A Rare Vintage (Wine Country Romance) Read online

  "Well the bathroom's right over there," Vicki pointed across the hall. "It's not fancy, but it's yours. And if you need to call home or anything, let them know you got here safe, you can use the phone in my room."

  "No, that's fine," Isabella said, then cursed herself for speaking so quickly. "I mean, there's just…there's no one I need to call."

  Vicki's face told Isabella that she'd picked up on something in her speedy dismissal of the idea of a call, but she was too polite to press. Isabella was glad. She wasn't in the mood for sympathy, and that's all that ever came of explaining she was completely alone in the world.

  "Thanks, Vicki," she said, unzipping her suitcase. "I think I'll settle in a bit and take a shower; wash off the road."

  "Sure thing. Dinner will be about an hour," Vicki said. She walked out the door, pausing just before she'd exited completely. "Isabella?"

  Isabella paused, looking up. "Yeah?"

  "I'm really glad you're here."

  "Thanks."

  Once Vicki had disappeared back down the long hallway, Isabella sat down at the end of the bed and looked around her. The room was small but comfortable. The bed was big enough, and covered with a soft duvet in an unobtrusive floral pattern. There was closet space to hang what few nice things she'd brought, and a window on the wall opposite the door offered a view of vineyards sweeping away down rolling hills behind the house. That alone was almost worth the drive. Isabella had dreamed of living on a vineyard for most of her life, and here it was, just beyond the glass.

  Though Jonathan seemed difficult, Isabella thought that she would be able to make an impact here, once he got used to sharing responsibility. She hoped that there were things he had picked up from his father that she could learn from him. She closed her eyes for a moment as she thought about Jonathan, replaying the way his body moved as he climbed down the ladder; walked through the vineyard ahead of her. A warm pulling sensation began in her stomach, and she tried to push it away.

  I don't have time for lust, she reminded herself. I'm here to learn and to help. That's all.

  With a nod, she rose, grabbed her toiletry bag and headed across the hall to the bathroom.

  She pushed the door shut and leaned into the tub to turn on the water, flicking on the overhead fan. She stripped her dusty clothes off while she waited for the water to heat, leaning over to stick her fingers into the steady stream coming from the spigot now and then. When it was finally warm, Isabella searched for the lever that would divert the flow to the shower. It was not in its usual place, and after a few minutes of searching, she was becoming frustrated.

  "All I want is a shower. Why does that have to be so complicated?" she wondered aloud.

  The day threatened to catch up with her, and Isabella felt her frustration building toward tears as she searched in vain.

  "This is ridiculous," she finally said. "I'll just go ask Vicki."

  She turned off the water, grabbed one of the towels hanging on the rack and tucked it around her. She'd never been particularly modest, and she didn't think twice about marching out toward the kitchen in search of her hostess.

  "Vicki?" she called as she entered the kitchen.

  "Yep?" came the answer, and Vicki walked into the living room, Jonathan at her side, his eyes full of surprise.

  "Oh, jeez," Isabella said, staring at the floor and seeing only her bare feet and red toenails. "I'm sorry," she began, carefully avoiding Jonathan's face. She aimed her words directly at Vicki, ignoring the winemaker, though she could feel his dark eyes on her. "I'm, ah, having some trouble figuring out how to turn on the shower," she said.

  "Oh!" Vicki laughed. "Yeah, it's tricky. Sorry. Here, I'll show you."

  Isabella pulled the towel more tightly around herself, conscious that it barely covered the tops of her thighs. With a jolt of embarrassment, she hoped she hadn't left her underwear just lying on the floor on top of her pile of clothes. She entered the small room behind Vicki and was happy to see the jumbled mess of clothing on the tile, her shirt on top.

  "It's up here," Vicki said, turning the water on again and then pulling a lever on the opposite side of the showerhead. She turned with a smile. “Old plumbing,” she said. With a shrug, she headed to the door. "Come on out for dinner when you're ready," she said, pulling the door closed behind her.

