Here With Me (19 page)

Melody left the office and followed the sound
of voices. Bernard stood in the middle of a group of at least ten,
with Tilly off to the side. When Melody got close, she heard him
explaining that their barrels were made out of American oak and
that there was a careful rotation system in place to ensure that
barrels were not used after three or four year; after that period
of time, the ability of the wood to impart any desirable flavors
into the wine would be diminished.

A man wearing a white shirt and bright red
shorts that clashed alarmingly with his dark socks and dress shoes,
raised his hand. “What happens to the barrels after that?”

“We sell them. Usually to a vineyard that
doesn’t have the same standard for their rotation or the same high
standard for wine production.”

It was true but it did sound a little
pretentious. The man nodded and began flipping through some sort of
pocket wine guidebook. He raised his hand once again when he
evidently found the page he wanted.

“Yes, Sir?”

“Your 2003 Cabernet received four and
one-half stars in
Love Your Wine
magazine. What did it lack
that it didn’t get a full five stars?”

He’d asked it innocently enough that it was
possible the poor man didn’t realize those were fighting words.
Even Tilly, who had seemed zoned-out to that point, straightened
up. No doubt she was concerned that sales in the gift shop, the
next stop on the tour, might be hampered if the guests saw the
winemaker explode.

Melody knew from past experience that Bernard
could easily launch into a two-hour tirade about the ability of
so-called experts to rate wine. It would be flavored with
adjectives that would shock the woman in the purple-flowered
pantsuit and likely leave Red Shorts with a red face.

Melody moved forward, caught Bernard’s eye,
and winked at him. She knew exactly what the magazine had said
about their Cabernet—that it lacked a certain complexity they’d
come to expect from Sweet Song of Summer wines. She would bet her
last dollar that Bernard knew exactly what the magazine had
written.

Bernard smiled at the group. “That’s not a
publication that I’m familiar with,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse
me. Please do enjoy the rest of your tour.”

Melody caught up with him at the door. “Good
job,” she whispered.

“That guy would need a guidebook to find his
balls,” Bernard hissed back. “Sorry,” he added.

“No problem. You handled him perfectly. I’m
going to take off for the afternoon. I guess I’ll see you at
dinner.”

“Actually, you won’t. I’ve got a date.”

“A date!” She said it louder than she’d
intended.

He looked irritated. “Yes. A date. With
Rebecca Fields.”

She wanted to be happy for him. She really
did. But there was something too weird about Bernard and the
very-thin Ms. Fields dating. “So, where are you going?”

“Dinner at Madeline’s in Yountville.”

“Very nice.” Madeline’s was one of the nicer
restaurants in an area filled with nice restaurants. “Have fun,”
she said, feeling bad that she couldn’t be genuinely happier for
him. “And, Bernard,” she said, putting her hand on his arm.

“Yes.”

She wanted to tell him to be careful, to
protect his heart.

“What is it, Melody?”

She smiled at him. “Whatever you do, don’t
wear shorts and black socks with your Wingtips.”

He shook his head. “Do I have asshole written
across my forehead?”

***

When George pulled the saddle off Brontë’s
back at the end of the workday, he felt like every damn bone in his
body hurt. His shirt was sweat-drenched, his pants were dirty, and
he could smell himself.

When he walked into the house, Dionysos and
Hermes, ever-watchful of intruders, came running. “It’s just me,”
he said, kneeling down, with his hand out. He didn’t try to pet
them. He just kept his hand still, letting them sniff.

“Is that you, George?”

“It is, Pearl.” He’d wanted to go right
upstairs but it seemed rude now not to stop in and say hello. He
walked toward the piano room, stopping when he got to the door.
Both sisters were there.

“Come in, come in,” Genevieve beckoned. The
cat was once again wrapped around her neck. She leaned over and
patted the empty space on the couch.

“I better not,” he said. “I’ve got several
layers of dirt on me and one is bound to come off on your
furniture.”

Pearl smiled at him. “How did the afternoon
go?”

