.

although his only long-term relationship had been with a makeup artist, Kerry, with whom he’d lived for several years. Keeping a relationship alive was tough enough at the best of times, but when the shifting sands of Hollywood vagaries were added into the mix, Mac figured it was pretty much impossible. Most of the women he met were beautiful, with tanned, sculpted bodies. They all wanted fame in some way—be it through notoriety, association or their own achievements. Why live in L.A. otherwise? Not even a dyed-in- the-wool L.A.-lover would claim it was a beautiful city. Nope, L.A. was a city where dreams and ambition came first and love a pale, sickly second.

      He didn’t even know if he believed in love any more. He’d seen so much greed and ugliness over the past few years that cynicism was practically a religion for him. He had a couple of regular lovers who he saw on and off—more off than on lately, if he was being honest with himself. His sex-drive was at an all-time low. Yet, here he was, faced with the obvious disdain and contempt of a rude, sharp-tongued shrew and his gonads were trying to get in on the action. How goddamned contrary was that?

      Running a hand through his hair, Mac squinted off into the distance and forced his mind to the matter at hand. Pulling his slim-line digital camera from his pocket, he fired off a few shots, but his heart wasn’t in it. His gut told him this was not the location to make the episode sing. He might not be the most experienced director in the world, but as an actor he’d played his part in innumerable soap weddings. This place just wasn’t right.

      The sound of full-throated feminine laughter cut through the silence, and he looked over his shoulder to see Grace approaching, arm in arm with a gray-haired guy who looked to be in his late fifties. Grace was laughing up into his face, her cheeks rosy, hips wiggling as she walked with him.

      It was like getting a peek behind the curtain during an audience with the Great and Powerful Oz. The hard-nosed witch he’d been dealing with all day was gone and in her place was a sparkling eyed, fun-loving woman who radiated charm.

      So why was he getting the Alexis Carrington treatment?

      As though on cue, Grace’s smile slid from her face as she spotted him and her body stiffened.

      Mac grit his teeth. He was getting a little sick of feeling as though he had a personal-hygiene problem.

      “I’ve just been talking to your lady friend,” the older man said. “Name’s Rusty. I’m the winemaker here.”

      “Rusty took me on a tour of the winemaking shed,” Grace said coolly.

      “Great,” Mac said. “You’ve got a lovely place here.”

      “Oh, I’m not the owner. I just work here,” Rusty explained.

      Grace patted Rusty’s arm confidingly.

      “Don’t worry about Mac—he figures that because his life is like a game of Monopoly, the rest of us are all land barons and heiresses.”

      Mac’s nostrils flared and he shot her a hard look. She gazed off over the marching rows of vines as though she’d done nothing more contentious than comment on the weather.

      “Actually, the wife’s a big fan, Mr. Harrison,” Rusty said, ruddy color staining his cheeks. “Do you think you’d mind…?”

      Mac smiled, ignoring the hyena on Rusty’s arm. It wasn’t the winemaker’s fault that Grace was a bitch.

      “Not a problem, it’d be my pleasure.”

      Rusty pulled a small diary from his pocket and offered up an empty page.

      “What’s your wife’s name?” he asked.

      “Alison,” Rusty said, craning his head to see what Mac was writing.

      Finishing his inscription, Mac signed his name neatly.

      “There you go.”

      “And, also…?” Rusty asked, producing his cell phone with built-in camera.

      Signaling his agreement, Mac waited while Rusty handed the phone over to Grace so he could pose with Mac. A smile, a click and Rusty was offering up his sheepish thanks before heading back to his work.

      As one, he and Grace began walking back toward the car. They hadn’t taken two steps before she tilted her head slightly as though she was contemplating a difficult riddle.

      “I’m surprised you don’t keep head shots on you,” she drawled. “You’re taking an awful risk—what if someone snaps you on a bad-hair day?”

      The sunlight glinted off her dark cat’s-eye sunglasses and the last shreds of Mac’s patience evaporated.

      “Right, that’s it,” he said tightly, grabbing her arm and hauling her the last few feet to the Corvette.

      “Do you mind? Get your hands off me!” Grace said, outraged. She twisted her arm in his grasp, trying to escape.

      He just tightened his grip.

      “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me why you’re being such a grade-A bitch. And before you say ‘bite me,’ you might want to think about how long a walk it is back to L.A.”

      Finally she succeeded in pulling her arm loose.

      “Would you like me to shine your shoes after I’ve finished kissing them? That’s what you’re used to, isn’t it?” she sniped.

      “Have it your way.”

      Without another word, Mac got into his car, gunned the engine and left her for dust.

      3

      THE THING ABOUT STILETTOS was that they looked great. They elongated the leg, transformed the calf muscle and gave a girl an extra few inches in height. They were sexy, stylish fashion must-haves, essential additions to any woman’s arsenal.

      And they were totally unsuitable for a two mile trek on a gravel road.

      Pride was a terrible, terrible thing Grace admitted after the first blister had burst on her heel. She could have walked the handful of steps required to take her back into the winery so she could use their phone, having discovered she’d left her own cell phone at work. Even now she could be lounging in shady comfort, chatting with Rusty over a nice glass of red while she waited for a taxi. But pride had dictated that she instead make her way down the long driveway to the main road and then traverse the apparently short distance to the craft shop she’d remembered passing on the way in so that no one at the winery knew that her handsome, famous escort had blown her off and driven away without her.

      The first blister blossomed halfway down the drive. By the time she’d reached the main road, it had burst and been replaced by brothers and sisters on both feet.

      Striking out to her left, she made it another hundred feet before the spike heel on her left shoe snapped off in an ant hole. Swearing like a trooper, Grace whipped off her shoe to examine the damage. It was a clean break, and she heaved a sigh of relief. She knew a shoe wizard who would be able to resuscitate her prized vintage Roger Vivier green-suede peeptoes— some solace, at least.

      Tugging off her other shoe, she let out a gasp of pure ecstasy as she flexed her overheated foot. Her relief was short lived—by the time she’d traversed another fifty feet she was hobbling from walking on the sharp gravel.

      The worst thing was, she had no one to blame but herself. She wanted to blame Mac—oh, how she wanted to—but she knew that she was the only one responsible for her current situation. She’d been a sniping, vitriolic, sarcastic cow all day and the man had copped her abuse like a gentleman. But even gentlemen had their limits, and now she knew Mac’s.

      After ten more minutes of cursing and pain, Grace shook her head. There was no way she was going to make it to the shop. It wasn’t even a speck on the horizon—it was obviously miles off. She looked toward the vineyard, biting her lip. There really was nothing for it but to walk back and eat a large slice of humble pie before asking Rusty to call her a cab. But before she went anywhere, she was giving her poor, tortured