Wine, Tarts, & Sex (31 page)

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Authors: Susan Johnson

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Two other people were monitoring the wire transfer. Dan Wygren and Leo’s inside man at the bank. They both saw the routing number for the New York bank being keyed in and waited for the confirmation that the money had reached Janie’s account.
And waited.
And waited.
And . . . waited.
Herbie Austen murmured, “Crap,” real softly when he realized what had happened.
Dan Wygren sat openmouthed and ashen.
Herbie didn’t really care one way or another. He didn’t have a piece of this major blunder. He was just the pickup man.
Dan immediately went into survival mode. Not that he hadn’t made previous arrangements for fleeing the country. Working for Leo was not for the faint of heart. Picking up the phone, he rang Leo. “We’re good,” he said cryptically, offering the prearranged signal for a successful transfer. “I’m heading downtown to check on Herbie.” A few moments later, Dan opened the door of his wall safe and swept its contents into a duffel bag. Zipping the bag, he replaced the curio cabinet displaying his accounting diplomas that hid his safe and, walking past his assistant in the outer office, said, “I’ll be gone for the afternoon.”
An hour later Leo had begun pacing, the further confirmation he’d been expecting to receive from Dan not forthcoming. When he called his accountant’s office, Dan’s assistant could only tell him that Mr. Wygren was out for the afternoon.
A call to Dan’s personal cell phone number informed him that the number was no longer in operation.
At that point Leo began to panic.
He called Herbie at the bank, when he knew never to call Herbie at the bank. But fifty million dollars made one break the rules.
Herbie said curtly, “I’m sorry, he’s not here,” and hung up. Not that he didn’t understand why Leo had been so rash as to call. But that didn’t mean
he
wanted to risk his future.
After Herbie’s brusque dismissal, unable to breathe, Leo collapsed in a chair and struggled to draw air into his lungs. Christ almighty, was he dying? Was he having a heart attack? Gasping for air, he yelped for Ben.
“A shot—of—whiskey,” he panted when Ben appeared.
“Should I call a doctor? You look”—Ben didn’t want to say
like you’re dying
—“a little pale.”
“Whiskey,” Leo choked out.
Maybe this is the big one,
Ben thought, as he walked to Leo’s wet bar. Maybe Leo Rolf was going to pack it in. Fortunately, he wasn’t required to make life-or-death decisions —only take orders. Sliding aside the frosted glass door that concealed the bar, Ben reached for Leo’s favorite single malt, poured half a glass, carried it back, and placed it in Leo’s shaking hand.
“Fifty million!” Leo muttered, trying to get the glass to his mouth without spilling it all over. Fucking fifty million, and he didn’t even know where it had gone.
Ben wasn’t sure he wanted to know anything about fifty million dollars that had damned near iced Leo, but in the end, curiosity overcame him. “Pardon me?” he said, trying to look caring and concerned.
Leo’s steely gaze locked on Ben. “Don’t you have something to do?” he growled.
Ben swiftly exited the office, knowing Leo was on the mend.
No one could deliver evil-eyed malevolence like Leo.
He was back in fighting form.
The banker on the island of Nauru had done a quick double take when the fifty million he was wiring seemed to flicker for a split second in midtransfer. But the visual flutter was gone before he could seriously question it. Some brief electrical malfunction, he decided. Or maybe a momentary glitch at the bank on the other end.
Little did he know that it was Roman’s software program being triggered at the first indication of Leo’s password. Once inside the transmission, Roman’s programed worm monitored the keystrokes coming out of the bank in Nauru. Immediately it recognized Janie’s bank routing number, and the worm simply substituted her previously coded-in Swiss bank account routing number for the New York bank number. The fifty million shifted direction. Seconds later, the money was in Switzerland, the transaction was executed, and the worm deleted itself.

 

