Crush on You (22 page)

Shaking his head, Penn wandered into the bride’s boudoir and from there to the large arched window that overlooked the rows of vines that stopped at the bottom of a craggy hillside. The Baci-Bennett one-hundred-year-old legacy included rumored treasure and a legendary, ghostly romance. Who could resist? Even a hardened cynic like himself wasn’t immune to the mystique. Throw in some bubbly wedding wine, a ruby red cabernet, not to mention three beautiful Italian sisters, and Tanti Baci was a honey-baited romance trap.

Or an attractive nuisance, he thought, the hair on the back of his neck rising as he felt a presence come up behind him. Like an unfenced swimming pool or an open pit that entices children but also endangers their safety, the winery was proving to hold a dangerous allure for Penn.

Yeah, he needed to get back to his real life in L.A.

“I’ll go into town and get some more wallboard today,” he said to Alessandra, because there was no mistaking that the now-debauched Nun of Napa was standing close enough to breathe on his shirtsleeve. He knew her scent. “Maybe I can convince Liam to give me a hand so we can get back up to speed.”

“I’ll put my workboots and gloves back on,” she said.

An acknowledgement that she’d been shirking her duties—and ducking her part of their deal—at the cottage for the past couple of days. He should encourage the shirking and ducking, because she was proving to be yet another hazardous attraction, but the quicker the wedding cottage was finished, the quicker he’d be done with his duty here.

He glanced back, taking in her ankle-length yoga pants and faded sweatshirt. She was staring at him, a little frown marring the smooth skin of her forehead. Without thinking, he tried thumbing it away, then jerked back his hand as if he’d been burned.
Ouch.
The beaker was still bubbling; their volatile chemical combination had yet to stabilize.

She didn’t seem to notice his movement, instead tilting her head to study him some more. Her long hair slid behind her back to reveal the alluring curve where her neck met her shoulder. He remembered smoothing his mouth over that very spot, licking a line across her heated, scented skin.
Mind
, he instructed,
don’t go there. You’ve got things to do—as in doing the rest of the job on the cottage, not doing Alessandra.

But she was still staring. He shifted his feet, crossed his arms over his chest, shifted his feet again. “What?” he demanded. “Did I miss a spot shaving?”

“I was just wondering about your earring.”

“I don’t wear an earring.”

“I know. I thought all blond Hollywood guys had a tattoo and an earring. It’s like a rule.”

She seemed sort of put out and he found it so damn cute it killed him. “Darlin’,” he said, leaning closer, “you ever hear of a Prince Albert? An ear is not the only place a guy can get pierced.”

The immediate horror on her face made him bust out laughing. “You should see your expression.”

Her eyes remained rounded. “But . . . but . . .”

He nudged her with a gentle elbow and lowered his voice to an intimate whisper. “Alessandra, you know I’m bare down there . . . but, uh, speaking of bare . . .”

Color suffused her face. “Don’t,” she protested.

“Hey, I’m only curious.” And turned on by thinking of it again. All that sweet soft skin, every curve and petal naked to his sight like a flesh and blood Georgia O’Keefe painting.

She looked away and spoke from the side of her mouth, her blush reaching from throat to hairline. “I have a friend who works in a spa. She needed someone to try it out on . . . I never expected anyone to see . . .”

“Well, what I saw I liked,” he assured her, then to ease her embarrassment, he nudged her again. “So can I sit in on the next practice session?”

“No!” Then she caught his overdone leer and pushed him back, her hands to his chest. “You’re a rat.”

Laughing again, he caught her wrists and yanked her close. Their body heat mingled and he breathed in her sweet scent and remembered all her naked parts next to his naked parts. All her very bare naked parts giving way to his touch, his fingers, his cock. Flames flared again and his gaze focused on her mouth. It wasn’t sane, it wasn’t what he wanted to feel, but he wanted more of her. More of her fruity taste, more soft skin.

“My sisters . . .” she warned in a murmur, obviously reading his intent.

Yeah, her sisters. In the very next room. But with Alessandra in his arms he couldn’t think of anything beyond the need to hold her close, to have her smiling like she was now, melting against him like butter on toast. There were pressing issues that should stymie him, but they were nothing compared to the press of her against his body. He slid one hand down to her butt, pushing her groin against his.

The urgency to get away from Napa, to get back to his real life was nothing compared to the urgency his sex was clamoring for. His mouth brushed hers.

Her breath caught, causing a sweet little sound in her throat. He could live on these kisses, those muffled sounds, the heavy silk of her hair tangled around his fingers.

“Penn!” A voice sounded from far away. “Penn!”

Blinking, he lifted his head, realizing it was his name, Alessandra’s sister Stevie’s voice, some kind of summons. “Huh?”

“People to see you,” Stevie sang out again from the room next door.

Alessandra stumbled back from his embrace. He scraped his hands over his face, trying to refocus on reality. Grateful would come later, he guessed, but he should feel it, because more fooling around with the nun would only delay his return to L.A. and to his real life.

Yanking his T-shirt lower, he stepped back to the main room.

Where, to his shock, he came face-to-face with that real life he thought was waiting down south. Instead, it had found him here, in the guise of his buddy, Roger, which shouldn’t have been such a surprise, since the other man was the
Wedding Fever
producer Penn had made contact with four days before. The shock came from who was clinging to Roger’s arm.

Lana Lang.

“What’s wrong?” Alessandra whispered to Penn as they trailed her sisters and the Hollywood duo across the gravel parking lot toward the wine caves. “You’ve gone all wooden Indian.” There was a funky little market on Highway 128 between Napa and Sonoma counties that had an old life-sized statue of a Native American on its front porch, right next to the vintage Coke machine and the freezer of locally produced, hand-churned ice cream. Its stance was mirrored in Penn’s tight muscles and forbidding expression.

