Crush on You (12 page)

His eyes flashed open, their expression unreadable. Not . . . hurt?

She tried to make him understand. “I mean that in only the best way possible, Penn. You’ll take what I’m offering, nothing more, nothing less.”

“What you’re offering because of the letter.”

She didn’t want to think about the letter! But panic struck as she realized she’d dropped it on her dash into Penn’s arms. Breaking away from him, she searched the area, then ran to pick up the fallen page and envelope.

Staring down at Tommy’s handwriting, she was hit by the familiar punch of dread, sadness, and longing. Sally and so many others thought Tommy’s posthumous letters the ultimate symbol of romance and Alessandra understood her fiancé’s intention had been to wrap her in love with them. Sweet Tommy. But . . .

She looked away from his masculine scribble and met Penn’s gaze. Dread evaporated, sadness snapped, and a new sort of ache overtook her. Forget the past. She wanted this man’s hands on her again.

Her feet stumbled toward Penn as she recalled his hot touch, his clever mouth, the pinch of his fingers on her nipple. He would take her away from the old memories and her now-urgent need for that had her eagerly, wantonly succumbing to their sexual attraction.

She was still a foot away when he spoke. “Tell me about the letters,” Penn said.

Her steps halted. She blinked at him, then down at the paper crinkled in her fist. “What?”

“Tell me why they’re driving you to an affair with a man without a conscience. I think I have a right to know.”

Her pulse was still thrumming and she couldn’t think beyond being in his arms again. “I—”

“Tell me.”

Fine, fine,
she decided. If that’s what it took . . . “One was delivered on my first birthday without him,” she said quickly. “Another five years after his prom. Last December it was a letter he’d written on the Christmas before he died.”

Penn’s gaze moved to the crumpled letter she held. “And that one?”

She wanted to touch him so badly she took another step forward. “It’s the last, it says. Today is the tenth anniversary of our very first kiss.”

Done. She rushed toward Penn.

His hand stopped her again. “And?” he prompted.

And . . . what? Did she have to really lay this out for him?

“Alessandra?”

Frustrated tears stung her eyes. “What else do you want to know? Do you need to know that reading tonight’s letter made me realize I might never kiss anyone again? That no man has touched me or looked at me with desire since the night before my wedding day? That I haven’t looked at anyone that way either until . . . until . . .”

“Until now.”

Alessandra swallowed. “Until you.” Then she closed the distance between them, because she so
did
want his touch, she so did need more of those kisses that he’d promised were practically inevitable.

His arms didn’t close around her this time. But his mouth complied, his tongue sliding against hers. Heat spread across her body again, but now it didn’t feel like a virus. It felt like spring, when the buds flowered and formed clusters on the grapevines.

Hope bloomed in her near-empty chest. She didn’t expect to recover her younger, unsinkable self, but at least she could feel that someone wanted her again.

She crowded closer, sliding her right hand up Penn’s chest, but the crinkle of paper surprised her eyes open. Tommy’s final letter, she realized, breaking the kiss. Funny that it would get between her and Penn’s heart.

And then it didn’t. Lean fingers plucked the sheet away. She met Penn’s eyes, supremely aware that he was removing the obstacle of her past—at least for the moment. His heartbeat thudded against her palm and her pulse took up the rhythm as he once again bent his head toward her mouth. His lips brushed hers, soft enough to tease goose bumps on her neck.

She moved her head to catch his kiss, but he eluded her to run his tongue along her jawline and down her neck. Spring was over, she thought in a sudden burst of lust. It was summer, August, September, with the sun blazing at full strength, the fruit swelling, and harvest just around the corner. He curled one arm around her waist to draw her closer to his body. She leaned into him, willing, and gasped to accept his tongue as his other hand drew up the hem of her skirt.

The material tickled like fingertips along the back of her thighs and every cell was sensitized waiting for his next move. Her fingers dug into his scalp in demand, wanting more, wanting all, wanting—

“Hell.” Penn broke away. “Not here.”

The skirt of her dress fell. Dazed, Alessandra blinked. “But—”

“Not here.” He briefly closed his eyes. “Even I have enough of a conscience to insist on that.”

“Huh?” She wasn’t sure what he was talking about.

He looked at her a minute, then sighed. His big hand grasped her chin and turned her face to force her gaze uphill. She blinked again, realizing that though the thick grove of trees had hidden her and Penn, not far away was the party, the crowd, the familiar yard. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Oh.”

His hand dropped from her face to slide down her bare arm. She suppressed her shiver as their fingers entwined. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

Let’s get out of here and start our affair
, she amended for him. Her pulse started thumping again. What would sex be like Hollywood-style? What would it be like with an experienced man like Penn?

But the thought was superseded by something else as her gaze returned to the direction of the party. There they’d find her family, her friends, her community. Penn took his first stride that way and she resisted. He glanced back, brows rising.

“Our secret,” she said, expressing the single caveat.

He stilled. “Our secret?”

“Our secret affair.”

For a moment, it was as if he hadn’t heard her. Then he laughed, letting go of her hand at the same time. She didn’t like either action.

“No offense,” she said, frowning at him.

He laughed harder. “None taken. Now that I think about it, I don’t want anyone to know I’m screwing you, either.”

Her frown deepened. “Why’s that?”

“Because I shouldn’t be that dumb,” he said, and still smiling, he strode back toward the barbecue.

Except the dumb one was her, she thought morosely, as she followed at a discreet distance. His insult should have cooled her eagerness, but both she and her gaze followed him as he made for the exit. Confidence oozed from his pores, and he wore sex appeal as easily as his silk shirt. Did nothing faze the man?

