3 Savor (9 page)

She laughed and shook her head,
unable to stay miffed at him for long.

He started playing an air guitar
and singing, “Jungle love, it’s driving me mad. It’s making me crazy, crazy…”

Rambo had been asleep on his bed in
the corner of the kitchen, but their intrusion had not gone unnoticed. He got
up, obviously indignant, stretched, and coolly stalked off to the den where it
was quieter.

Margaret put a finger to her lips.
“Shhh! Now look what you’ve done. You’ve woken up the cat. Next, Davy will be
down here singing along.”

“He could use the practice if he’s
going to be a winemaking musician someday.”

Davy’s newest career path was to
combine the best of both worlds. He loved winemaking and had already learned a
lot from both her and Billie, but since he’d heard Adam play on stage, he
thought that would be an awesome choice as well. Thankfully, he still had a
good eight years to dream before the specter of college entered his world.

She glanced at the clock on the
wall.

Adam followed her gaze and
grimaced. “All right,” he said, “I’m leaving.” He gave her a quick kiss and
headed for the front door. “But don’t think I won’t be back to try again. And next
time, Jungle love may just rock your winemaking world,” he teased.

“I’m counting on it.” Smiling, she
closed the door softly and turned the deadbolt.

She parted the drapes and watched
him through the front window. He waved before climbing in his car. She waved
back, and then pulled the drapes closed and shut off the lights. As she climbed
the stairs to her room she remembered her appointment with Edoardo Salvatore
the next day and a sense of doom temporarily overshadowed the thrill of being
in love.

Despite the bright noon sun
outside, the cellar was dark and quiet, and just what she needed to be able to
think. Billie moved across the room to the work counter where she’d first
learned about winemaking from her uncle. She reached beneath to the racks of
dusty bottles and let her fingers brush past each one like a child walking
along a picket fence.

Dr. Berger had warned her back in
the early days of her therapy that if she wanted to banish the bad memories of
the cellar and reestablish the joy that was lost, she would have to return to
the scene of the crime day after day and make new memories. Sweet memories.
Memories that far outweighed the bad. And she’d done just that. She’d brought
Davy here and taught him how to stomp grapes and mix wine and all the things
her uncle had taught her. They’d laughed and talked and teased and slowly but
surely the cellar was redeemed.

The room was much different than it
was when she’d first returned to the winery. The old desk and antiquated
machines were gone now and the crates had all been sorted through, their
contents given away or disposed of. Billie had purchased a new desk, all metal
and glass, no drawers or secrets anywhere. Her keyboard and mouse sat on top
for when she brought her laptop down to work. She also had a comfortable
reclining chair where she sat sometimes to read wine industry magazines or just
to rest her eyes.

Davy insisted he needed a beanbag
chair for when he dropped in to chat for a while, so they’d shopped for just
the right one. It was black and white like a checkerboard, and when he brought
Rambo with him, the cat seemed to blend right in.

Out of respect for her uncle, she’d
hung one of Jack’s paintings on the wall behind the desk, but was glad her back
was mostly to it. She didn’t understand why a man with so much talent painted
the way he did. Couldn’t he have whipped up a nice landscape of the vineyard or
something?

She sat now in her comfy
over-stuffed chair and leaned her head back. Track lighting had been installed
above the work area so that the naked bulb that once graced the middle of the
ceiling was no longer needed. A reading lamp stood beside her chair but she
left it off.

Other than financial woes that kept
cropping up every quarter, the winery had become a place of comfort and peace
for her. She no longer worried that she’d made the wrong decision moving to
California and leaving her law practice behind. The sweet smell of ripening
grapes, heavy on the vines, was like ambrosia to her heart.

Why then did it suddenly feel as
though a black cloud had settled around her? After speaking with Handel about
the man at the winery and his implied threat, they’d called Officer Torn again.
He reassured them that he would look into it. Whatever that meant.

Someone wanted her scared and
hiding and she didn’t know why. Handel spoke with his client on the phone but
Mr. Kawasaki had no idea why she would be targeted. He found the idea
ludicrous; told Handel that if someone had that kind of vendetta against him,
they’d kill him in jail, not have his attorney’s wife tormented.

Handel had tried to lighten the
situation, to convince her that it was a fluke, but she could see he was
worried. This morning he’d once again gone into his office to work, but this
time he shut the door. She heard him on the phone, his voice abnormally tense
and angry, and wondered who he was speaking with. Instead of confronting him,
she left the house to come here.

