If I Were You (21 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

We are escorted to a circular private dining room. Chris
holds the chair for me as I settle next to an oval window overlooking green
mountains and a glorious blue skyline. I slide my purse onto the chair and I am
in awe of the view. “It’s spectacular.”

Chris claims the window seat across from me and slips out of
his leather jacket he’d put on as we’d left the room. “So is the food, but
since I’m taking you to a special winery that will serve their vintages along
with fruit and cheese, I suggest we eat fairly light. I thought we’d visit the
restaurant for brunch tomorrow before we leave, if you’d like?”

“Yes. Very much. Sounds perfect.” I am warmed by the romance
of this place and his actions, but I tell myself not to get carried away. This
isn’t romance. It’s a sexy adventure. After all, I’m not wearing panties or a
bra.

“Anything look good?” Chris asks after I’ve studied the menu
a moment.

“Everything. I’m starving.” It’s nearly three and we haven’t
eaten since early morning.

A waiter appears and Chris arches a brow at me. “Ready?”

“I am. Cobb salad for me.”

Chris hands both of our menus to the waiter. “Burger for me.
Well done. And bring us a bottle of the recommended wine selection — the Robert
Craig Zinfandel.”

The waiter gives a small bow. “Coming right up, Mr. Merit.”

“No beer for you?” I ask when the waiter departs. 

“It’s never good to mix alcohol and I have a few friends
around these corners of the world, that would have my hide for drinking beer
over wine.”

It hits me how well Chris is known here, how the waiter and
the doorman knew him by name. A sick feeling hits me.
I never bring women to
my home
. Is this where he brings them? Where he wines and dines them into
panty-less submission. “How often do you come here?”

“A couple times a year.” He gives me a shrewd, narrow look,
and I’m pretty certain he’s reading me like a book. I hate that I am
transparent, that I have knots in my gut, and that I am reacting this way at
all. I worry I’m getting emotionally attached to Chris and I don’t want to be
hurt.

Chris slides a brochure of some sort from the edge of the
table in front of me. “This is why I visit.”

I blink down at what appears to be an advertisement for the
art gallery on site and swallow hard at the list of featured artists, including
Chris. I’ve jumped to conclusions and made it obvious.

“And to be clear, Sara, until now, I’ve never brought a
woman here.”

My gaze jerks to his. “Never?”

“Never.”

“Then why am I here?”

“You tell me. Why did you come?”

“Because you asked me.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of men who’ve hungered to give
you an escape, even take care of you, whom you’ve rejected.”

It’s true. I’ve barely dated since college and the few dates
I’ve had were disasters. “And I’m sure there are plenty of women who’ve
hungered for more with you.”

He studies me a long moment. “Why five years, Sara?”

The unexpected probe sets my pulse to racing. “I thought you
didn’t ask personal questions?”

“I’ve done a lot of things differently with you.”

“Why?”

“Because you are you.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Neither do I, but I’m hoping to find out.”

There is an odd tightening in my chest. Emotion. I don’t
want to feel any emotion but he pulls it from me anyway. “Can you tell me when
you do?”

He smiles, and it’s a gorgeous smile that chips away at the
tension prickling at my nerve endings. “You will be the first to know.” He
turns serious quickly. “Who was he, Sara?”

“He who?” I ask, but I know where this is going.

“The man who fucked with your head enough to make you
celibate for five years.”

The waiter appears and saves me from answering. I don’t want
to talk about Michael. I don’t want to remember him. He’s the past.

The waiter settles two glasses in front of us and then pulls
a bottle of chilled wine from a silver ice bucket. The waiter works the cork
from the bottle but Chris ignores him. He leans back and watches me, his eyes
intense with scrutiny.

The wine is uncorked and a sample is poured for Chris. He
smells the wine and tastes it. “Excellent selection,” he says to the waiter.
“Give your wine expert my regards.”

The waiter fills our glasses, gives a small bow, and
departs. “Yes, Mr. Merit. I absolutely will.”

I sip from my glass, and my taste buds explode with a tangy
fruit flavor with a hint of oak I quite enjoy. Chris stares at me. “Who was
he?” His voice is low, taut.

I inhale sharply and set my wine back down. “The past. Leave
it at that.”

“No.”

“Chris--”

“Who was he, Sara?”

“My father’s prodigy, the son he never had.” The confession
slides from my mouth without a conscious decision to allow it to.

“How long were you with him?”

“Six months.”

“How serious?”

“An engagement ring.”

Surprise flashes in his eyes. “That’s pretty serious.”

I run my hand over my tense forehead and for once, words
escape me.

“Did you love him?”

“No,” I say immediately, dropping my hand. “I was
infatuated. He was five years older — successful and confident. He
was…everything my father wanted for me.”

“What about your mother?”

“She wanted whatever my father wanted. I barely know the
person that would do anything to please…
him
.” I cannot bring myself to
say Michael’s name, and not because I have any emotional connection. I simply
dislike remembering who he made me, or rather, who I let him make me.

“Anything?”

I nod stiffly. “Even when I hated him for it.”

“Are we talking sex, Sara?”

I let my eyes shut, trying to make my suddenly thick breath
leave my lungs. “Everything.”

“So the answer is yes. He made you do things you didn’t want
to do.” It’s not a question.

My lashes snap open. “Because it was him and he treated me
like I was his property put on this earth for his personal satisfaction.”

He studies me, his expression impassive, his features carved
in stone. “And how do I make you feel?”

“Alive,” I whisper without hesitation. “You make me feel
alive.”

A warm blanket of awareness wraps around us. “As you do me,
Sara.”

Chris’s unexpected confession does funny things to my
stomach.
I make him feel alive?

