Dangerous to Know (19 page)

Catherine was startled. She gaped at me.

“Be back in a minute,” I muttered and stumbled into the bathroom.

I locked the door and leaned against it.

I was breathing hard. That awful, familiar sick feeling was engulfing me. I knew it well. For a moment I thought I was going to vomit.

Bring back the brandy. I felt nauseated, dizzy. I steadied myself. The feeling finally passed as I stood there in the darkened bathroom, gripping the door jamb.

I was impotent. Again. So far, until tonight, it had only happened twice with Catherine. At the beginning of our relationship.

But not since. I had begun to believe that my problem had been cured.

Apparently not. “Merde,” I whispered. I snapped my eyes shut.

“Merde,” I said again.

Eventually the panic subsided. I grew calmer inside. Switching on the light, I crossed the room. I splashed cold water on my face, dried it, stood staring at myself in the mirror.

The image I saw reflected there was not Jack. It was a pale imitation of Sebastian Locke. I resembled him greatly. There was no denying whose son I was. Even though I had his features, mine were less distinct . They were not so well defined. Not so sculpted as his had been.

my eyes were also blue. But diluted, watery. His had been blindingly blue. Brilliant in his tan face. My complexion was pale.

I always looked washed out. His dark hair had been thick and wavy.

Mine was dark too. And straight. I was not in the least bit dashing and dynamic.

As he had been. Nor was I loaded with his kind of irresistible sex appeal.

I bet he was never impotent, I thought, continuing to stare at myself with a degree of disdain. I bet he had a permanent erection.

I hated being a faded, carbon copy of that man. I hated being his son.

I hated him. I hated the memory of him.

After gulping a glass of cold water, I steadied myself, pushed the anger down. Deep down inside. Buried it again. Taking total control of myself, I pushed open the door. Slowly I walked back into the bed room.

Catherine had put on her robe. She was crouched in front of the fire.

Staring into the flames. Looking pensive, lost. I took my silk robe from the bottom of the bed, slipped into it. Went to join her by the fireside. I sat down next to her on the rug.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly, taking hold of her hand. “Too much wine.

Followed by too much cognac.”

She was silent. She merely lifted her head and stared at me.

Again I said, “Sorry.”

“It’s all right, Jack, really it is,” she murmured in her softest voice.

She smiled and instantly the worried expression in her eyes evaporated .

Lifting her shoulders in a slight shrug, she went on, “We’ve many more nights together, I hope … hundreds of nights. We do, don’t we, Jack?”

“Yes. I won’t drink so much in future. It won’t happen again,” I promised. I wondered if I was whistling in the dark.

Leaning forward, she kissed me lightly on the lips and touched my face.

“Don’t look so concerned, so upset. It’s of no consequence.”

But it is. To me, I thought. I said, “You’re a beautiful woman, Catherine, a very desirable woman . .

Leaning back, Catherine looked into my face. Then she kissed me.

I returned the kiss. When we drew apart she touched my mouth lightly, traced the line of my lips with her finger. Then she lay down with her head in my lap, gazing up at me unwaveringly.

Her eyes did not leave my face. I stared back at her intently.

Wondering what was going on behind that lovely face.

After a moment or two, she said, “You’re very special to me, Jack.

You’ve given me so much in the last few months. Love, warmth, under standing, tenderness, and passion. You must know how much I love you,” she continued, her voice low, vibrant. “You must know I’m in love with you, Jack.”

“Yes,” was all I dared to say.

I noticed a little smile playing around her mouth as she reached up with both arms. She placed them around my neck tightly and pulled me down to her. Kissing her swiftly, I broke free of her embrace.

I was afraid. Mraid of being inadequate. I lay alongside her, resting on one elbow, staring into her face once more. She fascinated me.

“What is it, Catherine?” I whispered. “You look as if you have a big secret.”

“I don’t have one, though.”

“But you’re wearing a secretive sort of smile.”

“Not secretive. Smug, perhaps.”

“Why smug?”

“Because I have you. Because I’m with you. Because you’re the best lover I’ve ever had. Oh Jack darling-” She did not finish. She broke off, sighing deeply, contentedly. “I’ve never felt like this before.