  Isabella let the towel drop and climbed into the shower, trying not to think about how handsome Jonathan Sauvage had turned out to be.

  When her shower was done, Isabella double-checked to make sure the hallway was empty of tall muscular winemakers before dashing to her bedroom and closing the door firmly behind her. She was still unsettled, feeling as though she'd exposed herself, both literally and emotionally. I'm not here for romance, she reminded herself, trying not to feel the searing dark gaze on her skin as she replayed his look in the kitchen doorway in her mind. That's the last thing I need.

  She dressed quickly, braiding the curly mass of dark hair over one shoulder, and then heading out to the kitchen to see if she could help with dinner.

  Vicki was just pulling silverware from a drawer.

  "Can I set the table?" Isabella asked, gazing over to the rustic farmhouse table near the sliding glass doors on the other side of the room.

  "Sure," Vicki said. "We just eat in here usually, but we could use the dining room since we have a guest."

  "Nah, that's not necessary," Isabella told her. "I'm hardly a proper guest," she said.

  "Okay," Vicki said, with a smile.

  Isabella watched her while she set the table. She envied the open and inviting aura that surrounded the smaller woman. She seemed so happy and vibrant. Isabella knew she didn't project the same air.

  "Have you always lived here, Vicki?" she asked, sitting on one of the low benches when she'd finished her task.

  "No, not here. We grew up in Northern California," she said. "In the farm country north of Sonoma. That's where Dad learned to make wine." Vicki stirred something in a big pot as she spoke, then pulled on an oven mitt and disappeared beneath the line of the counter between them, popping back up with a tray of rolls in her hand.

  "Dad grew up in France, in the vineyards there, but he had been a laborer and a cellar hand for most of his life. His grandmother gave him a chance to come to the states, and he took it, bringing my mother along." Vicki looked thoughtful. "When Mom died, my dad kind of turned into a different man, retreated into himself." She gave Isabella a meaningful gaze, pausing her busy hands. "That seems to be the norm with the men of my family."

  Isabella wondered what exactly had happened here. She had a feeling she might soon find out.

  Vicki pulled a salad from the refrigerator and walked to the table, setting it in the center. When she returned to the kitchen, she began putting the rolls into a basket. "So Dad found this patch of land down here, where the winemaker had failed and was giving up. And he decided to try making wine on his own."

  Isabella knew the rest. Their father had tried to revitalize the land, which had been planted with a strange mix of grapes for California. Where others were growing Cabernet and Chardonnay, Zinfandel and Pinot Noir, parts of Paso Robles had been planted in Grenache and Syrah, grapes that did well in a similar climate in France's Rhône Valley. But no one had managed to make wine that could compete with the Rhône wines yet. Vicki and Jonathan’s father, Joseph Sauvage, had won a couple wine competitions before his death just a few years prior. But not before sinking every last penny he had into his attempt to revive the failing winery. When he died in 1982, all that was left for his children was his reputation and his debts.

  "He did quite well, all things considered," Isabella said, thinking about the research she had done before arriving here. It wasn't their finances she was interested in. It was making wine in the Rhône style. It was Jonathan Sauvage and his intent to re-create one of the most incredible and storied wines in the world—Châteauneuf-du-Pape.

  "He did…" Vicki poured a deep red wine into the sturdy glasses on the table
as she spoke. "And now Jonathan has big shoes to fill. And I'm just glad you're here to help him do it."

  "I'm sure he's doing fine on his own," Isabella said.

  "But I think your being here might help him move past some of the other obstacles he's been facing," Vicki said.

  "Telling her the family secrets?" Jonathan said, striding into the kitchen in a pair of dark jeans and a faded t-shirt that clung to his chest and arms.

  Isabella tried not to stare, but the man before her—tanned and chiseled—was hard to ignore, especially now, with his hair still gleaming with water and the dust scrubbed from his handsome face.

  "Nothing like it," Vicki said, putting stew in front of each of them. "Just letting her know what she's up against."

