Twice in a Blue Moon
Read Twice in a Blue Moon Online
Authors: Laura Drake
Wanted: one master winemaker
Indigo Blue is starting over, again. Following the death of her husband, she's rebuilding her life around her only inheritanceâa California winery. There's just one problem: she doesn't know a thing about wine. Enter brooding vintner Danovan DiCarlo.
Eager to put his own painful past behind him, Danovan is the perfect partner. And not just in business. As they work side by side, Indigo can feel more than the vineyard coming back to life. Falling for Danovan is a scary prospect. But how do you say no when you find love twice in a blue moon?
“What's wrong, Danovan?” She sounded as confused as he felt. “Is it me?”
“It's not you. Us working together and...being together messes with my head sometimes.” He ran a hand through his hair.
Mixing business and pleasure had destroyed his last life.
“Look, I want you,” he said. “But I've also asked you to put a lot of faith in me with the winery. I don't ever want you to think that I used thisâ” he waved a hand, indicating them both “âused
us
, to influence your decision.”
She tilted her head. “I can't decide if you're sweet or the most egotistical man I've ever met.”
Yeah, join the club.
He had never felt so conflicted and unsure of himself. “You are in my blood, Indigo Blue.”
He ran a finger down her throat, to where the first button of her blouse halted his progress.
Since Widow's Grove is surrounded by wineries, one of the books in the series just
had
to take place on one, right? Except the only thing I know for sure about wine is how to consume it! I enjoyed the research for Indigo's story and hope you enjoy visiting The Tippling Widow.
If you're ever in the area, stop by and sample the cabernetâit's fabulous.
Oh, and watch for the cameo appearances of the characters from the first two books in the series!
The next book? I had readers ask what happened to Bear, the big scary guy from
The Reasons to Stay
, so the next in the series will be his story.
Stay tuned, ideas are still growing...
Laura Drake
PS I enjoy hearing from readers. You can contact me and sign up for my newsletter through my website,
lauradrakebooks.com
.
LAURA DRAKE
is a RITA® Award-winning author of romance and women's fiction. She's a city girl who never grew out of her tomboy ways, or a serious cowboy crush. Laura's realized her dream of becoming a Texan and is working on her accent. In the remaining waking hours, she's a wife, grandmother and motorcycle chick. She currently writes for Harlequin Superromance. Find her online at
lauradrakebooks.com
and on Twitter,
@PBRWriter.
To my Alpha Dog, who, no matter how fast I pedal, is waving from the top of the next hill, cheering me on.
And telling me to hurry up.
Thanks for always waiting, Babe.
I'm not much different than Indigo; I may know a cab from a zin, but not much more.
A huge thanks to Jeff Wiens of Wiens Family Cellars, who offered to answer this author's every ignorant question...and even helped on plot points! His family winery in Temecula, California, was my template for The Tippling Widow.
If you're ever in the area, check out their wonderful wines! Tell Jeff I said, “Hey.”
Contents
Hollywood was rocked last week by the death of our beloved Harry Stone. Undoubtedly one of the most influential personalities in the history of film, Harry was Hollywood's best-known director and one of the wealthiest filmmakers in the world. We'll miss him not only for his sparkling genre-bending movies, but for his iconic bigger-than-life personality.
But apparently Harry's not done rocking the town.
In our
EXCLUSIVE
interview inside, Harry's daughter and reality show superstar, Brenda Stone, reveals the juicy details of Harry's will! And guess who's
not
in it? Harry's four-decades-junior wife, Indigo Blue. Apparently the opportunistic âmasseuse to the stars' will have to hit the road with her massage table, because she got nada.
The Informer is gratified to see that sometimes, even in this town, Karma works. Blue dug for gold and came up with rocks. We sincerely hope this is the last time we have to mention her name within these pages. Like Townshend wrote, “Let's forget you, better still.”
Goodbye, sweet Harry. This town will miss you.
“C
OME
ON
, B
ABY
B
LUE
.
