Too Close to the Sun (4 page)

And in the midst of those blessed acres lay
Suncrest. Will drove through its stately bronze gates onto the
long, imposing drive that led to the winery, a pile of roughhewn
wheat-colored stones shimmering in the sun's waning light. Stella
reached down into the footwell to strap up her sandals.

"Napa is getting a little small-town for me,"
she declared, which seemed to Will an odd observation when here
they were in one of the most affluent, glamorous, self-indulgent
spots the world had to offer. He rolled the car to a stop behind
another guest's navy Mercedes sedan, a white-jacketed valet
scampering toward him to relieve him of the burden of parking.

Stella, now shod, stepped out of the car and
tossed her auburn hair over her shoulder. "I'm ready for L.A. or
New York or London," she announced, and apparently so dazzled the
valet that he promptly dropped Will's car keys in the dust. She
giggled and sashayed toward the party, clearly conscious of both
men's attention and ready to have a good time, small town or
not.

Will followed, grimly determined to mimic her
enthusiasm.

*

Ava was just wondering how to escape a
particularly long-winded foursome—all of whom were making good use
of the open bar—when she felt a gentle touch on her left arm. Her
savior was Mrs. Finchley, her longtime English housekeeper, who
wore a meaningful expression in her light blue eyes.

"Excuse me," Ava murmured, and let herself be
led to the edge of the festivities. She and Mrs. Finchley leaned
their heads in close.

"It's Maximilian, madam," the older woman
said.

Before she caught herself, Ava's hand flew to
her throat in a rush of relief. But all she said was, "Good, he's
arrived. He's changing?"

"No, actually—" The older woman paused, her
expression pained. "He's not here just yet. He phoned to say he's
on his way."

Ava was silent for a moment, conscious of
trying very hard not to become very angry. "On his way from where,
exactly?"

"From a hotel near the airport."

The revelation hit Ava like a slap. Knowing
her son, it was pointless wondering why Max was in such a place,
and whether he had been for the entire nine hours since his flight
landed, and why he'd waited until now to inform his mother that he
would be seriously late for the gala party she was throwing in his
honor. He was simply doing what he wanted to do—what else was
new?—without thinking about anybody else.

It was quite clear that after eighteen months
of supposed apprenticeship in France, her son was as cavalier and
self-absorbed as ever.

She gathered herself, acutely conscious of
the vulturelike eyes of her guests and of the much more kind and
sympathetic gaze of Mrs. Finchley. Ava knew her housekeeper truly
felt for her employer being burdened with such an incorrigible son.
Whom she still loved, and always would. A fact Ava feared Max made
good use of.

She fixed her eyes on Mrs. Finchley. "How
soon did he say he would get here?"

"About an hour and a half, madam."

Meaning he had just left that damned airport
hotel. Fine. "I don't care to hold dinner," Ava said.

"Very good."

Ava consulted the diamond-encircled face of
her watch. "Let's serve as planned in fifteen minutes." Max would
miss his own welcome-home meal. Fine. He could stop at McDonald's
or some such place on the drive up. "Please rearrange the seating
cards so Max is not at my left hand." Where—she did not spell it
out—his absence would be screamingly obvious throughout the entire
five-course meal.

"Very good, madam," and Mrs. Finchley moved
off to make everything right, the stalwart, capable soul that she
had always been.

Jean-Luc materialized at Ava's side. He wore
his tuxedo Hollywood-style, his dress shirt open at the neck and
not a stud or cummerbund in sight. "Max has arrived?"

Ava forced a smile onto her face. "Not yet.
His meeting in the city ran long," she heard herself say, "and he
lost track of the time." Jean-Luc's eyebrows shot up as if to say
Max lost track of nine hours?
but Ava scanned the crowd
behind him for a distraction and just kept talking. "See that
pretty brunette? Stella Monaco. Let's go say hello," and she took
hold of Jean-Luc's arm to steer him toward the new arrival.

Then she saw the man in Stella's wake and
stopped cold.

"Ava, what is it?" Jean-Luc laid a hand over
Ava's fingers, which, she realized, were clenching his arm.