  A dark look passed over Jonathan's face, and Isabella shivered. She watched him silently sit, and wondered what it was about this man that had her so distracted.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jonathan

  After he’d seen her practically naked when she’d struggled with the guest shower, Jonathan wondered if the apprentice was purposefully trying to drive him mad. He had to admit that most guests did have trouble with that shower. But most guests, he thought to himself, didn't look like Isabella. He had tried to get the image of her out of his mind as he went to the back of the house to wash the grime of the day from his own skin and change clothes.

  There was something about this woman that affected him, threatened to upset the carefully balanced load that made up his world here. Some part of him felt like running blindly toward that, finding out what would happen if he let his guard down. But there was another part, the part of him that stung still from what had happened the last time he'd trusted a woman too much. And the pain and humiliation that still simmered in his gut over the woman who'd stolen his trust was enough to keep him from paying heed to any other feelings that might be developing within him.

  It's lust, plain and simple, he told himself as he pulled off the dusty jeans he wore and threw them into the hamper. I don't even know this woman, he thought, picturing the milky skin of her shoulders and the dark coppery hair that draped over them as she'd stood in the doorway of the kitchen. She's a stranger, he had reminded himself, looking around to find something to ground him in the walls and furniture of the room that had once belonged to his father. He shook his head, trying to stop the nerves firing within him, the ache in his chest that she had somehow reignited.

  Stepping under a cold stream of water in his own shower, he had tried to wash the unwelcome feelings away. But somewhere in his consciousness, he knew that a door had been opened by the appearance of Isabella DaSilva in his life. And try as he might, he would not be able to simply close that door again.

  At dinner, Jonathan could feel Isabella's eyes on him as he spooned stew into his mouth. His sister's cooking was the one thing he had to look forward to each day, but he was too distracted to enjoy it; plagued by the lingering questions that had been hanging in the kitchen when he entered. He knew that Vicki was worried about him, but he was surprised that she'd divulge so much to a perfect stranger her first night at their dinner table.

  "So you told our guest all about Charlotte, I guess?" Jonathan said, gazing into his bowl.

  Isabella gave him a direct look then.

  "Nope, I didn't even mention her." Vicki said, pulling the salad toward her plate. "But now it seems you have to."

  "No," Isabella interjected. "I mean," she looked up at Jonathan, her pale skin flushed. "I don't want to intrude. I'm not really a guest, or a visitor…I'm here to work. I'm touched that you'd include me in your family meal like this, but I didn’t expect it. I certainly don’t expect anything more."

  "Don't be silly, Isabella," Vicki said.

  "No, really. I'm not used to anything more," Isabella said.

  Jonathan let himself look up at her then. Something about the way she said that, staring into her bowl, made her seem so vulnerable. What was beneath the smooth porcelain surface? It seemed that this astute wine student—so confident when telling him how to manage his vineyard—might have secrets of her own.

  "Charlotte used to live here with Jonathan," Vicki said. "And now she's gone, that's all."

  Jonathan shot a fierce look at his sister, who returned the look with defiant bright eyes.

  "Charlotte was my fiancé," Jonathan said. "We had a…a disagreement." He finished. He stalled, playing Charlotte's departure over in his mind for the millionth time. His heart tore all over again as he recalled her sharing the news that he had thought would be a perfect beginning for them. She hadn't agreed. To her, the beginning of life stirring within her was no more welcome than the new life he'd wanted to build between them. Jonathan clenched his fists as he watched her leave all over again, vowing to end what they had begun. He hated how powerless the memory made him feel, how helpless he'd been to stop her from ending everything.

  "I see," was all Isabella said.

  He looked up to find her watching him with those hazel eyes. There was a depth there that he didn't want to see, but couldn't help to be drawn to. Something about her gaze made him want to get nearer to her, ask her to wrap those long thin pale arms around him. He held her gaze a moment too long, his nerves firing almost as if she were touching him. He flushed and looked down the table at his sister.

