Seduced on the Red Carpet

“Okay,” she muttered to herself, glancing at all the blue-shirted employees for the one she wanted. Time to talk to…oh, there she was at the reception counter. She recognized her from her photo on the winery’s Web site. “Excuse me. Are you Mrs. Chambers?”

The older woman, who’d been typing something into the computer, looked up and smiled. “I certainly am. So if you love it here and you’re having the time of your life, you have me to thank. But if you’re having any sort of problem with the food or service or anything, it’s my husband’s fault and I had nothing to do with it. You can blame him.”

Laughing, Livia stuck out her hand. “I’m Livia Blake. I’m great friends with Rachel Wellesley. You’ve got a fantastic place here.”

“Well, any friend of my son Ethan’s fiancée is practically family. It’s so nice to meet you.” Mrs. Chambers was lovely, with salt-and-pepper natural waves and happy eyes that crinkled at the corners. She had a warm, double-handed grip and wide smile that made Livia feel like a long-lost niece or something. “Your pictures don’t do you justice.”

Livia flushed. “Thank you so much.”

“I see you’ve met Willard.”

“Willard.” The dog, hearing his name, perked up and waited at attention. “So that’s his name. Wait—Willard?”

“Don’t blame me,” Mrs. Chambers said. “My granddaughter named him. He’s not bothering you, is he? We’re still trying to civilize him. He’s a stray.”

Willard, the manipulator, chose that exact moment to rub his big fat head against Livia’s leg, leaving a splotch of saliva on her cargo pants. What could she do but give him a nice scratch under his collar?

“Oh, he’s fine,” Livia said. “I’m used to him now.”

“Well, you let me know if he doesn’t behave.”

“Actually, there’s someone else here who isn’t behaving—”

“Oh, no.”

“—J.R.? One of your employees?”

Mrs. Chambers gaped at her. “J.R.?”

Livia hated to sound like a tattletale, but she wasn’t going to pull her punches. “He was very rude to me when I arrived yesterday. I thought you should know.”

“J.R.?”

“Yes, and he said you’d had problems with him before. So, I just—with a bed-and-breakfast this lovely, I thought you probably didn’t want employees giving paying guests a hard time. Maybe you’ll want to speak to him about that.”

A sudden speculative gleam sparked to life in Mrs. Chamber’s eye, almost as though she knew Mr. Arrogant had made Livia’s belly flutter with unmentionable desires. It figured. A man like that—all muscles, dimples, testosterone and bad attitude—was nothing but trouble to any nearby female guests, a fact of which Mrs. Chambers was probably well aware.

Sure enough. “I certainly will talk to J.R. and get to the bottom of this right away,” Mrs. Chambers said. “Don’t you worry.”

“I don’t want to get him fired or anything,” Livia said quickly.

“I understand.” Mrs. Chambers looked utterly sincere but Livia couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a teensy bit of amusement in there somewhere, and she didn’t get it. “You leave him to me.”

“Well.” Livia hesitated. Was there some punch line she was missing here? “Thank you.”

“Have a lovely day, dear. Feel free to explore.”

“I will.” Livia drifted away, with nowhere in particular to go.

O-kaaay.

Now that her complaint was officially lodged, it was time to dooo…

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Yay!

The light and easy feeling of being an eagle, soaring high and free, was so overwhelming she had to sit in one of the cozy chairs before the fire and let it sink in while she sipped her coffee. For once she didn’t have to check her watch every three minutes and then dash off to a flight or a shoot. For once she didn’t need to have the cell phone glued to her ear and take every urgent call that came through from her agent, manager or personal assistant. For once she could sit on her bee-hind and be as lazy as she wanted.

Feeling ridiculous and happy, she grinned down at Willard, who’d collapsed atop her feet for an impromptu rest. Ever watchful, he peered up at her, brows raised, and lounged patiently while she finished her drink. Yawning with a startling display of sharp white teeth, he waited for his marching orders.

“All right, you big oaf. If you’ll get off me, we can get going.”

Apparently the dog spoke a little English. After another jaw-cracking yawn and stretch, he heaved himself upright—what’d this beast weigh, anyway? Oneeighty? Two hundred?—and trotted over to a back door, which seemed as good a place to start as any.

Out they went. It hadn’t warmed up much but the bright sun had burned off the last of the mist and it was already a gorgeous day. She wandered past the open-air restaurant with its green market umbrellas and enormous trellis twined with wisteria vines thicker than her arms and paused on a stone terrace overlooking the rolling hills and the grapes.

Leaning her elbows on the thick stone wall, she breathed in the sweet air, which was so different from the low-hanging and unidentifiable gray cloud that smothered L.A. and the exhaust-filled fumes of New York. It was so clean and pure she was surprised her lungs didn’t seize up in shock.

In the far distance she could see workers walking between the rows, probably assessing the grapes for ripeness. It was, she knew from her pretrip research, almost harvest time. Maybe she could even pick a grape or two before her trip was over.