“Your food has arrived,” the waiter announces in a far too
efficient display of good, poorly-timed, service.

My salad, which is the size of Texas, is placed in front of me,
and then the waiter sets down Chris’s burger.  I sip my wine and the chill
helps calm the heat burning through my body.

“They have an impressive wine list here at the hotel,” Chris
comments. “And they have a wine educator on staff. If you want, I can arrange
for her to spend some time with you in the morning?”

“I’d like that,” I say, aware of how hard he is trying to
show support for my job.
It matters,
I think again. Chris keeps doing
things that matter.

We dig into our food and he launches into some interesting
wine facts about the region and I am far more interested in wine than I was
when I was simply learning names and wineries.

“Part of understanding wine is understanding the regions
where it’s produced. Italian wine is so revered because of the soil and the
climate. Napa is one of the few places that can compete in those arenas, at
least in my opinion. The climate here is classified as “Mediterranean”. Only 2%
of the earth’s surface is Mediterranean. Add summers and mild winters, and
grapes grow all year long.”

“It allows the grapes to grow but does it change the
flavor?”

“Absolutely. Ten million years ago, the collision of the
techtonic plates created the mountains and terrain here, along with a multitude
of volcanic eruptions. The result is over one hundred varieties of soil and
each lends a different flavor and texture to the product produced.”

Impressed with his knowledge, I ask a lot of questions as we
eat. “How do you know so much about wine?”

There is a slight crackle to the air, a subtle tension. “My
father was a connoisseur of wine to an extreme and as you’ve notice, despite my
preferences otherwise, wine and art meld together quite frequently.”

His father. I sense tension in him when his father is
brought up and I’m fairly certain he is also why Chris prefers beer over wine. 

“Your car has arrived, Mr. Merit,” the waiter announces,
appearing by our table.

“We’ll be right out,” Chris replies. “Charge the room for
the tab.” 

I’m surprised by this news. “You aren’t driving?”

“Easier to enjoy the wine with a sober driver to drive us
back to the room.” Chris pushes to his feet and walks over to me, pulling my
chair out and helping me to my feet. Suddenly, I am pressed against him, his
hand molding me to his body, and he adds softly, “Easier to enjoy you.”

***

We step outside and I am reminded of how two hours of travel
can drastically impact the weather. Where San Francisco has the chilly late
August wind off the ocean, Calistoga, which is the Napa region we are in, does
not. 

A limo is parked in front of the doorway and it doesn’t
surprise me to learn it’s for us. While I’ve never attended a wine tour, I’m
aware the limo ride between wineries is fairly common. What isn’t common is the
bellman handing me a neatly folded and delicately beaded cream-colored shawl. 

“In case you get cold, ma’am. I understand you need a coat
for your trip back to the city as well. We’ll have that waiting for you in your
room. The city does get quite chilly.”

“Thank you.” Relief washes over me at the sight of the
garment despite what I guess to be the eighty-degree temperature. Inside the
winery, I fear there will air conditioning, and my braless state will draw
unwanted attention.

Chris smirks at the look on my face and I lift my chin
defiantly and slide the shawl around my shoulders before climbing into a car
with strangers.

“Ready?” he asks when I’m well-bundled.

“Ready.”

The bellman opens the car door and I slide to the far window
seat to find I am alone until Chris joins me. He settles in next to me and the
door shuts behind him.  “Will there be others joining us?” I ask.

“Just us,” Chris informs me and I wonder why I imagined he
would have it any other way. He has money and self-proclaimed desire for
privacy.

The window between us and the driver slowly lowers but I am
behind the driver and cannot see what he looks like unless I twist and look
back. I suck in a breath as Chris’s hand slides under my dress and settles on
my bare thigh, his fingers splaying intimately around my leg.

“I’m Eric, Mr. Merit,” the driver announces. “I’ll be your
guide today. Are we still touring the vineyard, sir?”

“We are,” Chris replies. “I’m eager to show Ms. McMillan how
Chateau Cellar produces a wine to rival the best in Paris.” He glances down at
me, his green eyes dancing with enough heat to scorch the seat, while his reply
is somehow matter-of-fact. “Chateau established Napa Valley as the wine
industry it is today. In a blind test in Paris in 1976, the judges, biased to
their own wineries, chose one of the Chateau’s wines.”

A tray lowers in front of us, but all I can think about is
Chris’s fingers caressing lazily beneath my skirt. A bottle of wine and two
glasses appears and Eric quickly explains, “It’s a 2002 Chateau Cabernet
Sauvignon, one of our flagship wines, and a gift from our owners to you and Ms.
McMillan, Mr. Merit, for your long-term support of our operation.”

Chris leans forward and fills two glasses, never taking his
hand from my leg. “I’ll be sure and extend them heartfelt thanks.”

He lifts his glass and sips the wine, before holding it to
my mouth. “Try it.”  He gently urges my legs a bit further apart and I do not
have wine on my mind.

The limo engine rumbles and we begin to move. My heart is
thundering in my ears. “Chris,” I plead and I am not sure if I am asking him to
touch me or asking him to stop. Both I think. 

“Drink, Sara,” he orders softly, no give in his voice. He is
in control, still teaching me that lesson. The driver is close, so very close,
and he fully intends to take this farther than I want. He’s pushing me out of
my comfort zone, testing me again, I think. Testing me. He is always testing me
and I am not sure what the scorecard is or even what I’m trying to achieve. 

I drink from the same spot that Chris has drunk from and
taste the sweet plum flavor. Chris’s fingers brush my sex and I barely manage
to swallow the wine.

“How is it?” he asks.

“Good,” I whisper.

“Just good?” he challenges, and his finger strokes my
sensitive flesh. “Try another swallow.”