It’s never been like this for me. Never ever. Not with any other man.

You excite me so much. I want you. I want you to make love to me.

Now.”

“Oh Catherine … sweetheart . .

“Make love to me, Jack. Please.”

“Catherine, I don’t know . .

“Don’t be afraid,” she whispered and took off her robe, sitting up to do so, turning to smile at me.

She looked more ethereal than ever in the light from the fire.

Her hair was a burnished coppery mass shot through with red and gold, tumbling down over her smooth white shoulders.

“Come to me, Jack,” she said, reaching out for me. “Take me.

Make me yours again. I want to give myself to you. I want you. Only you, Jack.”

I felt the heat slowly rising in me. Desire began to throb through me as she spoke. Shrugging off my robe, I almost fell into her outstretched arms. I pushed aside my fear of failing her. I was going to take her.

Love her as I had never loved her. Or any other woman.

I lay on top of her long, lithe body, fitting mine to hers. I kissed her neck and her breasts. I pushed my eager, trembling hands into the cloud of her red hair.

Md as I continued to kiss her neck, her shoulders, and her face, she began to whisper to me. Her whispered words were tantalizing, erotic.

They drove me on. Filled me with excitement.

It was not long before I found myself fully aroused. I was able to slide into her swiftly. Catherine clung to me. Her fingers pressed into my shoulder blades. She wound her long legs around my back and locked her ankles. I slipped my hands under her buttocks. Brought her closer to me. Finally I was truly joined to her.

I forgot everything. Everyone. I could think only of Catherine.

“I understand why you never want to leave this place,” Catherine said, linking her arm through mine as she gazed out across the landscape.

“It’s extraordinary. Breathtaking really. And quite magical.”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed. I was pleased with her. She had expressed my sentiments exactly. Captured in a few choice words what I felt about the estate.

Catherine and I stood on top of a hill, the highest point on my land.

We were above the vineyards which grew on the slopes of the hillsides.

They stopped short at the chateau’s gardens. To the right of the chateau were the woods; to the extreme left were the fields and the chateau ‘s farm. The Home Farm it was called.

Just beyond the farm was the winery. There were many buildings clustered together, with vast cellars underground. It was here that the grapes were turned into wine.

I glanced around.

I saw the panoramic view as if through Catherine’s eyes. And it was a magical sight. The sky was a pure, pale blue. Very clear, blameless, without cloud. It was a bright, sun-filled afternoon.

Almost balmy.

Hardly any wind. It was only the middle of March. But spring was already here in Provence.

The land had undergone a change lately. I had noticed its sudden metamorphosis. New grass sprouting on the lawns. Tender green sprigs bursting open on the trees. Spring flowers shooting up in the gardens, brightening the many borders. They were vivid rafts of color against the dark soil.

I took a deep breath. The air here was clean, pure, bracing.

Turning to Catherine, I said, “I promised to show you the vineyards.

Weeks ago now. So come on. Let’s go. I think there’s finally something to see.”

Taking hold of her hand, I led her along the narrow path that cut down through the first slope.

“Look!” I exclaimed. I was suddenly excited and bent down, hunkering close to the vines. “The buds are appearing. Here! And here!” I pointed them out to her.

Catherine crouched down to look. She said, in a surprised voice, “But they’re so tiny, Jack. I can’t believe they become grapes.

“They do.”

“How does that happen? I know nothing about vineyards. Please explain to me.”

“I’ll give it a try. First let me tell you about the cycle of the vine.

It begins with the winter rest. In February and March the sap rises.

Now this-” I broke off, pointed to a bud. “This tiny thing is what we call a spring bud. In April the budbreak occurs. That means the bud opens more fully. A few weeks later the leaves appear. By May the leaves open and spread out more fully. In June the vines will have started to flower. Later these flowers turn into very, very small grapes. Through July and August we will see their growth. Late August, early Septem her, they start ripening. Finally, in October, the grapes are mature. In November the leaves fall. The cycle starts all over again. The winter rest begins, etcetera.”

“It all sounds very simple,” Catherine said, looking at me. “But I’m quite certain it isn’t, is it?”