I may not have Harry's bucks, but I've got a place in Malibu overlookingâ”
“You booked a massage, Carlo. I am not on the menu of services.” Indigo Blue grasped the man's muscular forearm, removed it from around her neck and lowered it to her massage table. Soft light from the matching Tiffany lamps caressed the burnished skin and smooth muscles of Hollywood's latest action hero, Carlo Bandera. Soothing new-age rainforest sounds flowed from the spa's hidden speakers.
“I get that you don't want to commit, babe. That's cool.”
Pouring coconut oil into her palm, she rubbed her hands to warm it, attempting to ignore the massive boner tenting the towel draped across Carlo's crotch. Starting at the bottom of his rib cage, she slid the heels of her hands up and across his considerable pecs. She leaned in, adding her weight to release the tension in the huge muscles.
His arms snaked around her and pulled her onto his chest, trapping her hands underneath her. “I've got five hundred bucks for a BJ.”
She pushed against him, but his arms were steel bands. He didn't even flinch. Panic pumped into her bloodstream, impelled by her racing heart.
“Harry Stone could've had any broad in town, and he chose you.” He gave her the look she'd seen him use in his last movie. The heavy-lidded, smoky one that liquefied female costars. “You must be incredibleâit'd be worth five hundred.”
“Back off, Bandera.
Right now
.” Adrenaline raced through her, demanding flight or fight. But the caveman Casanova's balls were out of her knee's reach.
“Aw, honey, you'll change your mind once you see the goods...”
When he used one arm to whip off the towel, she twisted away, sliding easily thanks to his oily chest.
“This appointment is over.” She stepped to the door, but her hands were slick. She couldn't turn the knob.
Bandera sat up, a slow smile spreading across his face, his member throbbing. “From what I hear, you gotta need the money, Blue.” He slid his legs off the table.
She shot a glance around the dim room, looking for a towel to wipe her hands. They lay stacked on the other side of the table.
Figures.
He stood. “If you're
that
good, I'll refer my friends.”
Using two hands, tendons in her forearms straining, she twisted the greasy knob. It slipped, but then finally turned. She flung the door open. It hit the wall with a hollow
boom
. She stalked through the crowd from a just-released rumba class, leaving the door gaping behind her.
Her client's indignant yell didn't douse the burn in her gut.
I can't do this anymore.
Only a week into her old job and this was the third and scariest pass so far. She'd told herself that she'd been spoiled with the cushy lifeâbut it was more than that. Before Harry, the upscale clientele of Las Brisas had at least shown respect for her skills and service. Now she was accosted on a daily basis. She snatched an Egyptian cotton towel from a stack, wiping her hands as she walked through the gym, hyperaware of the curious eyes that followed her.
This was not going to work. She needed a new plan.
As with everything he touched, Harry had changed her. She was no longer the free-spirited, starstruck newbie, grateful for a dream job teaching yoga to starlets and massaging famous muscle. But without Harry's love and unswerving loyalty, who was she now? She didn't know.
But she wasn't this.
A crushing blanket of loss had descended the morning she woke to find the lifeless body of her mentor, her love, her best friend, cooling on the mattress beside her. After that Harry had belonged to everyone: the press, his fans, his daughter. In their hands, the funeral morphed from the quiet family ceremony Harry had wanted into a nightmare of Hollywood proportions complete with limos, television cameras and paparazzi.
Indigo pushed open the door to the women's locker room, hollow to the marrow of her bones. She put her hands on her knees and leaned over, waiting for a wave of dizziness to pass. When had she last eaten?
But a decent meal wouldn't touch this emptiness. The problem was much deeper.
The commune where she'd grown up had been a large sheltering womb that, after high school, had shrunk to the point of claustrophobia. She'd fought her way out, choosing to be born instead between the glamorous thighs of Hollywood.
It was only later she learned her surrogate mother was a narcissistic whore.
That was the last time she'd trusted her gut. Lost, and one bad choice from disaster, she'd met Harry.
“Indigo Blue. It sounds like a streetwalker's name.” A chalkboard-squeal voice drifted from the first row of teak lockers.