So much for the messy junk drawer
of their lives. Whoever was targeting her had already nixed that idea. She and
Handel were holed up in separate places, trying to solve a mutual problem…
apart.

“Hey, babe.”

She raised her head; surprised she
hadn’t heard Handel come down the stairs. He was wearing exercise shorts and dripping
sweat from head to toe. “You weren’t out running, were you?” she asked, pushing
up from the chair. “I thought we were going to go for a walk together. Later.
The doctor has not signed off on you exercising hard yet.”

“Don’t worry, I ran out of steam
real quick. I was sweating and exhausted after a hundred yards and headed back
to the house.”

“Serves you right, going without
me.”

“You’re a marked woman. I don’t
want to get hit by a stray bullet,” he teased.

“That’s not funny, because if
someone shoots at me, you’re supposed to jump in front of the bullet.”

He pushed damp hair off his
forehead and wiped his hands on his shorts. “That would be a secret service
agent – or Superman – of which I’m neither.”

“Then remind me… why did I marry
you?” she asked, standing close enough to feel the heat radiating off his bare
chest.

The left side of his mouth lifted
in a sexy grin. “Dare I say, love? Or were you thinking of something a little
more carnal?” he asked, pulling her against his sweaty chest and covering her
mouth with his own.

Not that she didn’t enjoy a little
love in the afternoon and all, but she had a strong suspicion she was being
manipulated. She reluctantly pulled back and looked him in the eye. “I thought
we agreed to share everything from now on. What aren’t you telling me? It must
be bad or you wouldn’t have rushed down here all sweaty before you took a
shower.”

His eyes narrowed but he definitely
looked guilty of something. “Can’t a guy visit his wife without…?”

“No. He can’t. Because his wife
knows him better than that. Handy, you’re scaring me. What is going on?”

He reached out and brushed his
fingertips along her cheek in a soft caress, his lips pulled into a thin line
to keep his emotions in check. “Manny called. He said he heard through one of
his contacts that someone took a contract out on you,” he said, blinking
rapidly.

“What? Why? That’s crazy.” She
shook her head trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. “Who… wha…it doesn’t
make sense,” she stammered.

“I know. I know.” He pulled her
back into his arms and held her tight. The only place in the world she always
felt safe.

Until now.

•••••

Margaret drove up to Antonio’s and
parked outside the restaurant’s back door. She checked her watch. It was still
twenty minutes before her scheduled meeting with Mr. Salvatore. If he were as
punctual as she imagined him to be, he would probably show up a bit early.
Other than employee cars parked in back, there were no other vehicles in sight,
so she was pretty certain he wasn’t here yet.

Her little red pickup made a funny
squealing sound when she stopped. She hoped it wasn’t the brakes again. She’d
just had new brake pads installed last year. Handel told her she drove too fast
and used her brakes too liberally, but the traffic was always so terrible and
she was always in a hurry. Of course she rode the brakes half the time.

She beeped the horn before she got
out of the cab. Carl was expecting her but he always liked her to alert them
when she arrived so he could send someone out right away to carry the wine in
for her. She climbed out, flipped the tailgate down and started to scoot the
cases closer to the edge when she heard the door open.

“Hey, hold on, Miss Parker. I
got’em.” A skinny young man with stringy blonde hair hurried over and picked up
the first case. He grinned at her and shook his head. “You know Carl wants me
to carry these. Are you trying to take my job?”

She threw her hands up in
surrender. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said with feigned seriousness. “Put a
mediocre busboy out of work? No way!”

“Hey!” he said, turning at the
door, his eyes narrowed. “Mediocre? I’m at least a half step above that. I’d
say my talents are adequate.”

“You’re right. Sorry to offend you,
Dirk.” She held the door open for him. “Your carrying technique is also truly
amazing.”

At the sound of their voices, Carl
looked up from the table where he was going over his accounts. “Ciao Bella!” he
called from across the kitchen. He scooted his chair back and came over to kiss
her cheek. “I never see your beautiful face these days unless you’re delivering
wine. I guess we should order more often.”

Dirk set the case down and went off
to retrieve the other one from the pickup.

“I’d love to sell you more wine,
but my other customers might get jealous.” She looked around the kitchen.
Carl’s cooks were already busy whipping up culinary Italian masterpieces. The
air was heady with onion and garlic, basil and olive oil. She took a deep
breath and released it. “Smells delicious! Coming here always makes me hungry,”
she said.

“What do you want? Let me fix you
something,” he offered, already moving toward the cutting board.

She put a hand on his arm. “Carl.
Have you heard from your uncle?” she asked when he turned around.

“Uncle Salvatore?”

