. What did
mía
mean?

He was sliding his hand under the back of her sweater and moving it around to cover one bra cup with an all-encompassing heat and—

What did she think she was she doing?

“Wait. Stop,” she said, panicked. She was supposed to be the seducer here, not the seducee! She'd wanted to overwhelm
him
. She hadn't counted on losing control herself.

Immediately, Esteban obeyed, dropping his hands, though his feet remained rooted in place.

Savvy staggered backward, yanking down her sweater.

“I—it's time for me to go. And before I do, I have to—thank your mother. Tell your parents good-night,” she managed to get out between blind, breathless gasps.

She licked her raw lips and held out a trembling hand. “Now,” she demanded in her best courtroom voice. “Give. Me. My—”

A vague shape came toward her face. She felt the profound relief of the stems being guided over her ears.

When the world came back into focus, the confused disappointment on Esteban's face triggered a stab of guilt in Savvy's core.