“No, it’s not. It’s much more complex. Especially the tending of the vines. The nurturing of them. Through the winter months. And the rest of the year. I tried to make it easy for you to understand.”

“Thank you, and presumably the grapes are picked when they are ripe.”

I nodded. “That’s when the vendangeurs, the grape harvesters, come to pick them. Poiteurs, the grape carriers, take the grapes away in benatons, those big baskets you’ve seen lying around. They move them to the end of each row in the vineyard. From there the benatons are carried to the winery, and the grapes are put in the cellars ready for vinification.”

“Is the picking done by hand?”

“Yes. Olivier and I prefer it to mechanized harvesting. That’s be come popular in some parts in France. But it would be difficult here.

On these slopes. Also, there’s less chance of damage when the grapes are hand picked.”

“What happens next in the process?”

“The wine is made, of course. It’s stored in huge vats and casks m the cuvene. The vat room. I think I showed it to you. When I took you down into the cave, the big wine cellars, at Christmas.”

She nodded. “I remember.” She tilted her head to one side. “How do you know so much about wine making?”

“I don’t know that much,” I said. “I’ve still got a lot to learn.

But it was mostly Olivier. He taught me. He started me out.

When I was sixteen. When Sebastian gave me the chateau. Fourteen years later I don’t know half he does. Even though I went to the University of Toulouse. To study the science of wine and wine making.

Oenological training in France lasts for four years.

“I did get my diploma. But I’m not up to Olivier’s standards.

Not yet.

He’s one of the best oenologists around. Considered to be a great wine scientist and wine maker.”

“He seems very dedicated from what I’ve observed,” Catherine re marked.

“Over the years he’s been improving everything. From the vintage of our red wines to the bottling of it. He’s made immense progress in the last ten years. Because of Olivier Marchand our label, Cotes de Chateau d’Case, is now considered to be a superior appellation.”

”And he’s your partner you said the other day.”’

“Not my partner. I’ve given him a piece of the business. He deserves it. All the years he’s devoted to the winery. To the chateau. The running of the entire estate.”

We began to walk down the slopes, heading toward the chateau.

After a moment or two, Catherine said, “What made your father buy the estate in the first place? I’m very curious about that. Was he interested in wine?”

“He liked it. Especially champagne. Veuve Cliquot. But he was just doing a good turn. For somebody. As usual.”

“What kind of good turn?”

“A good turn for a widow woman. The widow of the man who owned Chateau d’Case. About thirty years ago Sebastian was in M rica.

Kenya. He met a Frenchman. In Nairobi. A man called Pierre Peyfrette. Through a mutual friend. Over the years they became close.

Sebastian often stayed here. About twenty-three years ago Pierre was killed. In a car crash. Driving down here. From Paris. Ills widow Gabriella was at a loss. Didn’t know what to do about the winery.

The running of it. They had no sons to inherit. Just a young daughter.

About my age. Gabriella wanted to sell the property, but there were no takers. Nobody was interested. It wasn’t makisig money. Not in those days, anyway. So Sebastian took it off her hands. Bought it from Gabriella. Paid her very well. Maybe even too much. But it helped her start her life over. She moved to Paris with her little girl.”

“I see. Did he ever run it? I mean the way you’re running it now, Jack?”

“Good God, no! Not Sebastian! He found Olivier Marchand. Put him in charge. What a wise move that was. I was seven when I first came here.

And I fell in love with the chateau.”

“It’s your home,” she said very simply, in a quiet voice, her expression full of understanding. “You belong here. You love the winery and the vineyards. You’re very, very lucky, you know. You’ve found your true place in the world, found the work you want to do, your vocation.

Found the life you want to lead. So many people don’t. Not ever.”

“But you have, Catherine. You know what you want,” I said. “Know where you’re going. You’re like Vivienne in certain ways. You both have tunnel vision. Immense focus. You’re a very functioning woman.

And hardworking, thank God. I can’t abide idle women.”

in “Neither can I. It’s impossible for me to relate to them. I’ve nothing common, nothing to say. I always knew I wanted to read history at Oxford, and later lecture and write about it after I earned my doctor ate. I was fortunate in that I had a flair for writing as well as a studious nature.”