The instant he’d glimpsed his producer friend and the female assistant with him, his mood had changed. One moment he’d been teasing her about sexual things, even dragging her close for a kiss though her sisters were just a wall away, and the next he’d turned tense and grim.

Penn didn’t
do
tense and grim. His signature temperament was a balanced mix of confidence and charm. Half “I’m beautiful” and half “you’re fascinating.” Heady stuff, she knew, and it reminded her to keep their bout of sex in her bed in perspective. It was a body-to-body experience only, no emotions involved, and that was fine with her.

Still, he was a partner in the winery and had called in a favor for the Baci family. It was only good manners to inquire about this sudden reversal. “Penn?” When he didn’t respond, her concern deepened and she slid her palm against the crook of his elbow and tugged to slow him a little. “You can tell me.”

He didn’t spare her a glance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your friend doesn’t seem bothered by the couple of days’ delay until the cottage is repaired.”

As a matter of fact, Roger—the
Wedding Fever
guy—had been intrigued by the treasure legend they suspected was the cause of the damage. He’d seemed perfectly willing to explore the wine country until they could put the wedding venue to rights and then complete the final touches that would make it ready for filming.

“The show’s not in full-steam production yet,” he’d said. “I wanted to put this together with a little impromptu vacation, anyway. Lana and I will do our wine tasting before rather than after we film.”

Stevie had suggested they start with a tour of the Tanti Baci wine caves and so here they all were, shepherding Penn’s pal and his coworker across the parking lot. Roger, tall and lanky, in jeans and leather flip-flops, wore gold-rimmed glasses and a shy smile. It didn’t surprise Alessandra that he spent his showbiz time behind the scenes. On the other hand, Lana Lang flashed, from the trendy stacks of rings on her fingers to the salon-straightened and shined blond of her hair. She teetered on her high heels as the pea gravel slid beneath the soles of her Rodeo Drive sandals.

“Eek,” Alessandra murmured. “If she falls in that outfit we’ll all get an eyeful.” The other woman’s tight skirt was just that short.

“It’s nothing that would rate a second glance in Beverly Hills,” Penn answered, sounding defensive.

“Sorry.” Alessandra looked down at her own loose

clothes, suddenly embarrassed by her sloppiness. Had she bothered to brush her hair before rushing to the cottage? Teeth she remembered, but . . . With hasty fingers she tried combing through the mass that was sex-tousled and sleepmussed. What must Penn think of her in comparison to the Hollywood honey by Roger’s side?

It took the slap of the cave-cooled air to bring her to her senses. As she followed the group to the tasting area, she let her hands fall to her sides and slowed her pace. Penn’s mind-set—about her, about anything that wasn’t wineryrelated—was not her problem.

For their guests, Giuliana went into a little spiel about the caves themselves. Two visiting couples wandered in and joined the knot of people. Her older sister assured everyone that the caves were entirely safe and not nearing their one hundredth birthday like the vineyard itself.

Constructed like an upside-down swimming pool, with rebar and gunite, they’d only been carved into the hillside four years before.

At great expense
, Alessandra thought to herself. A decision her father had made, to dire consequences. There was a plus side to the caves though, she mused. The wine business was changing, and while in the past they’d sold most of their product through distributors that in turn dealt with stores and restaurants, small wineries were having trouble holding the attention of those middlemen. The big wine companies were monopolizing that relationship, so wineries like Tanti Baci were turning more and more to building personal bonds with their customers.

Get them to the winery as a destination for a wedding or a weekend getaway. Sell them the wine through the tasting room and sign them up to the wine club—direct sales generated more profit for the product’s producers. At the very least, the idea was you sent consumers back home where they’d ask for their favorite wines at their local stores and restaurants.

The caves, the weddings, the Tanti Baci legends could do all that if they got the right kind of attention and then had enough time to make it work.

Wedding Fever
and the producer, Roger, was their big opportunity. Her eye on him, she watched him leave Lana Skirt-Too-Short and sidle around the edge of the small crowd to engage Penn in low-voiced conversation. Alessandra sidled that way, too, telling herself that eavesdropping was a savvy business move.

They weren’t talking about business.

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you about Lana and me when we talked on the phone a few days ago,” Roger was saying. He laughed self-consciously. “Well, I wasn’t even sure there was a Lana and me at the time, but things have happened pretty fast.”

“Looks like it,” Penn answered.

“I should thank you, though.”

Penn shoved his hands in his pockets. “Roger, I—”

“You were the one who introduced us, remember? At your barbecue in Malibu.”

The man sounded smitten. Glancing at the woman in question, Alessandra conceded Lana was beautiful in a polished, salon-perfected way. Suddenly self-conscious herself, Alessandra hitched up her sagging pants and retied the cord around her hips, reminding herself she had some perfectly nice clothes, too. And didn’t she go to the salon? She’d even submitted to a Brazilian wax process—and now that she remembered, her friend had called the whole bare thing the “Hollywood version.”

Their small group was on the move again, including yet another couple they’d picked up from the tasting room. Though they had interns who were regular tour guides, Giuliana retained that role as she led them deeper into the caves. There she explained about the process of winemaking, from harvest to crush to fermentation to maturation. As it was June, with harvest only some short weeks away, the time had come to bottle in order to clear room in the barrels and tanks for the result of this year’s yield.

As she explained the process of making their cabernet sauvignon and then the more complicated manner of the wedding
blanc de blancs,
Alessandra paused behind Penn and Roger again. The producer was speaking in low tones, though it was obvious he was excited about his subject.