He’d sliced a finger with the razor-sharp
knife that Arturo had given him and both his heels had blisters.
But there’d been no more spats between the men and they’d seemed to
accept his presence among them. “Very nice.”

“Melody said she mentioned that I’m hosting a
dinner party to celebrate your marriage and the baby. It’s tomorrow
night—you may want to knock off a little early.”

“I’ll do that. Where is Melody, by the
way?”

“We haven’t seen her,” Pearl said. “I imagine
she’s out in the shed with Bernard. She should be in shortly to get
ready for dinner.”

He nodded. “Well, then, if you’ll excuse me,
ladies, I think I better get cleaned up myself.” He walked up the
stairs and down the short hallway. He grabbed for the doorknob,
pushed the door open, and stopped suddenly when all the air left
his lungs.

He’d expected the room to be empty. But
Melody lay on her bed with barely a stitch on. Her shirt, which had
skinny little straps, hugged her full breasts tight and stopped
just inches below them, leaving her rounded stomach bare. The vee
at the top of her legs was covered by an almost transparent little
scrap of material and he could see the hair between her legs.

She was lovely. There was no other word for
it. And he badly wanted to touch her. To stroke her smooth skin, to
brush a hand across her nipples and see them beg for more
attention, to spread her legs and taste her sweetness.

He could tell by the gentle rhythm of her
breathing that she was sleeping. Her hair looked wet and her pillow
damp, like she’d gotten out of the shower, gotten partially
dressed, and then stopped to rest. He couldn’t stop staring at her
stomach. It amazed him to think that as the weeks grew to months,
her smooth skin could stretch enough to accommodate her growing
child.

In his time, woman died giving birth. New
babes died, too. If anything had changed in a hundred and eighteen
years, he hoped that had. It struck him suddenly that four months
was not a terribly long time. Was it possible that he’d still be
here? Would he get to see Melody’s child? Would he know that she’d
seen her way safely through the ordeal? Or was it his destiny to go
back to his own time soon and forever wonder what had happened to
Melody and her child?

He felt suddenly light-headed, almost sick to
his stomach. He couldn’t stay in this time. He needed to be where
he belonged, in a time he understood.

He
did
know shit about being a
sheriff. Not like grapes.

He took a step away from the bed and might
have gotten away without her ever knowing he was standing there,
staring like a young boy, if she hadn’t rolled over and in the
process, almost made her plump breasts practically pop out of her
little shirt.

“Christ Almighty,” he said.

Her eyes flew open and it reminded him of how
she’d looked that first night on the beach. Then, she had stared at
him, like he was something that had emerged from the sea. Now, she
looked less frightened, less wary, but still surprised to see him
standing over her bed.

“I didn’t know you were in here.” He was
trying to look everywhere but at her breasts. But he was clearly
unsuccessful; she glanced down and quickly shifted, pulling her
shirt back into place.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no right.”

He could see the look of uncertainty in her
violet eyes and then they cleared, like she’d come to some
decision. “Come here,” she said, her voice soft. She held out her
hand.

He shook his head. No. He couldn’t touch her.
Not when he was feeling so weak. “I’m filthy dirty,” he said,
grabbing on to the only excuse he could.

“That doesn’t matter. Please.”

He knew what he should do. But he couldn’t
walk away. She looked more beautiful than ever—so overwhelmingly
female, so lushly ripe with impending motherhood, and his body
reacted in what was starting to become a most familiar way.

And he couldn’t hide it from her. Her eyes
opened wide. “Oh my,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said.
Damn
, he cursed himself.

She scrambled to sit up in bed. “Uh. .
.George?”

She was going to tell him to get out and not
let the door hit his ass on the way out. Disappointment, sharp
stabbing points, made his chest hurt. “Yes.”

A pink hue rose from her chest, spread up her
neck and settled in her cheeks. “Did I do, I mean, cause that?”

Christ. She couldn’t expect him to stand here
and discuss it. “It won’t happen again,” he promised, wanting to
put an end to the conversation.

“How do you know?” she asked boldly.