“The only reason anyone invited her to parties at all was because she had Harry wrapped around her ring finger. How do you suppose she did that?”
“See? We're back to the streetwalker thing.”
Blood pounded up Indigo's neck, flooding her face with heat. She eyed the exit, but her car keys were in her locker. Tightening her stomach muscles, she walked on. Coming abreast of the lockers, she glanced to the two underwear-clad plastic surgery billboards. “Monica, you may want to stick with those voice lessons.” She covered the bitchy words in fake-sincerity syrup. “You're still strident, dear.”
That shut them up. She grabbed her stuff and got the hell out.
* * *
T
WO
DAYS
LATER
, her Louis Vuitton luggage open on the bed, Indigo stood before her walk-in closet, which was bigger than her childhood bedroom. She surveyed the yards of satin, spandex and sequins, seeing her Hollywood life recede like the view in the long end of a telescope.
That's how it feltâas if, at twenty-seven, she'd already led three separate lifetimes: the tomboy who'd grown up wild on the Humboldt County commune, the star-struck yoga instructor and the celebrity wife of an aging Hollywood icon.
Thanks to her mom and Harry, two of those lives had turned out well. The one in between, the one she'd been in charge of? Epic fail. She turned away from the closet. Whatever lifetime came next, she sure wouldn't need
this
wardrobe.
Mom wanted her to come home to People's Farm, but her experience at the spa had taught her that going backward didn't work. Thanks to the skills she'd learned there, she could put her portable massage table under her arm and start her next lifetime almost anywhere.
And in the ass-end hours of last night, she'd decided to begin that life at the wineryâthe one remnant of this life that was truly hers. Maybe she'd find Harry's spirit where they'd been happiest.
Closing the luggage, she glanced around the bedroom, listening one last time for a whisper of Harry. All she heard was the whine of the pool pump through the open French doors. She now understood the phantom pain that amputees felt for a missing limb, because of the gaping hole in her that Harry had left. What would happen to her now, without his steady guiding hand on her shoulder?
Everyone believed she'd married Harry Stone for his money. Still, she'd thought she'd made a
few
friends in the four years they'd been married. But the past two months proved that all the naïveté hadn't yet rubbed off of Indigo Blue. She shook her head, picked up what was left of this life and walked downstairs.
Claws on marble echoed in the two-story vestibule, getting closer. She dropped the load and knelt as Harry's basset hound, Barnabas, careened around the corner, huge feet pistoning until he gained traction and barreled into her.
“Oof. Well, hello to you too, big guy.” Avoiding drool, she knelt to pet him from soft ears to whipping tail. “The Wicked Witch of the West will be here soon. Let's spare ourselves that drama, eh?”
“Well, I may be a witch, but that's not Toto.” Brenda Stone swept in on stilettos instead of a broom. “And
you
are no Dorothy.” She flipped her salon-perfect blond tresses over her shoulder and strutted over on shapely, tanning-bed-brown legs. “Give me your house key, and open the suitcases.”
Indigo stood, fists clenched at her sides. “You think I'd steal something?”
“Listen up, bitch.” The diva waved a carmine talon in front of Indigo's nose. “Daddy's gone. I don't have to put up with your shit for one more second.” She planted a fist on her hip. “Now, are you going to open up? Or do I call the cops?”
They were once “friends.” That was before Indigo understood the Hollywood definition. She would have accepted Brenda's aversion to having a stepmother her own age, but Brenda had made it clear that the competition wasn't for Harry's loveâbut for his money.
Indigo spread her arms. “If I'd wanted any of this, I wouldn't have insisted on a prenup leaving all of it to you.” The only things she wanted from this house were Barney, her wedding rings and a few of Harry's T-shirts to sleep in.
“Yeah, like anybody believed
that
story.” Brenda sniffed, her eyes crawling over the luggage. “Open them. Now.”