I cannot believe that man had the gall to
come here tonight
. Though no one would believe him an
interloper. Will Henley looked more CEO than pariah. In black tie,
with his blond all-American looks, he looked like a top get for any
A-list party.

But Ava knew better. He was persona non grata
here. He was the one celebrant at this fete who wanted Maximilian
Winsted not to inherit his legacy but to have it sold out from
underneath him. So that he and his partners could profit from
Porter's decades of hard work.

How many times had she told him that no, she
would not sell? Two? Three? Yet here he was, yet again, and with
Stella Monaco—of all people!—whom clearly he had used to gain
entree. This posed a serious danger, for the last thing Ava wanted
was for this gossipy young girl to spread the rumor that Suncrest
was on the block. It didn't matter that it wasn't true; any hint
that Ava would consider selling just as Max was taking over would
undermine him from the first.

A mother's love
, she thought.
It's
almost idiotic
. Despite how dismissive her son was of her that
night, she was still hell-bent on shoring him up. Of course, she
wanted him to succeed for her own reasons, as well—to free her to
begin a new life, away from the burden of the winery.

"Is it him?" Apparently Jean-Luc had followed
the line of Ava's eyes, for now he was staring at Will Henley, too.
"Should I ask him to leave?"

Ava merely shook her head and resumed
walking, her equilibrium partly restored as a plan brewed in her
mind. Jean-Luc fell into step beside her.

If Will Henley wanted to sniff around Max to
see what he could find out, let him sniff away. It wouldn't do him
a damn bit of good anyway, unless his nostrils could pick up a
scent from sixty miles downwind.

Ava released Jean-Luc and held out both hands
to Stella. "You look lovely, dear," she murmured, which prompted
the obligatory round of air kisses and returned compliments.
Maintaining her brilliant smile, Ava extended her right hand to
Will. "And who is your handsome friend?"

The girl's eyes danced. Ava knew there were
few bigger feathers in a twenty-year-old female's cap than dating a
good-looking, wealthy man ten years her senior. "Ava, this is Will
Henley, from San Francisco. And Will, this is Ava Winsted,
the—"

"Esteemed owner of Suncrest," Will cut in. He
grasped her hand. "Congratulations on your son completing his
apprenticeship in France. You must be very proud."

Ava eyed this dashing interloper and found
herself admiring him. To please her, he would maintain the pretense
that they didn't know one another. Surely he didn't want to rile
her up any more than he already had by crashing her party. After
all, he wanted her to sell him her winery.

"I am very proud," she told him, each word a
stone forced between her smiling lips. Then she spied Gabby DeLuca
a few yards away and decided she would suit Ava's scheme just fine.
"May I borrow your Mr. Henley?" she asked Stella sweetly, a
rhetorical question if ever there was one, because she immediately
took hold of Will's arm and steered him away from Stella before the
younger woman could utter a word.

"Gabby," Ava said, and deposited Will Henley
in front of her, "I'd like you to meet this interesting fellow. I'm
sure you'll enjoy chatting with him." Then she moved off to locate
Mrs. Finchley, her mind on damage control. Her first task was to
redo the seating arrangements at dinner so that Mr. Will Henley
would find himself quite surrounded by loyal Suncrest employees and
hence properly contained.

*

This guy is not from the valley
, Gabby
thought, her breath catching in her throat.
There is no way he
could live here without me noticing
.

He towered over her, six feet
who-knew-how-many inches of blond, broad-shouldered American male.
He had the look of success about him, and it wasn't just from the
tux. It was the fighter-pilot square jaw, the no-nonsense
directness of the gaze, the confidence of the smile, the powerful
aura he emanated without saying a word.

She found her voice and extended her hand.
"Gabby DeLuca."

"Will Henley." His fingers closed around
hers, his hand big and warm and enveloping. All too soon he
released her and looked off into the distance, squinting his blue,
blue eyes, which produced a fan of tiny lines on his lightly tanned
skin. "DeLuca. Isn't Cosimo DeLuca the winemaker here?"

"That's my father." Who had disappeared in
the last few seconds, and taken Cam with him. "Are you in the wine
business?"