She hated him.

She wanted to rub up against him.

She was going to have him in her bed.

The thought caused her breath to catch in her chest. Her feet paused, then Penn paused, too, his attention caught by a short, good-looking man who looked vaguely familiar. A celebrity, she thought, though she’d have to ask Clare to place him for her.

Curious, she sidled by the two men.

“Someone’s been phoning my radio show’s gossip line,” the other man was saying. “My screener didn’t get the details the first time, but—” He stopped talking as Penn turned, apparently sensing Alessandra’s presence behind him.

His expression was polite. “Can I help you with something?” he asked as if they hadn’t just flamed in each other’s arms. As if they hadn’t just agreed to a secret affair.

Her face flushed. He made her feel like some pesky groupie and her stomach churned at the thought. Was that how he saw her? Instead of answering, she shook her head and hurried past him.

“I haven’t forgotten you want my shirt,” he called after her, a low laugh in his voice.

Ha ha. Everyone else would think he was talking about a piece of his
Build Me Up
gear, when he knew she knew he was referring to her wanting his shirt
off
. And everything else, too.

In answer, she flipped her hair over her shoulders and kept walking.

He pitched his voice a little louder, and that laugh was still there. “I’ll get it to you at your place as soon as possible.”

Code: Go there and wait for me.

And though she was peeved by the way he teased her, it didn’t stop her from wanting him still. From going home and waiting.

For the shirt—the
man
—who never arrived.

The temperature was in the cool sixties as Alessandra walked from the farmhouse to the winery under the umbrella of the morning overcast. Against the gray, the vines’ greenery appeared even more vibrant in color, the leaves shielding the delicate flowers from the sun that would burn through the clouds later in the day and increase the temperature another twenty degrees. This daily divergence of the thermometer reading was an essential element of Napa Valley wines, creating in the grapes a unique balance of sugar and acidity.

Thanks to her appointment with a bride and her mother about siting the young woman’s wedding at Tanti Baci, she had an excuse to avoid the cottage. And Penn. Not that she had any idea whether he’d be working. For all she knew he’d be a no-show today, just as he’d been a no-show at her house the night before.

And not that she had any plans for ever speaking to him again anyway.

The winery’s administrative offices were located in a stucco-and-red-tile structure adjacent to the caves, and in the small lobby Alessandra greeted the anxious-looking, very young blonde and her more composed mother. The bride, faced with her fiancé’s unexpected military deployment, had decided to move her wedding up by several months if a suitable venue could be found.

Given that Alessandra needed every booking she could get to prove her plan to save the winery viable, she was determined that mother and daughter find Tanti Baci very suitable indeed. With a smile, she ushered them into her office and closed the door.

Bride-to-Be looked with mild interest around the room, her gaze zeroing in on the wooden shelves to the right of Alessandra’s desk. They’d been painted the same pale peach as the plaster and held the collection of vintage wedding cake toppers that her mother had started collecting after her marriage. Some were ceramic, some were of bisque, while the oldest was from the 1920s and made of stiff paper and wire.

“Oh, Mama,” the girl said, pointing to them, her expression delighted. “Look how sweet.”

Mama released a tight smile. “I see.”

And
I
see
, Alessandra thought. The mother was going to be the much harder sell. Maybe because she didn’t like the winery as a wedding site or maybe because she didn’t want her darling daughter—so young, probably as young as Alessandra had been—to marry at all.

“We like to say we specialize in happy endings,” Alessandra said as the two other women took their seats. She continued standing, casually leaning on the front of her desk, though nerves made her warm enough to remove the cardigan she’d worn over a short-sleeved striped cotton dress. “I recall you’ve been to our website, so you’re aware of our special wedding wine, the bubbly
blanc de blancs,
that’s made from our estate-grown chardonnay grapes.”

She picked up a bottle of Bella Amore from the corner of her desk and passed it to the younger woman. The glass was clear, showing off the pale liquid inside, with the cork caged by wire but without any overwrapping foil. Labeled with a simple, small octagon, the old-fashioned illustration featured delicate grapes and leaves in pastel green and pink. “It looks exactly as the first retailed bottle did nearly fifty years ago and reflects our commitment to tradition and our belief that beautiful things last forever.”

Bride-to-Be passed the wine to her mother who handed it over to Alessandra. She set it back on her desk and clasped her hands together. “Also a testament to Tanti Baci’s dedication to our roots is the newly renovated cottage we’ll be using for our weddings. It’s where my ancestors Anne and Alonzo Baci began the winery and began their romantic and successful marriage.”

“
Newly
renovated cottage?” Mama-of-the-Bride questioned, straightening in her chair. “Does that mean it’s completed? If so, we’d like to take a tour.”

Alessandra cleared her throat. “There are only a few details left to complete,” she answered, and inside her black pumps she crossed her big toes over her second ones. “However, for reasons of safety, we can’t let anyone inside until after the final inspection.”

“But—”

“I have this artist’s rendition to share, though,” she said, plucking a cardboard-backed rectangle from the desk behind her.

Bride-to-Be went dreamy-eyed as she inspected the water-color painting. Alessandra had commissioned it from a local student at the community college—now ever mindful of the winery’s weak financial state—and the result was something not as fanciful as a Thomas Kincade or Stephen Whitney painting, but no less idealized. The cottage looked enchanted, surrounded by the vineyard and with grape vines twining the wide entry and rose petals carpeting the shallow front steps. A fairy peeking around a corner wouldn’t have been out of place.