Indigo bent and popped the locks on the first suitcase, tasting bitterness in the back of her throat. Sure, Brenda was all about money. But Indigo knew that deeper in her hate-shriveled heart lived an insecure, jealous little girl, and that was Indigo's unforgivable sin. Not that Brenda
was
that little girlâbut that Indigo knew it.
A few minutes more, and you're done with all this forever.
She flipped open the suitcase. Slapping the drama queen silly would sure feel good but would only supply more fodder for the gossip rags. Harry deserved better. Guts churning, she gritted her teeth and opened the next.
Ten minutes later the inspection was over, leaving Indigo feeling as violated as a cavity search.
“Just because I'm a nice person, and since you didn't try to steal anything else, I'll let you keep the Vuitton.” Brenda raked a proprietary gaze over the marbled entryway and the Tara-style staircase, then back. “You were less than nothing before you met my dad. You're now free to go back to that.” She flicked a hand in Barney's direction. “You're taking that filthy animal, right?”
Indigo snapped the last lock shut and looked into Barney's droopy eyes. “Are you ready?” Taking his tail wag as assent, she stood, grabbed the handles of the suitcases, and left this lifetime behind.
* * *
“I
WAS
SORRY
to hear about your baby girl, Danovan.” Reese Winters sat across the executive desk at Winter Wines. His wrinkles were set in nervous lines, as if waiting to get a root canal. With no Novocain.
Danovan DiCarlo felt the same but knew if it showed, this interview would be over. He shut his mind to the words that delivered the brass-knuckle punch to his chest. “You're aware that I have a degree in agribusiness from UC Davis, and that I worked my way up at Bacchanal Winery to become one of their trusted vintners. But what you may not know is that I single-handedly took their sauvignon line from ten percent ofâ”
“Danovan.” Reece's fingers drummed the edge of the desk.
“Yes, sir.” He leaned forward, anxious to make his next point. He was just getting to the good stuff.
“Spare me the résumé. You know I can't hire you.”
“But, sir, I'm an excellent manager.”
“My respect for your abilities is what got you this meeting. I'd wager you haven't gotten many others. Am I right?”
“Well, I'm just now starting toâ”
“Son, I don't believe the rumors the family is putting out about you.” He leaned back in his burgundy leather chair. “But that doesn't matter. They buy my grapes.”
“You're going to let the Boldens dictateâ”
“I am. And so is every other winery in the area. What's more, you knew that when you set up this appointment.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “I don't mean to stand in as your daddy, but it seems somebody needs to.” He put his knuckles on the desk and leaned in. “You got a bad deal. But you have to admit, you had some...input into your situation.”
Danovan shot to his feet. “I didn't come here toâ”
“So, I have to ask you.” He squinted across the desk. “Did you learn anything?”
Heat pounded up Danovan's neck until his face throbbed, engorged with it.
“No one ever choked to death swallowing his pride, son.”
Sanctimonious sonofabitch.
If Winters hadn't been old enough to sell wine to King Tut, Danovan would have pulled him across the table by the collar of that polo shirt and vent his frustration. Instead, he snatched the file folder of documentation from his chair, retrieved his résumé and dropped it in the folder. Even if all Danovan had left was a string of dynamite-rigged bridges, he couldn't afford to burn any. Anger drained out of the hole that opened in his guts.
He looked across the desk and saw the truth in those mournful blue eyes. In his own twisted way, the old man was trying to help.
“I appreciate your time, Mr. Winters.” He squared his shoulders, did an about-face and marched out of the office, through the huge tasting room and out the front door of the winery. Finally, standing beside his car, he let out the breath he'd been holding.
I'm firmly and durably screwed.
He slammed his hands on the hood. When Winters agreed to see him, he'd had a glimmer of hope that one grower in the valley had a big enough set of balls to stand against the Boldens. But apparently they'd stopped making them that size.
He unlocked his Land Rover with a click. He pulled the door open, and the smell of almost-new car washed over him as he settled into the seat. If he didn't find a job soon, he'd be forced to sell this last sweet perk of his old life. He inserted the key and fired the engine.