“He called me last night,” she
began.

“What?” Carl picked up the chopping
knife and started slicing a Portobello mushroom. “Why? He has never contacted
you before, right?”

She shook her head. “He wanted to
meet, so I told him here at two o’clock. I hope that’s alright.”

He scraped the mushroom into a
heated skillet. “He’s coming here? Now?” he glanced at the clock on the wall
above the stoves. “I didn’t even know he was in the country.”

“I thought it would be better to
meet him somewhere semi-private… but with backup.” She gave him a tight smile.
“I’m sorry if you feel like you’re being thrust in the middle, but I didn’t
know what else to do.”

“It’s fine. I know my uncle can be
intimidating.” He stirred the mushrooms and turned the heat down. “Juan, finish
the sauce!” he yelled across the room at a Mexican man with a long Fu Manchu
mustache. He was busy making egg noodles. He looked up from his work and
nodded.

Carl took her arm and led her to
the dining room. “The only way to ensure a pleasant meeting with my uncle is to
satisfy his palate. The best food and wine available and a beautiful woman as
his dinner companion. I’ll supply the food and wine.” He motioned toward a
corner table, already set and ready for guests. “Sit. Try to look relaxed and
confident. He’s like a Piranha, always looking for weakness. Don’t let him
consume you.”

If he was trying to instill
confidence in her, it wasn’t working. Fear, on the other hand… “Carl,” she
started, but he was already hurrying back through the swinging door into the
kitchen. She sighed and tried to relax, shaking her arms loosely at her sides.
“You will not be consumed,” she muttered softly.

“Miss Parker,” Dirk said, coming
through the door, the pickup key in his outstretched hand. “You left your truck
running.”

“Oh, thanks. What would I do
without you?” She took the key and flashed him a smile.

His face flushed red at her simple
flattery. He scratched at his chin covered with thin boyish beard fuzz. “I
noticed your power steering belt is going bad. It was squealing, so I looked
under the hood. You should get that replaced soon.”

“A belt? I thought it was the
brakes. Well, just one more thing to worry about.”

“I can do it for you if you want,”
he offered, tucking his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “I work on my
car all the time.”

“That’s really nice of you, but I
can’t ask you to do that. I’ll take it to a garage when I have time.” She sat
down at the table and folded her hands in her lap.

“It’s no problem. Really.” He
backed away toward the door. “You have a nice lunch, Miss Parker.”

“Thanks Dirk.”

She closed her eyes and tried to
feel relaxed and confident as Carl had instructed, but at the sound of an
unfamiliar voice booming behind the closed kitchen door she jumped. Her eyes
flew open as a handsome, distinguished looking man pushed through the doors
following Carl into the dining room.

Edoardo Salvatore wore a charcoal
suit with a white shirt and slate blue tie. He was taller than his son, and
broader through the shoulders. He must have been nearing sixty, but his hair
was still dark and thick with just a sprinkling of grey. Of course that could
have been the work of a talented hairdresser.

His eyes held hers as he
approached, his gaze icy cold. But at Carl’s introduction, he took her hand and
was all suave charm and kind words. She thought perhaps it was those pale blue
eyes beneath dark lashes that made her think of ice. Agosto’s eyes had been so
dark they were almost black. He must have taken after his mother in that
regard.

“Ms. Parker,” he said, holding her
hand a bit longer than necessary. “My son always did attract the most beautiful
women.”

Carl clasped his uncle’s shoulder.
“Please have a seat, Uncle. I’ll bring a bottle of wine.” He gave Margaret a
reassuring smile and hurried off.

Edoardo Salvatore took the chair
across from her, straightening his jacket as he did. “So, we finally meet,” he
said, his eyes resting somewhere south of her chin for long seconds making her
decidedly uncomfortable. “Agosto should have brought you home to Italia years
ago. He always was a playboy, unwilling to compromise his enjoyment for a wife
and children. He refused to see the bigger picture.” He sighed and lifted his
shoulders in an expressive shrug.
 
“Without heirs, we work for nothing. Sons are the future. They are our
legacy.”

Margaret thought about all the hurtful
things Agosto had said before he deserted her and his unborn son all those
years ago. He was more than just a playboy; he was a cruel, heartless bastard.
He thought the world revolved around his needs and everyone should fall into
line and enjoy being used. They certainly shouldn’t expect anything in return.
She squeezed her hands together nervously in her lap, fearful of saying
something to offend this man, but not willing to let him roll right over her
and Davy like a freight train. As the saying goes, the apple never falls far
from the tree.