Pulling out her 35mm camera, which she’d slung over her shoulder earlier, she took a few shots. Maybe she could start a Napa Valley scrapbook. She did love scrapbooking. Willard obligingly posed for a couple of pictures and then they were off again, wandering with nowhere to be.

Wasn’t there a heated pool around here somewhere? And a spa? Wait…yeah. Over there. Inside an enormous wrought-iron fence was one of those deep blue natural pools that looked like a pond carved out of a hill. There was even a stone waterfall, as though they’d stumbled into some sort of hidden jungle oasis. People lounged on towel-covered chairs beneath market umbrellas, chatting happily and sipping wine from oversized glasses.

Livia focused her lens, snapping a few more shots and wishing she could stay here in this laid-back and peaceful environment forever, or at least discover somewhere in L.A. that made her feel this mellow.

“Not swimming?”

So much for relaxation. J.R.’s deep voice way too close to her ear wound her up tight, making her skin tingle and her breath come short. Resolutely determined to ignore him, she kept her elbows on the fence and the camera up to her face, taking pictures of God knew what in her sudden distraction—probably scattered flip-flops, empty orange juice glasses and the corners of peoples’ noses. He didn’t take the hint. Big surprise. Doing the worst possible thing, he rested his elbow on the fence beside hers, igniting her skin with the slight brush of his.

God.

“Hello, J.R.,” she finally said, keeping her voice tart and refusing to look at him. “Stalking me again?”

Too bad the smug amusement in his voice disturbed her as much as his touch and masculinity. “Actually, I’ve been staking out the pool. I don’t want to miss it if you take a dip. Will you be putting on a two-piece anytime soon?”

That did it. Jerking the camera down, she glared at him, meeting that honey gaze and feeling its kick right in her solar plexus. He wore the Chambers Winery colors and a Negro League cap again today, but he was fresh and clean, smelling of soap and masculine deliciousness. The lethal combination of his arrogance, proximity and boyish wickedness—he had dimples! Dimples!—was making her agitated and hot enough to burst out of her sensitized skin, and it really pissed her off.

“I spoke to Mrs. Chambers about you a little while ago. You should probably update your résumé.”

He laughed and that was sexy, too. “Thanks for the warning. So you like being on the other side of the lens, eh?”

“Yes. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Are you any good?”

“Naturally,” she said, hoping he didn’t ask to see any of her last few shots. “Don’t you have some work to do in the fields? Mud to wallow in? Something?”

He tsked. “If you’re not nice to me, Livia, I’m not going to give you your present.”

Present? Really? That sounded interesting, but she couldn’t be swayed from her absolute and unadulterated dislike of him. This man disturbed her way too much. “Thanks, but I don’t want anything from you. Except maybe your swift departure.”

“Really?” That amber gaze skimmed over her, silky-smooth and smoldering. “You sure about that?” he wondered softly.

She stared at him, her dry mouth and tight throat rendering her incapable of answering. That was bad enough. Worse was the sudden fullness in her breasts and the subtle but insistent ache between her thighs.

The moment lasted way too long, until she managed to find her voice and create a diversion. “I wouldn’t mind taking your Black Yankees cap.”

His eyes widened with surprise. “You know the Negro Leagues?”

“I…love baseball. I’m reading a Jackie Robinson biography right now.”

“Oh,” he said faintly.

So much for her diversion. This revelation that they had baseball in common seemed only to sharpen his interest; she felt it swirling around her and wrapping her up tight in its cocoon.

He didn’t seem to like it any better than she did and his next words came with great reluctance, as though he was kicking them out of his mouth.

“You’re really something. You know that?”

She couldn’t answer. The air was pregnant with so many things between them that she couldn’t trust her voice.

He blinked and recovered and, unsmiling, presented her with a bowl that he’d hidden behind his back.

Oh, wow. It was filled with the most beautiful dusty purple grapes.

“Oh,” she said helplessly, feeling special and decadent, like a latter-day Cleopatra who’d been gifted with all the treasures this wondrous land had to offer. “Thank you.”

He dimpled again, but the piercing intensity with which he studied her didn’t diminish by so much as a watt. Was this a seduction? Did he know that she would have thrown a diamond bracelet back in his face, but her driving curiosity would never let her reject a bowl of grapes from a vintner?

“You’re welcome. They’re pinot noir. Do you drink pinot?”

“Yes. Are they ripe?”

They had to be; she could smell their fragrance already.

“You tell me.”

He pulled one off the stem for her and her unwilling gaze went to his hands, which were long-fingered and even with short, clean nails. That hand had touched hers yesterday. That hand had made her feel all kinds of unwanted sensations. That hand was trouble.

To her agonized dismay, he wiped and then squeezed the grape in a careful grip between thumb and forefinger, making her wonder how a man this size could be so gentle. The grape burst open into a star pattern with a bead of dark juice that was one of the most sensual things she’d ever seen as it trickled down his brown skin.

Her gaze flickered up to his face. She couldn’t breathe. “It’s ripe.”