  She was watching them; her spoon paused in front of her mouth and a faint smile on her lips.

  He shot her a dark look to let her know that he didn't appreciate being exposed to a stranger.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Isabella

  Dinner finished up quietly, each of them seemingly lost in their own thoughts. When it was over, Jonathan excused himself gruffly, not making eye contact.

  "I've got work to do," he told the room. He took a heavy glass tumbler and poured himself a few fingers of scotch, then retreated to the living room.

  "I don't know if I need to apologize for him," Vicki began. "He's been so…moody since Charlotte left."

  Isabella carried dishes to the sink and stood next to the smaller woman, picking up a dishtowel and beginning the drying process as Vicki handed plates to her.

  "How long ago was that?" she asked. She knew that this was potentially an invasion of the man's privacy that he wouldn't appreciate, but she told herself it was important for her to understand his state of mind. He might not be capable of making tough decisions in the winery if his head was clouded with thoughts of a recent loss.

  "It's been more than a year," Vicki said. "Long enough, I think."

  "Long enough for what?" Isabella shot her a look.

  "For whatever else might be coming along, I guess," Vicki said.

  When the dishes were dry and the kitchen was quiet—Vicki pleading fatigue and heading off to her bedroom—Isabella wandered into the living room to find Jonathan pouring over ledgers at a desk in the far corner. The room was dark, and a single desk lamp cast shadows that accentuated the lines between his furrowed eyebrows. His head was in his hands, and there was no doubt that he was a man thinking heavy thoughts.

  She walked softly, intent on passing through and down the hall to her own room despite the early hour, but before she'd crossed the room, he looked up.

  "Don't suppose you've got a talent for repairing busted valve pumps, do you?" His face was serious, dark as ever.

  "Ah, no. Can't say that I'm the most mechanical girl around." She paused, not sure if his question was an invitation to linger or if she should just close her door and call it a night. "What time do we start in the morning, boss?" She asked, figuring she'd just plan to close herself up for the rest of the night.

  "Well, no point in doing much of anything really, not unless we can get the fermentation tank working again," he said, staring down at the book before him. He dropped his hands to the desk and looked up at her then, his eyes searching her face. "Isabella?" he asked.

  Her heart skipped. There was something so vulnerable and exposed in his expression. It took everything she had not to r
un across the room to him. She steeled herself and tried to put down roots where she stood, to ensure that her body wouldn't act without her consent. "Yeah?"

  "If you're gonna be here long, you should know what we're up against."

  "A broken fermentation valve doesn't sound that dire, Jonathan." His name felt rich and exotic rolling off her tongue. She cursed inwardly at her own willingness to be overwhelmed by his magnetism.

  "That's not the half of it." He motioned for her to approach. "Want a drink? You might need one." He stood and went to the kitchen. She heard him getting a glass and the bottle of scotch. He returned, pouring her a drink and one for himself. "Scotch okay?"

  "Scotch is great," she said, impressed by the age of the bottle he held.

  He saw her inspecting the label and raised an eyebrow. "Like it the same age as your men?"

  "Something like that," she laughed; taking a sip and letting the fire burn down her palate and throat. She was glad for the visceral sensation of the Scotch because standing so close to Jonathan made her body long for much more. "What are we looking at?"

  Jonathan pointed to a few numbers at the bottom of the page. "This," he said. "Is where we stand."

  "That's not bad," Isabella said, relieved.

  "No. I mean this is what we owe," he corrected.

  Shock sprinted through her veins. The place was running on empty. They don't have enough cash to bottle this year's harvest, let alone get it to market. "Shit," she whispered.

  "Yeah," he said, putting his head in his hands again. "Shit."

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jonathan

  Isabella perched on the edge of his desk, near enough to touch, close enough to smell the scent of soap and lavender wafting off of her. It was nearly impossible to focus on the books in front of him, but admitting their dire position to her made it impossible to avoid the conversation that he knew would follow.