Thirty-nine
Due to a certain urgency surrounding their departure, Janie didn’t come to personally say good-bye to Liv, but she called from the plane.
That evening, when Liv finally came in from the fields, she listened to Janie’s breathless, convoluted, and apologetic message. She smiled as Janie talked excitedly of their trip to Europe and all the sights they were planning to see, telling Liv that the Hockney was going to be picked up by one of Roman’s employees, that she was having Brad serve Leo with divorce papers. And best of all, Roman was going to have a little
talk
with Leo in a few days. “To make sure that Leo will never give me any grief,” she’d added with a giggle. “Ciao, darling,” she’d said at the end in her best soap opera voice. “I’ll keep in touch.”
Good for her,
Liv thought, hanging up the phone. It sounded as though Janie had actually trumped the king of mean.
Not that Roman hadn’t contributed mightily.
But having Roman’s help was really nice for Janie.
And for Matt. Roman was kindness itself to the boy.
With all the unreserved happiness exploding from Liv’s message machine—Janie’s triumphant coup, the fifty mil, Roman and Matt at her side—Liv was left feeling slightly melancholy. Okay, maybe more than slightly. More like whiny and grumbly and uncharitably envious.
Why didn’t improbably good things like that happen to her?
Janie had fifty million dollars, a darling little boy, and Roman for a friend and lover.
She
, on the other hand, had two horses, three cats, and a grape crop that may or may not turn out well.
Why did her life suddenly seem to suffer in comparison?
Fortunately, she was not melancholy by nature, so it only took her a few minutes of deductive reasoning to talk herself out of being stupid. She was still living the life she’d always wanted, and she had plenty of personal and business interests to keep her both grounded and content. If Jake Chambers and Janie’s marital whirlwind hadn’t blown into her secluded, happy-as-a-clam universe, she wouldn’t have given a moment’s thought to fifty million dollars or anything else of Janie’s.
There. It was just a matter of putting things into perspective.
She could feel herself mellowing out.
For one thing, she had her peace and quiet back—no small thing for someone who was a hermit at heart.
And she didn’t have to answer to anyone; her schedule was her own.
She liked to have the house to herself once again. Really.
Bringing up a bottle of wine from her cellar, she went out on her porch and sat in her favorite lavender rocker. Pouring herself a glass of Frontenac red, she took a sip and surveyed her vineyards, bathed now in the magenta glow of sunset.
Was this nice or what?
Seriously, she wished Janie the best. If anyone would enjoy the lifestyle fifty million would buy, it was Janie Tabor from West Texas. She loved the jet-setting life; she’d married Leo for his money, after all. And now she had the financial security she’d always wanted.
Liv knew she would never be happy in the jet set. In fact, she’d deliberately left it behind.
So count your blessings
.
Lifting her glass to the setting sun, she did just that.
To old friends like Janie.
May the wind always be at her back.
And to her own life, newly becalmed and restored to normal.
Now, it was all well and good to rationally assess her feelings, and by and large, Liv was successful in locking away any confusing emotions during the daytime. In the bustle and activity of the vineyard, she successfully kept thoughts of Jake Chambers at bay. Her crews were back, and she and Chris were occupied with myriad tasks. They’d just purchased a new stainless steel vat that had to be squeezed into the limited space in their winery and incorporated into their production line. They were propagating new grapevines, monitoring new hybrids they’d developed, and adding new plantings to the fields. Deliveries had to be made, along with the ordering and invoicing that never went away. Life was hectic, and for that Liv was grateful.
The night hours were the problem.
She decided a week or so after her blowup with Jake that the reason she was still thinking about him was probably just a matter of physical withdrawal. She’d never spent so much time with any one man. Or, more pertinently, spent so much time having sex with any one man. As a remedy for what she perceived as these withdrawal symptoms, she’d seriously considered accepting one of the many invitations for dates that constantly came her way. Hadn’t she always enjoyed her social life? But when she should have said yes to a date or hanging out, she didn’t.
She’d make some excuse; generally she’d blame her heavy schedule. “Maybe later,” she’d politely say, “when the grape harvest is in.”
As if her work had ever stopped her from dating before.
But there was no point in going there. Opening that can of worms would require she admit to something she didn’t want to—that she missed Jake. Or needed him. Or worse, was infatuated with him more than she wished. And since he hadn’t called
once
since she’d walked out of his restaurant.
And
since he was probably
real
busy with his drop-dead good-looking Miss Peru assistant chef or whatever, it looked as though she was missing him a helluva lot more than he was missing her.
Damn.
It was like seriously bizarre. She didn’t in the least feel like going on a date—having to be nice and chat up some guy she couldn’t care less about. For sure, she wasn’t in the mood for sex. This from a woman who had always viewed sex as part of a healthy lifestyle.
Correction. She was in the mood for sex all right, but the list of candidates was extremely short—and therein lay the rub. Jake wasn’t looking to have sex with her; he was busy screwing his sexpot chef.
One day, Shelly called and said in a voice that one would use to upbraid an employee who was a perennial fuck-up, “I’m only going to say this once. I have been extremely patient with your moodiness and, quite frankly, full-blown denial the past three weeks. But if you don’t come into town tonight, I’m going to drive up there, forcibly throw you into my car, and bring you back to the cities for a girls’ night out.”
“First, you can’t throw me anywhere,” Liv replied, clearly unafraid of a woman she’d known since grade school. “I outweigh you. And secondly, I really
do
have a tremendously busy schedule, so thanks, but no thanks.”
“Like hell you have a busy schedule. You don’t work at night. I know, ’cause I talk to you almost every night, and you’re moping around, drinking wine and eating ice cream and pizza. We can throw one of your bottles of wine in the car, and I’ll get you a pizza down here, if that’s what it takes. You’re never going to get over him if you don’t even look at another man.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s no one to get over.”
Shelly snorted. “When was the last time you had sex? Let me answer that question for you. It was twenty-two days ago. That’s a record for you.”
“It is not.”
“Whatever—the point is, you’re in the dumps. Amy called me. Okay? So it’s not just me who’s noticed. We’ll go out on the town tonight. Betsy said the new bartender at Quantum is so-o-o hot, he’s worth fighting your way through the crowd to the bar. His name’s Sonny, he’s ripped, and has the longest lashes anyone’s ever seen. So get dressed. I’m not taking no for an answer. Wear something sexy. I’ll be there in an hour.”
“It’s Thursday. Let’s at least wait until the weekend.”
“Nope. You’ll have some other excuse then. I’m coming up.”
“Don’t, don’t—okay, okay. I’ll drive down.”
“If you’re not here in one hour fifteen, I’m on my way north. No more excuses. I’ve heard them all the last three weeks. There’s plenty of other fish in the sea, and I’m taking you fishin’ tonight.”
Liv laughed. “You’re a pain, but you’re probably right.”
“
Probably?
It’s either this or a therapist, and they cost more than they’re worth. At least this way, you get to drink one of Sonny’s famous libations in the bargain. Wear your Issey Miyake—that chartreuse number with the halter top. I’m hanging up. You’re on the clock.”

 

Forty
Jake hadn’t been moping around, but he’d not been exactly his old self, either. Unlike Liv, who’d been playing the hermit, Jake and his colleagues had been out every night. They’d eaten at every restaurant of note in the cities, they’d gone to all the hip bars and night spots. They’d even availed themselves of the various invitations to sleep over they’d received.
Or three of them had.
Jake had turned monkish.

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