“What does it taste like?”

He held it to her lips, utterly still and watchful, as though the earth would stop revolving for him until he saw what she would do. There was only one thing she could do. Opening her mouth, she took the grape, taking care to brush his thumb with her tongue as she did.

His breath hitched. “What does it taste like?”

His skin tasted salty and warm, absolutely delicious. But he was probably asking about the grape, so she pressed it to the roof of her mouth, crushing it and letting the flavors wash over her. “I don’t know—”

“Yes, you do,” he urged.

She thought hard, struggling to put it into words. “Strawberry, maybe…or is it raspberry? With something that’s a little, I don’t know…a little spicy.”

That pleased him. Those eyes of his crinkled at the corners, thrilling her beyond all reason. “I’ll make a world-class viticulturist out of you yet, Livia,” he murmured.

With that, he pressed the bowl into her hands and turned to go, granting her wish to be alone, and she stared after him, wanting him to stay.

Chapter Four

The next day, after a bicycle tour in the morning and an open-air lunch on the terrace, Livia resumed her exploration of the winery grounds. She still hadn’t seen the stone chapel that was around here somewhere—the whole point of her visit was to scope out the chapel and report back to Rachel on its suitability for her wedding—and there was no time like the present to find it.

There’d been no sign of J.R., and she was glad about that.

Really. She was glad.

“Come on, Willard.” Heading to the far end of the terrace, she consulted her map and clicked her fingers at her sidekick, who’d again been outside her door this morning and had waited for her at the bike stand during the tour.

No answer.

“Willard?” She raised her head and looked around.

Nothing.

Had that silly dog finally abandoned her? Feeling unaccountably disgruntled, she put her hands on her hips and scanned in all directions for her unfaithful companion, but there was no sign of him.

Well, fine, Willard. Fine. She could explore by her damn self.

At the edge of the terrace, though, she discovered a surprise. A pretty little rock waterfall had been carved into the hill like stair steps and the water flowed into a small pond with the kind of relaxing trickle that people back in L.A. acquired through the use of programmable sleep machines available in high-end gadget stores. Potted plants, flowers and lush grass surrounded the whole area, and there, at the end of several enormous stepping stones, sat the biggest doghouse Livia had ever seen. At least she thought it was a doghouse.

Wait—was it a doghouse?

Fire-engine red with a black roof and honest-to-God wraparound porch with white rails, it had a white boneshaped cutout over the arched doorway, so…yeah, it was definitely a doghouse. Oh, and there behind it were King Kong–sized stainless steel food and water bowls, so—

“Are you a princess?”

Whoa. Unidentified small person voice. Was this the girl that’d been following her? Livia glanced all around but there was no one in sight. “Uh,” she said, still searching and beginning to feel dumb, “are you talking to me?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Here.”

That time she got a bead on the voice. It came from the general direction of the doghouse…There it was! A flash of movement inside the house and the unmistakable glint of a pair of large eyes that did not belong to Willard.

Creeping closer, Livia squatted and squinted into the dark depths of the house. At the same time, a flashlight clicked on, settled under a small chin and illuminated a girl’s face—it was her shy little friend—with the eerie up-lighting usually seen only in horror movies and at sleepovers.

Deeper into the doghouse—geez, how much square footage did this thing have?—lounged Willard, chomping on a chew toy of some kind. In front of the girl was a collection of lunging and snarling plastic dinosaurs and dragons that overflowed from their plastic bin.

“Hi,” Livia said.

The girl regarded her solemnly, the effect intensified by the flashlight’s glow, and spoke in a Vincent Price–like, creepy voice. “You may enter the dragon’s den if you utter the secret password.”

“Ah,” Livia said, not at all certain she wanted to fold her body up in there with that dog, no matter how much space there was. “I don’t think I know the secret pass—”

“Guess.”

“Ah. Okay. Hmm. Is it please? No, that’d be dumb. Princess? Pterodactyl?”

“It’s pteranodon.”

“Sorry. I knew that. Pteranodon?”

“No.”

“Umm…Belle? Aurora? Snow White? Mulan? Pocahontas?”

The girl took mercy on Livia and apparently decided she’d made enough of an effort, which was good because Livia’s knees were beginning to creak.

“The password is Tiana. You may enter.”

Livia was afraid of that. “Tell you what. Why don’t I just sit right here and—”

“Enter,” the girl commanded in that ghostly voice.

“Enter. Right.”

What else could she do but drop to all fours and crawl into the doghouse? She sincerely hoped that there were no paparazzi loitering nearby in the bushes. The cover shot on the week’s tabloids would include a close-up picture of her butt, which would look like a double-wide trailer, and the headline would read something along the lines of “Guess Which Supermodel is Losing the Battle with Cellulite?”

Nice.

To her immense surprise and relief, though, once she got through the cramped opening the house was quite spacious. More like a dog mansion. Willard seemed happy to be reunited with her and, when she sat crosslegged, put his head in her lap.

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