He skated past that. "Wasn't he just named
one of the top five Napa winemakers by the
Chronicle
?"

"He was. But he should've been number one on
the list."

"Spoken like a loyal daughter."

"No, I just know good winemaking when I see
it."

He chuckled. "You must see it pretty often
here in Napa Valley."

"Well, I see it in my father." She trotted
out a rusty old flirtatious glance then and it seemed to still
work, because something in Will Henley's keen gaze told her she had
his full attention. "And I see it in me."

He laughed out loud. "Plenty of
self-confidence you've got there. I like it! And where do you make
your wine?"

"Here."
I like it!
rattled in her
brain. "I'm my father's assistant."

"Ah. I'm a fan of Suncrest wines myself. So
you
are
good at what you do," and he cocked his head as he
looked at her, as if he were trying to puzzle something out.

They lapsed into silence while the party
pulsed on around them.
Now what?
She was flustered. She used
to be a good flirt—a natural, in fact. Her parents laughed to this
day over the smiles and winks and sideways glances she'd perfected
by age four. They got pretty worried about it when she hit
fourteen. But now she was so out of practice, she could barely get
past the introductions.

At least not with this heartthrob. Out of the
social black hole of Max's homecoming fete—where she knew everyone
and everyone knew her and there wasn't a romantic possibility in
the bunch—had emerged this guy, a rare specimen indeed. Almost the
last of a dying breed, as far as she could tell. Will Henley was
the diametric opposite of grunge, which was so popular among the
women she knew but which had never appealed to her. This guy looked
traditional in the best, most gracious all-American way—like Cary
Grant come back to life blond and young.

But not
too
young. That was another
good thing, too.

"So you read the
Chronicle
," she said.
"Does that mean you live in San Francisco?"

"Pacific Heights."

"Do you work in the city?"

"I do."

Silence. She watched his gaze skitter away.
This might be the first guy she'd ever met who didn't want to talk
about his job. Could he be unemployed? That didn't seem possible.
Yet lots of brainiac tech types in the city were out of jobs since
the Internet bubble burst. "Do you work for the CIA or something?
You don't seem to like to talk about it."

He shook his head, smiling. "Nothing so
mysterious. Or glamorous. I'm in finance."

"What area of finance?"

"Investments. So tell me, Gabby," and his
eyes came back to her face, "do you ever give personal wine-country
tours?"

She felt a little flutter of excitement.
Is he asking what I think he's asking?
"Do you mean, for
example, to men who work in investments and live in Pacific
Heights?"

"I have to say that's a category I'm
particularly interested in."

"Well, you know, it's funny you should ask.
Because just this morning I was thinking of having business cards
printed up that say 'Gabby DeLuca, winemaker and part-time
investment-guy tour guide.' "

He threw back his head and laughed. She
watched him, grinning herself. Maybe the exorcism that morning had
actually worked, because here she was with the incipient hots for a
man other than Vittorio. Will didn't even look like Vittorio, which
seemed a victory of sorts, too. But he did have that same
straightforward quality, like he was somebody with backbone.

Of course, look at all the backbone Vittorio
had. He went spineless when his parents told him to dump me for the
vintner's daughter next door.

A waiter swept past with a tray full of fresh
wineglasses. Will swiped two, handed one to Gabby, and raised his
as if in toast. "To your tour business," he said, "and its first,
very lucky, customer."

They touched their glasses together, their
gazes locked. Gabby sipped, a giddy feeling washing over her, as if
her sauvignon blanc were really sparkling wine and its bubbles were
flooding her veins with good feeling. Then the bubbles crashed
together and exploded, for who sashayed up and wrapped her arms
around Will Henley's waist but that party-girl bombshell, Stella
Monaco.

"Having a good time chatting up the cellar
workers?" she asked him. Then she turned to Gabby, her lips smiling
but her eyes stone cold. "Thanks so much, Gabby, for keeping my
date amused."

Ouch
. But then Will Henley made Gabby
like him even more than she already did.

"Yes, thank you, Gabby." He gave her a smile
that somehow made the girl clinging to his waist fade right into
the background. "You can be sure I'll book that tour."