He looked at the thick carpet and wished like
hell for a hole to swallow him up. “Because I won’t let it,” he
said.

“Oh,” she said.

“I’ve got to get cleaned up,” he said.

She stared at him. “Of course,” she said.
“Please, go ahead.” She politely waved her hand at the door to the
bath, as if the last five minutes had never happened.

“You’re not angry?” he asked. That worried
him but what worried him more was that she might be scared of him.
He probably had a hundred pounds on her and she no doubt knew that
she’d be in no position to defend herself if he chose to force
himself on her.

She shook her head. “Angry? No. I guess it’s
sort of a compliment. I mean, unless this sort of thing happens to
you regularly.”

Her voice had trailed off at the end, full of
uncertainty. Now what was he supposed to do? He could lie—maybe let
her believe that his reaction was nothing special. Would that make
her feel any safer?

“Well?” she prompted. “Is it?”

She wasn’t going to let it go. Fine. Then
maybe the truth was what she needed. “I haven’t had a woman in six
months, nor have I felt the need for one. But in the last
forty-eight hours, I’ve been hard for you three, no, make that
four, times.”

She opened her mouth to say something but no
words came out.

“I know that’s not what you bargained for
when you asked me to play the role of your new husband. I know that
I don’t have the rights of a real husband and I don’t want you to
be scared that I’m going to take them.”

She looked surprised. “Being scared never
entered my mind, George Tyler. I haven’t known you long but long
enough to know that you’re one of the most decent men I’ve ever
met. You would not take advantage of me.”

He’d stick a knife into his own belly first.
“It might be a good idea if you got dressed while I’m getting
cleaned up.”

She smiled and he thought she looked almost
satisfied. “I can do that. Um. . .George, I don’t want you to feel
bad about. . .” she stopped and waved her hand in the general
direction of his unruly cock. “About
that.
”

That
wasn’t getting any better. If
truth be told, he had a slim grip on his own control. That by
itself, was damn concerning. His whole life, he’d been the type
that had planned and then executed, not simply reacted and then
jumped. “We shouldn’t be having this conversation,” he said.

“I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable,”
she said and he was fairly confident that she wasn’t a bit sorry.
She moved, slowly swinging her pretty legs over the side of the
bed. He caught a glimpse of her womanhood, barely covered by that
piece of lace between her legs.

His face heated up and he felt weak and
needy. And when he finally managed to tear his gaze away and look
at her face, it almost took him to his knees when he realized she’d
done it on purpose.

He backed up a step and held up his hands. It
was hard to breathe, hard to think. “Melody? What in God’s name are
you doing?”

She didn’t answer. She simply stood there,
her breasts so lush and full, her nipples tight under her little
shirt. The skin on her belly was lighter than that on her arms and
legs and he put his hands behind his back to keep from reaching out
and stroking her.

She took a step forward.

The room felt hot.

Another step. She was close enough that he
could smell her scent. Strawberries in cream. Sweet.

Another step. “Melody?”

He sounded like he was begging and he was.
Begging her to keep coming forward, begging her to stop? He didn’t
know.

She reached a hand out and touched his cheek
with the tips of her fingers, then ran the soft part of her thumb
across his lower lip.

In his head, he heard the distinct snap of
his control breaking. He slipped his hand underneath her damp hair
and cupped her neck. He leaned forward, careful of her child, and
bent his head.

When he kissed her, her mouth was warm and
sweet-tasting and he meant to take it slow but reason and intent
gave way to an almost-blinding need to possess her. He pressed his
lips hard, her mouth opened, and he pushed his tongue inside.

It was everything but not nearly enough and
he knew she felt the same when she pressed her warm body against
his. He had to touch her, had to know the feel of her breasts in
his hands. His mouth still consuming her, he slid his hand under
her little shirt and cupped her breast. He stroked his thumb across
her nipple, much like she’d stroked his mouth.

Her body jerked in his arms and he captured
her groan. Then he felt her yank his shirt free from his trousers
and when her hands raced across his bare back, it was he who was
groaning.